WC: Three Months - Chapter 2
White Collar -- Fanfiction
Disclaimer:
All recognizable characters are property of Jeff Eastin and USA Network.
No copyright infringement intended.
Title: Three Months -- Chapter 2/3
- Rating: PG-13
- Category: Drama, H/C, missing scenes
- Spoilers: Out of the Box, Withdrawal
A collection of missing scenes of what may have happened to Neal Caffrey in the three months between watching a plane explode and robbing a bank.
Chapter 2
Bobby walks along the row of cells on the first floor of cellblock D, his steps measured and calm. The three-day weekend behind him was the first break in a long series of weekend shifts. He doesn’t mind working Saturdays and Sundays. In here the name attached to a day is meaningless as every man keeps his personal record of time. For the man in cell D16 it’s not Monday, it’s Day Five.
“Morning, Neal.” Bobby stops outside the cell. The young man on the other side of the bars is sitting on his cot, his back against the wall, his elbows resting on his propped up knees, his head resting on his crossed forearms. The bedding on the cot is made neatly, in crisp prison style-not in crisp Caffrey style. When Neal was here on his four-year stint, Bobby used to joke with him about the idiosyncratic daily regimens Neal adhered to that were unique enough to give his existence here a semblance of individuality while staying within the close confines of prison protocol. He would fold his top sheet over the blanket just below the pillow that was perfectly centered at the head of the cot. He would ask the servers in the mess hall to put his starch in the vegetable compartment and his protein in the starch compartment, just so his dinner tray looked different from everybody else’s. In the shower, he shampooed his hair last when everybody else generally started at the top.
“Hi, Bobby.” Neal raises his head and gives the guard his best attempt at a friendly smile. “How was your long weekend with Vanessa and the kids?”
“Not bad,” Bobby replies. “Darryl broke his arm ice skating.”
“He’s six now?”
“Yeah, and he’s a handful.” Bobby takes in the unkempt look of the inmate. Old Neal had always minded his appearance. He had shaved every day, save for the few weeks prior to his escape, he had kept his hair combed and trimmed, he had worked out daily, using the machines in the exercise room or doing crunches and pushups in the small space of his cell. This isn’t old Neal. The greasy hair and noticeable stubble suggests that Neal hasn’t made use of the daily personal hygiene time the inmates are afforded. He hasn’t made use of his cot either.
“You know, sooner or later you’re going to have to lie down to sleep, Neal.”
“I just haven’t been tired.” Neal replies quietly.
“It’s been five days, Neal. You’re tired,” Bobby states, his voice soft and more caring than it should be when addressing an inmate. “I bet if I look up the word ‘tired’ in a dictionary, there’s a picture of you moping on your bed like this.”
“I’m okay, Bobby. Just been thinking a lot. Keeps me up at night, you know.”
“Are the boys giving you a hard time?” Bobby inclines his head down the row of cells. “I know there are some real loudmouths around here. You were better off in your old cell block.”
“I’ve heard it all, believe me.” Neal snorts. It’s not a complete truth. He remembers most of the names hurled in his direction after lights-out, but more recently that repertoire has been expanded to include a colorful array of terms that describe a person doing inappropriate things to body parts attached to Federal agents. Being in prison isn’t a cakewalk under the best of circumstances. Being in prison with ‘FBI snitch’ all but stamped onto one’s forehead is a certain promise of complete isolation or a world of pain.
“Are you finished with your breakfast?”
Neal nods mutely.
Bobby looks at the full tray of food that sits untouched in the port of the cell door. He pulls out a small notepad, jots down the time of day and logs the remaining food items on the tray.
“You haven’t been eating since you got here.” Bobby’s concern is plainly written across his face.
“I’ve eaten.” Neal sounds offended by the guard’s allegation.
“I’ve checked the logs. An apple?” Bobby shakes his head. “You need to keep your strength up for when you’re getting out of here soon.”
“What if it’s not that soon?” Neal looks up at the guard, and Bobby wishes he could tell the likable young man that that notion is too far-fetched to even consider.
“Then you’ll need extra strength,” the guard replies. “Look at me, I’m ready to last till next football season!” He pats his sizable belly.
“Lost my appetite.” Neal lowers his chin onto his crossed arms and closes his heavy eyelids for a moment.
The radio hooked to Bobby’s belt crackles to life. The guard answers it and listens briefly to the voice at the other end.
“Roger that, I’ll bring him right over,” he says before reholstering the radio and unhooking the key ring from his belt.
