WC: Better Men - Part 4
White Collar -- Fanfiction
Disclaimer:
All recognizable characters are property of Jeff Eastin and USA Network.
No copyright infringement intended.
Title: Better Men - Part 4
Author's notes:
Thank you for all the comments left on the previous chapters. I apologize for the delay in getting this 4th and final chapter posted. I hope you'll find it was worth the wait. I had fun with this story and I'm sad to see it end, but here it goes...
This is part 4 of 4.
Again, I couldn't have done this without the help of my beta nice_disguise. And I'm not just saying that to be polite!
Comments, criticism and chocolate are always welcome. Milk chocolate only, please.
Summary:
Are we back to where we started?
Better Men - Chapter 4
He is slow to surface. He doesn’t mind. It is warm and pleasant here. Wherever here is. He is not quite sure. Here isn’t real. That much is for certain. Reality looms some distance above.
Reality. He never quite understood the appeal. But he understood very early that being called a dreamer was rarely a compliment.
The cynics can go to hell. This is a good dream.
There is no pain here. And there is a summery breeze and the smell of the ocean. And there is a girl, with lips and soft hands that touch him. Everywhere. Her caresses are light and playful. He hears himself giggle when her hair brushes over his stomach and tickles. Giggling doesn’t hurt here.
Screw reality with its endless procession of concerned faces, with the prodding hands of doctors and with the FBI agents and their questions.
He wonders who the girl is today. He wants to look at her, wants to touch her. He is not allowed to. It’s the rule of the game they play. She’ll go away if he does. Her lips and hands touch his chest now and his skin isn’t bruised and broken.
By the time her kisses have traveled up his neck and along his jaw line he opens his eyes to look at her. He has never been one to play by the rules.
The eyes that look back at him are blue in a backdrop of ivory skin and framed by strands of dark, straight hair. Kate. Seeing her in his dreams doesn’t frighten him anymore. He embraces the moments his subconscious spends with her. Kate, the forever frozen image of youth and beauty that will still look at him with love and passion when his own youth has long been betrayed by his body. It is a comforting thought. His dreams are the only way of creating new memories of her. Memories that are not tainted by the violent end to their story.
She has been in his yearning fantasies longer than she has been in his life. The years in prison, the search for her after she had left him, the chase when she had become an instrument to control him. Maybe she was at home in his dreams more so than she ever was in his life. It doesn’t matter. He wants to kiss her with lips that aren’t cracked and swollen. She smiles and leans in and tastes of cherry licorice.
“Neal.”
Ignore it.
“Neal.”
Not. Yet.
“Neal.”
The voice is persistent. A rattling sound adds another layer to the nuisance.
“Caffrey.”
Neal capitulates. With a heavy sigh he lets Kate slip away. He frowns, tightens his lips. Whoever has the nerve to intrude should know that he is displeased. He cracks an eye. A small plastic cup, rattling. A hand, wearing a wedding band, shaking the cup. Peter, attached to the hand.
“Four o’clock. Time for your meds, Neal.”
Neal blinks up at the man standing over him. Peter is in his beige suit and maroon tie, overdressed for a warm summer afternoon here in his backyard. He looks hot, tired and impatient. He shakes the cup again, the pills rattling inside.
With the arm that is not weighted down by a heavy cast and trapped in a sling Neal inches himself upright in the recliner. For a few seconds the stabbing pain the movement causes makes him dizzy. He grits his teeth, determines to camouflage the moan that escapes his throat as an innocuous cough. He pays the price when his ribs scream in protest. He swallows. Hard. By the time he has managed to slide his behind a few inches back in the chair and has adjusted the position of his splinted left lower leg on the footrest, he is panting. He engages the secret weapon to gloss over any imperfect performance: he smiles.
Above him, Peter raises an eyebrow and appears less than impressed. Disappointed, Neal’s grin withers.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” He grumbles.
“Took off early,” Peter replies. “In case it slipped your mind, you should be in a hospital bed. Meds, Neal.”
The annoying cup rattles again.
“Snake oil peddler.” Neal mumbles and takes the cup. He balances it on his plastered in forearm and uses the fingers of his good hand to mine through the half dozen pills. He picks out the two chalky oblong tablets and slips them into the pocket of his Bermudas.
“Caffrey!?”
Neal recognizes a threat when he hears one.
“The pain killers make my head fuzzy,” he defends himself. “I’ll take a couple before bed, I promise.” He pops the remaining pills into his mouth and holds out his hand, urgently waving Peter to pass him the glass of water on the side table. It is a race against time, the bitter pills start to dissolve on his tongue.
Peter shakes his head and hands him the water. Neal empties the glass and pretends not to see the worried look on his friend’s face as Peter surveys the healing bruises on his face and the wound dressing above his left eye.
“I’m fine,” Neal says when he passes the empty water glass back to Peter.
Peter snorts and looks unconvinced. He puts the glass down, shrugs out of his coat and loosens his tie. Then he drops into the chair next to the chaise Neal is occupying. Peter looks up at the patio umbrella that protects their houseguest from the August sun. Neal watches him move his chair to the side a few inches, then shift a few more inches backward until Peter is satisfied to have found the shadiest position possible. Peter grabs the beer he has brought out from the kitchen and unscrews the top. He takes a long sip, sighs contently and relaxes into his chair.
