WC: Three Months - Chapter 3
White Collar -- Fanfiction
Disclaimer:
All recognizable characters are property of Jeff Eastin and USA Network.
No copyright infringement intended.
Title: Three Months -- Chapter 3/3
- 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 3
Elizabeth tightens her grip on her husband’s hand, his warm and firm fingers giving hers a reassuring squeeze. Peter looks down at her, studying her apprehensive expression with loving concern.
“El, you don’t have to do this,” he reiterates. “I can take you back out to the car right away. It’s not a problem, really.”
“No, I want to see him, Peter.” She says with determination and takes a deep breath. “You had to jump through a lot of hoops to get me in here on temporary CI status. I’m a big girl. I can handle it. It’s just so-“ Elizabeth lets her gaze sweep over the deserted yard, taking in the ten-foot razor wire fence that demarcates the outer perimeter of the prison grounds. “-dreary.”
The four-story concrete block of the main building less than 50 yards away, melts into the overcast early spring sky above and into the expanse of dead grass at its feet. The close by picnic table that is cemented to the ground carries Peter’s briefcase and yet another paper bag with supplies for Neal. Elizabeth pulls her jacket closer around her body. Despite the gray skies, the air is pleasant, a light, cool breeze carrying the unmistakable scent of spring.
“Has he been out in fresh air since he got here?” She looks up at her husband, her fingers brushing aside the strands of hair blown into her face. Peter seems stumped by the unexpected question.
“No. I mean, I don’t know,” he replies, his forehead scrunched into a confused frown. “No.”
Elizabeth clucks her tongue.
“He must be going stir-crazy,” she says more to herself than to Peter. “I know I would.”
“This is Neal we’re talking about,” Peter replies with a small chuckle. “A two mile radius in Manhattan is not enough for the guy.”
Elizabeth shoots her husband a mildly scolding glare and his chuckle dies instantly.
“I’m serious, Peter. I wanted to come here to see for myself that he’s doing okay before I have to leave for San Francisco.”
Peter looks doubtful.
“El, as much as I hope this visit will set your mind at ease, I think you may be expecting too much. I’ve met with the guy once a week for the last month, and I don’t have the slightest clue how he’s really doing. I’m not even sure Neal knows. I talk to him and I watch him struggle to slip on that damn Caffrey mask of his, and it won’t fit. I wish I could make him understand that he doesn’t have to be the same man he was two months ago,” he states, shaking his head in frustration.
“But he’ll be happy to see you, honey,” Peter adds with an encouraging nod at Elizabeth. He looks over her shoulder towards the door to the main building. “Speaking of the devil.”
Elizabeth spins on her heel and lets go of Peter’s reassuring hand. Accompanied by two uniformed guards, Neal is making his way across the yard. There is a brief hesitation in his stride when he realizes that Peter hasn’t come alone, then his cool swagger is back in place. Elizabeth takes a few anxious steps towards the approaching man.
“Elizabeth.” Neal’s smile is the most honest expression Peter has seen him produce in the month since they agreed to reinstate the con man’s work release program. “I didn’t expect to-“ He is cut off by the crushing force of her embrace. Over her shoulder, Neal’s eyes find Peter’s as he gingerly wraps his arms around Elizabeth. The agent can’t decide whether the nonplussed man is angry at him for bringing his wife to this place or whether he is asking permission to indulge in her open affection. Peter offers a small nod, and Neal closes his eyes as he relaxes his shoulders and lets his cheek sink against her soft hair.
“I am so sorry about what happened, Neal. I know Kate meant the world to you,” Elizabeth speaks against his neck. She can feel him tense noticeably in her arms.
“Mozzie delivered your card and your letter. Thank you. I really appreciated your-“ Neal swallows to clear his choked voice. “Your condolences. And I apologize for not sending a proper reply.”
