White Collar Fic: Heaven Restores You In Life, Part 2
Title: Heaven Restores You in Life, Part 2
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Neal/Peter/El
Spoilers: Some basic facts from S3.
Content Notice: Character death, none of it permanent
Word Count: 18,000
Summary: Neal is immortal. This leads to a lot of complications.
Part 1 | Part 2
----
The case was stupid. It was another stupid Master of the Universe using creative accounting to hide financial irregularities in records so convoluted it took Jones and a team of three forensic accountants with fine-toothed combs a month to sift through them, and still they didn’t have what they needed on the guy. They sent Neal in as an art appraiser who was maybe shady enough to fence stolen Impressionists, and when Neal had broken into the stupid mark’s stupid office to plant the Trojan in the guy’s stupid pc that would secretly send all his stupid records to the FBI, the guy caught him and all hell broke loose.
Because the mark was a collector of antique swords - and you didn’t have to be a psychologist to get to the root of that little fixation - and there Neal was with a cutlass, a fucking cutlass - was the guy a goddamn pirate?, poking him in the back as the stupid fucker held Neal hostage against a half dozen of the Harvard crew with their Sig Sauers drawn and deadly intent etched on all of their faces.
“Come on, Samuelson, let him go. You hurt him, you go to maximum security. You let him go, it’s Club Fed,” Peter was saying soothingly.
“Fuck you, Lassen!” Samuelson raged, “yesterday you were the auditor and today you’re with the FBI?” Neal flinched at the spit that hit him on the side of his face as the man shouted; he didn’t think this could be good for the guy’s heart. Maybe he’d drop dead of a heart attack in the next minute and a half.
No such luck. Samuelson had him around the neck with one broad arm, the other had the sword pressed against the middle of his back. Neal’s body was bowed out, trying to curve away from the thing, which Samuelson had, not surprisingly, kept honed and sharp. His lower back was killing him, and he feared a cramp.
“Can we maybe just ease up a bit?” Neal suggested, and Samuelson pulled the blade off a little, took a step back. Neal straightened his spine in relief, but he misjudged; Samuelson was just maneuvering to get better leverage.
“You don’t steal from me, boy,” the man gritted in Neal’s ear, the Texas twang his wife had so patiently tried to eliminate by employing the country’s best dialect coaches coming to the fore. “No one takes what’s mine and lives.”
“No, no, no, no, no,” Neal babbled, but then Samuelson was thrusting his arm forward, and Neal felt the blade slice through his jacket and shirt, push through skin and muscle, and the bastard twisted it and something went SNAP and Neal was suddenly on the floor.
“Neal!” Peter was kneeling next to him, and Neal could see he was holding his hand.
“Shit.”
“There’s an ambulance coming - just hold on, OK? GODDAMMIT WE NEED A MEDIC IN HERE!”
“Fuck, fuck, shit, fuckety-fuck-fuck-fuck!” Neal gasped.
“Shh, shh, don’t hurt yourself,” Peter soothed and Neal thought that was maybe the funniest thing he had ever heard, so he laughed. “Neal, Neal, Neal,” Peter moaned, and he was petting Neal’s hand, Neal could see that, but…
“Peter, I can’t feel anything!”
“What?”
Everything was slipping away again, the gradual leaching away of sensation, of awareness, but this time it was different - he wasn’t just numb, it was… nothing. So, the panic was inevitable. “I can’t - I can’t feel my legs or my arms, I - Peter!”
Then Peter’s hands were on his face, and he could feel that and he could feel the tears from Peter’s eyes splashing on his neck, and he could smell Peter’s breath, sour from the morning’s coffee. And he could see Peter’s face, stricken, in pain, afraid. And he’d sworn to himself that would never happen again, hadn’t he? Peter should not feel this, this panic, this grief.
So, “Peter, it’s OK,” he said and yeah, his voice was quavering, but he was having a day, and he needed for Peter not to be afraid.
“It’s not OK, don’t leave me. You promised.”
“I’m trying not to.” Damn it!
“Neal, God.” Peter was openly crying now, and Neal wanted to tell him not to worry, and not to be afraid, except this always worried Neal, and he sure was scared shitless, but he wasn’t going to tell Peter that part. Except he couldn’t talk anymore, so it didn’t matter, and someone was saying the ambulance was there, but then it all went black anyway.
----
“Pasta e fagioli.”
“What?”
“I’m in the mood for pasta e fagioli,” Neal said.
“You get up after dying, and those are your first words?” Peter asked from his seat next to the bed, and Neal blinked up at him. They were in a very brightly-lit room - all the blinds were open, and the sunlight was punishing, and Neal could see every wrinkle, every care-line and greying whisker on Peter’s face and it made him stop breathing for a second. He looked so worn-down and just… lost-slash-worried-slash-relieved.
Neal sat up - ignoring the head rush - slipped out of the bed, took Peter’s face in his hands and just kissed him. Peter’s arms slid around his back, his hands warm on the skin bared through the opening at the back of the hospital gown, and when Neal ran out of breath, he just rested his forehead against Peter’s and sighed.
“Yuck, morning breath,” Peter said.
“Fuck you.”
“Dead guy morning breath.”
“Shut up!” Neal said and got back into the bed. “Where are we, anyway?”
“A private clinic in Brooklyn Heights that Mozzie found.”
“What’s the story?”
“You’re a dangerous criminal, and this place has more security than any other place,” Peter said.
“Ah.” That would explain the tracker still on his ankle. “Have you been here the whole time?”
Peter didn’t really answer, just slid his eyes to look at the joins in the ceiling. “The staff is very discreet.”
Neal was adept at reading between-the-lines-Peter, and knew that meant, They’re very appreciative of the generous bribe Mozzie paid for them to keep their mouths shut and unauthorized visitors away.
“Is El OK?”
“She sends her love.” She’s not here because I didn’t want to upset her.
“And how are you?”
“I’m not the one who died.” It’s killing me to watch this happen to you and I’m afraid you won’t come back next time.
“Come here?” Neal held his arms out.
Peter scoffed, which meant I really want to, but I’m afraid of what will happen if I do, but Neal gave him the “don’t fuck with me” look that Peter himself had used so often on Neal, so he had no choice. Neal scooted over and Peter had to lay practically on top of him for them both to fit in the narrow bed, but he tucked Peter’s head under his chin as best as he could and just held him as he cried himself into an exhausted sleep.
----
“You’re back!” El said, voice unnaturally chipper as she greeted them later that day. “Want lunch? I was going to make tuna melts.” Her chin was quivering and her eyes were too bright, and Neal had to go and kiss the fear out of her eyes or he might never be able to breathe again.
It was only the next day for Neal, like he’d only gone to bed with a migraine and woke feeling just fine. He thought it may have felt a lot longer for Peter and Elizabeth.
He pitched in to help her, grating the cheese while she chopped up the celery, and wherever she stood, whatever she did, she was always touching him, her hip against his, or her breasts against his arm as she reached across him to grab a utensil from the crock on the counter, or a hand brushing his back as she went past him to the fridge. And as they waited for the cheese to brown on the sandwiches, keeping an eye on the broiler, Peter would ease through the kitchen, grabbing plates to set the table, he would casually drag a hand over Neal's hand or across his shoulders. All the touching, it was not so very subtle.
He bent over to remove the sheet pan from the oven, and El eased past him, her hip brushing lightly against his ass, and he straightened, deposited the pan on the stove top, and just looked down at her. She regarded him thoughtfully, blue eyes large and expressive, and he loved her so much in that moment it actually hurt. He reached his right hand out to cup her cheek, she tilted her head back and they kissed. She put her hands on his hips to pull him closer, opening her mouth to him, and he ran his left hand up her back to cradle the back of her head, the fingertips of his right still on her jaw, and let her flick her tongue over his, over his teeth, tasting her - she’d recently eaten violet candies.
They parted and she rested her head under his chin. Peter was leaning against the counters, a slight smile on his face as he watched him. “I need you so much right now,” Elizabeth murmured into his sweater, and the tuna melts were left to congeal on the stove as they made their way up the stairs to the bedroom.
They undressed each other as they made their way to the bed, the three of them, El in Neal's arms, kissing him, Peter bringing up the rear, assisting where necessary, getting a kiss in here and there, his body warm against Neal's back. They were naked by the time they reached the bed, El sliding gracefully onto her back, arms beckoning him, knees spread. Neal lowered himself on top of her, their hips aligned, and covered her face with kisses - her lips, her forehead, her eyes. Peter lay stretched out beside them, stroking their sides, adding kisses where they fit. Neal turned his head to kiss Peter, and El reached her hand down between them, taking hold of Neal's cock and stroking it to full hardness.
She had her hands on his hips, pushing on them and rocking hers forward. He pulled away slightly and let her guide his cock inside her. Peter, meanwhile, had positioned himself so that he was lying at El’s head, kind of wrapped around them both protectively, head propped on his hand. Neal leaned forward and caught his mouth in a kiss, and then El ran her hand up his chest, and being with them was so close to perfect, he didn’t quite know what to do.
“You could maybe move some, sport,” El gasped, as if reading his mind, and he snorted with laughter and straightened up a little. He lifted her hips in his hands and began to fuck her in earnest, her legs hooked around his waist. She rocked her hips against him, matching his rhythm. Peter reached over and started tweaking at her nipples, which made her arch her back and clamp down just a little harder on Neal, who groaned his appreciation.
“Jesus, that’s, that’s…” but he lost his words when Peter’s hand began traveling down El’s body until he was rubbing suddenly and furiously at her clit.
“Oh, Christ!” she screamed a little, and nuzzled her face against his armpit, mouth open, lower teeth bared.
“You like that?”
“I think you know what else I’d like,” she gritted out, and Neal paused as Peter’s hand moved to cup over her pussy, his fingers spread around her lips, around Neal, then he began to insert his middle finger along the side of Neal's cock, stretching El wider. Neal had to admit this was a new one on him; the sensation of Peter’s fingers there was distracting and interesting and - wow, was he now trying for a second?
“This OK?” Peter asked, generally, but he was looking at Neal.
“Yeah, I, well, have you manicured lately?”
Peter smirked and pulled his fingers out, went back to rubbing at El’s clit as Neal picked up his pace again.
“Oh my God, I’m so close,” El gasped, and Peter bent down to kiss her, her sweaty hair sticking to his lips and his face.
“Wait for me,” Neal asked.
“Hurry up, then!”