“Tough day at the office?” Neal asks.
“Not bad.” Peter’s reply is clipped. He is not the chatty Happy Hour type today. Peter looks distracted, perhaps still thinking about whatever case has kept him busy all day. Neal begrudges him the mental diversion. After nearly a week in the hospital and a weekend of idle time divided between the Burke’s guest bedroom and the recliner in their backyard, Neal is stir-crazy. He knows better than to complain. He owes his early release from the hospital to Peter’s training in conducting hostage negotiations with terrorists. Neal isn’t entirely certain whether he or the army of doctors and nurses was the terrorizing party in those deliberations.
He has only vague recollections of his time in the van and the first hours at the hospital, a muddled array of sounds, images and sensations rather than coherent memories. There was pain, first and foremost. Every deep breath, every careless movement is still a shadow of that agony. There was the light that made him feel exposed and vulnerable and that wouldn’t let him sleep. There were the walls that swallowed his shouts, that taunted him by giving softly under his desperate blows and that mocked him with the garish self-portraits they reflected back at him. Prints in blood and tears. True originals. The final artistic legacy of Neal Caffrey, the great forger. He had laughed out loud at that thought. Then had fallen silent as he listened and wondered where the deranged jokester in the room had suddenly come from.
He remembers Peter. A dark silhouette against the glaring light. Cool, dry hands on his face. Words, tender and authoritative, and eyes, worried and full of warmth. He had searched for those eyes and their comfort when the room spun too fast around him and all those hands were on his bare body, holding him down, pricking and probing, causing more pain while claiming to help.
He was searching for Peter when the world had dropped out from under him.
He had found him hours later in a hospital room, where the lights were dimmed and numbing warmth was coursing through his veins. Through the haze he had found Peter’s hand wrapped around his, Peter’s head uncomfortably resting on the edge of his mattress.
“So, how bad is the coffee?” Neal had heard himself croak.
Peter’s head had lifted with a groan. Then Peter’s eyes had met his and Peter had called him kid and had awkwardly ruffled his hair. Neal remembers liking this, despite himself. It had felt like a loss when Peter had broken his touch with a self-conscious, exhausted and happy smile.
Neal glances over at the man next to him. The exhaustion is still there, the happiness not so much. He watches Peter take another drink from his bottle.
“You’re not selling those pills on some corner in Central Park?” Peter finally remarks.
“You wound me, Peter.” Neal melodramatically clasps his hand to his heart. He sucks in a sharp breath when he hits the sore scrape across his chest. It prompts an admonishing glare from Peter.
“That’s Mozzie’s job,” Neal quickly adds. The grin he expects to elicit doesn’t materialize. Peter silently looks him over again and Neal can’t help but feel judged unfavorably. He self-consciously tugs on his loud, short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt that was a gift from Mozzie and doesn’t go with the shorts Elizabeth dug out of Peter’s college box. Peter doesn’t seem concerned with his fashion choice. His eyes linger on the tracking anklet now fitted around Neal’s right ankle.
“You don’t trust me at all, do you?” Neal says, half in joke, half in offense.
Peter squints at him, long enough to make Neal uncomfortable. The cryptic half-smile that steals onto the agent’s lips doesn’t help. Peter inhales deeply through his nose and appears to relax again. They sit in silence, listening to the noises drifting over from the street and the neighbors’ yards. It’s not as comfortable a silence as it should be. Neal knows his ill-defined unease comes from somewhere deeper than the itching skin under his cast.
“Elizabeth took the dog to the park,” he states, for the sake of saying something. Peter nods. He knows. Of course, he does. Peter knows everything.
“Neal?” Peter finally says. To Neal it sounds like his friend is hesitant to voice what is on his mind.
“Yeah.”
“The deal you made with Keller.”
“Yes?” Neal still can’t tell where the other man is going.
“He did what he did to you because your deal was a bluff?”
The wheels in Neal’s head are turning. The question is vague. Peter doesn’t have all the facts or he wouldn’t leave Neal the breathing room to offer a vague reply.
“That’s right.” Neal agrees and keeps any overt wariness out of his tone. “Of course I bluffed. I had no choice.”
It isn’t a lie. There was a bluff. About the manifest, not about the treasure. But those are technicalities.
“El says you gave Keller a painting.”
“Yes.”
“Keep talking, Neal.” Peter glares at him.
His guarded replies are beginning to irritate the agent. Neal needs to be cautious.
“Keller wanted proof that I had the submarine treasure,” he rattles off. “A long-and I mean long-time ago I, um, copied a Vermeer that has been unaccounted for since just before World War II.”
“For purposes of practicing your art,” Peter interjects.
“Of course,” Neal shakes his head with a snort. “I offered him that painting. He had no way of knowing what may have been on the sub. I mean we only saw a handful of items when Adler sent us on our little recon mission down Dynamite Alley. Beyond that, it’s anybody’s guess, right?”