“Your lawyer is here to talk to you, Neal.” Bobby unlocks the cell door. Neal looks up from the cot with little enthusiasm.
“This better be good news.” He mumbles as he gets to his feet. His knees are stiff from sitting in the same position for too long, and Neal takes a few wobbly steps before his strides are steady and confident enough to make it past the gauntlet of inmates that line the hallway from behind bars.
“Maybe you should get some exercise to work up an appetite and tire you out enough to sleep.” Bobby suggests as he escorts Neal down the corridor. “I can pencil you in for some private time in the workout room this afternoon if you like.”
Somebody snickers within earshot.
“Why don’t you bring him in here, Bobby?” The voice from the right calls. “I’ll give him a good workout.”
“Shut up, John,” The guard replies flatly.
“I promise to wipe him down when I’m done with him. I wouldn’t want to lose my gym membership for not cleaning the equipment for the next person to use,” John continues, and a chorus of catcalls and laughter echoes along the row of cells.
“I said, shut up,” Bobby repeats as he watches the young man in front of him pull up his shoulders and lower his gaze to the ground.
==
Mozzie paces around the tables and benches that are bolted to the floor of the visitation room. He tugs at the knot of the necktie Mrs. Suit had pinned on him after telling him flat out that his choice of bowtie was ludicrous. Mozzie suspects Mrs. Suit didn’t actually take personal offense to his style. She just needed one more thing to do to make her feel a little less helpless in this dismal situation. Mozzie looks at Elizabeth’s homemade gift bag made of crinkly, printed art paper that is waiting on the table next to the stack of much less pleasant paperwork Mozzie has brought.
On the day of the explosion, Mozzie had driven out here the moment Elizabeth had called him and tearfully relayed the events by the Hudson. Mozzie had waited in this very room, unnerved and impatient, while his best friend was somewhere else among these cold walls to have his possessions and his freedom stripped away from him once again. It had taken over an hour for Neal to be brought into the visitation area. He had stood, overwhelmed and underdressed in his short-sleeved orange convict garb, looking nothing like the hopeful and confident man Mozzie had said goodbye to earlier that day. Mozzie had sat with him on these hard benches because there was nothing else to do, and he had told him how sorry he was because there was really nothing else to say. Neal had hung his head as he silently accepted the hand on his shoulder and the jacket draped over his rattled frame, still trembling with shock and cold. He hadn’t cried because he didn’t have the strength for it anymore or because this place had already seen too many of his tears.
The door opens and Neal steps through, avoiding eye contact with Mozzie until the uniformed guard has finished his intrusive frisking. Mozzie wonders how much of his pride Neal still has to swallow through the procedure.
“Hi, Mozz.” Neal steps over the bench to sit down. “Good to see you.”
Mozzie takes a moment to take in his friend’s disheveled look. He has done his homework, using the Suit’s connections to check on how Neal has been faring over the past few days. He hadn’t wanted to come back until he had something to share with Neal. He wishes he had come sooner.
“I was going to say the same thing, but now I’m not so sure,” Mozzie says, his voice unable to hide his dismay. “You look like-“
“Mozz,” Neal warns. “I’m fine.”
“I’ve seen fine, Neal,” Mozzie replies, settling onto the bench across from Neal, his eyes fixed on his friends’ pallid and hollow face. “You’re not even on the same continent as fine. Don’t they have mirrors in this place?”
“Any news?” Neal rests his elbows on the table, and Mozzie wonders if he does it to keep from falling forward.
“Yes.”
“But?”
“First this.” Mozzie reaches inside the bag Elizabeth has packed and pulls out a bottle of Ensure. He pushes the nutrition shake in front of Neal.
“You’re kidding me?” Neal’s brow furrows and Mozzie makes a mental note that bemused and bone-tired is not a good look for Neal Caffrey.
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” He nudges the bottle further towards his friend before making a point of taking the top folder from the stack of paperwork and aligning it perfectly with the edge of the table directly in front of him. “The U.S. government can’t legally force feed you, but Mrs. Suit and I can.”
Mozzie learns that royally peeved and bone-tired isn’t an attractive look for Neal either. He avoids looking too pleased with himself as he watches Neal ponder the blackmail situation. Neal’s eyes narrow at Mozzie with obvious disgruntlement as he finally unscrews the plastic cap and lifts the bottle to his lips. He slowly swallows the chalky chocolate-flavored shake, his plain-to-see revulsion with its taste almost enough for Mozzie to take pity on him. When Neal hands over the bottle with tight lips and a persistent scowl, Mozzie briefly shakes it to make sure it has been emptied.