Neal grinned, threw his head back and pumped into her as she reached her climax, letting himself go with a shout and flopped down on the bed beside her. He crawled up her body when he’d caught his breath, kissed her, kissed Peter and lay down on his side with a happy smile on his face. His eyes moved to Peter’s face, who lay watching them both with eyes hooded with desire, cock turgid and purple against his body. Tired as he was - it had been an eventful 24 hours - Neal pushed himself up on his elbows and raised his ass in the air.
“Daddy’s turn,” he cooed, shaking his hips suggestively, and El laughed as Peter scowled at them both.
“What, are you starting that now, too?” he groaned, but Neal leaned forward to kiss the scowl away as El went to find lube in the nightstand.
----
Neal has always been a big believer that the best way to tackle a problem was to ignore it until it pulled a big sulk and went away, but of course, Peter was not, so then there had to be discussions. Of issues.
“We should have a plan in case this happens again,” Peter said in a low voice. El was sprawled across them both, asleep, so Peter couldn’t see the epic eyeroll that Neal really had been working on for decades.
“I’d like to believe it won’t be such a normal occurrence. I hardly ever die twice in one year.”
“Hardly?”
“OK, never. I told you, it’s only happened twice before, in 1918 and 1941.”
“OK.”
“And maybe at Woodstock, but I mean, I always chalked that up to a bad acid trip, so the jury’s kind of still out -“
“Neal, you’re not making this easier.”
“Sorry. What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know, but something like that clinic Moz found - some way of making sure your - special circumstances - don’t get discovered by anyone by mistake. I don’t think I have to tell you that there will be serious repercussions if this were to get out.”
“Fine. I’ll talk to Moz, see about putting some people on retainer. You’d be surprised how much a little money can buy.”
“Wait a minute, how’s he going to pay for it? I don’t want him pulling any jobs for you.”
“Relax, the money’ll be mine.”
Peter sighed. “Neal, don’t make me repeat myself.”
Neal sighed too. “Peter, don’t be such a pill. I’ve got a rainy day fund.”
“Rainy day fund?”
“Well, you don’t live for 124 years and not make a few investments. I got in on Google on the ground floor.”
“Of course you did. How much is in this ‘rainy day fund’?”
“Last I checked, about $130 million, but I really took a bath in the last economic downturn, so-“
Neal could almost hear Peter mentally counting to ten. “You have $130 million, and you pull two-bit cons and forge bonds for what - kicks?”
“Have to keep things interesting, Peter.”
“Oh my God, I need a drink,” Peter said, extricating himself from under Elizabeth and heading for the bedroom door.
“Oh, hey, while you’re up, can you order some food? I was promised pasta e fagioli.”
The pillow was easy to duck.
----
Neal turned out to be correct - he didn’t die again that year at all. It took another eight months.
It was a case that just fell into their laps, and it was a doozy. Reggie Hesher, a two-bit hustler that turned up like a bad penny in Neal and Moz’s lives every couple of years, approached Neal with a proposition.
“So there’s this guy, right? And he’s about to pull a major heist. And word is they need a boxman. So I thoughta you, Caffrey.”
“Uh-huh,” Neal said. “What’re you looking for, Heshie?”
“Nothing. You know. Couple or tree hunderd.”
“Uh-huh. You want a referral fee?”
“For the effort, Neal, come on.”
Despite Heshie’s general squirrelliness and usual lack of trustworthiness, the tip had been a good one, and Neal was chosen for the job by Nate Bergmann, AKA “The Continental,” a criminal known more for his work conning trust fund babies in Europe than for bank jobs in the US, but who seemed to be branching out. Neal wanted to know how a guy got a name like “The Continental,” but never had the balls to ask, because Bergmann seemed to be kind of a scary-crazy dude that made Matthew Keller look like a boy scout, and Neal preferred to just keep his head down for this one.
The job turned out to be a heist at the First National branch on the Upper West Side that had the singular distinction of housing in its extensive vaults the art, jewelry and other valuables of New York’s more prominent citizens. The plan was to stage an armed robbery on the commercial operation that fronted the branch, which was to be a diversion for the real heist that would be occurring in the basement-level vaults. Apparently, Bergmann had gotten his hands on the plans for the bank’s security system, which led to him forming a crew for this job.
Neal spent weeks studying the specs of the security system and the mechanics of the vaults themselves, planning out workarounds of the various fail safes he found and expected to find, and hoping the bank hadn’t added any bells or whistles to the system since Bergmann got them more than six months prior. Peter accused him of getting wood every time he looked at the specs, but this was perhaps the most sophisticated system he’d ever seen, and he was going to be the guy to hack it, so yeah, maybe there was some chubbing-up. Not that he’d admit it.
The day of the job, Neal and Bergmann arrived first thing in the morning, their cover a visit from the bank’s central IT department to install a network upgrade. This would put them at the southwest corner of the building, where they could gain access to the vaults. The bank was being staffed by a crew of FBI agents, and most of their clients’ valuables had gradually been removed for safekeeping elsewhere, at the insistence of the bank and at a cost of much hair from Peter’s head. In the weeks leading up to the heist, the bank was still being cased by Bergmann’s crew, and getting the materials out of the vaults undetected had been a lesson in patience. Neal teased that Peter would be having nightmares about the paperwork for weeks.
Neal worked away at the drywall at the back corner of the server room with a reciprocating saw, cutting a hole large enough for him, Bergmann and their equipment to shimmy down to the level below before the scheduled bank robbery at 10:00 a.m. The vault on the lower level had one main door for entry and a series of smaller ones for each individual room. The main door, a 4-ton behemoth from the 1920’s, was on an independent system, and so it was just easier if they were on the other side of it before the lockdown that would be kicked off by the robbery, and they had about 15 minutes to get there. It was actually the biggest risk of the whole sting - not counting, you know, the armed gunmen - because Neal had to work the timing according to schedule yet still vamp until the FBI could mop up all the bad guys, Bergmann included.
Piece of cake, right?
And it went off without a hitch. Except for the fact that the FBI agents apparently couldn’t get to Neal and Bergmann in what amounted to any kind of a timely fashion, and so Neal was forced to actually go on with the break-in of the security system. And dammit if he didn’t do it in a time that was more than two minutes faster than any of the simulations they’d run. But then they got into the first vault, and the inventory they’d expected to find there… wasn’t.
“Just what the fock is happening here?” Bergmann said, and really, Swedish guys shouldn't curse.
“I don’t -“ Neal said slowly.
“We’ve been double-crossed.”
“What? How?” Neal figured righteous indignation should be the code of the day.
A loud clanging somewhere behind them signified the opening of the main vault door, and then someone yelled, “Federal agents!” and it all went to hell.
Bergmann pulled an automatic weapon from somewhere and handed it to Neal, grabbed one for himself and ran out of the vault yelling the Swedish equivalent of “Banzai!” or some Viking bullshit and Neal stood staring at the weapon in his hands as the FBI sprayed bullets all over the damn place.
The kicker was that he actually saw the look on the face of the probie whose bullet blew Neal’s skull wide open, and the kid looked like he felt really bad about it.
----
Neal's never been a clingy or needy person, not really, but when he revived this time, and Peter was just there, standing over him looking concerned, he pulled his lover into an embrace that he knew must have crushed the air out of him, but he really just needed to feel Peter’s arms around him now.
“Hey, it’s OK,” Peter soothed, even though it was really not, because the dying and the fear and the never knowing if this would be the last time or not was scaring the shit out of Neal and he just couldn’t handle it in that moment.
“Hold me, hold me, please,” Neal begged and so Peter practically scooped him up in his arms, Neal's face buried in Peter’s neck with his eyes closed and his arms around Peter’s torso like a baby spider monkey.
“I’m sorry,” he said eventually, pulling away. He reached over and ran cool fingertips over a mark on Peter’s neck - when had he bitten him?
“Don’t be. Don’t ever be.”
“Is El here? I need her, I need to see her -“ And the panic rose in his chest again, but Peter laid a hand on him, right in the middle of his chest, and it was so warm and solid and reassuring, that he was finally able to get his shit wrapped up tight.
When they got home later that afternoon, Neal learned he had been out for nearly a week (“It takes a while to regenerate brain tissue, babe,” Peter had pronounced, as if he knew what the fuck he was talking about), and the issue of how to explain it all to the extended team who’d been in on the operation had already been explained away (“It’s a good thing the kid that did it was so freaked out - makes a person suggestible.”).
But Peter’s eyes told a different story, and it would be a while before Neal would learn what it was.
In the meantime, he spent his days relining the cupboards in the Burkes’ kitchen and rearranging their closets, and even Satchmo started rolling his eyes. El finally had to start calming him with midday sex and, well: score.
It seemed to Neal like a month off was a reasonable time to recover from a traumatic brain injury, so he was back in the saddle at the White Collar division for maybe two days before shit started hitting fans again.
“Who’s that guy?” Neal asked Diana as a very serious man with a very serious entourage swept into their offices and headed straight for Hughes’ office.
“Bill Nance,” she answered, and Neal didn’t know if the tone in her voice signified her awe or disgust. “Some big, swinging dick out of Organized Crime.” So: disgust.
“What’s he doing down here?” Organized Crime occupied two floors at the top of the building, and included the cream of the crop among FBI agents. So naturally, they were arrogant pricks.
“Hell if I know.”
Then Neal got the double-finger-point from Hughes, and he found out for himself.
“Absolutely, fucking not,” Peter said through a jaw so clenched, Neal feared for his molars.
“What? I asked nicely,” Nance pointed out, hands spread. He was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted, Neal could tell, and what he wanted was to borrow Neal for a case.
“The terms of his CI agreement are very clear -“
“And open to some interpretation. There’s a sentence in there under job description - duties as assigned by manager. I always liked that one; it means I can send the probies for coffee, ha-ha.” No one else laughed.
“That’s right, and I’m his manager, and I say no.”
Nance appealed to Hughes, who honestly looked torn between his loyalty to his people - and the fact that sentiment covered Neal made him feel kind of good, if only for a second - and his duty to the Bureau. “Let Nance outline the case first,” he suggested. “We’ll leave it up to Neal to decide.”
Suddenly all eyes were on Neal, and there was no way he could say no at this point. Besides, his curiosity was piqued.
The case was a very long-running investigation of the Capuano crime family in Connecticut, and though they had placed a few undercover agents already - the number was strictly need-to-know - there had arisen an opportunity where certain skills of Neal’s would come in handy.
“What’s the job?”
It appeared that Johnny “The Executioner” Capuano, heir apparent to the family business, was looking for a portraitist to paint him and his wife and children. This was a rare opportunity to put a person very close to Johnny himself, if only for a short while, and Nance wanted to exploit it to plant surveillance devices throughout the house.