Peter narrows his eyes. Neal reins himself in. This isn’t the time to be brazen. He can’t push Peter too far. Peter suspects-perhaps even knows-he is aware of the manifest.
“Go on,” Peter says without emotion.
“You know the rest, Peter,” Neal shrugs. “Keller was convinced I had the treasure. I showed him the Vermeer. He let Elizabeth go. In the end, Keller didn’t get what he wanted. He wasn’t pleased.”
Neal nods at his body. The gesture proves effective. Peter sweeps his eyes over the bruises and bandages visible under Neal’s clothes and looks to be wavering. Neal leans back in his lounger, watching Peter from the corners of his eyes as the agent appears to settle down. But Peter’s fingers continue to fiddle restlessly with the bottle, tension still playing around his mouth.
They don’t speak for minutes. Neal waits for the front door to open, for Elizabeth to come home to liberate him from this ill-disguised interrogation. He suspects Peter may be waiting for the same thing.
His assumption proves incorrect. Peter reaches for his coat, dips into his breast pocket and pulls out a small, clear ziptop bag. It doesn’t carry the official FBI evidence label. With a flick of his wrist, he tosses the bag at Neal. Neal catches it in his lap. Neal stares at the bag. It isn’t immediately obvious what it contains. Then he notices the tiny slivers hiding in the crease of the plastic bag.
“What’s this?” His perplexity isn’t an act.
“This is what the ER doctor picked out of that cut on your chest,” Peter states.
Neal feels panic rise in his stomach. His face doesn’t show it. Unconsciously, his fingers slide into the open front of his shirt to touch the strip of gauze taped over the wound. It doesn’t hurt so much anymore, now that the infection is under control.
“He gave those to me, thinking it could be useful as evidence in your kidnapping,” Peter continues, his eyes drilling into him.
“How very thoughtful of him,” Neal says flatly.
Peter nods.
Neal keeps eye contact with him. Whatever Peter thinks he knows, it doesn’t prove a thing.
“I had it analyzed, Neal.”
“You mean the Bureau had it analyzed.”
“You heard me.”
Neal takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders.
“Well?” He prompts when Peter doesn’t volunteer further explanations.
“It’s 17th century Dutch poplar wood, Neal,” Peter says. “You know that it is. I know that it is. The lab is ninety-eight percent certain.”
“Hm,” Neal grunts. There is a smug grin that wants to sneak onto his lips. It is a reflex he has learned to curb when necessary. He licks his lips instead. There is no reason to mock Peter. He doesn’t deserve it. Peter deserves the truth. But that truth comes at a premium Neal isn’t willing to pay.
“Ninety-eight percent, huh?” He continues.
Peter sighs, whether in disappointment or relief, Neal cannot tell.
“Lab tests change, Neal. They get better all the time.”
Neal recognizes a threat when it stares him down from piercing brown eyes.
Neal holds his gaze until Peter deflates. The agent heavily slumps back into his chair and continues to nurse his beer. Peter has nothing. For Peter, two percent uncertainty may as well be ninety-two. In the court of Peter Burke, no one gets convicted on ninety-eight percent certainty. Not he, anyway.
Neal relaxes. He closes his eyes. Maybe he can doze off for a few more minutes before dinner, before Elizabeth fusses over him and Mozzie stops by and Sara calls to insist that she really wouldn’t mind seeing him in this condition. Maybe one of those painkillers wouldn’t be a bad idea right now. It wouldn’t hurt so much every time the dog nudged him with his heavy head or every time Peter helped him hobble up the staircase to get to the bathroom or his bed. The one-man circus act of changing his clothes with one functional hand, three busted ribs and a bulky splint on his leg would certainly be less agonizing. Perhaps he could even upgrade from his wardrobe of baggy shorts and oversized shirts. Neal sighs.
“What was it like, Neal?” Peter’s quiet words put an end to his reverie of a pain-free existence.
“What was what like?” Neal blinks at Peter, uncertain if he has nodded off and missed an important piece of conversation.
“Dying.” The word doesn’t roll easily over Peter’s tongue. He stares down at the hands that cling to the bottle in his lap.
“I didn’t die, Peter.” Neal’s response is a restrained, uneasy chuckle.
Peter glances up with that tense play around his tight lips that is a sure indicator he is in no mood for jokes.
“You came pretty damn close, Caffrey,” he says grimly. “In the ambulance and then again in the ER. You were gone.”
Neal shifts in his seat. What does Peter want to know? Does he need to hear that he was terrified? That he still jolts awake at night with a feeling of falling? That life means something to him?
“There was no tunnel with a light at the end of it, if that’s what you’re asking,” Neal says and swallows the lump in his throat. “No highlight reel spooled off. No bearded guy in a white robe, reciting a list of digressions and giving me the thumbs down.”
There had been nothing. That had frightened him more than anything. No sense of peace. No Kate, waiting for him with a soft smile and open arms. Only darkness and his thoughts, tumbling over each other, folding in on him one moment, then receding fast when he tried to hold on to them.
