[WC Fic] "Four Christmas Cards", rated M (Part one of one)
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Title: Four Christmas Cards
Author: Ivorysilk
Rating: M.
Summary: "At Christmas time you will be allowed to mail (4) Christmas cards."
Warning: Nothing specific, I don’t think. Set between seasons one and into early season two.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, or this universe. However, I am clearly not above using either of these for my own nefarious purposes. I am writing this for fun, and because I have no self-control and must play in other peoples’ sandboxes.
Thanks: Many thanks go to hoosierbitch, who encouraged and cajoled and beta’d for me-she did a fabulous job, and all remaining mistakes are mine.
Thanks also to qwertyfaced, who let me use her Alcatraz rules prompt card (I’d post a picture so you’d see what I mean, if I knew how to do that) and for brainstorming with me in an airport (for her fic, really, but then I got a bunny and she was kind enough to let me use it), and who brought them in the first place. Finally, thanks to rabidchild, for having the brilliant idea to use the cards as fic prompts in the first place, and for running this fest! (I am sorry I am so late-I actually wrote this a week or two ago for my posting date, but wasn’t happy with a part of it and so didn’t post. Hoosierbitch finally prodded me into looking at posting it, which gave me the impetus to fix what was bugging me. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy it.)
Any comments will, as always, be gratefully received. Thanks for reading, and Happy Holidays!
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Neal goes back to prison on the first anniversary of his release.
He’s numb as he goes through the motions-wallet, tie, suit: all stripped from him. The guard watches him closely and glares as Neal carefully folds his clothes with shaking hands and places them inside the plastic bag they give him for the purpose; he watches as the guard pockets the vintage gold tie clip that was one of his favourites, giving his head a sharp smack when she sees Neal notice that she doesn’t write it down on the prisoner claim sheet.
Neal had dressed his best that morning, filled with promise and hope for the life he’d always wanted, the life he’d always told himself he would one day-if he was good enough, smart enough, worked hard enough-get for himself.
But he’s not on a beach or in a cute little split-level or in a chalet. He’s in a cold and windowless cement room, where the guards are less gentle than thorough as they manhandle him through the body cavity search, their laughter unkind, their voices unfamiliar and dispassionate. Neal has tears in his eyes when he’s done, as he slips on the thin orange polyester uniform he’s given, as he tries not to shiver when he notices the traces of blood on their gloves. (He’d split his lip when he’d hit the pavement when the bomb exploded, that’s all. That’s all it was.)
“Used to work for the F.B.I., huh?” one guard sneered. “That’ll go over real well, here.”
It’s not the supermax Peter had put him in - this is a medium security local prison, best the OPR could do on short notice, probably. He doesn’t know the guards here, and they don’t seem to like him, and he can’t muster the energy to charm them, to make them the promises they’d need, to put on the confident façade that he needs to protect himself.
They put him in a room with three other roommates-one tall and beefy, one small and covered in scars and tattoos, and another who just looks tired. He goes inside and sits on the bunk they point him at. He just wants to be left alone.
His roommates are eyeing him like lunch, like salvation, like they’re wondering how long he’ll last, and Neal is silent, and apathy is like a thick layer over the garish orange of the prison scrubs, like a veil over his eyes making everything look vaguely like a grey-red impressionist painting.
He wants to care. He knows he should care. He knows that Peter would want him to care.
The small man comes up to him and sits beside him. There’s an air about him that warns Neal that he’s vicious, that he’s clearly the one in control here. “It’s almost Christmas, and they’ll let us each mail four cards here,” the man says. “If you give us your cards instead, you’ll be safe-at least until after Christmas.”
Neal just looks at him, because he’s exhausted and out of words. But the man clearly reads something else into his expression, and shrugs.
“I’m Catholic, and you’re pretty. I’m feeling charitable this time of year.”
It’s Christmas in less than a month, Neal realizes with a jolt. Christmas.
This will be his fifth Christmas in prison. Last year, he’d been out of prison less than a month when Christmas had rolled around, and he’d celebrated on his own. Sure, he’d had lunch with June before she’d left for her family vacation and on Christmas eve, Mozzie had dropped by for dinner, but it wasn’t particularly holiday themed. (Moz was an atheist and didn’t celebrate any religious holiday, but he liked any excuse to drink Neal’s wine. Mozzie had invited Neal to the orphanage where he volunteered for Christmas Day, whenever he was in town, but Neal declined.) And so Neal had spent the day itself on his own, receiving calls from Peter, Elizabeth, June, even Jones and Diana; imagining that Kate was thinking of him, and making himself a dinner of cranberries and roast turkey breast with whipped yams and homemade stuffing. Before the day was done, he’d dreamt a thousand dreams of next year, with a crackling fire and a perfectly decorated tree; Kate at his side and the world at their feet.
But this year he’s back in his nightmares--in a cell lined with bunk beds and badly composed family photos, and a man sitting beside him with foul breath and an expectant air. Prison power structures, and Neal almost laughed at himself-he’d almost forgotten; worked hard, in fact, at forgetting.
He’d forgotten that rule about the cards, too. He’d forgotten. He’d sent cards in previous years-more than four, because the supermax guards had let him have all the cardstock paper he’d wanted. Hand illustrated, painstakingly over the weeks before Christmas, before giving his pile to Kate and having her send them for him. One for Ellen, one for Moz, each to anonymous post boxes; of course one for Kate; and a bunch for his old business acquaintances. Plus a few others for those whose favour he needed to continue to cultivate: Billy, the warden, a few of the other guards he liked and a few who didn’t like him, the girl who worked in the commissary. He’d spent hours on the cards-each of them, even the business ones, had a personalized pen and ink Christmas scene or symbol and a short note, or a long one, messages of joy and peace and happiness.
And then, of course, Peter. Peter always got one from him-elaborate and detailed, a tiny pen and ink classic, copied from one of the Old Masters.
