White Collar: A Tough Spot
Spoilers for episode 4x09! Tag to the end of the episode: Neal is too shaken, and Mozzie really is his best friend.
Notes: I don't usually write episode tags in between two episodes. I have a pointless obsession to keep all my episode-tags in cohesion with the entire show, so I don't like writing speculative scenes that might easily turn into AU just the next week. But there was no stopping this one. The episode was so excellent, filled with so much angst, that I couldn't not write this. I also think it's not really speculative so it just might not become AU after next week's episode, too. Enjoy.
Later on, all he'll be able to recall about his way back home will be blurred images of cars and building blocks.
He doesn't notice June standing by the door with an affronted look as he barges in and takes the stairs three at a time. His hand shakes furiously as he tries to insert the key into the lock; he curses under his breath when he fails, tries again, manages it, and walking in, he slams the door close with a force that makes the French doors shake.
He stops in the middle of the room, trembling from head to toe. His breathing is too fast, too harsh; it tears through his chest every time he inhales and his lungs are on fire. He leanes over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath; but it doesn't help. He straightens his back, hands on his hips and tries to calm down.
Calm down, his mind is screaming, you need to calm down.
Throwing his head back, he looks at the ceiling, looks up above, not knowing what he's hoping to see there, but as he does, a hiccup rattles his shoulders and suddenly, the corners of his eyes are burning.
Ellen...
He squeezes his eyes shut.
Another hiccup rips from his lips, and he squeezes harder and presses fingers on his eyes. Ellen - he says her name in his mind over and over again: Ellen, who has always been more of a mother to him than his own mom; Ellen, with whom he played soccer in the back yard; Ellen who thought him how to use a gun and grounded him when he stole from other kids and hugged him when he'd fall and hurt himself.
Ellen, shot to death just over a month ago.
He lets his hands drop from his eyes. In the red fog swirling behind his eyelids Neal sees her, and shakes his head to get rid of the image; she's being wheeled away on a gurney, her face pale and scared and 'they've found me', she's saying, 'Neal, they've found me'.
This is not a memory he should have had. They didn't deserve this, him or Ellen.
He allows the grief to take him for a while, standing there, three steps into the room, arms hanging by his sides.
Ellen's gone, and because of Peter, so is Sam.
Where are his answers now?
With Sam gone, who will he turn to?
And beneath everything, what hurts, what scrapes through his heart, stabs and twists inside him like a knife is Peter. Peter, he thinks, eyes snapping open and rage flaring again; walking to the table in two strides he takes his bureau I.D and tries to rip it to pieces. The plastic cover is hard; it twists and shrivels in his hands, but it doesn't break and Neal hurls it across the room with a force he didn't know he possessed. The I.D hits the glass vase on the mantelpiece and sends it crashing to the floor.
Leaning against the table, Neal breathes.
Breathe.
One. Two. Three.
He needs to calm down.
How could he? How could he?
Peter was supposed to know how important this is to him. He was supposed to help him, to have his back. Not betray him like this.
After everything they've been through... and Peter still doesn't trust him to keep his word.
"Screw him," Neal mutters aloud. He pulls a chair and sits down, resting his elbows on the table. "Screw him," he repeats. He's been trying hard to earn Peter's trust. Trying too hard, because it was important, because Peter had given him a life. Peter had given him purpose, and a family, and Neal thought that the least he could do to repay him was to be dependable. And he tried.
And after everything, after taking Peter's cue to run instead of working for someone else in DC, after going through all they did to get safely back to New York and reclaim that life, Neal truly believed he had made his side clear. He truly thought Peter had believed him.
Apparently not.
Screw him, then, he decides. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, feeling the tension in his body stiffening his posture, and suddenly he feels old. Old like a chestnut tree, hard and calloused and beautiful, and on the inside, completely hollow. His throat is aching like hell, it feels like there's one lump after another down there, and he swallows painfully and breathes through his nose. Screw him, he thinks again; maybe he's been caught up with this game for too long. Peter might have given him purpose, but Neal has had a life before. He had Moz, and he had Kate and Alex and Ellen, and hell, he had the time of his life. It's not like Peter's his savior; no, Peter Burke is the guy who caught him and put him in prison. And he's let Neal believe they were friends.