Neal asked to talk it over with Peter before making a decision. “You’re not liking this - why?”
“Well, for starters, these guys are dangerous, Neal.”
“They’re all dangerous, Peter.”
“Yeah, well, this guy’s got ‘executioner’ in his job title, so…”
“There’s something more.”
“It’s Nance, I don’t trust him, I never have. We went through the Academy together and he was always a sneaky little shit. He’s been sniffing around you for weeks, and I thought I’d warned him off, but now he’s come to Hughes with a big case. I think he’s trying to poach you.”
Neal suddenly understood some of the more-worried-than-usual looks he’d been getting from Peter lately. “You think he knows about me?” Neal asked, and he could feel his stomach clenching.
“I don’t know anything, but that probie Mike Ward that shot you? Nance got his hooks into him, started asking too many questions, making him remember. I heard a rumor there’s an offer for him to join their team. Guys three months out of the Academy don’t get asked to join OC, Neal.”
“Shit.”
“I guess you don’t shoot a guy in the head and let it lie. He knows he got you, Neal, I just thought I’d convinced him it was a glancing shot. Dammit, I thought we took care of this, Hughes and I. I’m sorry, Neal.”
“Listen, listen, Peter. We don’t have a clue about what Nance knows or doesn’t know. And the way I see it, we don’t have much choice. If you and Hughes say no, Nance’ll go to the AD or higher, and get what he wants anyway.”
“You’re probably right.”
“And, I mean, this is only one case, and if it means they can bring down a whole lot of bad guys, I think I’m in.” If he kept saying it, he’d believe it. “I’m in, Peter, because someone else? Doesn’t have my safety net.”
“Neal.” Peter put his hands on Neal’s shoulders and looked into his eyes, and dammit, concern for one’s life was a huge turn-on. “This is serious. I don’t know if it’s a bridge you want to cross, do you know what you’re saying?”
“Of course I do. Better me than someone else who might be killed. It’s called ‘sacrifice,’ Peter.”
“It’s called exploitation too, Neal. And I swore to myself it wouldn’t happen.”
Neal glanced around - they seemed to be alone in the hallway, so he leaned up and kissed Peter quickly on the jaw. “It’s only exploitation if I don’t want to do it,” he pointed out and went to tell Nance he was in.
----
“The Executioner,” it turned out, was a big softie, with a palpable affection for his wife and kids that Neal was surprised to see during their many sittings for the portrait he was painting. He was also pretty damn handy with a fillet knife, which Neal was not so surprised to see, later.
“You’re gonna tell me who else the Feds have inside my organization, and you’re gonna be happy to do it, Halden,” Capuano was saying to Neal, who sat tied to a chair like this was a fucking James Bond movie as the man carved slices off of his body like he was a Christmas goose. Neal hated goose - so greasy.
“No fucking way,” Neal tried to say, but the blood bubbling out of his mouth made proper diction impossible. And where the hell was Nance and his boys - Neal had said the panic phrase more than an hour ago.
But finally there was a bang, and a yell, and “Federal agents! Nobody move!” rang out through the abandoned warehouse they’d brought him to, and Neal nearly fainted with relief.
“Jesus!” Nance exclaimed as he came in and caught sight of Neal as that quisling Ward was trying to untie him from the chair; apparently Neal's blood had slicked up the ropes and they were proving troublesome. “Somebody call a medic!”
“Caffrey, I -“ Nance said, looking down on him, and at least he had the grace to look horrified and shocked, “I’m sorry.”
Neal spat blood at his shoes, twice. “Where the hell were you?” he wheezed angrily around the hole in his lung. “You back your own men up this half-assed, or just me because I’m an ex-con?”
“Caffrey -“
“Fuck you,” Neal managed before passing out. He came to again in the ambulance, sometime later, wishing he really had died this time. “Where are you taking me?” he asked the EMT around the oxygen mask.
“Mercy General.”
“Don’t suppose I could ask you to take me to Brooklyn Heights?”
“Not today,” he replied, clearly thinking Neal was delirious.
By the time Peter arrived, Neal had already been taken in for surgery to repair his internal damage - a waste of time and resources, as Neal regenerated after an injury as he did from a fatality - so they didn’t have a chance to talk until the anesthetic wore off.
“Peter?” Neal whispered once the breathing tube was removed, his throat raw and dry in its absence.
“Yeah?”
“You were right. Nance is a sneaky little shit.” And then he fell asleep again.
When he woke, it was the next morning and he felt almost normal. Sitting up in bed, he felt his stitches pulling at flesh they no longer needed to keep together.
“You in pain?” Peter said, noting his wince.
“Just these stitches,” Neal said, picking at one on his shoulder ineffectually. “They pull.”
“We’ll have it taken care of at the clinic once the transfer order comes through.” Peter’s expression was unreadable.
Neal stared at the ceiling and smiled despite his feelings of foreboding when Peter took his hand and just sat there with him.
“Is it raining out?” Neal asked.
“We’re going to talk about the weather now?”
“How screwed am I?”
“Jury’s still out.”
“Fucking Nance,” one of them said, maybe both.
Fucking Nance showed up an hour later with a box of salt water taffy and a balloon.
“Seriously?” Neal asked.
Peter just looked murderous. “How dare you show your face here, Nance? I saw the transcripts. 75 minutes to muster the team to pull Neal out? You’re lucky he didn’t die.”
“So lodge a complaint,” he said and wow, he was going with “arrogant prick” at a time like this? Neal admired his ability to stick to a persona.
“Hughes already gave the Assistant Director an earful.”
“And we brought down a dangerous criminal, and are in the midst of dismantling an entire crime organization. We’ll see which issue the AD pays more attention to.”
“Remind me to kill you later,” Peter gritted through his teeth, and there was actual spit flying and Neal worried for his blood pressure, seriously. He put a hand on Peter’s arm, which made him back off but didn’t seem to calm him.
“Why are you here, exactly?” Neal asked.
“To check up on you. You’re looking remarkably well for a guy who was at death’s door less than a day ago.”
“I’m a quick healer.”
“Very quick,” Nance said as he dumped the candy onto a chair and left, the gleam in his eye telling them both he knew exactly how quick a healer Neal was.
----
The next time Neal died, it wasn’t even real. And that was because he had people who loved him, and who he loved enough to trust with his secrets.
But first. First there was a lot of unpleasantness.
Neal's “recuperation” was good for a two week break at home, and he spent his days playing board games with Moz and Elizabeth (who really? Was the all-time Risk champion) and his nights in the reassuring arms of his lovers. Always there was the expectation of the other shoe eventually materializing, and it did after lunch on his second day back, to kick him right in the ass.
“Shit, what’s Nance doing up there with Hughes and Peter?” he asked Diana, noticing the three men in the conference room beside Peter’s office.
“What do you think?”
“I think it can’t be good for my health.”
“I think your thinking is correct. Don’t do it, Neal.”
“Do what?”
“Whatever it is Nance wants. He sees you as cannon fodder, and it’s not right.”
Neal looked down at her, shocked, but her eyes were on the email she was typing. “I think you’ve got the wrong idea,” he said slowly.
Her eyes met his and he saw how wrong he was. “I think I’ve seen enough of your blood to refill you twice,” she said, low enough so that only he could hear her.
“Di -“
“It’s none of my business. Just like your affair with the boss and his wife is none of my business.”
“Neal?” Peter called from the now-open door of the conference room.
Neal gestured that he’d be there in a minute and looked down at Diana.
“None of my business, Neal,” she repeated. “Now go and stick up for yourself.”
As it turned out, he didn’t get the chance.
When he arrived, Peter was standing at the windows, staring out of them moodily, and Hughes wouldn’t look at him. “What’s going on?” he asked.
Nance smiled at him like a shark eyeing a guppy. “Your work on the Capuano case hasn’t gone unnoticed, Neal, congratulations!”
Neal didn’t even respond, merely stared at him.
“I’ve asked Agent Hughes if we might extend your time with us up in OC - there’s a new investigation ramping up that I think you’d be perfect for. Domestic terrorists - you’ll love it.”
“No.”
“Come now, Neal, you don’t even know the details.”
“I don’t like your way of working cases, Agent, it gets people killed.”
Nance actually laughed. “Why so upset, Neal? We all know you’re very special in that respect.” With that comment, all three sets of eyes were on Nance, since there was no mistaking now he knew or had guessed at Neal's situation.
“See here, Nance,” Hughes began, standing, his face reddening with indignation. “I will not have you mistreating my people so egregiously. We all know how much you screwed the pooch on that Capuano sting, and if Neal had been anyone else, you’d be looking at censure and a suspension.”
“Except Neal isn’t anyone else, is he? I have eye witnesses and autopsy reports that say he’s died at least twice in the last year. And if you think I’m stupid enough to buy the story he was undercover with the Secret Service, or that Ward’s bullet just grazed his skull, you’ve got another thing coming.
“How can you both sit here ignoring what you’ve got under your noses? He’s the eighth wonder of the world, a man who does not die. He’s the goddamn Energizer Bunny.”
Peter turned suddenly and loomed over the seated man, his face mere inches away, livid with rage, yet his voice was calm, clipped. Neal had only ever seen him this angry once - when Elizabeth had been kidnapped - and he was grateful it wasn’t being aimed at him this time. “He’s my Energizer Bunny, and don’t you forget it.”
But Nance got up and got right back in Peter’s face, his voice low and dangerous. “Do I have to remind you that Caffrey's deal is with this agency and not you personally, Agent Burke? And if he fails to fulfill his obligations, if he’s seen to be lacking by anyone in the chain of command, including my new bestie, the Assistant Director, then it’s back to prison with him, no questions asked.”
“Then send me to prison,” Neal said quietly.
Nance smiled, a mirthless expression that looked more like a grimace on his florid face. “I don’t think you want me to do that, Neal. You see, I recently made another very good friend - you may know him? Special Agent Philip Kramer? He shared some interesting data with me.”
“You bastard,” Peter breathed. Neal’s eyes flicked to his lover’s face then back to Nance, realization that he was looking at both the rock and the hard place suddenly dawning.
“There’s enough to put you away for life, Neal, and I imagine that’s a bleak prospect for a man such as you.”
Neal closed his eyes; this was not happening.
“Come on, Neal, think about my offer, and think about the alternative,” Nance said with a smirk. “And while you’re at it, think about the other agents’ lives and safety you’d be ensuring whenever you take one for the team. And another one. And another.”
“Dammit, this is a man’s life you’re playing with!” Hughes shouted then, surprising them all with the volume and vehemence he put into his words.