This year, it doesn’t matter. He nods at the man who, satisfied, gets up and leaves Neal finally alone.
Kate is dead, and Neal feels like he died with her.
****************************
He’s safe for that first week, and it’s a blessing. No one bothers him, no one talks to him, no one touches him. He’s got some breathing room.
(He hears the sound of a bomb going off every time the prison washer beeps. Everything smells like burnt plastic and rubber and metal, except for every now and again, when he smells Dior’s Poison like Kate’s just brushed by him, even when he’s alone in his cell.)
But the outside world breaks through the haze, every now and again, when he hears the whispers (snitch, traitor, two-faced), and sees the looks: some glancing, but some bold, direct, dangerous.
The tiny little man in his cell is the king of hill, Neal quickly realizes, and he forces himself to try to deal with it. To work to shift the power balance in his favour, just enough to survive. Moz comes to visit, once, twice, telling him the Suit is out of touch but committed to his release, not to worry. Neal tells him it doesn’t matter, he’s fine, assures him he’s not worried. Because he’s not. Moz raises a skeptical eyebrow but says nothing, asks him if he’s aware of the secret messages NASA is sending to Saturn instead. Moz has plans to go to Florida over the holidays; he’ll see Neal in the new year.
And so it goes.
A week slips by, and then two.
The time doesn’t matter.
His floor guard gives him his cards eventually. “Sorry, I forgot; you didn’t get here until after these were distributed.” Neal remembers the rule from the list he was handed when he arrived, along with his uniform and the bar of soap and other standard toiletries, “At Christmas time you will be allowed to mail (4) Christmas cards.”
They’re stock cards, with “Season’s Greetings” printed in red block letters on the front on a dark green background. The inside is blank.
Neal hands them over as soon as he gets them.
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And then it’s Christmas Eve.
That night they’re given turkey and cranberry sauce; lumpy gravy and sweet potato mash. For dessert, there is Christmas pudding, and it’s dense and inedible, but that wouldn’t have mattered either way. For weeks now, all the food has been ash in his mouth.
That night, Neal sits in his cell and discreetly vomits up the dinner he’d tried to eat (laughing and sitting beside Perez, who put his hand on Neal’s shoulder and called him his boy, and Perez had never touched him before, but his leers were more purposeful by the day, and it was so exhausting to both encourage and deflect and keep up the pretense, choking down the overdone turkey leftovers and the underdone stuffing). When he finally lies down and closes his eyes, he dreams. But his dreams that night are no better than usual. Kate’s hair is singed and her face blistered; her blue eyes are filled with tears. “Why didn’t you come, Neal?” she asks, her voice filled with confusion. “We could have been so happy.” And when he touches her, she blows away like dust in the wind, and he wakes up.
But it’s okay: by now he’s stopped really sleeping, and so he lies awake through the night until it’s Christmas morning.
Christmas morning, which is like any other.
Established in his role, Neal’s days have dulled down to routine and rote and survival. He smiles as required, says what’s needed, and Perez’s profit margin inches up. Today is no better and no worse and no different.
Except, of course, that the powers that be believe in gestures, and so they have roast beef for lunch. But Neal can’t manage it, not after the rich food of the night before, and so he murmurs that he’s not hungry and pushes it away, towards Cooper. Because Cooper is strong and built like an ox, and happy enough to have Neal’s share-the man is a bottomless pit, and always hungry.
(It’s not just a kindness. Neal’s lucky--he’s been good enough at organization and connections and distribution that Perez finds him useful enough to keep protecting, but goodwill should never be taken for granted, especially not here, and especially not now. Because the last time he was here, it wasn’t easy, but no one had called him a snitch either. Last time, it was easy to create bonus points, some padding, a buffer.)
Neal knows that this time, he’s barely one thin smile away from hell.
Still, he can do this. He is doing this.
And so Christmas Day passes, except for the lunch and an assembly and a spike in Perez’s sales.
For each Christmas in supermax during his last stint, Kate had come to visit, and they’d had had a few hours in one of the cottages on the prison grounds-dirty, uncomfortable, and cold-but still, a space of time together.
This year, he has no calls, and no visitors.
He forces himself not to wonder, not to wonder what he’d have done, had he been elsewhere. He doesn’t think of June, of Mozzie, of Peter and Elizabeth. He doesn’t wonder what Ellen is doing. And he doesn’t think about Kate.
For this Christmas, Neal curls up on his bed, stares at the bottom of the bunk above his, and gives himself a few hours to think of nothing.
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Peter comes to visit him two weeks into the new year. Everything was delayed, Elizabeth had explained when she’d called him from a public phone a day or two back, because of the holidays. The earliest hearing date Peter could get had been in January, and they’d had to be careful about any contact before then. “Don’t worry, Neal,” she said, her voice cheerful and soothing. “Don’t worry. It’ll all work out.”
Neal, who was always cold nowadays, picked at a hole in his shirt where the fabric had worn through and forced himself to laugh. “I’m not worried, Elizabeth,” he said, just as he’d told Moz. “I have faith that Peter will do what’s best. And I’m fine-it’s just boring here, that’s all. They’re planning a party at New Year’s, though, and they’ve even got a live band. It’s not so bad here. I’m fine.”
He didn’t talk about coming home, because he knows there are no guarantees. Besides, it had been easy to fool himself, out there. In here, he knows the truth: it isn’t like he really has a home to go back to.
So by the time Peter comes and offers him a chance to get out, Neal isn’t sure. From one prison to another, he says to Peter, sardonic. Because Peter’s offer has conditions and little protection, and it’s safe here. A month in, he’s doubled Perez’ profit, and even if Perez wants him, Perez won’t force him: Neal’s too valuable, and Perez still believes in romance. He’s taken to offering Neal treats he thinks Neal might appreciate (brand name soap and a bar of cheap chocolate) and calling him a “classy guy”.