A feeble voice within him whispers the unfairness of that thought. Neal smothers it without mercy.
He swallows again, and lets out a long, deep breath. He eases his shoulders and notices that his hands are still shaking. He walks to the counter, pours himself a glass of water, and gulps it down in one breath.
Then, he walks to the bed. He's suddenly too tired to stand, suddenly aware of the aches in his body from the previous brawl. The tautness he'd felt only minutes before is gone, and in its place is a void that makes him feel like an empty sack.
Sitting at the edge of the bed, he feels his head getting too heavy. Slowly, he lies down on his side, turning his back towards the room, and he closes his eyes.
* * *
Later that night when Mozzie came by, knocking quietly on the door and calling before walking in, he found Neal asleep, curled on top of the bed covers, still in the same outfit he'd left the boxing ring in. He was still wearing his shoes. There were shards of glass strewn across the floor, a small puddle of water and a bunch of chrysantemums Mozzie recalled to be in a vase on the mantelpiece. He shook his head, relieved that it was all the sign of destruction in the room.
Spotting a blanket on the small sofa, he took it up, and walking over Neal without a sound, he draped it over his friend's still form.
He didn't have all the details, but Mozzie knew that Sam was gone, and it was because the Suit had run his name. Neal's anger in the ring had appalled Moz. He'd known Neal for more than a decade, and that kind of rage was hard to find in the kid. But if there was anyone who understood it, it was Mozzie. Missing parents was not something the Suit, having grown up the perfect American kid, FBI agent with the nice house and beautiful wife and a dog, could possibly understand. Albeit, Moz had never ventured into an active quest of pursuing his own lineage. But he was with Neal in his own quest, in heart and spirit and everything else he had.
"Peter's betrayed me, Moz."
Neal didn't stir, didn't move. Only, Moz noticed, his eyes were open. He pulled the blanket a little higher over Neal's shoulder before letting go.
"Sleep, Neal," he said only, matching the quiet of Neal's tone.
And he left him to rest.
After cleaning the mess on the floor, Mozzie poured himself a glass of wine and settled on the sofa with a nice, thick book. He gazed over Neal, and made himself comfortable on his seat.
He didn't need to be anywhere else tonight.
Notes: I don't usually write episode tags in between two episodes. I have a pointless obsession to keep all my episode-tags in cohesion with the entire show, so I don't like writing speculative scenes that might easily turn into AU just the next week. But there was no stopping this one. The episode was so excellent, filled with so much angst, that I couldn't not write this. I also think it's not really speculative so it just might not become AU after next week's episode, too. Enjoy.
Later on, all he'll be able to recall about his way back home will be blurred images of cars and building blocks.
He doesn't notice June standing by the door with an affronted look as he barges in and takes the stairs three at a time. His hand shakes furiously as he tries to insert the key into the lock; he curses under his breath when he fails, tries again, manages it, and walking in, he slams the door close with a force that makes the French doors shake.
He stops in the middle of the room, trembling from head to toe. His breathing is too fast, too harsh; it tears through his chest every time he inhales and his lungs are on fire. He leanes over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath; but it doesn't help. He straightens his back, hands on his hips and tries to calm down.
Calm down, his mind is screaming, you need to calm down.
Throwing his head back, he looks at the ceiling, looks up above, not knowing what he's hoping to see there, but as he does, a hiccup rattles his shoulders and suddenly, the corners of his eyes are burning.
Ellen...
He squeezes his eyes shut.
Another hiccup rips from his lips, and he squeezes harder and presses fingers on his eyes. Ellen - he says her name in his mind over and over again: Ellen, who has always been more of a mother to him than his own mom; Ellen, with whom he played soccer in the back yard; Ellen who thought him how to use a gun and grounded him when he stole from other kids and hugged him when he'd fall and hurt himself.
Ellen, shot to death just over a month ago.
He lets his hands drop from his eyes. In the red fog swirling behind his eyelids Neal sees her, and shakes his head to get rid of the image; she's being wheeled away on a gurney, her face pale and scared and 'they've found me', she's saying, 'Neal, they've found me'.
This is not a memory he should have had. They didn't deserve this, him or Ellen.
He allows the grief to take him for a while, standing there, three steps into the room, arms hanging by his sides.
