WC: Shirts & Skins - Part 4.4
White Collar -- Fanfiction
Disclaimer:
All recognizable characters are property of Jeff Eastin and USA Network.
No copyright infringement intended.
Title: Shirts & Skins - Part 4
- Rating: R
- Warnings: Adult content, Violence, Language; nothing explicit; no slash
- Category: Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Humor, Pre-canon, AU
A collection of loosely related stories revolving around pre-series encounters of Burke and Caffrey. Previously posted on Fanfiction.net.
Part 4: Tailspin (4/4)
Neal is involved in a gallery heist that threatens Elizabeth Burke's life.
Posted in 4 parts due to post length limitations.
Dressed in a baggy Bruce Springsteen T-shirt, Neal nurses his bottle of beer and quietly studies the man sitting across the kitchen table from him. Peter lounges leisurely on his chair, his fingers twirling the brown bottle in front of him. Barefoot, in his cotton gym pants and a plain black t-shirt he looks anything but the sharp-witted, hard-nosed agent Neal has come to know over the course of the years. He looks relaxed. Content. At home.
Neal absentmindedly rubs his chest with his hand, his bruised sternum and ribs aching from clinging to the chair back too tightly. He tugs on the t-shirt’s collar that is too loose around his neck. Pulling it up to his nose he inhales deeply.
“Lavender,” Peter comments. “El uses this fabric softener stuff. Makes everything in my house smell ... purple.”
Neal stops fidgeting with his shirt and permits himself a long sweeping glance around the kitchen under the watchful eye of its owner.
“You have a beautiful home, Peter.”
Peter acknowledges the compliment with a small nod.
“When is the last time you’ve had one, Neal?”
“A home?” The young man blinks back at him with his forehead furrowed and a guarded hurt in his eyes. Watching Neal like a hawk, Peter leans back in his chair and takes a swig of his beer. He has obviously hit on a touchy subject for the conman.
“Yes, you know, a place with pictures on the mantle and lavender-scented shit and bags of frozen peas in the freezer.”
“A lot of people my age don't have what you have, Peter,” Neal replies defensively. “I like to think I've done pretty well for myself so far. I have-“ He hesitates. “Other stuff.”
“Oh yeah, I bet the 2 million dollars worth of loot and con money you've squirreled away somewhere puts you way ahead of the curve in comparison to all those losers who struggle through grad school at your age.”
Neal shrugs and tries to stifle a smirk. Peter is not even in the right ballpark as far as the 2 million dollars are concerned.
“I'm glad you're getting a laugh out of this.” Peter shakes his head angrily. “Because, frankly, Caffrey, I think you're quite the sad sack.”
The furrow on Neal's forehead reappears as building tension sends ripples along his jaw line.
“What those poor schmucks in grad school have on you are families to come home to for Thanksgiving and friends to get drunk with when they pass the LSATs or when they get dumped by their girlfriends,” Peter continues, noticing how the conman's left hand has taken a choking hold on his beer bottle. “These are the things that truly matter in life, Neal, as insignificant as they may be in your book. All you've got to show for your twenty-something years is a girlfriend who only loves you at her convenience and one lonely friend in the world who apparently has grown tired of pulling your scrawny ass out of the fire every other week.”
There is silence in the room save for the dog’s steady panting.
“Take it back.” Neal's voice is a strained whisper between clenched teeth. With hard, hurt-filled eyes he stares at the agent across the table, his lips trembling.
“Take what back?” Peter frowns in vexation.
“What you said about Kate.”
Peter's expression of confusion morphs into one of exasperation.
“Of everything that I just said to you, that’s the only thing that got stuck in that wind-tunnel between your ears?” He shakes his head. “You've got an opinion of my wife. Don’t you think I'm entitled to one of Kate?”
“Not if it’s wrong.”
“The fact that it hurts to hear doesn’t make it wrong, Neal,” Peter says softly, his gaze open as it pierces the man across from him. “Kate’s not right for you, kiddo. She’s using you. And she’ll throw you to the dogs when she’s done with you.”
Peter is suddenly faced with a hundred and forty pounds of lean muscle, brilliant intellect and emotional immaturity hurling his way.
The kitchen table yields to the unexpected onslaught and skids over the tile floor. The scraping noise generated by the table legs is accompanied by the loud clank of Peter's chair tipping over when the agent jumps to his feet and steels himself for the impact. Peter knows it would take him all of 1.3 seconds to knock the conman’s feet out from under him, twist his arms on his back and immobilize him on the floor. Instead he takes roughly 2.4 seconds to deflect the angry fists aiming for his face, spin the young man’s body around and tightly clamp his arms around him. With his elbows pinned at his sides and his tender back planted firmly against Peter’s broad chest, Neal kicks and squirms.
“Take it back,” he demands in a high-pitched breathless voice.
“Calm down, Neal,” Peter grunts with the effort to keep the young man restrained. He is unprepared the ferocity of Neal's struggle, considering that the kid must have been running on empty for several hours. Neal's head snaps back and collides violently with Peter's jaw. The agent's ears are ringing from the bruising impact, and he tightens his hold around the conman's chest until a strangled cry of pain or frustration or both escapes the young man's lips.