“What have you got, Mozz?” Neal asks, sounding annoyed more so than curious. “When is Peter’s DOJ hearing?”
“In three weeks.” Mozzie replies softly. Across the table, Neal lets his chin sink to his chest with a dispirited sigh.
“So, the soonest I’ll be out of here is three weeks from now?” Neal raises his eyes and searches his friend’s face for any sign to the contrary.
“I’m sorry, Neal.”
The younger man discards the words of sympathy with a snort. In light of Neal’s condition Mozzie shouldn’t let this open contempt get to him, but he can’t help but feel a pinch of hurt.
“The Suit is fine, by the way,” he says more abruptly than he intends. “I’ll tell him you asked.”
Neal has the grace to look remotely conscience-stricken.
“I’m-“ He noisily exhales through his nose. “I know it’s not Peter’s fault.” Mozzie raises a forgiving hand and wonders why so few of Neal’s apologies actually contain the word ‘sorry’.
“He wants to see you, you know. They won’t let him until he has his badge back. El told me he gave Hughes a patented Peter Burke storm-off when he found out.”
“El?” Neal raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like the two of you have been cozying up. Peter must be thrilled.” Mozzie shrugs unconcerned.
“Mrs. Suit, is getting tired of seeing him bounce off the walls at home.” He explains with a grin before turning more serious. “She wants to see you, too.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mozz. I don’t do so well through plexiglass.” Neal offers with a twitch of the mouth that even by the most generous standards doesn’t qualify as a smile.
“Quite frankly, right now you’re not doing so great in person either,” Mozzie points out. He suspects his friend has serious reservations about returning to the place he was close to Kate for the last time, even if close meant separation by a soundproof one-inch barrier of glass. “I’ll let her know. She’ll respect your wish. She wrote you a card and a letter.” He points at the envelope taped the to home-made bag.
“Thank you,” Neal says weakly. He clears his throat as he tries to reenergize his voice. “What else did you find out? Could you get a hold of the police report on the-“ He pauses mid-sentence and blinks several times as his eyes bounce over Mozzie’s face.
“On the airstrip incident?” Neal finally adds with a faint tremor in his voice.
Mozzie nods. Neal must have been practicing that question, running it through his mind over and over until he could settle on the words that describe the horror of that day in the most detached way possible.
“Police, FBI, FAA. Got them all. At least the initial reports. The investigation is ongoing.” Mozzie omits the hours he and Peter have spent poring over every detail of the reports, removing and redacting pictures and facts that would be too much to handle for Neal. He had hardly exchanged a word with the FBI agent in those hours, their shared concern for their friend unspoken but ever present in the Burkes’ dining room. He pushes the two-inch stack of manila folders towards Neal. The hands that accept them are shaking and then flexing to disguise that fact.
“I’ll read them later.” Neal sounds choked. “What about Fowler and the music box? Did you track him down?”
Mozzie puffs up his cheeks, briefly considering his next move. He reaches inside the gift bag and pulls out a sandwich-size package of butcher paper tied with a blue piece of yarn.
“Mrs. Suit made this for you. She bought some insanely expensively imported Hungarian salami and the olive tapenade is home-made. It has peppers on it, too.” The short man explains like a waiter expecting a large tip.
“Mozzie, I’m really not in the mood for games.” Neal looks a little green around the gills as he eyes the wrapped sandwich. Mozzie stoops to the floor to dig around his briefcase. He pulls out a second sandwich, wrapped in a similar fashion but lacking the bow.
“I’ll trade you.”
“Does this look like a school cafeteria to you, Mozz?” Neal pointedly looks around.
“There are certain similarities.” Mozzie notes. “Mine’s PB&J.”
“Crust cut off?”
“Of course.” Mozzie pushes his lunch across the table, sealing the deal. He waits for Neal to unwrap the whole-wheat sandwich and peel the bread apart to inspect the contents. Only when Neal is chewing at a slow pace does Mozzie help himself to the other sandwich. The short man looks over the table watching the consciously small bites his friend takes of his lunch. He can’t help but see a younger Neal, who so often sat across from him at a rickety kitchen table many years ago. A lanky, fidgety teenager with wild, wavy hair who distractedly nibbled on a peanut butter sandwich, while leafing through a new art history book and simultaneously rambling on about his day in an excited, endless string of words.