But Nance only laughed. “Are you hearing yourself?” He headed for the door. “I’ll give you until the weekend to think about it.”
“Neal,” Peter began once Nance was gone, his voice choked, his face stricken.
Neal held up a hand to silence him, shook his head once and then left the office.
He didn’t know where he was going, just that the walls of the White Collar unit were suddenly too confining and he needed some fresh air. In New York. Jeez, he had to move to Colorado or some shit next time. He needed mountains.
Before he realized it, he found himself at the Burkes’ front door. He let himself in, and there was Elizabeth, working at her desk in the kitchen. She spun in her chair to speak to him, “Oh, hi, honey, I was just going to call to see what you and Peter wanted for dinner -“
But Neal sank to his knees in front of her, slipped his arms around her legs and laid his head in her lap.
“Neal? Honey, what’s wrong?”
He shook his head - he was too numb to form coherent words, and all he knew was that he needed to feel her kindness and her love or he might just - “El, El, El,” he sobbed into her leg, and she held him as he wept like he hadn’t since he’d lost his beloved Josie almost 95 years ago.
Because how do you explain to someone you love more than breathing that you have to leave? How do you tell her that the alternative is a life of pain and death and exploitation with no end in sight? How do you explain you’d do it anyway, because at least you got to feel her arms around you when you returned each time? How do you tell her you see what it does to her and to her husband, to know that they die a little each time you do?
“I’m just so lost,” was all he could say, and she took his face in her hands, kissed him and led him upstairs, put him to bed and petted his hair until he fell asleep.
When he woke, he was alone, the long shadows in the room telling him the sun had just gone down. He didn’t think he felt any better, but at least he didn’t feel any worse. Throwing on some jeans, he padded down the stairs into an ambush.
“We’ve got a plan,” Moz said to him almost before Neal registered his friend was sitting in the living room.
El nodded sagely from behind her mug of tea and Neal looked at her questioningly. “Peter told me about your meeting with Nance, and Moz and I have been… discussing options.”
“This isn’t like that time when you pretended to be FBI agents at that strip club?” Neal began, feeling his head reel just a little.
El actually said “Pshaw,” and then she blew air out of her mouth, ruffling her bangs adorably, and she actually looked confident. Adorably confident.
What the hell, Neal thought, he might as well play along. “What’s the plan?”
-----
“Here’s the plan - you cut your anklet and you run like hell,” Peter said almost before he’d gotten inside the door late that night after spending hours with Hughes trying and failing to find a way around Nance’s ultimatum. He put his hands on Neal's arms, squeezing his biceps, so earnest. “You’ve got aliases already, right? Well, you run like hell and you don’t look back, Neal.” He shook Neal a little then, his grip suddenly so tight it hurt, and Neal looked down at Peter’s hands.
“Ouch.”
“Oh, sorry.” Peter let him go self-consciously. “You should start packing. Now.” He headed towards the stairs as if he might do the packing for Neal himself.
“Honey, wait!” El said, and caught up to him. “We already have a plan.”
Peter’s eyes flicked from El to Neal to Moz. “Who does?”
“I do. With Moz. We’ve already worked it out.”
“What do you mean you’ve already worked it out?”
She gave him a long-suffering look. “Honey, you married an event planner - there is always a Plan B.”
“This isn’t’ like that time at the strip club, is it?”
Moz sat forward on the couch, ignoring him, face alight with energy. “Well, it’s going to take some time and maneuvering to get all our ducks in a row, but if Neal can lend a hand, and you can get some of the demi-Suits to pitch in, we’ll be golden.”
And then he and El laid it all out for him.
“Is there a Plan C?” Peter asked when they were done. “Don’t tell me you’d go along with this?” he asked Neal.
“It’s crazy enough to work.”
“Don’t say that. People only say that in movies. It’s crazy enough to send us all to prison for many, many years.”
“You’re only saying that because it’s true,” Neal replied.
In the end, Peter agreed to it, but only because Neal thought he was too tired and worn down. Hell, so was Neal - maybe they’d reconsider by the cold light of day.
When the cold light of day turned into the cold light of the next day and the next, it was clear that time was running out, and Neal had to answer Nance’s ultimatum. Having no other options, Plan B became official.
“All right, Nance, I’m yours,” Neal said on Friday. They were with Hughes and Peter in Hughes’ office “But there are stipulations.”
Nance looked amused but humored him. “They are?”
“That he can still consult on White Collar cases, and that his desk stays down here with us,” Hughes said. He was standing, with his best Imposing Boss look on his face. “The Director was surprisingly amenable when we had lunch yesterday,” he added.
Nance raised an eyebrow. “This your way of trying to keep him?”
“It’s our way of trying to keep him safe, Nance. I don’t like your methods, and I don’t like you. Neal stays here even as he works for you. Case closed.”
Nance looked like he had a lot more to say, but kept his mouth shut.
“Peter, there are still a few active cases Neal is working, are there not?” Hughes continued.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then Agent Nance will be able to avail himself of Neal's services as soon as they’ve been concluded.”
“You can’t delay this forever, Hughes,” Nance said, rising.
“But I can have fun trying,” Hughes said dismissively and Nance left the room.
Neal just stared at Hughes for a few seconds, touched. “Sir,” he began.
Hughes made a gesture, cutting him off. “All I’ve done is delay the inevitable. Tell me this plan you have will keep Neal safe, Peter.”
Neal owed somebody a huge muffin basket.
Before Neal left for the day, he paused at Hughes’ office door, shuffling his feet. “What is it, Caffrey?” he said, impatient.
“I - thank you, sir.”
Hughes looked at him then, and his face softened. “I’m not going to pretend to understand what happens to you, Neal - what you are, what it means. But one thing I do know is that as far as I can tell, you’ve conducted yourself with honor and integrity while you’ve been a member of this unit. When I came up, that meant something.”
Neal could feel actual tears forming. “Sir -“
“Now get the hell out of my office, you’ve got casework to get back to.”
----
So this was the setup: One of the active cases Peter and Neal were working was the investigation into a health insurance fraud ring based in Queens. This was a real case, and it was open, but unfortunately the doctor at the core of it seemed to have fled to one of the ‘stans. Fortunately, Nance didn’t happen to know this.
The doctor in question also owned a chain of fast food franchises that had been seized by the IRS. The fast food restaurants were currently closed and abandoned, most of their assets seized, which presented a convenient place to enact their plan, if a few casual counts of arson among friends could be discounted.
Because Mozzie and Elizabeth’s plan? Was to blow Neal up.
Actually, the explosion was El’s idea; never let it be said she couldn’t go big (“No wait, you can’t look for a man who’s no longer there - it’s brilliant!”). How they pulled it off was Moz’s baby (“A little natural gas leak, a little plastic explosive - what’s not to love?”). Their target was Diana’s recommendation (“It’s a Chick-Fil-A - they’re anti-gay marriage. We’ll be making a statement.”). And at least Peter could buy in somewhat (“Fine, fine - the building’s a good 100 yards from anything around it. I guess so, why not.”).
It all went off without a hitch. Mostly. Because as it turned out, when Moz asked Neal to lend a hand with the planning? He meant it literally.
“If you’re going to blow a guy to bits, you need bits of guy, Neal, God!” he’d said condescendingly, as if Neal were simple.
But all the groundwork was laid by Diana - fake emails between the doctor and them, offering a meeting; a call into the gas company from a concerned neighbor reporting a gas leak, faked comms and orders. Moz took care of the explosion easily enough - and Neal was going to have to talk to him about this sudden facility with blowing things up, really. Peter supervised the harvesting and planting of the “DNA evidence” which might have given him nightmares for a week, and El made a nice lasagna for everyone to enjoy later.
And so Neal sat uncomfortably across the street from his own funeral again, his left hand - correction: stump - bound and in a sling, aching horribly and itchy, but clearly healing. He knew it wouldn’t be long before it regenerated, though there was a moment as it was being removed - one last commission for Mozzie’s cadre of ethically flexible medical personnel - when he’d doubted it.
He knew he was taking a huge chance coming here, his second funeral in just under two years, but as before, he couldn’t stay away. He needed to see it for himself, because this time it was an ending of sorts - for him, anyway, because he’d have to say goodbye to New York, this time for real.
----
TWo Years Later
Neal stands in the doorway of the deck, watching the sun complete its slow dip behind the mountains that ring the western shore of Lake Tahoe. It’s quiet here, which is something he finds he likes after so many decades in cities. Time passes here… slowly, so slowly it is as if it doesn’t exist.
This is all right by Neal, because for once, time is not something he curses, even if it’s not something he embraces. It just is. Neither friend nor foe. He prefers it that way.
He turns his head at a sigh behind him, and he regards Peter wordlessly; he’s awake now, looking debauched and perfect, naked and sprawled on their bed, a sheet barely covering his crotch. His eyes glitter in the dying sunlight and he smiles; Neal returns the smile and goes back to watching the sunset.
It’s moments like this when he finds it nearly impossible to remember what he’d fled from, what they’d all left behind in New York like a burden. Peter had taken early retirement from the FBI in the wake of Neal’s final demise, but not before kicking off an OPR investigation into Nance’s investigative methods that led to his eventually being expelled from the agency. El had sold Burke Premier Events and then made it her business to find this house and decorate it to within an inch of its existence. She needed projects, and Neal needed to indulge her.
He looks at her fondly, asleep on her side beside Peter, with her hands clasped under her chin, as if in prayer, head tilted to the side as if she’s just about to say something, and he suddenly realizes something that’s been a growing awareness in his mind for months, but that he can only now give a name to. It was worth it.
It was all worth it - the long years of loneliness, the grief, the cutting himself off from anyone who might get too close. It all made him ready for this moment, this life, these people, and he will be eternally grateful for it.
These people love him, unconditionally, and he loves them back. And come hell or high water, he knows he’ll stay with them until their lives end, and after their loss starts to hurt him less, he’ll find more people just like them. Because they have restored in Neal the capacity to feel, and to love, and to grieve, and that’s something he gave up a long time ago, without realizing how much it had cost him.
And he’ll never give it up again.
----
Thank you for your time.
Author’s Notes:
* Special thanks to nyxelestia, whose prompt inspired this story.
* Extra special thanks to Winterstar, dmk0064, who beta’d and helped make this story so much better.
* Also many thanks to my band of sisters who kept this story going by being very encouraging of the little snippets I sent them over email. So: arsenicjade, doctor_fangeek, elrhiarhodan, hoosierbitch, ivorysilk, jrosemary and squeakyoflight, thanks for the cheerleading!