His gaze darts around Peter’s backyard and back to Peter who watches him closely. Whatever Peter sees in his eyes must satisfy him.
“I suppose that would have been a pretty long list,” Peter adds with a small smile.
“True,” Neal shrugs. “Would have been hard to get to the end of it in the couple of seconds I was out.”
“Ninety. Ninety seconds.” Peter states quietly. He takes a long drink from his bottle and sits back in his chair. He retreats into his thoughts, appearing to have lost interest in Neal for the time being.
“You know, Neal, some people would take this as an opportunity.” Peter unexpectedly picks up the conversation. “A second chance. Not one of those third, fourth or thirteenth chances I keep giving you and that you no longer seem to value, but a real one. A real kick in the butt from...”
“God?” Neal offers.
“Sure, if that’s what you believe in,” Peter shrugs.
Neal’s hand slides into his open shirt and settles over the broken ribs that are still hurting with every breath.
“I assure you it wasn’t God who did the kicking, Peter,” he says. A trace of affront seeps into his voice. Lectures, however well meaning, have never sat right with him.
Wary of his tone, perhaps even insulted by it, Peter narrows his eyes.
“I never wanted this to happen to you, Neal,” he says. “You’ve made mistakes in your life, we all have, but this is not how you should pay for them. Keller had no right to be your judge.”
“Then who has?” Neal challenges.
“Men better than him.”
“You mean better than me?” Neal adds.
“Maybe better than either one of us, Neal.”
Peter’s shoulders sag as he returns his attention to the bottle of warm beer. The toll the past weeks have taken on him are evident in every tired line in his face. He looks disappointed, beaten, nearly defeated. Neal feels no triumph at finding himself at the root of Peter’s desolation. Seeing Peter like this stings. More so than he can admit.
“I don’t get it, Neal.”
Neal puffs out a loud breath. For a Federal agent who questions people for a living, Peter’s prompts are frustratingly obscure.
“Get what?”
“Why can’t you walk away from it, Neal?” Peter looks at him with plain, honest curiosity. “After prison, after losing Kate and nearly dying, after … everything. Why are you still sitting here, unable to be honest with me or with yourself? Is the temptation really so great that it is all worth it?”
Neal doesn’t know how to begin answering those questions, for Peter or for himself. There are no words to describe this need in his soul, this drive, this compulsion. It is not a material need, he knows as much. Taking things is a symptom not a cause.
“Just let it go, Neal.” Peter doesn’t ask, doesn’t plead. Spoken by him, it sounds like a simple request. And perhaps to Peter it is. Then again, perhaps Peter understands irrational compulsion better than he cares to acknowledge.
“Simple as that?” Neal asks.
Peter nods mutely and with an assertiveness that Neal takes as a personal challenge.
“Hand me that newspaper and pen,” Neal demands and indicates the New York Times Peter has brought out onto the patio and folded to the crossword.
“Why?” Peter eyes him suspiciously. Neal sighs in exasperation.
“Just give it to me,” he insists. “I promise not to touch your crossword.”
“Or the sports section,” Peter warns and reluctantly passes him the paper and pen.
Neal’s good hand quickly leafs through the pages.
“How about Arts? Dance? You okay with that?”
“Sure,” Peter relents. “Not much of a ballet guy.”
Neal awkwardly pins the newspaper under his cast and tears off a small piece of paper. The pen doesn’t feel natural in his left hand. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t even have to look at the paper as he scribbles two words onto it. He folds the note, concealing its contents.
“Come closer,” Neal requests. “Give me your hand.”
With his expression somewhere between annoyance and intrigue, Peter turns his chair and moves within easy reach of Neal’s functional arm. He opens his palm. Neal places the folded note on Peter’s hand, closes Peter’s fist, keeps his own fingers cupped over Peter’s. He knows Peter could simply get up and walk away. He knows Peter won’t. Neal tips his head at the side table, at the beach scented candle and the lighter next to it.
“Take the lighter,” he says.
“What’s on the note, Neal?” Peter asks and hesitantly picks up the lighter with his free hand.
“You tell me letting go is simple,” Neal says solemnly. “Then show me. Burn the note.”
“What’s on the note?” Peter repeats.
“I think you know what it is.” Neal smiles.
“I don’t like playing games with you, Caffrey.”
“Yes, you do.”
Peter looks at his fist and at Neal’s hand covering it. He shakes his head, swallows. Neal feels Peter’s hand twitch under his. He holds onto it more firmly.
“Neal, if you tell me you stole the treasure I will have no choice-“ Peter’s voice is even but he looks nearly panicked now.
“I’m not that stupid.” Neal smiles mildly and shakes his head.
“Then what?”
“Not an alias,” Neal states calmly. “My real name. Fifteen minutes at a computer, a few phone calls and all those answers, Peter, all those secrets, they are all yours.”
“I don’t believe you.” Peter’s eyes search his face, looking for truth or deception. Neal is certain his face reveals neither.
“Show me, Peter, simple as that. Walk away from it. Burn it.”
Read it, Peter.
The tip of Peter’s finger settles on the lighter’s thumbwheel.