(Neal knows that eventually that interest will turn to resentment, but Neal is a master at manipulating others and Perez isn’t as smart as he thinks he is. Anyway, he could always give in, if it came right down to it; that would be the smart thing to do. Because Perez is in here for at least another ten years, which means he’ll be here for as long as Neal needs. And besides, Neal’ s done worse, for less: he’s sure he has, if he just thinks about it. Perez would treat him kindly, he knows. It wouldn’t be so bad.)
“Can I get back to you?” he asks Peter, trying not to betray his uncertainty, trying not to push Peter too far, but Peter is already on the edge. Neal breathes a sigh of relief as Mozzie walks in, smoothly dismissing a huffing Peter.
This situation, at least, is under control.
Outside of these walls are Kate’s murderers. Outside of these walls are the places she’d lived, and the place where she’d died. He’s missed her funeral-although he doesn’t know if there’d been any service at all. Kate had no family left, and her friends-well, they weren’t likely to identify themselves to the authorities, weren’t likely to make any public announcements. He’d have asked Moz, but he knew what Moz would say. There hadn’t even been a body to bury.
It doesn’t matter, he tells himself.
The important thing is that he understands: he belongs here. He can’t control what goes on out there-the F.B.I., the OPR, the people working against him and Kate. And then there is Peter, and Peter is nothing but unpredictable in his predictability and Neal can’t-
Inside these walls, Perez will take care of him.
Outside of these walls is Kate’s grave, where Neal will never find it.
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Peter is relentless. In the meantime, Mozzie’s other options don’t pan out, and so Neal’s choices narrow down to Peter’s deal or remaining inside. Then Mozzie joins Peter, and Neal doesn’t stand a hope. Between the two of them, they spend three weeks harassing Neal, by phone and in person, until he finally agrees.
“Yes,” he says randomly as Peter is taking a breaking during one such visit to tell him about the office coffee maker breaking down, again, and Peter looks wary, but Neal nods. And then Peter is whipping out the contract and pointing at the signature line, looking intently on until Neal signs his name carefully on the line. Neal signs slowly. He breathes evenly, and thinks about how handsy Perez has been getting, thinks about how he’ll have to give in if he stays. Peter snatches the paper away the moment Neal is done and calls for the guard, as if Neal will change his mind if given half a chance, putting the paper carefully away in his breast pocket and clapping a hand on Neal’s shoulder.
Peter’s hand stays there, large and heavy and solid, squeezing warmth into flesh and bone until the guard hauls him away. Neal misses the warmth.
On the day scheduled for Peter to come and pick him up, Neal dresses in the same suit he had when he’d arrived. Everything’s too loose, but Neal knows how to make things work. He adjusts the belt and pads the shoulders, and it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.
Neal hates how the tracker snapping around his ankle feels familiar and safe.
Peter looks at him sharply as he walks out, a calculated jaunt in his step, but Neal ignores it, his smile wide and brilliant and perfect.
Peter doesn’t smile back, and Neal’s smile-one of his best, really-slips slightly. Peter’s always been too smart, but it doesn’t matter. This is just a business deal, Neal knows that. No different than the deal with Perez. Peter requires his skills, and Neal will do his part. But Peter doesn’t look very happy.
“Just like old times, huh?” Neal says brightly as he steps close, but Peter’s expression doesn’t change. Neal can see his breath fog in the air; it’s cold outside.
“Come on, Neal,” says Peter, and he slings an arm around his shoulders once Neal gets close. “Let’s get you settled.”
Neal doesn’t protest as Peter pulls him towards the car and pushes him gently inside. He doesn’t protest as Peter puts the car in drive and pulls carefully away. He searches for something to say.
“How’s Elizabeth?” Neal asks, because that’s safe.
“She’s fine; she’s excited to see you again.” Peter’s attention is on the road, which is fine by Neal; the roads look icy.
“She called me, before you came to visit. Please tell her it meant a lot to me, I mean it. I know she went to a lot of effort, I-it meant a lot.” It’s the truth, and he wants her to know.
“You’ll see her soon; you can tell her yourself,” replies Peter, distracted. “Is there anything you need right now? I can stop at a grocery store-”
“No, no, I’m fine, I can go tomorrow,” replies Neal, somewhat confused. Last time, Peter couldn’t wait to dump him off with the clothes on his back and ten bucks in allowance; now he wants to take Neal shopping for milk? “I’m fine, Peter, just tired. It can wait. I appreciate you driving me back to the motel.”
“To the-what? No, of course not. June kept your rooms for you, you knew she would.”
Neal can’t hide his gasp of shock, and Peter turns his head to look at him sharply.
“Neal. Did you think we’d forget you? That we’d leave you there?” Peter’s gaze on him is intense, and Neal looks away.
“I-I didn’t-” he forced himself to push away the unexpected flood of he didn’t even know what, but he knew one thing. Emotion never helped. He had to think. “You had no guarantee,” he said, and his voice was reasonable and calm and distant. “None of us did.”
“You know I hate to lose, Neal, and I wouldn’t lose you. Not over something like this. Not ever.” Peter’s voice is firm with the conviction of his belief, and Neal smothers a hysterical laugh.
“There’s always a first time, Peter. And I was doing okay, anyway. Four years would have been over before you-”
“Neal, have you looked in a mirror? You’re pale, you’ve lost weight-”
He can hear the anger in Peter’s voice, but he doesn’t understand why it’s there. It’s not like he’s too physically weak to do his job or something, is that why Peter is upset? He should say something reassuring. “Well, you know me,” he starts, “prison food just isn’t up to -”
Peter explodes, cutting him off. “I can’t believe this! Cut the bullshit, Neal. You couldn’t-”
“I survived before,” Neal says, quiet. Because he had. Four years in supermax, when he’d been younger and more naïve. Four years, when he’d been young and free, and time had meant a lot more than it does now.