Ellen's gone, and because of Peter, so is Sam.
Where are his answers now?
With Sam gone, who will he turn to?
And beneath everything, what hurts, what scrapes through his heart, stabs and twists inside him like a knife is Peter. Peter, he thinks, eyes snapping open and rage flaring again; walking to the table in two strides he takes his bureau I.D and tries to rip it to pieces. The plastic cover is hard; it twists and shrivels in his hands, but it doesn't break and Neal hurls it across the room with a force he didn't know he possessed. The I.D hits the glass vase on the mantelpiece and sends it crashing to the floor.
Leaning against the table, Neal breathes.
Breathe.
One. Two. Three.
He needs to calm down.
How could he? How could he?
Peter was supposed to know how important this is to him. He was supposed to help him, to have his back. Not betray him like this.
After everything they've been through... and Peter still doesn't trust him to keep his word.
"Screw him," Neal mutters aloud. He pulls a chair and sits down, resting his elbows on the table. "Screw him," he repeats. He's been trying hard to earn Peter's trust. Trying too hard, because it was important, because Peter had given him a life. Peter had given him purpose, and a family, and Neal thought that the least he could do to repay him was to be dependable. And he tried.
And after everything, after taking Peter's cue to run instead of working for someone else in DC, after going through all they did to get safely back to New York and reclaim that life, Neal truly believed he had made his side clear. He truly thought Peter had believed him.
Apparently not.
Screw him, then, he decides. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, feeling the tension in his body stiffening his posture, and suddenly he feels old. Old like a chestnut tree, hard and calloused and beautiful, and on the inside, completely hollow. His throat is aching like hell, it feels like there's one lump after another down there, and he swallows painfully and breathes through his nose. Screw him, he thinks again; maybe he's been caught up with this game for too long. Peter might have given him purpose, but Neal has had a life before. He had Moz, and he had Kate and Alex and Ellen, and hell, he had the time of his life. It's not like Peter's his savior; no, Peter Burke is the guy who caught him and put him in prison. And he's let Neal believe they were friends.
A feeble voice within him whispers the unfairness of that thought. Neal smothers it without mercy.
He swallows again, and lets out a long, deep breath. He eases his shoulders and notices that his hands are still shaking. He walks to the counter, pours himself a glass of water, and gulps it down in one breath.
Then, he walks to the bed. He's suddenly too tired to stand, suddenly aware of the aches in his body from the previous brawl. The tautness he'd felt only minutes before is gone, and in its place is a void that makes him feel like an empty sack.
Sitting at the edge of the bed, he feels his head getting too heavy. Slowly, he lies down on his side, turning his back towards the room, and he closes his eyes.
* * *
Later that night when Mozzie came by, knocking quietly on the door and calling before walking in, he found Neal asleep, curled on top of the bed covers, still in the same outfit he'd left the boxing ring in. He was still wearing his shoes. There were shards of glass strewn across the floor, a small puddle of water and a bunch of chrysantemums Mozzie recalled to be in a vase on the mantelpiece. He shook his head, relieved that it was all the sign of destruction in the room.
Spotting a blanket on the small sofa, he took it up, and walking over Neal without a sound, he draped it over his friend's still form.
He didn't have all the details, but Mozzie knew that Sam was gone, and it was because the Suit had run his name. Neal's anger in the ring had appalled Moz. He'd known Neal for more than a decade, and that kind of rage was hard to find in the kid. But if there was anyone who understood it, it was Mozzie. Missing parents was not something the Suit, having grown up the perfect American kid, FBI agent with the nice house and beautiful wife and a dog, could possibly understand. Albeit, Moz had never ventured into an active quest of pursuing his own lineage. But he was with Neal in his own quest, in heart and spirit and everything else he had.
"Peter's betrayed me, Moz."
Neal didn't stir, didn't move. Only, Moz noticed, his eyes were open. He pulled the blanket a little higher over Neal's shoulder before letting go.
"Sleep, Neal," he said only, matching the quiet of Neal's tone.
And he left him to rest.
After cleaning the mess on the floor, Mozzie poured himself a glass of wine and settled on the sofa with a nice, thick book. He gazed over Neal, and made himself comfortable on his seat.
He didn't need to be anywhere else tonight.