THE END
Back to Part 3
Disclaimer:
All recognizable characters are property of Jeff Eastin and USA Network.
No copyright infringement intended.
Title: Better Men - Part 4
- Rating: PG-13
- Category: Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Friendship, Missing scene/alternate canon
- Spoilers: Countdown, Various other references
Author's notes:
Thank you for all the comments left on the previous chapters. I apologize for the delay in getting this 4th and final chapter posted. I hope you'll find it was worth the wait. I had fun with this story and I'm sad to see it end, but here it goes...
This is part 4 of 4.
Again, I couldn't have done this without the help of my beta nice_disguise. And I'm not just saying that to be polite!
Comments, criticism and chocolate are always welcome. Milk chocolate only, please.
Summary:
Are we back to where we started?
Better Men - Chapter 4
He is slow to surface. He doesn’t mind. It is warm and pleasant here. Wherever here is. He is not quite sure. Here isn’t real. That much is for certain. Reality looms some distance above.
Reality. He never quite understood the appeal. But he understood very early that being called a dreamer was rarely a compliment.
The cynics can go to hell. This is a good dream.
There is no pain here. And there is a summery breeze and the smell of the ocean. And there is a girl, with lips and soft hands that touch him. Everywhere. Her caresses are light and playful. He hears himself giggle when her hair brushes over his stomach and tickles. Giggling doesn’t hurt here.
Screw reality with its endless procession of concerned faces, with the prodding hands of doctors and with the FBI agents and their questions.
He wonders who the girl is today. He wants to look at her, wants to touch her. He is not allowed to. It’s the rule of the game they play. She’ll go away if he does. Her lips and hands touch his chest now and his skin isn’t bruised and broken.
By the time her kisses have traveled up his neck and along his jaw line he opens his eyes to look at her. He has never been one to play by the rules.
The eyes that look back at him are blue in a backdrop of ivory skin and framed by strands of dark, straight hair. Kate. Seeing her in his dreams doesn’t frighten him anymore. He embraces the moments his subconscious spends with her. Kate, the forever frozen image of youth and beauty that will still look at him with love and passion when his own youth has long been betrayed by his body. It is a comforting thought. His dreams are the only way of creating new memories of her. Memories that are not tainted by the violent end to their story.
She has been in his yearning fantasies longer than she has been in his life. The years in prison, the search for her after she had left him, the chase when she had become an instrument to control him. Maybe she was at home in his dreams more so than she ever was in his life. It doesn’t matter. He wants to kiss her with lips that aren’t cracked and swollen. She smiles and leans in and tastes of cherry licorice.
“Neal.”
Ignore it.
“Neal.”
Not. Yet.
“Neal.”
The voice is persistent. A rattling sound adds another layer to the nuisance.
“Caffrey.”
Neal capitulates. With a heavy sigh he lets Kate slip away. He frowns, tightens his lips. Whoever has the nerve to intrude should know that he is displeased. He cracks an eye. A small plastic cup, rattling. A hand, wearing a wedding band, shaking the cup. Peter, attached to the hand.
“Four o’clock. Time for your meds, Neal.”
Neal blinks up at the man standing over him. Peter is in his beige suit and maroon tie, overdressed for a warm summer afternoon here in his backyard. He looks hot, tired and impatient. He shakes the cup again, the pills rattling inside.
With the arm that is not weighted down by a heavy cast and trapped in a sling Neal inches himself upright in the recliner. For a few seconds the stabbing pain the movement causes makes him dizzy. He grits his teeth, determines to camouflage the moan that escapes his throat as an innocuous cough. He pays the price when his ribs scream in protest. He swallows. Hard. By the time he has managed to slide his behind a few inches back in the chair and has adjusted the position of his splinted left lower leg on the footrest, he is panting. He engages the secret weapon to gloss over any imperfect performance: he smiles.
Above him, Peter raises an eyebrow and appears less than impressed. Disappointed, Neal’s grin withers.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” He grumbles.
“Took off early,” Peter replies. “In case it slipped your mind, you should be in a hospital bed. Meds, Neal.”
The annoying cup rattles again.
“Snake oil peddler.” Neal mumbles and takes the cup. He balances it on his plastered in forearm and uses the fingers of his good hand to mine through the half dozen pills. He picks out the two chalky oblong tablets and slips them into the pocket of his Bermudas.
“Caffrey!?”
Neal recognizes a threat when he hears one.
“The pain killers make my head fuzzy,” he defends himself. “I’ll take a couple before bed, I promise.” He pops the remaining pills into his mouth and holds out his hand, urgently waving Peter to pass him the glass of water on the side table. It is a race against time, the bitter pills start to dissolve on his tongue.
Peter shakes his head and hands him the water. Neal empties the glass and pretends not to see the worried look on his friend’s face as Peter surveys the healing bruises on his face and the wound dressing above his left eye.
“I’m fine,” Neal says when he passes the empty water glass back to Peter.