“I guess you did.” And there’s nothing to say to that. There’s silence in the car, for a space, and although Neal watches the muscle in Peter’s jaw twitch, Peter remains silent. They drive through the streets in the midday quiet of the work week, and then at a red stop light, Peter turns to Neal, and says, “Elizabeth’s waiting for me to bring you home; do you mind? I know you don’t need this, but--”
“It’s fine, Peter,” says Neal, and carefully keeps any trace of eagerness, of longing, out of his voice. He’s not a part of their lives, and he knows they didn’t really miss him interrupting them all the time, that they didn’t really miss him, not really-
“Thanks,” says Peter, and he does sound relieved, as he makes the turn taking him away from Manhattan and toward the bridge.
About fifteen minutes of quiet driving later, they pull up in front of the Burke’s house. It’s late afternoon, and it’s already growing dark-dark enough that Neal can see the lights glowing brightly on the house. It’s odd. Peter and Elizabeth are usually like clockwork about that kind of thing.
“You didn’t have time to take them down yet?” Neal can’t help asking as he climbs out of the car.
“Lots going on this year,” Peter grunts. “I’ll get to it eventually.”
“I thought you were suspended and at home?” Neal quirks an eyebrow. Elizabeth was always on top of these things; he couldn’t imagine her letting Peter get away with this. Maybe Peter had been really down while he was away from work; Neal feels a wash of guilt. That was partly Neal’s fault. “I’m sorry,” he says to Peter. “I didn’t mean-”
“Hey, no, none of that,” says Peter. “You’re home now, and it’ll be fine, okay? Go on in, the door’s open. I’ve just got to get something from the car.”
“Uh, okay,” says Neal, thrown a bit off kilter. He’s been gone a while, of course things happened when he was gone, life didn’t just stop-not because he wanted it to, not because his had, not because Kate was gone. Peter had been through a suspension, a disciplinary hearing. He’d been-
“Go on,” calls Peter, struggling with something in the trunk.
And so Neal walks up the path, and opens the door, knocking first and calling out for Elizabeth, just because walking into someone else’s house when he’s not breaking in is kind of odd, and then -
The house is decorated. It’s February. It’s February 6, and the house is still-
“Uh, Elizabeth?” What had been happening while he was away?
And then there she is, wearing a red and green apron and in a Santa hat. There’s a Christmas tree, perfectly decorated, in the corner of the living room, and the lights are twinkling on and off. Neal wants to shake his head or pinch himself. What?
Because this can’t be a dream. He’s never let himself dream of Christmas at the Burkes. It’s not his world. He’s imagined Aspen with the young and rich and idle, considered Vienna with Kate and maybe Moz, pictured himself in St. Peter’s square walking to the midnight mass with a horde of strangers, but never this. There are things he can’t have, he’s known them barely a year, he knows his place, he’s always known his place-
“Merry Christmas, Neal!” Elizabeth says brightly, but there are tears in her eyes and then she’s rushing up to hug Neal, and then Peter is behind him, and Neal doesn’t, he doesn’t understand-
“What?” he asks, and knows he sounds stupid. He feels stupid. He doesn’t understand.
“If you couldn’t come home for Christmas in December, Neal, we decided Christmas could wait until you could,” says Elizabeth, releasing him and stepping back.
Neal still doesn’t get it. He turns to Peter, blinking, still feeling impossibly slow.
And Peter, bizarrely, gathers him in an embrace, and Neal wants to melt into it, he wants to: he’s been so scared and tired and he misses Kate and he missed them too, but he wasn’t allowed, they weren’t his anything and they were part of a world he didn’t belong to and could never deserve and he wasn’t--
Peter is still holding him. Neal steps back a little, and Peter looks down at him, letting him go.
“Neal. We missed you. All of us. Nothing has been the same. We couldn’t celebrate without you, you know? So we decided not to.” Peter’s voice is quiet and sincere and it makes no sense at all.
“You’re one of us now, Caffrey,” says Diana, coming down the hallway in a wicked red dress, holding a martini glass and smiling, “and you’re delaying the food. So stop gaping in the doorway and come along, will you? Your little friend is freaking Jones out with his stories of the chemicals in the food, and my girlfriend is starving and I want to keep her in a good mood for later, so. Get down here.” When she finally stops in front of him, she grins wider. “It’s good to see you back, Neal,” she says, and she leans up to brush a kiss across his cheek. And then she turns and walks back to the kitchen, calling, “Now hurry it up!”
And then it’s just the three of them again, standing in the warm foyer, with the sounds of laughter and the smells of good food drifting down from the kitchen. It feels like a fantasy, not a dream, and it certainly doesn’t feel real. Neal is-
“But I didn’t know,” blurts Neal. “I can’t-I didn’t get you anything.”
“This year, you came home to us,” says Elizabeth.
“But-”
“And for four years before that you sent us little masterpieces. Four of them, Neal, and they are gorgeous.” And Peter waves a hand at the fireplace in the living room, where sitting above the mantelpiece are four hand drawn cards, from each of the previous years. Neal had spent hours on those cards, and Peter had saved them. Not thrown out or stuck in Neal’s file, not sent to evidence-
“You-you saved them,” he says dumbly, finding himself taking a step towards the fireplace, staring. Neal hadn’t expected Peter to save them.
And then Peter is standing behind him, and Neal can feel the warmth, the strength of Peter as he stands at his back. “For four years, you shared that with us Neal, and we never gave you anything back. Now it’s our turn.”
It’s warm in the house, Neal realizes. With the fire, and the people; with him dressed in soft wool. He hasn’t been warm in ages.
There’s a shout from the kitchen, and then Satchmo comes bounding out, making a beeline towards Neal, followed closely by June, scolding him, “Bad dog, I was feeding you turkey, what-oh.” And June watches as Satchmo crashes into Neal, licking at any skin he can find, clearly overjoyed.
And June smiles, and then says simply, “Take off your coat and come inside, Neal. It’s Christmas, and we’ve all been waiting for you to come home.”