“Take it back.” Neal can hardly speak.
“Calm down. You're hurting yourself.”
“I don't care.”
I do, Peter thinks.
“I take it back,” Peter says. “I take it back, okay?” He adds whispering soothingly into Neal's ear. The conman continues to writhe against Peter’s chest, his heart hammering frantically against his lower arms.
“You have to calm down,” Peter implores. “If I let you go, do you promise to take it easy?”
“Let me go!” Peter can't tell whether the other man's voice breaks with sobs or with the strain of breathing. He loosens his grip to allow the other man a deep inhalation. Occupied with catching his breath, Neal permits the other man to maneuver him back to his chair without further protest. He sinks onto the seat as Peter’s arms finally release him and the warm pressure of a body disappears from behind his back. Peter towers over him, rubs his aching jaw and wonders how his night could possible have gone from bad to worse.
“What the hell, Caffrey?” Peter is unsure whether he has actually voiced that thought out loud. In any case there is no reaction from the other man. The agent walks around the table and places the fallen chair back on its legs. Keeping half an eye on the conman, who has propped an elbow on the tabletop and is raking his fingers wearily through his tousled hair, Peter saunters over to his freezer and pulls out a second bag of frozen peas and a pint of ice cream. He grabs a spoon from the utensil drawer and returns to the table, sitting down in the chair around the table corner immediately to the left of Neal. He lifts the lid off the ice cream container and sticks the spoon into the frozen treat. Pushing the ice cream directly in front of the conman, he leans back in his chair and presses the frozen peas against his jaw.
“Chill, Neal.” He watches with a satisfied nod as the young man takes the spoon and starts scraping its tip over the hard surface. They sit in silence the better part of ten minutes. Peter sips his beer and then continues to finish off the conman’s that has remained almost untouched and has gone flat. He contemplates the emotions playing out on Neal’s face as the young man tenaciously avoids any eye contact. Peter isn’t sure whether the other man is embarrassed to have lost his composure in a juvenile temper tantrum, whether he is angry at Peter for manhandling him back to the table or whether he is simply too exhausted to know the difference.
“Can we talk like adults now?” Peter eventually interrupts the silence. He doesn’t fail to notice the irony in his question, considering that he is addressing a man who has ice cream stuck in the corner of his mouth and who is doggedly mining for chocolate-covered pretzel bits at the bottom of the pint container. Neal nods his head, still unwilling to look at anything other than the spoon in his hand.
“So, the first big Burke-Caffrey cage fighting match, huh?” Peter says and points to his aching jaw when Neal briefly glances up from his two-o’clock ice cream snack. “How ‘bout that?”
“I think we can safely call this one a tie,” Neal mutters, his voice coarse. He touches his split lip. The corner of Peter’s mouth draws up in an apologetic smile.
“I’m not itching for a rematch, in case you were wondering,” Peter continues.
“I wasn’t.” Neal shakes his head emphatically, his focus back on the last remaining pretzel pieces.
==
Peter feels his eyelids droop as he continues to study the withdrawn man to his right. Neal has been banging the spoon against the hollow inside of the ice cream container for fourteen of the last fifteen minutes, his brow furrowed in deep thought. He is testing the agent’s patience, but Peter is not deterred. This is his home. He has no plans of going anywhere. He checks the clock on the microwave. It is 2:45 a.m.
“Why couldn’t you leave me at the hotel, Peter?” Neal’s voice is barely above a whisper but he speaks with clarity. “Why did you have to bring me into your home and share your beer and your ice cream with me like I belong in a place like this. Why did you hit me, like I matter, and then help me, like you care?”
Peter stares at him, taken aback by the plainspoken gravity of the young man’s words and by the unprotected openness in his eyes.
“Why do you rib me and laugh with me like I’m your friend and then tell me how worthless my life is?” Neal continues. “I don’t understand, Peter. Why?”
“Because you do matter, Neal,” Peter replies. “And because it frustrates me endlessly to watch you throw your life away. Because you’re brilliant and talented and I hate to see you channel all that into a career that can end in only two ways: prison or death.”
“Then what would you have me do, Peter?” Neal’s eyes lock with Peter’s and refuse to let go. “Tell me.”
“Turn yourself in,” Peter replies promptly, as if there is no other option to consider.
“Here we go again.” Neal throws up his hand in irritation, shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “How very original, Agent Burke.”
Peter leans forward, refusing to break eye contact with the obstinate man.
“Listen, Neal, I could lose my job over telling you this, but here it is: What the Bureau can comfortably convict you on right now will put you away for a year, eighteen months tops. That’s less time than most kids waste away drinking and smoking pot through the first two years of college. You’ll still be young when you get out. You can start over. Clean slate.”
“And do what? Become a lawyer or a doctor?” Neal chortles without a sign of humor.
“Yes,” Peter snaps back. “If that’s what you want. Or pursue your god-given talent as an artist. Legally.”
“Oh, and maybe I can live in your basement and have your wife do my laundry,” Neal retorts sarcastically.
“Yes,” Peter replies somewhat hesitantly, frowning perplexedly at the oddly specific mental image the conman has conjured up. “If that’s what you need to get back on your feet.”