“None needed, Neal.” She tightens her arms around him for a long moment before reluctantly releasing her embrace. Her hands briefly slide up his front and down his shoulders and arms as if to brush away lint. Taking a step back she looks him over. He has layered both of the long-sleeve t-shirts she bought for him under his bright orange prison wear. Elizabeth wonders if he has done so to stay warm in the cool outside temperatures or to hide his weight-loss. With a cursory pass of her wrist, she wipes away the tears that are welling up in her eyes. Neal exchanges a helpless glance with Peter.
“You know, I was worried sick about you,” Elizabeth continues, trying hard to put on a smile for Neal. “When Mozzie told us you were sick and had to be taken to the infirmary I was ready to come busting through the front door with some chicken soup.”
Neal shoots Peter a look that clearly communicates his bafflement that everybody and the world-let alone Mozzie and the Suits-is discussing his state of health.
“It was just a cold,” Neal reassures her. “You know Moz. He likes to embellish.”
Neal only has a vague recollection of the three days he spent in the prison infirmary. In the night after Mozzie had brought him the incident reports, his relentless coughing had not only provoked incessant verbal abuse from sleep-disturbed denizens of his cellblock, but had ultimately led to his removal to the infirmary wing at 3 am. The night nurse hadn’t been able to do much more than to temporarily medicate his cough and his rising fever before securing him to a bed until the arrival of a physician in the morning. The doctor’s physical and a set of chest x-rays had allayed the initial concerns of a more serious condition. A few supervised meals, three nights of drug-induced sleep and undisturbed bed rest in a quiet back room of the infirmary had set an end to his escalating spiral of stubborn wakefulness and malnutrition. With his sleep and eating patterns reset and his upper respiratory infection on the mend, Neal had shaved and taken the first shower in over a week before returning to his cell and to the stack of paperwork waiting under his mattress.
“I’m fine,” Neal states, and immediately elicits a groan from Elizabeth and a snicker from Peter. “What? What did I say?” He asks, confused.
“Neal, you just cost me a whole week of doing the dishes,” Elizabeth bemoans. “Peter bet me that you would claim to be fine within the first 5 minutes of our meeting.”
“Barely made it past minute 2!” Peter announces triumphantly.
“It’s good to know that I’m still good for the occasional joke in the Burke household,” Neal grumbles with an exaggerated sniff.
“Don’t think I’m not going to make you do at least some of those dishes, Neal!” Elizabeth retorts with a playful wink. “Now sit down, I want you to try the new caramelized pear and chocolate ganache tarts I’ve been experimenting with.”
She maneuvers him to the picnic table.
“Peter?” He nods at the agent as he is being pushed past him.
“Neal?” Peter returns the greeting and watches the young man slip onto the bench attached to the table. He catches Elizabeth’s impatient hand signal and compliantly grabs the extra windbreaker she has brought and passes it on to Neal. The con man unfolds the jacket and inspects it briefly, feigning disappointment at the absence of the FBI lettering from the back. He slides his arms into the oversized sleeves and pulls the front closed.
“Nice try,” Peter remarks. “Were you hoping to walk out of here? Couldn’t get a hold of the warden’s wife’s credit card to order a uniform?”
Neal studies Peter suspiciously.
“I was hoping it wouldn’t have to come to that. It’s only a couple more days, right?” He watches Peter’s clever smirk fade. “Right, Peter?”
“We’ll talk about it later, Neal,” the agent replies, inclining his head in Elizabeth’s direction. Neal suddenly appears nauseated, but he nods his agreement.
“I brought coffee!” Peter offers, his light tone contradictive to the unease in his eyes. He opens his briefcase and pulls out a thermos. “Don’t ask me what it took to get this past security. It’s June’s Italian roast.”
“Contraband?” Neal asks with at crooked smile. “Peter, I’m shocked!”
“You should have seen him sweating bullets the entire car ride over here,” Elizabeth teases. She places three Styrofoam cups on the table and serves her small tartlets on simple paper napkins. The coffee that Peter’s pours is still hot and Neal savors the aroma with his eyes closed before taking his first sip. Elizabeth and Peter settle onto the bench across from him and Neal looks over the table and takes a moment to appreciate the company after eating alone in his cell for almost two months. He takes a small bite of the pear tartlet.