“I’ve fixed enough of those for you. I know what the great Neal Caffrey liked before he started asking for Osetra Caviar and Jamón.” Mozzie reflects quietly.
“I still do. Thank you, Mozz.” Neal’s soft voice barely carries across the table. The men sit in silence until Neal swallows the final bite of his sandwich.
“Fowler?” He renews his request for information.
“Gone.” Mozzie states flately.
“Where?” Neal catches Mozzie’s movement towards the gift bag and swiftly reaches across the table to snatch it away from his friend. The guard by the door comes to attention at the sudden commotion, but relaxes when Mozzie waves his okay. “Where’s Fowler, Mozzie?”
“Gone. As in ‘nobody knows where’.”
“Let me guess, there’s no one else wiling to confirm that Mentor ever existed?”
“No.”
A hollow chuckle in Neal’s throat turns into a deep, wet cough that sounds painful and looks more so as Neal hunches over, crushing the art paper bag against his rattling chest. Mozzie watches with growing concern as his friend’s scrunched up face is only slow to recover, the bleary eyes blinking away moisture.
“How long have you had this cough?” He briefly looks up at the guard, who looks only vaguely interested in the convict’s condition as he offers Mozzie a clueless shrug.
“Couple of days. I’m alright.” Neal successfully tries at a smile but the wheeze in his voice does not help to ease Mozzie’s worries.
“Why are you wearing one of Peter’s ties?” Neal redirects.
“Don’t ask,” Mozzie laments. “Just rest assured that it is not intended to add insult to injury.” Neal doesn’t look fully convinced.
“How’s June?”
“About one Tom Collins away from getting Byron’s old gang back together to break you out of here.” Mozzie replies with a serious face. “And she wants you to know she’s sorry.”
There’s a pained expression in Neal’s face as he opens his mouth to speak. Mozzie holds him off with a raised hand.
“I know you don’t want to talk about it, but you’ll have to let people tell you that they’re sorry for what happened. No man is an island, Neal, not even you. Back then, you needed to work by yourself to protect yourself. I get that. You didn’t want anybody to turn on you. But this is different, Neal. There are people who care about you. June, Mrs. Suit, hell, even the Suit himself. Don’t shut them out. For their sake and yours.”
“You’re starting to sound like Peter.” Neal returns softly.
“I never thought I’d say this, but I’ll take it as a compliment.”
He motions at the bag in Neal’s hands. “There’re more things from the Suits for you. I put some books in there, too. There’s a new DaVinci biography. I hear it’s juicy.”
Neal pulls off the card-sized envelope that is clipped to the bag and addressed to him in Elizabeth’s handwriting and puts it aside without opening it. He unpacks the bag, laying its contents out on the table. Aside from the paperback books there are a sketchpad and a box of oil pastels, two long sleeve t-shirts, several granola bars, half a dozen bottles of Ensure and an iPod.
“Security wouldn’t let you have the charger cable. I guess all you have are 8 hrs of music. Sorry.” Mozzie explains.
“They’re still worried about me trying to-?“ Neal trails off.
“Should they be?”
Neal shakes his head. Mozzie scrutinizes his friend’s weary eyes and decides to believe him.
“I need to know who killed her, Mozzie.”
“I’m working on it, mon frère.” The short man assures. Across the table Neal wrestles with a new coughing fit. Mozzie waits patiently for Neal to stop. “You need to get some rest and have that cough looked at. And eat. I don’t want to have to hold you to ransom every time I show up here. Wouldn’t hurt to take a shower and shave. The homeless look is very unflattering.”
“I got it, Mozz.” If Neal is touched by his friend’s concern, he hides it under a solid layer of irritation. Mozzie is okay with that. Irritated Neal is better than despondent Neal.
“Good.” Over Neal’s shoulder Mozzie catches the guard’s eye as he points at his watch. “Listen, I have to go. I’ll be back on Wednesday. Let me know if you need anything.”
It is Neal who has to leave the room first. He bags his array of thoughtful gifts and extracts himself from the bench.
“Thank you, Mozz,” he says, and Mozzie decides that grateful and bone-tired is an okay look for Neal. The young man turns to face the door.
“Neal,” Mozzie calls, prompting his friend to look over his shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I wish I could have been wrong when I said that happy endings aren’t for guys like us. I really wanted you to have yours.”
Proceed to chapter 3