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Title: Four Christmas Cards
Author: Ivorysilk
Rating: M.
Summary: "At Christmas time you will be allowed to mail (4) Christmas cards."
Warning: Nothing specific, I don’t think. Set between seasons one and into early season two.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, or this universe. However, I am clearly not above using either of these for my own nefarious purposes. I am writing this for fun, and because I have no self-control and must play in other peoples’ sandboxes.
Thanks: Many thanks go to hoosierbitch, who encouraged and cajoled and beta’d for me-she did a fabulous job, and all remaining mistakes are mine.
Thanks also to qwertyfaced, who let me use her Alcatraz rules prompt card (I’d post a picture so you’d see what I mean, if I knew how to do that) and for brainstorming with me in an airport (for her fic, really, but then I got a bunny and she was kind enough to let me use it), and who brought them in the first place. Finally, thanks to rabidchild, for having the brilliant idea to use the cards as fic prompts in the first place, and for running this fest! (I am sorry I am so late-I actually wrote this a week or two ago for my posting date, but wasn’t happy with a part of it and so didn’t post. Hoosierbitch finally prodded me into looking at posting it, which gave me the impetus to fix what was bugging me. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy it.)
Any comments will, as always, be gratefully received. Thanks for reading, and Happy Holidays!
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Neal goes back to prison on the first anniversary of his release.
He’s numb as he goes through the motions-wallet, tie, suit: all stripped from him. The guard watches him closely and glares as Neal carefully folds his clothes with shaking hands and places them inside the plastic bag they give him for the purpose; he watches as the guard pockets the vintage gold tie clip that was one of his favourites, giving his head a sharp smack when she sees Neal notice that she doesn’t write it down on the prisoner claim sheet.
Neal had dressed his best that morning, filled with promise and hope for the life he’d always wanted, the life he’d always told himself he would one day-if he was good enough, smart enough, worked hard enough-get for himself.
But he’s not on a beach or in a cute little split-level or in a chalet. He’s in a cold and windowless cement room, where the guards are less gentle than thorough as they manhandle him through the body cavity search, their laughter unkind, their voices unfamiliar and dispassionate. Neal has tears in his eyes when he’s done, as he slips on the thin orange polyester uniform he’s given, as he tries not to shiver when he notices the traces of blood on their gloves. (He’d split his lip when he’d hit the pavement when the bomb exploded, that’s all. That’s all it was.)
“Used to work for the F.B.I., huh?” one guard sneered. “That’ll go over real well, here.”
It’s not the supermax Peter had put him in - this is a medium security local prison, best the OPR could do on short notice, probably. He doesn’t know the guards here, and they don’t seem to like him, and he can’t muster the energy to charm them, to make them the promises they’d need, to put on the confident façade that he needs to protect himself.
They put him in a room with three other roommates-one tall and beefy, one small and covered in scars and tattoos, and another who just looks tired. He goes inside and sits on the bunk they point him at. He just wants to be left alone.
His roommates are eyeing him like lunch, like salvation, like they’re wondering how long he’ll last, and Neal is silent, and apathy is like a thick layer over the garish orange of the prison scrubs, like a veil over his eyes making everything look vaguely like a grey-red impressionist painting.
He wants to care. He knows he should care. He knows that Peter would want him to care.
The small man comes up to him and sits beside him. There’s an air about him that warns Neal that he’s vicious, that he’s clearly the one in control here. “It’s almost Christmas, and they’ll let us each mail four cards here,” the man says. “If you give us your cards instead, you’ll be safe-at least until after Christmas.”
Neal just looks at him, because he’s exhausted and out of words. But the man clearly reads something else into his expression, and shrugs.
“I’m Catholic, and you’re pretty. I’m feeling charitable this time of year.”
It’s Christmas in less than a month, Neal realizes with a jolt. Christmas.
This will be his fifth Christmas in prison. Last year, he’d been out of prison less than a month when Christmas had rolled around, and he’d celebrated on his own. Sure, he’d had lunch with June before she’d left for her family vacation and on Christmas eve, Mozzie had dropped by for dinner, but it wasn’t particularly holiday themed. (Moz was an atheist and didn’t celebrate any religious holiday, but he liked any excuse to drink Neal’s wine. Mozzie had invited Neal to the orphanage where he volunteered for Christmas Day, whenever he was in town, but Neal declined.) And so Neal had spent the day itself on his own, receiving calls from Peter, Elizabeth, June, even Jones and Diana; imagining that Kate was thinking of him, and making himself a dinner of cranberries and roast turkey breast with whipped yams and homemade stuffing. Before the day was done, he’d dreamt a thousand dreams of next year, with a crackling fire and a perfectly decorated tree; Kate at his side and the world at their feet.
But this year he’s back in his nightmares--in a cell lined with bunk beds and badly composed family photos, and a man sitting beside him with foul breath and an expectant air. Prison power structures, and Neal almost laughed at himself-he’d almost forgotten; worked hard, in fact, at forgetting.
He’d forgotten that rule about the cards, too. He’d forgotten. He’d sent cards in previous years-more than four, because the supermax guards had let him have all the cardstock paper he’d wanted. Hand illustrated, painstakingly over the weeks before Christmas, before giving his pile to Kate and having her send them for him. One for Ellen, one for Moz, each to anonymous post boxes; of course one for Kate; and a bunch for his old business acquaintances. Plus a few others for those whose favour he needed to continue to cultivate: Billy, the warden, a few of the other guards he liked and a few who didn’t like him, the girl who worked in the commissary. He’d spent hours on the cards-each of them, even the business ones, had a personalized pen and ink Christmas scene or symbol and a short note, or a long one, messages of joy and peace and happiness.
And then, of course, Peter. Peter always got one from him-elaborate and detailed, a tiny pen and ink classic, copied from one of the Old Masters.
This year, it doesn’t matter. He nods at the man who, satisfied, gets up and leaves Neal finally alone.