“This is fantastic, Elizabeth.” Neal says, and Elizabeth beams with pride at the praise.
“Is that ginger in there?” Peter scrunches his face in distaste, prompting an exasperated eye-roll from his wife. Elizabeth chooses to ignore him. She tells Neal about the large project in San Francisco she is about to be involved in. The young man smiles sweetly as he hangs on each of her excited words, sipping his coffee and finishing his tartlet and then a second. He occasionally lets his eyes drift to Peter, who looks none too pleased about the prospect of being separated from his wife for weeks at a time but manages to hide these feelings under a layer of honest pride and spousal dedication. Neal asks questions about the events and the hotel she is going to stay at and gives her tips on restaurants and art galleries she shouldn’t miss. Peter watches Neal come alive in the lighthearted chatter and he is finally convinced that bringing Elizabeth was the right decision.
When the coffee is finished, Elizabeth collects the empty cups and napkins, stuffing them into a plastic bag she has brought for the waste.
“Thank you, honey.” Peter briefly places a hand on her back and she turns to nod her understanding of his sign.
“I’d better go and leave you boys to talk shop.” She rises from the table and leans down to place a quick kiss on Peter’s lips. “I’ll be in the car, honey. I need to make a bunch of phone calls and the Supermax parking lot may be the only place left on earth where I can do that without being constantly interrupted.”
Neal gets to his feet when she walks up to him to say goodbye. She gives him a brief hug and a peck on the cheek that brings an immediate blush to his pale complexion.
“You look tired, Neal,” Elizabeth says warmly as her thumb wipes a trace of lipstick from his face. “Get more rest, okay? There are more books and sketch paper in the bag for you. I’ll see you very soon.” For a moment she seems unwilling to leave, but then she gives one of the armed guards an assertive nod. Neal stands and silently watches her being escorted towards the exit. Only after she has disappeared from view, he turns to look at Peter.
“She doesn’t belong in a place like this. You shouldn’t have brought her here, Peter,” Neal states sternly. “And she doesn’t need to see me like this,” he adds more subdued, as he tugs on his orange prison garb.
“El wanted to see you before she leaves for California, and frankly, it looked like it did you good,” Peter replies.
“You know what would do me good? Getting out of here.” Neal’s tone is harsh, his frustration barely contained. “Why am I still here, Peter? I signed the damn papers weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry, Neal. It’s out of my control,” Peter explains calmly. “It’s even out of Hughes’ control, and he’s about to reassign me to eternal mortgage fraud hell if I should bug him about this one more time. Your paperwork is held up at the DOJ and the marshals are taking their sweet time to get your new tracker set up. You’re just going to have to be patient, Neal.”
Neal snorts. He shakes his head as his eyes wander over the gray prison grounds.
“You want to go for a walk?” Peter asks. “It’s not Central Park, but I bet it beats anything you’ve seen in a couple of months.” Neal sighs. He briefly catches Peter’s eye and the agent is struck by the disheartenment in the young man’s face.
“Sure.” Neal finally acquiesces.
The remaining guard follows a few paces behind as they stroll along the perimeter of the yard. Neal is silently lost in thought and keeps his eyes to the ground. The slight breeze ruffles his hair as it falls into his face. With his shoulders pulled forward and his hands barely sticking out of the long sleeves of Peter’s windbreaker, Neal looks younger than he should in a place like this. Peter leaves him be, his thoughts drifting off to wonder if Elizabeth has made it safely back to the car by now.
“Did you know that even the doors of the isolation cells are solid?” Neal suddenly asks, his subdued voice interrupting the long silence. Peter’s jaw sets as he briefly closes his eyes.
“Yeah, I know.” He nods. “Look, I realize it’s not an ideal solution, but it’s for your own protection, Neal. You had a close call a couple of days ago.”
“It’s barely a scratch. Didn’t even need stitches.”
“Alright, let’s see it,” Peter demands, spinning on a heel and bringing the con man to a halt with a firm hand around his arm.