* Title is a lyric from the song “Evil” by Interpol.
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Neal/Peter/El
Spoilers: Some basic facts from S3.
Content Notice: Character death, none of it permanent
Word Count: 18,000
Summary: Neal is immortal. This leads to a lot of complications.
Part 1 | Part 2
----
The case was stupid. It was another stupid Master of the Universe using creative accounting to hide financial irregularities in records so convoluted it took Jones and a team of three forensic accountants with fine-toothed combs a month to sift through them, and still they didn’t have what they needed on the guy. They sent Neal in as an art appraiser who was maybe shady enough to fence stolen Impressionists, and when Neal had broken into the stupid mark’s stupid office to plant the Trojan in the guy’s stupid pc that would secretly send all his stupid records to the FBI, the guy caught him and all hell broke loose.
Because the mark was a collector of antique swords - and you didn’t have to be a psychologist to get to the root of that little fixation - and there Neal was with a cutlass, a fucking cutlass - was the guy a goddamn pirate?, poking him in the back as the stupid fucker held Neal hostage against a half dozen of the Harvard crew with their Sig Sauers drawn and deadly intent etched on all of their faces.
“Come on, Samuelson, let him go. You hurt him, you go to maximum security. You let him go, it’s Club Fed,” Peter was saying soothingly.
“Fuck you, Lassen!” Samuelson raged, “yesterday you were the auditor and today you’re with the FBI?” Neal flinched at the spit that hit him on the side of his face as the man shouted; he didn’t think this could be good for the guy’s heart. Maybe he’d drop dead of a heart attack in the next minute and a half.
No such luck. Samuelson had him around the neck with one broad arm, the other had the sword pressed against the middle of his back. Neal’s body was bowed out, trying to curve away from the thing, which Samuelson had, not surprisingly, kept honed and sharp. His lower back was killing him, and he feared a cramp.
“Can we maybe just ease up a bit?” Neal suggested, and Samuelson pulled the blade off a little, took a step back. Neal straightened his spine in relief, but he misjudged; Samuelson was just maneuvering to get better leverage.
“You don’t steal from me, boy,” the man gritted in Neal’s ear, the Texas twang his wife had so patiently tried to eliminate by employing the country’s best dialect coaches coming to the fore. “No one takes what’s mine and lives.”
“No, no, no, no, no,” Neal babbled, but then Samuelson was thrusting his arm forward, and Neal felt the blade slice through his jacket and shirt, push through skin and muscle, and the bastard twisted it and something went SNAP and Neal was suddenly on the floor.
“Neal!” Peter was kneeling next to him, and Neal could see he was holding his hand.
“Shit.”
“There’s an ambulance coming - just hold on, OK? GODDAMMIT WE NEED A MEDIC IN HERE!”
“Fuck, fuck, shit, fuckety-fuck-fuck-fuck!” Neal gasped.
“Shh, shh, don’t hurt yourself,” Peter soothed and Neal thought that was maybe the funniest thing he had ever heard, so he laughed. “Neal, Neal, Neal,” Peter moaned, and he was petting Neal’s hand, Neal could see that, but…
“Peter, I can’t feel anything!”
“What?”
Everything was slipping away again, the gradual leaching away of sensation, of awareness, but this time it was different - he wasn’t just numb, it was… nothing. So, the panic was inevitable. “I can’t - I can’t feel my legs or my arms, I - Peter!”
Then Peter’s hands were on his face, and he could feel that and he could feel the tears from Peter’s eyes splashing on his neck, and he could smell Peter’s breath, sour from the morning’s coffee. And he could see Peter’s face, stricken, in pain, afraid. And he’d sworn to himself that would never happen again, hadn’t he? Peter should not feel this, this panic, this grief.
So, “Peter, it’s OK,” he said and yeah, his voice was quavering, but he was having a day, and he needed for Peter not to be afraid.
“It’s not OK, don’t leave me. You promised.”
“I’m trying not to.” Damn it!
“Neal, God.” Peter was openly crying now, and Neal wanted to tell him not to worry, and not to be afraid, except this always worried Neal, and he sure was scared shitless, but he wasn’t going to tell Peter that part. Except he couldn’t talk anymore, so it didn’t matter, and someone was saying the ambulance was there, but then it all went black anyway.
----
“Pasta e fagioli.”
“What?”
“I’m in the mood for pasta e fagioli,” Neal said.
“You get up after dying, and those are your first words?” Peter asked from his seat next to the bed, and Neal blinked up at him. They were in a very brightly-lit room - all the blinds were open, and the sunlight was punishing, and Neal could see every wrinkle, every care-line and greying whisker on Peter’s face and it made him stop breathing for a second. He looked so worn-down and just… lost-slash-worried-slash-relieved.
Neal sat up - ignoring the head rush - slipped out of the bed, took Peter’s face in his hands and just kissed him. Peter’s arms slid around his back, his hands warm on the skin bared through the opening at the back of the hospital gown, and when Neal ran out of breath, he just rested his forehead against Peter’s and sighed.
“Yuck, morning breath,” Peter said.
“Fuck you.”
“Dead guy morning breath.”
“Shut up!” Neal said and got back into the bed. “Where are we, anyway?”
“A private clinic in Brooklyn Heights that Mozzie found.”
“What’s the story?”
“You’re a dangerous criminal, and this place has more security than any other place,” Peter said.
“Ah.” That would explain the tracker still on his ankle. “Have you been here the whole time?”
Peter didn’t really answer, just slid his eyes to look at the joins in the ceiling. “The staff is very discreet.”
Neal was adept at reading between-the-lines-Peter, and knew that meant, They’re very appreciative of the generous bribe Mozzie paid for them to keep their mouths shut and unauthorized visitors away.
“Is El OK?”
“She sends her love.” She’s not here because I didn’t want to upset her.
“And how are you?”
“I’m not the one who died.” It’s killing me to watch this happen to you and I’m afraid you won’t come back next time.
“Come here?” Neal held his arms out.
Peter scoffed, which meant I really want to, but I’m afraid of what will happen if I do, but Neal gave him the “don’t fuck with me” look that Peter himself had used so often on Neal, so he had no choice. Neal scooted over and Peter had to lay practically on top of him for them both to fit in the narrow bed, but he tucked Peter’s head under his chin as best as he could and just held him as he cried himself into an exhausted sleep.
----
“You’re back!” El said, voice unnaturally chipper as she greeted them later that day. “Want lunch? I was going to make tuna melts.” Her chin was quivering and her eyes were too bright, and Neal had to go and kiss the fear out of her eyes or he might never be able to breathe again.
It was only the next day for Neal, like he’d only gone to bed with a migraine and woke feeling just fine. He thought it may have felt a lot longer for Peter and Elizabeth.
He pitched in to help her, grating the cheese while she chopped up the celery, and wherever she stood, whatever she did, she was always touching him, her hip against his, or her breasts against his arm as she reached across him to grab a utensil from the crock on the counter, or a hand brushing his back as she went past him to the fridge. And as they waited for the cheese to brown on the sandwiches, keeping an eye on the broiler, Peter would ease through the kitchen, grabbing plates to set the table, he would casually drag a hand over Neal's hand or across his shoulders. All the touching, it was not so very subtle.
He bent over to remove the sheet pan from the oven, and El eased past him, her hip brushing lightly against his ass, and he straightened, deposited the pan on the stove top, and just looked down at her. She regarded him thoughtfully, blue eyes large and expressive, and he loved her so much in that moment it actually hurt. He reached his right hand out to cup her cheek, she tilted her head back and they kissed. She put her hands on his hips to pull him closer, opening her mouth to him, and he ran his left hand up her back to cradle the back of her head, the fingertips of his right still on her jaw, and let her flick her tongue over his, over his teeth, tasting her - she’d recently eaten violet candies.
They parted and she rested her head under his chin. Peter was leaning against the counters, a slight smile on his face as he watched him. “I need you so much right now,” Elizabeth murmured into his sweater, and the tuna melts were left to congeal on the stove as they made their way up the stairs to the bedroom.
They undressed each other as they made their way to the bed, the three of them, El in Neal's arms, kissing him, Peter bringing up the rear, assisting where necessary, getting a kiss in here and there, his body warm against Neal's back. They were naked by the time they reached the bed, El sliding gracefully onto her back, arms beckoning him, knees spread. Neal lowered himself on top of her, their hips aligned, and covered her face with kisses - her lips, her forehead, her eyes. Peter lay stretched out beside them, stroking their sides, adding kisses where they fit. Neal turned his head to kiss Peter, and El reached her hand down between them, taking hold of Neal's cock and stroking it to full hardness.
She had her hands on his hips, pushing on them and rocking hers forward. He pulled away slightly and let her guide his cock inside her. Peter, meanwhile, had positioned himself so that he was lying at El’s head, kind of wrapped around them both protectively, head propped on his hand. Neal leaned forward and caught his mouth in a kiss, and then El ran her hand up his chest, and being with them was so close to perfect, he didn’t quite know what to do.
“You could maybe move some, sport,” El gasped, as if reading his mind, and he snorted with laughter and straightened up a little. He lifted her hips in his hands and began to fuck her in earnest, her legs hooked around his waist. She rocked her hips against him, matching his rhythm. Peter reached over and started tweaking at her nipples, which made her arch her back and clamp down just a little harder on Neal, who groaned his appreciation.
“Jesus, that’s, that’s…” but he lost his words when Peter’s hand began traveling down El’s body until he was rubbing suddenly and furiously at her clit.
“Oh, Christ!” she screamed a little, and nuzzled her face against his armpit, mouth open, lower teeth bared.
“You like that?”
“I think you know what else I’d like,” she gritted out, and Neal paused as Peter’s hand moved to cup over her pussy, his fingers spread around her lips, around Neal, then he began to insert his middle finger along the side of Neal's cock, stretching El wider. Neal had to admit this was a new one on him; the sensation of Peter’s fingers there was distracting and interesting and - wow, was he now trying for a second?
“This OK?” Peter asked, generally, but he was looking at Neal.
“Yeah, I, well, have you manicured lately?”
Peter smirked and pulled his fingers out, went back to rubbing at El’s clit as Neal picked up his pace again.
“Oh my God, I’m so close,” El gasped, and Peter bent down to kiss her, her sweaty hair sticking to his lips and his face.
“Wait for me,” Neal asked.
“Hurry up, then!”
Neal grinned, threw his head back and pumped into her as she reached her climax, letting himself go with a shout and flopped down on the bed beside her. He crawled up her body when he’d caught his breath, kissed her, kissed Peter and lay down on his side with a happy smile on his face. His eyes moved to Peter’s face, who lay watching them both with eyes hooded with desire, cock turgid and purple against his body. Tired as he was - it had been an eventful 24 hours - Neal pushed himself up on his elbows and raised his ass in the air.