Peter snorts and looks unconvinced. He puts the glass down, shrugs out of his coat and loosens his tie. Then he drops into the chair next to the chaise Neal is occupying. Peter looks up at the patio umbrella that protects their houseguest from the August sun. Neal watches him move his chair to the side a few inches, then shift a few more inches backward until Peter is satisfied to have found the shadiest position possible. Peter grabs the beer he has brought out from the kitchen and unscrews the top. He takes a long sip, sighs contently and relaxes into his chair.
“Tough day at the office?” Neal asks.
“Not bad.” Peter’s reply is clipped. He is not the chatty Happy Hour type today. Peter looks distracted, perhaps still thinking about whatever case has kept him busy all day. Neal begrudges him the mental diversion. After nearly a week in the hospital and a weekend of idle time divided between the Burke’s guest bedroom and the recliner in their backyard, Neal is stir-crazy. He knows better than to complain. He owes his early release from the hospital to Peter’s training in conducting hostage negotiations with terrorists. Neal isn’t entirely certain whether he or the army of doctors and nurses was the terrorizing party in those deliberations.
He has only vague recollections of his time in the van and the first hours at the hospital, a muddled array of sounds, images and sensations rather than coherent memories. There was pain, first and foremost. Every deep breath, every careless movement is still a shadow of that agony. There was the light that made him feel exposed and vulnerable and that wouldn’t let him sleep. There were the walls that swallowed his shouts, that taunted him by giving softly under his desperate blows and that mocked him with the garish self-portraits they reflected back at him. Prints in blood and tears. True originals. The final artistic legacy of Neal Caffrey, the great forger. He had laughed out loud at that thought. Then had fallen silent as he listened and wondered where the deranged jokester in the room had suddenly come from.
He remembers Peter. A dark silhouette against the glaring light. Cool, dry hands on his face. Words, tender and authoritative, and eyes, worried and full of warmth. He had searched for those eyes and their comfort when the room spun too fast around him and all those hands were on his bare body, holding him down, pricking and probing, causing more pain while claiming to help.
He was searching for Peter when the world had dropped out from under him.
He had found him hours later in a hospital room, where the lights were dimmed and numbing warmth was coursing through his veins. Through the haze he had found Peter’s hand wrapped around his, Peter’s head uncomfortably resting on the edge of his mattress.
“So, how bad is the coffee?” Neal had heard himself croak.
Peter’s head had lifted with a groan. Then Peter’s eyes had met his and Peter had called him kid and had awkwardly ruffled his hair. Neal remembers liking this, despite himself. It had felt like a loss when Peter had broken his touch with a self-conscious, exhausted and happy smile.
Neal glances over at the man next to him. The exhaustion is still there, the happiness not so much. He watches Peter take another drink from his bottle.
“You’re not selling those pills on some corner in Central Park?” Peter finally remarks.
“You wound me, Peter.” Neal melodramatically clasps his hand to his heart. He sucks in a sharp breath when he hits the sore scrape across his chest. It prompts an admonishing glare from Peter.
“That’s Mozzie’s job,” Neal quickly adds. The grin he expects to elicit doesn’t materialize. Peter silently looks him over again and Neal can’t help but feel judged unfavorably. He self-consciously tugs on his loud, short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt that was a gift from Mozzie and doesn’t go with the shorts Elizabeth dug out of Peter’s college box. Peter doesn’t seem concerned with his fashion choice. His eyes linger on the tracking anklet now fitted around Neal’s right ankle.
“You don’t trust me at all, do you?” Neal says, half in joke, half in offense.
Peter squints at him, long enough to make Neal uncomfortable. The cryptic half-smile that steals onto the agent’s lips doesn’t help. Peter inhales deeply through his nose and appears to relax again. They sit in silence, listening to the noises drifting over from the street and the neighbors’ yards. It’s not as comfortable a silence as it should be. Neal knows his ill-defined unease comes from somewhere deeper than the itching skin under his cast.
“Elizabeth took the dog to the park,” he states, for the sake of saying something. Peter nods. He knows. Of course, he does. Peter knows everything.
“Neal?” Peter finally says. To Neal it sounds like his friend is hesitant to voice what is on his mind.
“Yeah.”
“The deal you made with Keller.”
“Yes?” Neal still can’t tell where the other man is going.
“He did what he did to you because your deal was a bluff?”
The wheels in Neal’s head are turning. The question is vague. Peter doesn’t have all the facts or he wouldn’t leave Neal the breathing room to offer a vague reply.
“That’s right.” Neal agrees and keeps any overt wariness out of his tone. “Of course I bluffed. I had no choice.”
It isn’t a lie. There was a bluff. About the manifest, not about the treasure. But those are technicalities.
“El says you gave Keller a painting.”
“Yes.”
“Keep talking, Neal.” Peter glares at him.
His guarded replies are beginning to irritate the agent. Neal needs to be cautious.
“Keller wanted proof that I had the submarine treasure,” he rattles off. “A long-and I mean long-time ago I, um, copied a Vermeer that has been unaccounted for since just before World War II.”
“For purposes of practicing your art,” Peter interjects.
“Of course,” Neal shakes his head with a snort. “I offered him that painting. He had no way of knowing what may have been on the sub. I mean we only saw a handful of items when Adler sent us on our little recon mission down Dynamite Alley. Beyond that, it’s anybody’s guess, right?”