“Gee, thanks.” Neal shakes his head decidedly. “I’m not going to prison, Peter. I’ve been there, done that, picked up the t-shirt.” The dark shadow that settles over the young man’s features doesn’t go unnoticed.
“I can make sure you’ll go somewhere safe, Neal.” Peter assures softly, his eyes still desperately searching to meet the other man’s. “Some place with a good library and windows.”
“You’re fooling yourself, Peter. You’re delusional if you think that your influence out here is of any consequence in there. There’s no such thing as safe.” The conman leans in, finally meeting the agent’s gaze head-on. “Don’t make it sound like a year, maybe eighteen months, is nothing, Peter. I’ll show you the scars that three weeks have left. Hell, if you ask nicely I might even show you what 48 hours did to someone like me.” His voice breaks, and the blue eyes that penetrate Peter are brimming with tears that stubbornly refuse to fall.
Peter’s heart aches at the sight of the broken man facing him. Neal remains motionless save for the tremble in his lower lip and in the hand that is balled into a fist on the table. He looks fragile, as if the faintest touch will shatter him. His eyes are desperately clinging to Peter’s for fear of slipping back into the time and place that laid waste to part of his soul.
Peter’s hand lightly closes around the young man’s wrist, his fingertips feeling the racing pulse under the soft skin. He nods.
“Then go away, Neal,” the agent whispers urgently, astounded by the words spilling out of his mouth. “Take your girl and your money and go somewhere far away. Somewhere where I can’t find you.”
“It’s not that easy, Peter.” The fist on the table unclenches a little. Neal blinks away the moisture collected in his eyes.
“Why not?”
“Because this is the only home I know,” Neal whispers, unsure whether “this” refers to this country, this city or this kitchen. Peter lets out the breath he isn’t aware of holding and asks himself that same question.
“Neal,” Peter says solemnly after digesting the young man’s words. His hand keeps holding on to Neal’s slender wrist. “Sooner or later there will come a time when this cat-and-mouse game ends. When there’ll be no more playful banter and stolen pocketbooks. Some day soon I will put you in handcuffs and put you behind bars, because this is who I am and that’s who you are. I want you to know that I won’t ask for your absolution.”
Neal suddenly and unexpectedly flashes the most winsome and sincere smile he can muster at this late hour.
“I’ve never been the saintly type, Peter. But consider yourself absolved.”
Peter gets to his feet, acutely aware of the weariness in his bones. He beckons Neal to follow him.
“Come on, Saint Neal or Nick or whoever the hell you want to be tonight.” Neal staggers when he gets his legs under him and Peter steadies him with a firm hand under his elbow. Turning the lights off in the kitchen he steers the young man through the dark and silent house and up the stairs. Peter opens the door to the guest room and ushers Neal inside. Abandoning the conman for a brief moment in the middle of the room, Peter grabs a towel, a pair of his pajama bottoms and a pair of underwear, still in its wrapper, from the closet. He pushes the pile into the young man’s arm.
“Here, more lavender-scented stuff for you,” Peter explains. “I’ll leave a toothbrush on the bathroom counter for you. It’s the first door on your right out in the hallway.” He briefly places his left hand on Neal’s left shoulder.
“Get some sleep. I’ll take you to the free neighborhood clinic in the morning. They won’t ask questions. Okay?” Neal nods. When Peter motions to leave, he is stopped by Neal’s quiet voice, his hand still resting on the young man’s shoulder.
“Peter?”
“Yup?”
“Why can’t she love me the way I love her?”
Peter’s mouth opens and closes, then opens again. Neal’s eyes are on him, tired to the point of delirium.
“Why do women do anything?” Peter sighs and gives Neal’s shoulder a companionable squeeze. “Let’s not try to figure out everything at once, kid.”
Neal’s head slowly drops forward and sideways, seeking the support and comfort of Peter’s solid shoulder. Peter pretends not to notice and disengages his touch from the other man. He feels Neal’s temple brush the round of his shoulder as he walks away and heads for the door. Thrown off balance, the young man takes a shaky step to the side. Peter can’t be sure that the muted sound of protest behind his back is real. He pauses in the guest room door and gathers his courage to turn around. When he does, Peter finds Neal with his back to the door, his head hung and his nose buried in the soft terry fabric of the towel, inhaling the purple scent of the home he doesn’t have. In his rented tuxedo pants and the ill-fitting borrowed t-shirt Neal looks like the loneliest soul in the world.
Peter quietly closes the door behind him.
==
Five minutes later Peter spits out his mouthwash and turns off the faucet. Wiping his hands on the small taupe towel above the sink, he can hear the front door fall into its lock.
He doesn’t need to verify that the guest bedroom is deserted, but he does anyway.
He finds a note on the neatly folded towel lying on the bed. There are two rows of numbers scribbled hastily across the small piece of paper. Neal’s handwriting below looks rushed and unusually crooked, a testament to his broken collarbone.
“Peter. Follow the money to get to Wilson. He should know better than to leave a burned conman alone with his books. Tell Elizabeth that my bowties are always perfect. NC.”
On to Shirts & Skins Part 5