“What? No!” Neal looks at Peter as if the request had been a personal insult.
“Show me or I’ll tell El what happened.”
Neal’s eyes narrow and his lips purse when he realizes he has already lost the argument. He heaves an exaggerated sigh and avoids looking at Peter as he gathers the bottoms of the t-shirts and the orange top and hitches them up to reveal his stomach. A 6x2-inch strip of wound dressing is taped across his abdomen just above the navel. Neal inhales sharply when Peter peels the taped edge away to look underneath the bandage. The dull plastic shiv has left a short jagged cut that tapers into a skin-deep scrape. The edges of the deep end of the wound are secured with a handful of sutures. Peter mutely shakes his head at Neal’s blatant lie about the severity of his injury.
“Jesus, Caffrey, this could have ended badly.” Peter looks unsettled as he gently reattaches the bandage, wincing in sympathy when Neal bites back a groan at his touch.
“But it didn’t. I’m fine.” Neal lowers his shirts and then lowers his eyes as he fumbles with the windbreaker’s zipper.
“How’s your head?” Peter extends a hand towards the other man’s head, but Neal ducks away from him with an annoyed scowl.
“It hurts, okay?” Neal snaps and rubs the side of his head where it had impacted metal after a fist had seized his sleeve and yanked him into the steel bars of a cell. The violent collision had left him with barely enough awareness to twist away from the sharpened piece of plastic jabbed at him from between bars. “I’ve learned my lesson. Don’t walk within arm’s reach of a cell after you’ve been an FBI agent’s pet for the better part of a year. I got it.”
“Neal.” Peter replies calmly. He watches Neal throw up his hands in vexation and then briskly walk off down the rarely trodden path along the fence. The agent assures the guard that the situation is under control before heading after the con man with long strides. He reaches his side, falling into step with Neal who shows no desire to slow his pace. Peter can feel the frustration vibrating off of the man by his side. He steals the occasional sideways glance at Neal as they hurry along a straight line set by the wall of barbed wire towering above them. Neal’s jaw line is tense as his lips part slightly with his quickening breath. Peter can only speculate whether his friend is easily winded after two months of confinement or whether his chest is heaving with barely contained anger.
“Neal?” Peter reinitiates the conversation, his tone collected.
“Just say it already, Peter,” Neal says bitterly, his eyes darting over random spots up ahead, unable or unwilling to look at his friend. “You know you want to.”
“Say what?” Peter frowns in sudden bafflement.
“That you told me so. That going after Kate would be a mistake.” The young man’s voice is shaking now and Peter can see his brows drawn together in anguish. He grabs Neal’s sleeve and forces him to a halt, refusing to let go when the con man tries to pull away.
“Look at me, Neal.” Peter’s composure doesn’t waver as his voice remains warm but determined.
“Look at me,” he repeats gently tugging on the windbreaker’s sleeve. The troubled eyes still can’t or won’t meet his, but they come close enough to give Peter hope that Neal will witness his expression of utter surprise and sympathy and anything but sanctimonious vindication. He tries to ignore the familiar churning of unease that manifests itself in his stomach whenever he feels himself blindsided by an unexpected tilt of his world into emotional territory. Peter focuses entirely on Neal in an effort to read what is going on behind the restless eyes and the knitted brow. He convinces himself to see pain that’s beyond anything physical, and loneliness that doesn’t come from being isolated in an 8-by-8 foot room, and self-recrimination that a simple ‘It’s not your fault’ won’t put to rest. When Peter finally speaks, he only addresses the sentiment Neal is most likely to acknowledge.
“I know you’re angry right now, Neal,” Peter says softly and then pauses long enough to prompt Neal to steal a glance at him that asks whether anything else is forthcoming. “Back by that hangar I told you I would be here for you to help get you through this. And if right now that means you need me to be somebody to be angry with, then so be it. But I never wanted any of this to happen. I need you to believe that. Please?”