“Daddy’s turn,” he cooed, shaking his hips suggestively, and El laughed as Peter scowled at them both.
“What, are you starting that now, too?” he groaned, but Neal leaned forward to kiss the scowl away as El went to find lube in the nightstand.
----
Neal has always been a big believer that the best way to tackle a problem was to ignore it until it pulled a big sulk and went away, but of course, Peter was not, so then there had to be discussions. Of issues.
“We should have a plan in case this happens again,” Peter said in a low voice. El was sprawled across them both, asleep, so Peter couldn’t see the epic eyeroll that Neal really had been working on for decades.
“I’d like to believe it won’t be such a normal occurrence. I hardly ever die twice in one year.”
“Hardly?”
“OK, never. I told you, it’s only happened twice before, in 1918 and 1941.”
“OK.”
“And maybe at Woodstock, but I mean, I always chalked that up to a bad acid trip, so the jury’s kind of still out -“
“Neal, you’re not making this easier.”
“Sorry. What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know, but something like that clinic Moz found - some way of making sure your - special circumstances - don’t get discovered by anyone by mistake. I don’t think I have to tell you that there will be serious repercussions if this were to get out.”
“Fine. I’ll talk to Moz, see about putting some people on retainer. You’d be surprised how much a little money can buy.”
“Wait a minute, how’s he going to pay for it? I don’t want him pulling any jobs for you.”
“Relax, the money’ll be mine.”
Peter sighed. “Neal, don’t make me repeat myself.”
Neal sighed too. “Peter, don’t be such a pill. I’ve got a rainy day fund.”
“Rainy day fund?”
“Well, you don’t live for 124 years and not make a few investments. I got in on Google on the ground floor.”
“Of course you did. How much is in this ‘rainy day fund’?”
“Last I checked, about $130 million, but I really took a bath in the last economic downturn, so-“
Neal could almost hear Peter mentally counting to ten. “You have $130 million, and you pull two-bit cons and forge bonds for what - kicks?”
“Have to keep things interesting, Peter.”
“Oh my God, I need a drink,” Peter said, extricating himself from under Elizabeth and heading for the bedroom door.
“Oh, hey, while you’re up, can you order some food? I was promised pasta e fagioli.”
The pillow was easy to duck.
----
Neal turned out to be correct - he didn’t die again that year at all. It took another eight months.
It was a case that just fell into their laps, and it was a doozy. Reggie Hesher, a two-bit hustler that turned up like a bad penny in Neal and Moz’s lives every couple of years, approached Neal with a proposition.
“So there’s this guy, right? And he’s about to pull a major heist. And word is they need a boxman. So I thoughta you, Caffrey.”
“Uh-huh,” Neal said. “What’re you looking for, Heshie?”
“Nothing. You know. Couple or tree hunderd.”
“Uh-huh. You want a referral fee?”
“For the effort, Neal, come on.”
Despite Heshie’s general squirrelliness and usual lack of trustworthiness, the tip had been a good one, and Neal was chosen for the job by Nate Bergmann, AKA “The Continental,” a criminal known more for his work conning trust fund babies in Europe than for bank jobs in the US, but who seemed to be branching out. Neal wanted to know how a guy got a name like “The Continental,” but never had the balls to ask, because Bergmann seemed to be kind of a scary-crazy dude that made Matthew Keller look like a boy scout, and Neal preferred to just keep his head down for this one.
The job turned out to be a heist at the First National branch on the Upper West Side that had the singular distinction of housing in its extensive vaults the art, jewelry and other valuables of New York’s more prominent citizens. The plan was to stage an armed robbery on the commercial operation that fronted the branch, which was to be a diversion for the real heist that would be occurring in the basement-level vaults. Apparently, Bergmann had gotten his hands on the plans for the bank’s security system, which led to him forming a crew for this job.
Neal spent weeks studying the specs of the security system and the mechanics of the vaults themselves, planning out workarounds of the various fail safes he found and expected to find, and hoping the bank hadn’t added any bells or whistles to the system since Bergmann got them more than six months prior. Peter accused him of getting wood every time he looked at the specs, but this was perhaps the most sophisticated system he’d ever seen, and he was going to be the guy to hack it, so yeah, maybe there was some chubbing-up. Not that he’d admit it.
The day of the job, Neal and Bergmann arrived first thing in the morning, their cover a visit from the bank’s central IT department to install a network upgrade. This would put them at the southwest corner of the building, where they could gain access to the vaults. The bank was being staffed by a crew of FBI agents, and most of their clients’ valuables had gradually been removed for safekeeping elsewhere, at the insistence of the bank and at a cost of much hair from Peter’s head. In the weeks leading up to the heist, the bank was still being cased by Bergmann’s crew, and getting the materials out of the vaults undetected had been a lesson in patience. Neal teased that Peter would be having nightmares about the paperwork for weeks.
Neal worked away at the drywall at the back corner of the server room with a reciprocating saw, cutting a hole large enough for him, Bergmann and their equipment to shimmy down to the level below before the scheduled bank robbery at 10:00 a.m. The vault on the lower level had one main door for entry and a series of smaller ones for each individual room. The main door, a 4-ton behemoth from the 1920’s, was on an independent system, and so it was just easier if they were on the other side of it before the lockdown that would be kicked off by the robbery, and they had about 15 minutes to get there. It was actually the biggest risk of the whole sting - not counting, you know, the armed gunmen - because Neal had to work the timing according to schedule yet still vamp until the FBI could mop up all the bad guys, Bergmann included.
Piece of cake, right?
And it went off without a hitch. Except for the fact that the FBI agents apparently couldn’t get to Neal and Bergmann in what amounted to any kind of a timely fashion, and so Neal was forced to actually go on with the break-in of the security system. And dammit if he didn’t do it in a time that was more than two minutes faster than any of the simulations they’d run. But then they got into the first vault, and the inventory they’d expected to find there… wasn’t.
“Just what the fock is happening here?” Bergmann said, and really, Swedish guys shouldn't curse.
“I don’t -“ Neal said slowly.
“We’ve been double-crossed.”
“What? How?” Neal figured righteous indignation should be the code of the day.
A loud clanging somewhere behind them signified the opening of the main vault door, and then someone yelled, “Federal agents!” and it all went to hell.
Bergmann pulled an automatic weapon from somewhere and handed it to Neal, grabbed one for himself and ran out of the vault yelling the Swedish equivalent of “Banzai!” or some Viking bullshit and Neal stood staring at the weapon in his hands as the FBI sprayed bullets all over the damn place.
The kicker was that he actually saw the look on the face of the probie whose bullet blew Neal’s skull wide open, and the kid looked like he felt really bad about it.
----
Neal's never been a clingy or needy person, not really, but when he revived this time, and Peter was just there, standing over him looking concerned, he pulled his lover into an embrace that he knew must have crushed the air out of him, but he really just needed to feel Peter’s arms around him now.
“Hey, it’s OK,” Peter soothed, even though it was really not, because the dying and the fear and the never knowing if this would be the last time or not was scaring the shit out of Neal and he just couldn’t handle it in that moment.
“Hold me, hold me, please,” Neal begged and so Peter practically scooped him up in his arms, Neal's face buried in Peter’s neck with his eyes closed and his arms around Peter’s torso like a baby spider monkey.
“I’m sorry,” he said eventually, pulling away. He reached over and ran cool fingertips over a mark on Peter’s neck - when had he bitten him?
“Don’t be. Don’t ever be.”
“Is El here? I need her, I need to see her -“ And the panic rose in his chest again, but Peter laid a hand on him, right in the middle of his chest, and it was so warm and solid and reassuring, that he was finally able to get his shit wrapped up tight.
When they got home later that afternoon, Neal learned he had been out for nearly a week (“It takes a while to regenerate brain tissue, babe,” Peter had pronounced, as if he knew what the fuck he was talking about), and the issue of how to explain it all to the extended team who’d been in on the operation had already been explained away (“It’s a good thing the kid that did it was so freaked out - makes a person suggestible.”).
But Peter’s eyes told a different story, and it would be a while before Neal would learn what it was.
In the meantime, he spent his days relining the cupboards in the Burkes’ kitchen and rearranging their closets, and even Satchmo started rolling his eyes. El finally had to start calming him with midday sex and, well: score.
It seemed to Neal like a month off was a reasonable time to recover from a traumatic brain injury, so he was back in the saddle at the White Collar division for maybe two days before shit started hitting fans again.
“Who’s that guy?” Neal asked Diana as a very serious man with a very serious entourage swept into their offices and headed straight for Hughes’ office.
“Bill Nance,” she answered, and Neal didn’t know if the tone in her voice signified her awe or disgust. “Some big, swinging dick out of Organized Crime.” So: disgust.
“What’s he doing down here?” Organized Crime occupied two floors at the top of the building, and included the cream of the crop among FBI agents. So naturally, they were arrogant pricks.
“Hell if I know.”
Then Neal got the double-finger-point from Hughes, and he found out for himself.
“Absolutely, fucking not,” Peter said through a jaw so clenched, Neal feared for his molars.
“What? I asked nicely,” Nance pointed out, hands spread. He was a man accustomed to getting what he wanted, Neal could tell, and what he wanted was to borrow Neal for a case.
“The terms of his CI agreement are very clear -“
“And open to some interpretation. There’s a sentence in there under job description - duties as assigned by manager. I always liked that one; it means I can send the probies for coffee, ha-ha.” No one else laughed.
“That’s right, and I’m his manager, and I say no.”
Nance appealed to Hughes, who honestly looked torn between his loyalty to his people - and the fact that sentiment covered Neal made him feel kind of good, if only for a second - and his duty to the Bureau. “Let Nance outline the case first,” he suggested. “We’ll leave it up to Neal to decide.”
Suddenly all eyes were on Neal, and there was no way he could say no at this point. Besides, his curiosity was piqued.
The case was a very long-running investigation of the Capuano crime family in Connecticut, and though they had placed a few undercover agents already - the number was strictly need-to-know - there had arisen an opportunity where certain skills of Neal’s would come in handy.
“What’s the job?”
It appeared that Johnny “The Executioner” Capuano, heir apparent to the family business, was looking for a portraitist to paint him and his wife and children. This was a rare opportunity to put a person very close to Johnny himself, if only for a short while, and Nance wanted to exploit it to plant surveillance devices throughout the house.