Peter narrows his eyes. Neal reins himself in. This isn’t the time to be brazen. He can’t push Peter too far. Peter suspects-perhaps even knows-he is aware of the manifest.
“Go on,” Peter says without emotion.
“You know the rest, Peter,” Neal shrugs. “Keller was convinced I had the treasure. I showed him the Vermeer. He let Elizabeth go. In the end, Keller didn’t get what he wanted. He wasn’t pleased.”
Neal nods at his body. The gesture proves effective. Peter sweeps his eyes over the bruises and bandages visible under Neal’s clothes and looks to be wavering. Neal leans back in his lounger, watching Peter from the corners of his eyes as the agent appears to settle down. But Peter’s fingers continue to fiddle restlessly with the bottle, tension still playing around his mouth.
They don’t speak for minutes. Neal waits for the front door to open, for Elizabeth to come home to liberate him from this ill-disguised interrogation. He suspects Peter may be waiting for the same thing.
His assumption proves incorrect. Peter reaches for his coat, dips into his breast pocket and pulls out a small, clear ziptop bag. It doesn’t carry the official FBI evidence label. With a flick of his wrist, he tosses the bag at Neal. Neal catches it in his lap. Neal stares at the bag. It isn’t immediately obvious what it contains. Then he notices the tiny slivers hiding in the crease of the plastic bag.
“What’s this?” His perplexity isn’t an act.
“This is what the ER doctor picked out of that cut on your chest,” Peter states.
Neal feels panic rise in his stomach. His face doesn’t show it. Unconsciously, his fingers slide into the open front of his shirt to touch the strip of gauze taped over the wound. It doesn’t hurt so much anymore, now that the infection is under control.
“He gave those to me, thinking it could be useful as evidence in your kidnapping,” Peter continues, his eyes drilling into him.
“How very thoughtful of him,” Neal says flatly.
Peter nods.
Neal keeps eye contact with him. Whatever Peter thinks he knows, it doesn’t prove a thing.
“I had it analyzed, Neal.”
“You mean the Bureau had it analyzed.”
“You heard me.”
Neal takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders.
“Well?” He prompts when Peter doesn’t volunteer further explanations.
“It’s 17th century Dutch poplar wood, Neal,” Peter says. “You know that it is. I know that it is. The lab is ninety-eight percent certain.”
“Hm,” Neal grunts. There is a smug grin that wants to sneak onto his lips. It is a reflex he has learned to curb when necessary. He licks his lips instead. There is no reason to mock Peter. He doesn’t deserve it. Peter deserves the truth. But that truth comes at a premium Neal isn’t willing to pay.
“Ninety-eight percent, huh?” He continues.
Peter sighs, whether in disappointment or relief, Neal cannot tell.
“Lab tests change, Neal. They get better all the time.”
Neal recognizes a threat when it stares him down from piercing brown eyes.
Neal holds his gaze until Peter deflates. The agent heavily slumps back into his chair and continues to nurse his beer. Peter has nothing. For Peter, two percent uncertainty may as well be ninety-two. In the court of Peter Burke, no one gets convicted on ninety-eight percent certainty. Not he, anyway.
Neal relaxes. He closes his eyes. Maybe he can doze off for a few more minutes before dinner, before Elizabeth fusses over him and Mozzie stops by and Sara calls to insist that she really wouldn’t mind seeing him in this condition. Maybe one of those painkillers wouldn’t be a bad idea right now. It wouldn’t hurt so much every time the dog nudged him with his heavy head or every time Peter helped him hobble up the staircase to get to the bathroom or his bed. The one-man circus act of changing his clothes with one functional hand, three busted ribs and a bulky splint on his leg would certainly be less agonizing. Perhaps he could even upgrade from his wardrobe of baggy shorts and oversized shirts. Neal sighs.
“What was it like, Neal?” Peter’s quiet words put an end to his reverie of a pain-free existence.
“What was what like?” Neal blinks at Peter, uncertain if he has nodded off and missed an important piece of conversation.
“Dying.” The word doesn’t roll easily over Peter’s tongue. He stares down at the hands that cling to the bottle in his lap.
“I didn’t die, Peter.” Neal’s response is a restrained, uneasy chuckle.
Peter glances up with that tense play around his tight lips that is a sure indicator he is in no mood for jokes.
“You came pretty damn close, Caffrey,” he says grimly. “In the ambulance and then again in the ER. You were gone.”
Neal shifts in his seat. What does Peter want to know? Does he need to hear that he was terrified? That he still jolts awake at night with a feeling of falling? That life means something to him?
“There was no tunnel with a light at the end of it, if that’s what you’re asking,” Neal says and swallows the lump in his throat. “No highlight reel spooled off. No bearded guy in a white robe, reciting a list of digressions and giving me the thumbs down.”
There had been nothing. That had frightened him more than anything. No sense of peace. No Kate, waiting for him with a soft smile and open arms. Only darkness and his thoughts, tumbling over each other, folding in on him one moment, then receding fast when he tried to hold on to them.