In front of him, Neal shifts and shrugs out of Peter’s hold on his arm. He skirts around the agent, who is blocking his way back to the picnic table. Peter is left once again to stare at Neal’s back as the young man walks off, determined, but with less energy than before, looking like he needs to think rather than let of steam. The touch of rejection Peter feels is dwarfed by his overwhelming sense of compassion for his lost friend.
Neal unexpectedly slows then stops in his tracks after a few steps. He stands with his shoulders rising and falling with several deep breaths as he gathers the will and the courage to turn around and face his friend. When he finally does, it is with wide-open, pained eyes, a defenseless shrug and palms open. It is the most disarming apology Peter has seen out of the young man. Peter offers a small nod of silent acceptance and then closes the distance between them.
“I’m not angry with you, Peter.” Neal says quietly, all bitterness gone from his voice. There is moisture collecting in the corners of his eyes, and Peter steels himself to witness his friend fall apart again. Neal turns his gaze away from him and back to the expanse of the razor wire-topped fence. He shakes his head mutely, as he takes a few quivery breaths. He blinks his tears away before they have a chance to break free. “I just wish I-“ Neal trails off.
“What, buddy?” Peter desperately searches his friend’s face for an answer to his question, fearing that the window of unguarded openness is rapidly being shuttered as the ill-fitting con man’s mask is being pulled into place before his eyes. He wonders if Neal is reserving his tears for the hours spent locked behind the sealed doors of an isolation cell. Peter fears that even there the young man will insist on fooling his audience of bare walls into believing he is fine.
“Nothing. I’m OK,” Neal replies with an insincere smile that stirs Peter’s desire to shake the man in front of him. The agent releases an exasperated puff of air and tips his head in an invitation to head back to the table. They walk slowly and in silence, their shoulders close enough to occasionally touch. Neal stops a few yards away from the picnic table. He looks down at his wrist as his fingers pick at the cuff of the windbreaker sleeve.
“Listen, Peter,” he starts hesitantly, raising apprehensive eyes at Peter. “Out on that tarmac, I-to be honest, I don’t remember much of what happened after-you know.”
Peter stares at the young man, silently debating if Neal is expecting a simple nod or a reassuring word and offering neither. In the aftermath of the events on the Hudson airstrip Peter has never felt an inkling of embarrassment or regret for offering his modest comfort to Neal, nor had anyone at the bureau as much as hinted at the con man’s breakdown later on. He looks at the trace of a blush that has crept onto Neal’s cheeks as he is struggling to voice an apology that Peter neither anticipates nor needs. Peter shakes his head minutely and watches Neal’s eyes brighten with relief as he nods at Peter and then at the ground, his lips curling into a tired but genuine smile.
“Peter,” he says and sounds surprisingly confident. “I just wanted to apologize in case I ruined that fine suit of yours. I’ll be happy to pay for the dry cleaning.”
“Hey.” In an overly gracious gesture Peter’s hand settles on the round of Neal’s shoulder and offers a light squeeze. “That one’s on me, okay?”
Neal looks at him with a mixture of skepticism and gratitude.
“Thanks. But don’t say I’m not offering to pull my weight around here.”
“Considering that the taxpayer pays for your dry-cleaning, we’re going to have to find a better way for you to make it up to me, Caffrey. On that note, I brought homework for you.” With a light slug on Neal’s shoulder he turns and heads for his briefcase. Neal saunters after him and settles down on the bench.
“There are some bank robberies that recently appeared on our radar. I’d like your expert opinion on how someone could have pulled them off.” Peter plops a large stack of papers in front of the con man. “I couldn’t get you the original files, but I made copies.”
Neal opens the top folder, briefly scanning the crooked photocopy. He picks up a page and pointedly angles it to straighten out the text.
“Secretarial duties are obviously not your strong suit, Peter.”
“That’s why we have file clerks. And handy criminals.” Peter retorts with a smirk.
“Consultants.” Neal corrects.
“Consultants.” Peter nods.
Neal sighs affectedly.
“This is going to require coffee.”
THE END