Neal asked to talk it over with Peter before making a decision. “You’re not liking this - why?”
“Well, for starters, these guys are dangerous, Neal.”
“They’re all dangerous, Peter.”
“Yeah, well, this guy’s got ‘executioner’ in his job title, so…”
“There’s something more.”
“It’s Nance, I don’t trust him, I never have. We went through the Academy together and he was always a sneaky little shit. He’s been sniffing around you for weeks, and I thought I’d warned him off, but now he’s come to Hughes with a big case. I think he’s trying to poach you.”
Neal suddenly understood some of the more-worried-than-usual looks he’d been getting from Peter lately. “You think he knows about me?” Neal asked, and he could feel his stomach clenching.
“I don’t know anything, but that probie Mike Ward that shot you? Nance got his hooks into him, started asking too many questions, making him remember. I heard a rumor there’s an offer for him to join their team. Guys three months out of the Academy don’t get asked to join OC, Neal.”
“Shit.”
“I guess you don’t shoot a guy in the head and let it lie. He knows he got you, Neal, I just thought I’d convinced him it was a glancing shot. Dammit, I thought we took care of this, Hughes and I. I’m sorry, Neal.”
“Listen, listen, Peter. We don’t have a clue about what Nance knows or doesn’t know. And the way I see it, we don’t have much choice. If you and Hughes say no, Nance’ll go to the AD or higher, and get what he wants anyway.”
“You’re probably right.”
“And, I mean, this is only one case, and if it means they can bring down a whole lot of bad guys, I think I’m in.” If he kept saying it, he’d believe it. “I’m in, Peter, because someone else? Doesn’t have my safety net.”
“Neal.” Peter put his hands on Neal’s shoulders and looked into his eyes, and dammit, concern for one’s life was a huge turn-on. “This is serious. I don’t know if it’s a bridge you want to cross, do you know what you’re saying?”
“Of course I do. Better me than someone else who might be killed. It’s called ‘sacrifice,’ Peter.”
“It’s called exploitation too, Neal. And I swore to myself it wouldn’t happen.”
Neal glanced around - they seemed to be alone in the hallway, so he leaned up and kissed Peter quickly on the jaw. “It’s only exploitation if I don’t want to do it,” he pointed out and went to tell Nance he was in.
----
“The Executioner,” it turned out, was a big softie, with a palpable affection for his wife and kids that Neal was surprised to see during their many sittings for the portrait he was painting. He was also pretty damn handy with a fillet knife, which Neal was not so surprised to see, later.
“You’re gonna tell me who else the Feds have inside my organization, and you’re gonna be happy to do it, Halden,” Capuano was saying to Neal, who sat tied to a chair like this was a fucking James Bond movie as the man carved slices off of his body like he was a Christmas goose. Neal hated goose - so greasy.
“No fucking way,” Neal tried to say, but the blood bubbling out of his mouth made proper diction impossible. And where the hell was Nance and his boys - Neal had said the panic phrase more than an hour ago.
But finally there was a bang, and a yell, and “Federal agents! Nobody move!” rang out through the abandoned warehouse they’d brought him to, and Neal nearly fainted with relief.
“Jesus!” Nance exclaimed as he came in and caught sight of Neal as that quisling Ward was trying to untie him from the chair; apparently Neal's blood had slicked up the ropes and they were proving troublesome. “Somebody call a medic!”
“Caffrey, I -“ Nance said, looking down on him, and at least he had the grace to look horrified and shocked, “I’m sorry.”
Neal spat blood at his shoes, twice. “Where the hell were you?” he wheezed angrily around the hole in his lung. “You back your own men up this half-assed, or just me because I’m an ex-con?”
“Caffrey -“
“Fuck you,” Neal managed before passing out. He came to again in the ambulance, sometime later, wishing he really had died this time. “Where are you taking me?” he asked the EMT around the oxygen mask.
“Mercy General.”
“Don’t suppose I could ask you to take me to Brooklyn Heights?”
“Not today,” he replied, clearly thinking Neal was delirious.
By the time Peter arrived, Neal had already been taken in for surgery to repair his internal damage - a waste of time and resources, as Neal regenerated after an injury as he did from a fatality - so they didn’t have a chance to talk until the anesthetic wore off.
“Peter?” Neal whispered once the breathing tube was removed, his throat raw and dry in its absence.
“Yeah?”
“You were right. Nance is a sneaky little shit.” And then he fell asleep again.
When he woke, it was the next morning and he felt almost normal. Sitting up in bed, he felt his stitches pulling at flesh they no longer needed to keep together.
“You in pain?” Peter said, noting his wince.
“Just these stitches,” Neal said, picking at one on his shoulder ineffectually. “They pull.”
“We’ll have it taken care of at the clinic once the transfer order comes through.” Peter’s expression was unreadable.
Neal stared at the ceiling and smiled despite his feelings of foreboding when Peter took his hand and just sat there with him.
“Is it raining out?” Neal asked.
“We’re going to talk about the weather now?”
“How screwed am I?”
“Jury’s still out.”
“Fucking Nance,” one of them said, maybe both.
Fucking Nance showed up an hour later with a box of salt water taffy and a balloon.
“Seriously?” Neal asked.
Peter just looked murderous. “How dare you show your face here, Nance? I saw the transcripts. 75 minutes to muster the team to pull Neal out? You’re lucky he didn’t die.”
“So lodge a complaint,” he said and wow, he was going with “arrogant prick” at a time like this? Neal admired his ability to stick to a persona.
“Hughes already gave the Assistant Director an earful.”
“And we brought down a dangerous criminal, and are in the midst of dismantling an entire crime organization. We’ll see which issue the AD pays more attention to.”
“Remind me to kill you later,” Peter gritted through his teeth, and there was actual spit flying and Neal worried for his blood pressure, seriously. He put a hand on Peter’s arm, which made him back off but didn’t seem to calm him.
“Why are you here, exactly?” Neal asked.
“To check up on you. You’re looking remarkably well for a guy who was at death’s door less than a day ago.”
“I’m a quick healer.”
“Very quick,” Nance said as he dumped the candy onto a chair and left, the gleam in his eye telling them both he knew exactly how quick a healer Neal was.
----
The next time Neal died, it wasn’t even real. And that was because he had people who loved him, and who he loved enough to trust with his secrets.
But first. First there was a lot of unpleasantness.
Neal's “recuperation” was good for a two week break at home, and he spent his days playing board games with Moz and Elizabeth (who really? Was the all-time Risk champion) and his nights in the reassuring arms of his lovers. Always there was the expectation of the other shoe eventually materializing, and it did after lunch on his second day back, to kick him right in the ass.
“Shit, what’s Nance doing up there with Hughes and Peter?” he asked Diana, noticing the three men in the conference room beside Peter’s office.
“What do you think?”
“I think it can’t be good for my health.”
“I think your thinking is correct. Don’t do it, Neal.”
“Do what?”
“Whatever it is Nance wants. He sees you as cannon fodder, and it’s not right.”
Neal looked down at her, shocked, but her eyes were on the email she was typing. “I think you’ve got the wrong idea,” he said slowly.
Her eyes met his and he saw how wrong he was. “I think I’ve seen enough of your blood to refill you twice,” she said, low enough so that only he could hear her.
“Di -“
“It’s none of my business. Just like your affair with the boss and his wife is none of my business.”
“Neal?” Peter called from the now-open door of the conference room.
Neal gestured that he’d be there in a minute and looked down at Diana.
“None of my business, Neal,” she repeated. “Now go and stick up for yourself.”
As it turned out, he didn’t get the chance.
When he arrived, Peter was standing at the windows, staring out of them moodily, and Hughes wouldn’t look at him. “What’s going on?” he asked.
Nance smiled at him like a shark eyeing a guppy. “Your work on the Capuano case hasn’t gone unnoticed, Neal, congratulations!”
Neal didn’t even respond, merely stared at him.
“I’ve asked Agent Hughes if we might extend your time with us up in OC - there’s a new investigation ramping up that I think you’d be perfect for. Domestic terrorists - you’ll love it.”
“No.”
“Come now, Neal, you don’t even know the details.”
“I don’t like your way of working cases, Agent, it gets people killed.”
Nance actually laughed. “Why so upset, Neal? We all know you’re very special in that respect.” With that comment, all three sets of eyes were on Nance, since there was no mistaking now he knew or had guessed at Neal's situation.
“See here, Nance,” Hughes began, standing, his face reddening with indignation. “I will not have you mistreating my people so egregiously. We all know how much you screwed the pooch on that Capuano sting, and if Neal had been anyone else, you’d be looking at censure and a suspension.”
“Except Neal isn’t anyone else, is he? I have eye witnesses and autopsy reports that say he’s died at least twice in the last year. And if you think I’m stupid enough to buy the story he was undercover with the Secret Service, or that Ward’s bullet just grazed his skull, you’ve got another thing coming.
“How can you both sit here ignoring what you’ve got under your noses? He’s the eighth wonder of the world, a man who does not die. He’s the goddamn Energizer Bunny.”
Peter turned suddenly and loomed over the seated man, his face mere inches away, livid with rage, yet his voice was calm, clipped. Neal had only ever seen him this angry once - when Elizabeth had been kidnapped - and he was grateful it wasn’t being aimed at him this time. “He’s my Energizer Bunny, and don’t you forget it.”
But Nance got up and got right back in Peter’s face, his voice low and dangerous. “Do I have to remind you that Caffrey's deal is with this agency and not you personally, Agent Burke? And if he fails to fulfill his obligations, if he’s seen to be lacking by anyone in the chain of command, including my new bestie, the Assistant Director, then it’s back to prison with him, no questions asked.”
“Then send me to prison,” Neal said quietly.
Nance smiled, a mirthless expression that looked more like a grimace on his florid face. “I don’t think you want me to do that, Neal. You see, I recently made another very good friend - you may know him? Special Agent Philip Kramer? He shared some interesting data with me.”
“You bastard,” Peter breathed. Neal’s eyes flicked to his lover’s face then back to Nance, realization that he was looking at both the rock and the hard place suddenly dawning.
“There’s enough to put you away for life, Neal, and I imagine that’s a bleak prospect for a man such as you.”
Neal closed his eyes; this was not happening.
“Come on, Neal, think about my offer, and think about the alternative,” Nance said with a smirk. “And while you’re at it, think about the other agents’ lives and safety you’d be ensuring whenever you take one for the team. And another one. And another.”
“Dammit, this is a man’s life you’re playing with!” Hughes shouted then, surprising them all with the volume and vehemence he put into his words.