Kate is dead, and Neal feels like he died with her.
****************************
He’s safe for that first week, and it’s a blessing. No one bothers him, no one talks to him, no one touches him. He’s got some breathing room.
(He hears the sound of a bomb going off every time the prison washer beeps. Everything smells like burnt plastic and rubber and metal, except for every now and again, when he smells Dior’s Poison like Kate’s just brushed by him, even when he’s alone in his cell.)
But the outside world breaks through the haze, every now and again, when he hears the whispers (snitch, traitor, two-faced), and sees the looks: some glancing, but some bold, direct, dangerous.
The tiny little man in his cell is the king of hill, Neal quickly realizes, and he forces himself to try to deal with it. To work to shift the power balance in his favour, just enough to survive. Moz comes to visit, once, twice, telling him the Suit is out of touch but committed to his release, not to worry. Neal tells him it doesn’t matter, he’s fine, assures him he’s not worried. Because he’s not. Moz raises a skeptical eyebrow but says nothing, asks him if he’s aware of the secret messages NASA is sending to Saturn instead. Moz has plans to go to Florida over the holidays; he’ll see Neal in the new year.
And so it goes.
A week slips by, and then two.
The time doesn’t matter.
His floor guard gives him his cards eventually. “Sorry, I forgot; you didn’t get here until after these were distributed.” Neal remembers the rule from the list he was handed when he arrived, along with his uniform and the bar of soap and other standard toiletries, “At Christmas time you will be allowed to mail (4) Christmas cards.”
They’re stock cards, with “Season’s Greetings” printed in red block letters on the front on a dark green background. The inside is blank.
Neal hands them over as soon as he gets them.
*************************
And then it’s Christmas Eve.
That night they’re given turkey and cranberry sauce; lumpy gravy and sweet potato mash. For dessert, there is Christmas pudding, and it’s dense and inedible, but that wouldn’t have mattered either way. For weeks now, all the food has been ash in his mouth.
That night, Neal sits in his cell and discreetly vomits up the dinner he’d tried to eat (laughing and sitting beside Perez, who put his hand on Neal’s shoulder and called him his boy, and Perez had never touched him before, but his leers were more purposeful by the day, and it was so exhausting to both encourage and deflect and keep up the pretense, choking down the overdone turkey leftovers and the underdone stuffing). When he finally lies down and closes his eyes, he dreams. But his dreams that night are no better than usual. Kate’s hair is singed and her face blistered; her blue eyes are filled with tears. “Why didn’t you come, Neal?” she asks, her voice filled with confusion. “We could have been so happy.” And when he touches her, she blows away like dust in the wind, and he wakes up.
But it’s okay: by now he’s stopped really sleeping, and so he lies awake through the night until it’s Christmas morning.
Christmas morning, which is like any other.
Established in his role, Neal’s days have dulled down to routine and rote and survival. He smiles as required, says what’s needed, and Perez’s profit margin inches up. Today is no better and no worse and no different.
Except, of course, that the powers that be believe in gestures, and so they have roast beef for lunch. But Neal can’t manage it, not after the rich food of the night before, and so he murmurs that he’s not hungry and pushes it away, towards Cooper. Because Cooper is strong and built like an ox, and happy enough to have Neal’s share-the man is a bottomless pit, and always hungry.
(It’s not just a kindness. Neal’s lucky--he’s been good enough at organization and connections and distribution that Perez finds him useful enough to keep protecting, but goodwill should never be taken for granted, especially not here, and especially not now. Because the last time he was here, it wasn’t easy, but no one had called him a snitch either. Last time, it was easy to create bonus points, some padding, a buffer.)
Neal knows that this time, he’s barely one thin smile away from hell.
Still, he can do this. He is doing this.
And so Christmas Day passes, except for the lunch and an assembly and a spike in Perez’s sales.
For each Christmas in supermax during his last stint, Kate had come to visit, and they’d had had a few hours in one of the cottages on the prison grounds-dirty, uncomfortable, and cold-but still, a space of time together.
This year, he has no calls, and no visitors.
He forces himself not to wonder, not to wonder what he’d have done, had he been elsewhere. He doesn’t think of June, of Mozzie, of Peter and Elizabeth. He doesn’t wonder what Ellen is doing. And he doesn’t think about Kate.
For this Christmas, Neal curls up on his bed, stares at the bottom of the bunk above his, and gives himself a few hours to think of nothing.
******************************************
Peter comes to visit him two weeks into the new year. Everything was delayed, Elizabeth had explained when she’d called him from a public phone a day or two back, because of the holidays. The earliest hearing date Peter could get had been in January, and they’d had to be careful about any contact before then. “Don’t worry, Neal,” she said, her voice cheerful and soothing. “Don’t worry. It’ll all work out.”
Neal, who was always cold nowadays, picked at a hole in his shirt where the fabric had worn through and forced himself to laugh. “I’m not worried, Elizabeth,” he said, just as he’d told Moz. “I have faith that Peter will do what’s best. And I’m fine-it’s just boring here, that’s all. They’re planning a party at New Year’s, though, and they’ve even got a live band. It’s not so bad here. I’m fine.”
He didn’t talk about coming home, because he knows there are no guarantees. Besides, it had been easy to fool himself, out there. In here, he knows the truth: it isn’t like he really has a home to go back to.
So by the time Peter comes and offers him a chance to get out, Neal isn’t sure. From one prison to another, he says to Peter, sardonic. Because Peter’s offer has conditions and little protection, and it’s safe here. A month in, he’s doubled Perez’ profit, and even if Perez wants him, Perez won’t force him: Neal’s too valuable, and Perez still believes in romance. He’s taken to offering Neal treats he thinks Neal might appreciate (brand name soap and a bar of cheap chocolate) and calling him a “classy guy”.