His gaze darts around Peter’s backyard and back to Peter who watches him closely. Whatever Peter sees in his eyes must satisfy him.
“I suppose that would have been a pretty long list,” Peter adds with a small smile.
“True,” Neal shrugs. “Would have been hard to get to the end of it in the couple of seconds I was out.”
“Ninety. Ninety seconds.” Peter states quietly. He takes a long drink from his bottle and sits back in his chair. He retreats into his thoughts, appearing to have lost interest in Neal for the time being.
“You know, Neal, some people would take this as an opportunity.” Peter unexpectedly picks up the conversation. “A second chance. Not one of those third, fourth or thirteenth chances I keep giving you and that you no longer seem to value, but a real one. A real kick in the butt from...”
“God?” Neal offers.
“Sure, if that’s what you believe in,” Peter shrugs.
Neal’s hand slides into his open shirt and settles over the broken ribs that are still hurting with every breath.
“I assure you it wasn’t God who did the kicking, Peter,” he says. A trace of affront seeps into his voice. Lectures, however well meaning, have never sat right with him.
Wary of his tone, perhaps even insulted by it, Peter narrows his eyes.
“I never wanted this to happen to you, Neal,” he says. “You’ve made mistakes in your life, we all have, but this is not how you should pay for them. Keller had no right to be your judge.”
“Then who has?” Neal challenges.
“Men better than him.”
“You mean better than me?” Neal adds.
“Maybe better than either one of us, Neal.”
Peter’s shoulders sag as he returns his attention to the bottle of warm beer. The toll the past weeks have taken on him are evident in every tired line in his face. He looks disappointed, beaten, nearly defeated. Neal feels no triumph at finding himself at the root of Peter’s desolation. Seeing Peter like this stings. More so than he can admit.
“I don’t get it, Neal.”
Neal puffs out a loud breath. For a Federal agent who questions people for a living, Peter’s prompts are frustratingly obscure.
“Get what?”
“Why can’t you walk away from it, Neal?” Peter looks at him with plain, honest curiosity. “After prison, after losing Kate and nearly dying, after … everything. Why are you still sitting here, unable to be honest with me or with yourself? Is the temptation really so great that it is all worth it?”
Neal doesn’t know how to begin answering those questions, for Peter or for himself. There are no words to describe this need in his soul, this drive, this compulsion. It is not a material need, he knows as much. Taking things is a symptom not a cause.
“Just let it go, Neal.” Peter doesn’t ask, doesn’t plead. Spoken by him, it sounds like a simple request. And perhaps to Peter it is. Then again, perhaps Peter understands irrational compulsion better than he cares to acknowledge.
“Simple as that?” Neal asks.
Peter nods mutely and with an assertiveness that Neal takes as a personal challenge.
“Hand me that newspaper and pen,” Neal demands and indicates the New York Times Peter has brought out onto the patio and folded to the crossword.
“Why?” Peter eyes him suspiciously. Neal sighs in exasperation.
“Just give it to me,” he insists. “I promise not to touch your crossword.”
“Or the sports section,” Peter warns and reluctantly passes him the paper and pen.
Neal’s good hand quickly leafs through the pages.
“How about Arts? Dance? You okay with that?”
“Sure,” Peter relents. “Not much of a ballet guy.”
Neal awkwardly pins the newspaper under his cast and tears off a small piece of paper. The pen doesn’t feel natural in his left hand. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t even have to look at the paper as he scribbles two words onto it. He folds the note, concealing its contents.
“Come closer,” Neal requests. “Give me your hand.”
With his expression somewhere between annoyance and intrigue, Peter turns his chair and moves within easy reach of Neal’s functional arm. He opens his palm. Neal places the folded note on Peter’s hand, closes Peter’s fist, keeps his own fingers cupped over Peter’s. He knows Peter could simply get up and walk away. He knows Peter won’t. Neal tips his head at the side table, at the beach scented candle and the lighter next to it.
“Take the lighter,” he says.
“What’s on the note, Neal?” Peter asks and hesitantly picks up the lighter with his free hand.
“You tell me letting go is simple,” Neal says solemnly. “Then show me. Burn the note.”
“What’s on the note?” Peter repeats.
“I think you know what it is.” Neal smiles.
“I don’t like playing games with you, Caffrey.”
“Yes, you do.”
Peter looks at his fist and at Neal’s hand covering it. He shakes his head, swallows. Neal feels Peter’s hand twitch under his. He holds onto it more firmly.
“Neal, if you tell me you stole the treasure I will have no choice-“ Peter’s voice is even but he looks nearly panicked now.
“I’m not that stupid.” Neal smiles mildly and shakes his head.
“Then what?”
“Not an alias,” Neal states calmly. “My real name. Fifteen minutes at a computer, a few phone calls and all those answers, Peter, all those secrets, they are all yours.”
“I don’t believe you.” Peter’s eyes search his face, looking for truth or deception. Neal is certain his face reveals neither.
“Show me, Peter, simple as that. Walk away from it. Burn it.”
Read it, Peter.
The tip of Peter’s finger settles on the lighter’s thumbwheel.
THE END
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