But Nance only laughed. “Are you hearing yourself?” He headed for the door. “I’ll give you until the weekend to think about it.”
“Neal,” Peter began once Nance was gone, his voice choked, his face stricken.
Neal held up a hand to silence him, shook his head once and then left the office.
He didn’t know where he was going, just that the walls of the White Collar unit were suddenly too confining and he needed some fresh air. In New York. Jeez, he had to move to Colorado or some shit next time. He needed mountains.
Before he realized it, he found himself at the Burkes’ front door. He let himself in, and there was Elizabeth, working at her desk in the kitchen. She spun in her chair to speak to him, “Oh, hi, honey, I was just going to call to see what you and Peter wanted for dinner -“
But Neal sank to his knees in front of her, slipped his arms around her legs and laid his head in her lap.
“Neal? Honey, what’s wrong?”
He shook his head - he was too numb to form coherent words, and all he knew was that he needed to feel her kindness and her love or he might just - “El, El, El,” he sobbed into her leg, and she held him as he wept like he hadn’t since he’d lost his beloved Josie almost 95 years ago.
Because how do you explain to someone you love more than breathing that you have to leave? How do you tell her that the alternative is a life of pain and death and exploitation with no end in sight? How do you explain you’d do it anyway, because at least you got to feel her arms around you when you returned each time? How do you tell her you see what it does to her and to her husband, to know that they die a little each time you do?
“I’m just so lost,” was all he could say, and she took his face in her hands, kissed him and led him upstairs, put him to bed and petted his hair until he fell asleep.
When he woke, he was alone, the long shadows in the room telling him the sun had just gone down. He didn’t think he felt any better, but at least he didn’t feel any worse. Throwing on some jeans, he padded down the stairs into an ambush.
“We’ve got a plan,” Moz said to him almost before Neal registered his friend was sitting in the living room.
El nodded sagely from behind her mug of tea and Neal looked at her questioningly. “Peter told me about your meeting with Nance, and Moz and I have been… discussing options.”
“This isn’t like that time when you pretended to be FBI agents at that strip club?” Neal began, feeling his head reel just a little.
El actually said “Pshaw,” and then she blew air out of her mouth, ruffling her bangs adorably, and she actually looked confident. Adorably confident.
What the hell, Neal thought, he might as well play along. “What’s the plan?”
-----
“Here’s the plan - you cut your anklet and you run like hell,” Peter said almost before he’d gotten inside the door late that night after spending hours with Hughes trying and failing to find a way around Nance’s ultimatum. He put his hands on Neal's arms, squeezing his biceps, so earnest. “You’ve got aliases already, right? Well, you run like hell and you don’t look back, Neal.” He shook Neal a little then, his grip suddenly so tight it hurt, and Neal looked down at Peter’s hands.
“Ouch.”
“Oh, sorry.” Peter let him go self-consciously. “You should start packing. Now.” He headed towards the stairs as if he might do the packing for Neal himself.
“Honey, wait!” El said, and caught up to him. “We already have a plan.”
Peter’s eyes flicked from El to Neal to Moz. “Who does?”
“I do. With Moz. We’ve already worked it out.”
“What do you mean you’ve already worked it out?”
She gave him a long-suffering look. “Honey, you married an event planner - there is always a Plan B.”
“This isn’t’ like that time at the strip club, is it?”
Moz sat forward on the couch, ignoring him, face alight with energy. “Well, it’s going to take some time and maneuvering to get all our ducks in a row, but if Neal can lend a hand, and you can get some of the demi-Suits to pitch in, we’ll be golden.”
And then he and El laid it all out for him.
“Is there a Plan C?” Peter asked when they were done. “Don’t tell me you’d go along with this?” he asked Neal.
“It’s crazy enough to work.”
“Don’t say that. People only say that in movies. It’s crazy enough to send us all to prison for many, many years.”
“You’re only saying that because it’s true,” Neal replied.
In the end, Peter agreed to it, but only because Neal thought he was too tired and worn down. Hell, so was Neal - maybe they’d reconsider by the cold light of day.
When the cold light of day turned into the cold light of the next day and the next, it was clear that time was running out, and Neal had to answer Nance’s ultimatum. Having no other options, Plan B became official.
“All right, Nance, I’m yours,” Neal said on Friday. They were with Hughes and Peter in Hughes’ office “But there are stipulations.”
Nance looked amused but humored him. “They are?”
“That he can still consult on White Collar cases, and that his desk stays down here with us,” Hughes said. He was standing, with his best Imposing Boss look on his face. “The Director was surprisingly amenable when we had lunch yesterday,” he added.
Nance raised an eyebrow. “This your way of trying to keep him?”
“It’s our way of trying to keep him safe, Nance. I don’t like your methods, and I don’t like you. Neal stays here even as he works for you. Case closed.”
Nance looked like he had a lot more to say, but kept his mouth shut.
“Peter, there are still a few active cases Neal is working, are there not?” Hughes continued.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then Agent Nance will be able to avail himself of Neal's services as soon as they’ve been concluded.”
“You can’t delay this forever, Hughes,” Nance said, rising.
“But I can have fun trying,” Hughes said dismissively and Nance left the room.
Neal just stared at Hughes for a few seconds, touched. “Sir,” he began.
Hughes made a gesture, cutting him off. “All I’ve done is delay the inevitable. Tell me this plan you have will keep Neal safe, Peter.”
Neal owed somebody a huge muffin basket.
Before Neal left for the day, he paused at Hughes’ office door, shuffling his feet. “What is it, Caffrey?” he said, impatient.
“I - thank you, sir.”
Hughes looked at him then, and his face softened. “I’m not going to pretend to understand what happens to you, Neal - what you are, what it means. But one thing I do know is that as far as I can tell, you’ve conducted yourself with honor and integrity while you’ve been a member of this unit. When I came up, that meant something.”
Neal could feel actual tears forming. “Sir -“
“Now get the hell out of my office, you’ve got casework to get back to.”
----
So this was the setup: One of the active cases Peter and Neal were working was the investigation into a health insurance fraud ring based in Queens. This was a real case, and it was open, but unfortunately the doctor at the core of it seemed to have fled to one of the ‘stans. Fortunately, Nance didn’t happen to know this.
The doctor in question also owned a chain of fast food franchises that had been seized by the IRS. The fast food restaurants were currently closed and abandoned, most of their assets seized, which presented a convenient place to enact their plan, if a few casual counts of arson among friends could be discounted.
Because Mozzie and Elizabeth’s plan? Was to blow Neal up.
Actually, the explosion was El’s idea; never let it be said she couldn’t go big (“No wait, you can’t look for a man who’s no longer there - it’s brilliant!”). How they pulled it off was Moz’s baby (“A little natural gas leak, a little plastic explosive - what’s not to love?”). Their target was Diana’s recommendation (“It’s a Chick-Fil-A - they’re anti-gay marriage. We’ll be making a statement.”). And at least Peter could buy in somewhat (“Fine, fine - the building’s a good 100 yards from anything around it. I guess so, why not.”).
It all went off without a hitch. Mostly. Because as it turned out, when Moz asked Neal to lend a hand with the planning? He meant it literally.
“If you’re going to blow a guy to bits, you need bits of guy, Neal, God!” he’d said condescendingly, as if Neal were simple.
But all the groundwork was laid by Diana - fake emails between the doctor and them, offering a meeting; a call into the gas company from a concerned neighbor reporting a gas leak, faked comms and orders. Moz took care of the explosion easily enough - and Neal was going to have to talk to him about this sudden facility with blowing things up, really. Peter supervised the harvesting and planting of the “DNA evidence” which might have given him nightmares for a week, and El made a nice lasagna for everyone to enjoy later.
And so Neal sat uncomfortably across the street from his own funeral again, his left hand - correction: stump - bound and in a sling, aching horribly and itchy, but clearly healing. He knew it wouldn’t be long before it regenerated, though there was a moment as it was being removed - one last commission for Mozzie’s cadre of ethically flexible medical personnel - when he’d doubted it.
He knew he was taking a huge chance coming here, his second funeral in just under two years, but as before, he couldn’t stay away. He needed to see it for himself, because this time it was an ending of sorts - for him, anyway, because he’d have to say goodbye to New York, this time for real.
----
TWo Years Later
Neal stands in the doorway of the deck, watching the sun complete its slow dip behind the mountains that ring the western shore of Lake Tahoe. It’s quiet here, which is something he finds he likes after so many decades in cities. Time passes here… slowly, so slowly it is as if it doesn’t exist.
This is all right by Neal, because for once, time is not something he curses, even if it’s not something he embraces. It just is. Neither friend nor foe. He prefers it that way.
He turns his head at a sigh behind him, and he regards Peter wordlessly; he’s awake now, looking debauched and perfect, naked and sprawled on their bed, a sheet barely covering his crotch. His eyes glitter in the dying sunlight and he smiles; Neal returns the smile and goes back to watching the sunset.
It’s moments like this when he finds it nearly impossible to remember what he’d fled from, what they’d all left behind in New York like a burden. Peter had taken early retirement from the FBI in the wake of Neal’s final demise, but not before kicking off an OPR investigation into Nance’s investigative methods that led to his eventually being expelled from the agency. El had sold Burke Premier Events and then made it her business to find this house and decorate it to within an inch of its existence. She needed projects, and Neal needed to indulge her.
He looks at her fondly, asleep on her side beside Peter, with her hands clasped under her chin, as if in prayer, head tilted to the side as if she’s just about to say something, and he suddenly realizes something that’s been a growing awareness in his mind for months, but that he can only now give a name to. It was worth it.
It was all worth it - the long years of loneliness, the grief, the cutting himself off from anyone who might get too close. It all made him ready for this moment, this life, these people, and he will be eternally grateful for it.
These people love him, unconditionally, and he loves them back. And come hell or high water, he knows he’ll stay with them until their lives end, and after their loss starts to hurt him less, he’ll find more people just like them. Because they have restored in Neal the capacity to feel, and to love, and to grieve, and that’s something he gave up a long time ago, without realizing how much it had cost him.
And he’ll never give it up again.
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Thank you for your time.
Author’s Notes:
* Special thanks to nyxelestia, whose prompt inspired this story.
* Extra special thanks to Winterstar, dmk0064, who beta’d and helped make this story so much better.
* Also many thanks to my band of sisters who kept this story going by being very encouraging of the little snippets I sent them over email. So: arsenicjade, doctor_fangeek, elrhiarhodan, hoosierbitch, ivorysilk, jrosemary and squeakyoflight, thanks for the cheerleading!
* Title is a lyric from the song “Evil” by Interpol.