(Neal knows that eventually that interest will turn to resentment, but Neal is a master at manipulating others and Perez isn’t as smart as he thinks he is. Anyway, he could always give in, if it came right down to it; that would be the smart thing to do. Because Perez is in here for at least another ten years, which means he’ll be here for as long as Neal needs. And besides, Neal’ s done worse, for less: he’s sure he has, if he just thinks about it. Perez would treat him kindly, he knows. It wouldn’t be so bad.)
“Can I get back to you?” he asks Peter, trying not to betray his uncertainty, trying not to push Peter too far, but Peter is already on the edge. Neal breathes a sigh of relief as Mozzie walks in, smoothly dismissing a huffing Peter.
This situation, at least, is under control.
Outside of these walls are Kate’s murderers. Outside of these walls are the places she’d lived, and the place where she’d died. He’s missed her funeral-although he doesn’t know if there’d been any service at all. Kate had no family left, and her friends-well, they weren’t likely to identify themselves to the authorities, weren’t likely to make any public announcements. He’d have asked Moz, but he knew what Moz would say. There hadn’t even been a body to bury.
It doesn’t matter, he tells himself.
The important thing is that he understands: he belongs here. He can’t control what goes on out there-the F.B.I., the OPR, the people working against him and Kate. And then there is Peter, and Peter is nothing but unpredictable in his predictability and Neal can’t-
Inside these walls, Perez will take care of him.
Outside of these walls is Kate’s grave, where Neal will never find it.
*******************************
Peter is relentless. In the meantime, Mozzie’s other options don’t pan out, and so Neal’s choices narrow down to Peter’s deal or remaining inside. Then Mozzie joins Peter, and Neal doesn’t stand a hope. Between the two of them, they spend three weeks harassing Neal, by phone and in person, until he finally agrees.
“Yes,” he says randomly as Peter is taking a breaking during one such visit to tell him about the office coffee maker breaking down, again, and Peter looks wary, but Neal nods. And then Peter is whipping out the contract and pointing at the signature line, looking intently on until Neal signs his name carefully on the line. Neal signs slowly. He breathes evenly, and thinks about how handsy Perez has been getting, thinks about how he’ll have to give in if he stays. Peter snatches the paper away the moment Neal is done and calls for the guard, as if Neal will change his mind if given half a chance, putting the paper carefully away in his breast pocket and clapping a hand on Neal’s shoulder.
Peter’s hand stays there, large and heavy and solid, squeezing warmth into flesh and bone until the guard hauls him away. Neal misses the warmth.
On the day scheduled for Peter to come and pick him up, Neal dresses in the same suit he had when he’d arrived. Everything’s too loose, but Neal knows how to make things work. He adjusts the belt and pads the shoulders, and it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.
Neal hates how the tracker snapping around his ankle feels familiar and safe.
Peter looks at him sharply as he walks out, a calculated jaunt in his step, but Neal ignores it, his smile wide and brilliant and perfect.
Peter doesn’t smile back, and Neal’s smile-one of his best, really-slips slightly. Peter’s always been too smart, but it doesn’t matter. This is just a business deal, Neal knows that. No different than the deal with Perez. Peter requires his skills, and Neal will do his part. But Peter doesn’t look very happy.
“Just like old times, huh?” Neal says brightly as he steps close, but Peter’s expression doesn’t change. Neal can see his breath fog in the air; it’s cold outside.
“Come on, Neal,” says Peter, and he slings an arm around his shoulders once Neal gets close. “Let’s get you settled.”
Neal doesn’t protest as Peter pulls him towards the car and pushes him gently inside. He doesn’t protest as Peter puts the car in drive and pulls carefully away. He searches for something to say.
“How’s Elizabeth?” Neal asks, because that’s safe.
“She’s fine; she’s excited to see you again.” Peter’s attention is on the road, which is fine by Neal; the roads look icy.
“She called me, before you came to visit. Please tell her it meant a lot to me, I mean it. I know she went to a lot of effort, I-it meant a lot.” It’s the truth, and he wants her to know.
“You’ll see her soon; you can tell her yourself,” replies Peter, distracted. “Is there anything you need right now? I can stop at a grocery store-”
“No, no, I’m fine, I can go tomorrow,” replies Neal, somewhat confused. Last time, Peter couldn’t wait to dump him off with the clothes on his back and ten bucks in allowance; now he wants to take Neal shopping for milk? “I’m fine, Peter, just tired. It can wait. I appreciate you driving me back to the motel.”
“To the-what? No, of course not. June kept your rooms for you, you knew she would.”
Neal can’t hide his gasp of shock, and Peter turns his head to look at him sharply.
“Neal. Did you think we’d forget you? That we’d leave you there?” Peter’s gaze on him is intense, and Neal looks away.
“I-I didn’t-” he forced himself to push away the unexpected flood of he didn’t even know what, but he knew one thing. Emotion never helped. He had to think. “You had no guarantee,” he said, and his voice was reasonable and calm and distant. “None of us did.”
“You know I hate to lose, Neal, and I wouldn’t lose you. Not over something like this. Not ever.” Peter’s voice is firm with the conviction of his belief, and Neal smothers a hysterical laugh.
“There’s always a first time, Peter. And I was doing okay, anyway. Four years would have been over before you-”
“Neal, have you looked in a mirror? You’re pale, you’ve lost weight-”
He can hear the anger in Peter’s voice, but he doesn’t understand why it’s there. It’s not like he’s too physically weak to do his job or something, is that why Peter is upset? He should say something reassuring. “Well, you know me,” he starts, “prison food just isn’t up to -”
Peter explodes, cutting him off. “I can’t believe this! Cut the bullshit, Neal. You couldn’t-”
“I survived before,” Neal says, quiet. Because he had. Four years in supermax, when he’d been younger and more naïve. Four years, when he’d been young and free, and time had meant a lot more than it does now.
“I guess you did.” And there’s nothing to say to that. There’s silence in the car, for a space, and although Neal watches the muscle in Peter’s jaw twitch, Peter remains silent. They drive through the streets in the midday quiet of the work week, and then at a red stop light, Peter turns to Neal, and says, “Elizabeth’s waiting for me to bring you home; do you mind? I know you don’t need this, but--”
“It’s fine, Peter,” says Neal, and carefully keeps any trace of eagerness, of longing, out of his voice. He’s not a part of their lives, and he knows they didn’t really miss him interrupting them all the time, that they didn’t really miss him, not really-
“Thanks,” says Peter, and he does sound relieved, as he makes the turn taking him away from Manhattan and toward the bridge.
About fifteen minutes of quiet driving later, they pull up in front of the Burke’s house. It’s late afternoon, and it’s already growing dark-dark enough that Neal can see the lights glowing brightly on the house. It’s odd. Peter and Elizabeth are usually like clockwork about that kind of thing.
“You didn’t have time to take them down yet?” Neal can’t help asking as he climbs out of the car.
“Lots going on this year,” Peter grunts. “I’ll get to it eventually.”
“I thought you were suspended and at home?” Neal quirks an eyebrow. Elizabeth was always on top of these things; he couldn’t imagine her letting Peter get away with this. Maybe Peter had been really down while he was away from work; Neal feels a wash of guilt. That was partly Neal’s fault. “I’m sorry,” he says to Peter. “I didn’t mean-”
“Hey, no, none of that,” says Peter. “You’re home now, and it’ll be fine, okay? Go on in, the door’s open. I’ve just got to get something from the car.”
“Uh, okay,” says Neal, thrown a bit off kilter. He’s been gone a while, of course things happened when he was gone, life didn’t just stop-not because he wanted it to, not because his had, not because Kate was gone. Peter had been through a suspension, a disciplinary hearing. He’d been-
“Go on,” calls Peter, struggling with something in the trunk.
And so Neal walks up the path, and opens the door, knocking first and calling out for Elizabeth, just because walking into someone else’s house when he’s not breaking in is kind of odd, and then -
The house is decorated. It’s February. It’s February 6, and the house is still-
“Uh, Elizabeth?” What had been happening while he was away?
And then there she is, wearing a red and green apron and in a Santa hat. There’s a Christmas tree, perfectly decorated, in the corner of the living room, and the lights are twinkling on and off. Neal wants to shake his head or pinch himself. What?
Because this can’t be a dream. He’s never let himself dream of Christmas at the Burkes. It’s not his world. He’s imagined Aspen with the young and rich and idle, considered Vienna with Kate and maybe Moz, pictured himself in St. Peter’s square walking to the midnight mass with a horde of strangers, but never this. There are things he can’t have, he’s known them barely a year, he knows his place, he’s always known his place-
“Merry Christmas, Neal!” Elizabeth says brightly, but there are tears in her eyes and then she’s rushing up to hug Neal, and then Peter is behind him, and Neal doesn’t, he doesn’t understand-
“What?” he asks, and knows he sounds stupid. He feels stupid. He doesn’t understand.
“If you couldn’t come home for Christmas in December, Neal, we decided Christmas could wait until you could,” says Elizabeth, releasing him and stepping back.
Neal still doesn’t get it. He turns to Peter, blinking, still feeling impossibly slow.
And Peter, bizarrely, gathers him in an embrace, and Neal wants to melt into it, he wants to: he’s been so scared and tired and he misses Kate and he missed them too, but he wasn’t allowed, they weren’t his anything and they were part of a world he didn’t belong to and could never deserve and he wasn’t--
Peter is still holding him. Neal steps back a little, and Peter looks down at him, letting him go.
“Neal. We missed you. All of us. Nothing has been the same. We couldn’t celebrate without you, you know? So we decided not to.” Peter’s voice is quiet and sincere and it makes no sense at all.
“You’re one of us now, Caffrey,” says Diana, coming down the hallway in a wicked red dress, holding a martini glass and smiling, “and you’re delaying the food. So stop gaping in the doorway and come along, will you? Your little friend is freaking Jones out with his stories of the chemicals in the food, and my girlfriend is starving and I want to keep her in a good mood for later, so. Get down here.” When she finally stops in front of him, she grins wider. “It’s good to see you back, Neal,” she says, and she leans up to brush a kiss across his cheek. And then she turns and walks back to the kitchen, calling, “Now hurry it up!”
And then it’s just the three of them again, standing in the warm foyer, with the sounds of laughter and the smells of good food drifting down from the kitchen. It feels like a fantasy, not a dream, and it certainly doesn’t feel real. Neal is-
“But I didn’t know,” blurts Neal. “I can’t-I didn’t get you anything.”
“This year, you came home to us,” says Elizabeth.
“But-”
“And for four years before that you sent us little masterpieces. Four of them, Neal, and they are gorgeous.” And Peter waves a hand at the fireplace in the living room, where sitting above the mantelpiece are four hand drawn cards, from each of the previous years. Neal had spent hours on those cards, and Peter had saved them. Not thrown out or stuck in Neal’s file, not sent to evidence-
“You-you saved them,” he says dumbly, finding himself taking a step towards the fireplace, staring. Neal hadn’t expected Peter to save them.
And then Peter is standing behind him, and Neal can feel the warmth, the strength of Peter as he stands at his back. “For four years, you shared that with us Neal, and we never gave you anything back. Now it’s our turn.”
It’s warm in the house, Neal realizes. With the fire, and the people; with him dressed in soft wool. He hasn’t been warm in ages.
There’s a shout from the kitchen, and then Satchmo comes bounding out, making a beeline towards Neal, followed closely by June, scolding him, “Bad dog, I was feeding you turkey, what-oh.” And June watches as Satchmo crashes into Neal, licking at any skin he can find, clearly overjoyed.
And June smiles, and then says simply, “Take off your coat and come inside, Neal. It’s Christmas, and we’ve all been waiting for you to come home.”
******************************