White Collar - The Fortress of his Fears
Title: The Fortress of his Fears
Author: semisweetsoul
Characters: Neal, Mozzie mentions of others
Genre: Angst (Introspection)
Rating: G
Summary: Neal ran, but something went awry. He never thought it could come from inside.
Spoilers: Spoilers for Season 3 finale.
Word Count: 1,614
Disclaimer: I owe nothing you might recognize. Please, don't sue. ♥
A/N: Written for florastuart for wcpairings. Hope you like it! Unbetaed. If you spot a mistake let me know, and I'll fix it. Thanks!
The Fortress of his Fears
Running came as a shock. Peter signaling him to run came as a greater one.
The first few days, Neal followed Mozzie’s instructions to the letter. After all, he spent hours preparing their escape that he owed it to him to obey without questions.
Soon after they embarked on the plane, Moz told him their first destination, an island in the Bahamas so Neal get some color back, and erase his ‘paler than toothpaste’ complexion.
They spent three weeks in matching bungalows near the ocean. Mozzie played tourist with the local population, learning scuba diving, exotic dances, and the weaving of tropical plants- handicrafts a new interest.
When he showed Neal the objects he shaped-a fan, to chase the air so hot in the afternoon; a basket, to carry the pineapples they picked in the inhabitants’ gardens in the cover of night; and shoes, a sort of flip-flop with laces to which Mozzie promised a bright future-the excitement in his eyes assuage the melancholy the abrupt uprooting had awakened.
Often, Neal found Moz sipping cocktails on the beach, entertaining an audience with tales listeners ignored did not come from imagination but experience. Prison escapes, jewelry heists, car pursuits belonged in the American shows television served most nights a week. Word of mouth increased Mozzie’s popularity, and he enjoyed basking in the glory of this recognition. At least, one of them got something out of the situation.
The landscape outside glowed in all the colors available on Neal’s oil palette, yet it contrasted with the storm raging inside him, bolts of lightning illuminating shades of grey and black as a printed tie with the suits he wore, a twinkle of mischief in June’s eyes, a glowing light at his ankle. Memories left behind, some for the worst, some for the better.
The salt-smelling air his lungs inhaled, the turquoise-glinting water his eyes viewed did not suffice to distract him. Thoughts of FBI investigations fueled his mind. Mozzie did not know. Neal sported a smile on his face around his friend, a built-in façade like a mundane image covering a masterpiece.
While Mozzie partied all night long, Neal remained in the obscurity of his room, wondering about his friends and colleagues. He kept his watch on New York time, his old cell phone-emptied of its SIM card-in his pocket and checked old messages from the protagonists of the life fate had him put behind. Such a failure so far!
Sometimes, when confinement became too hard to handle, anxiety creeping up like it did when locked up between four walls, he ran. Exhaustion came as a relief, a way to forget about troubles, the mind focused on getting the body back to a reasonable temperature, the heartbeat to a regular rhythm. It helped to welcome the embrace of slumber.
Visions of the past invaded his dreams. Sleep became scarce. Fighting nightmares drained him more than the nightmares themselves. He experienced such symptoms of sadness after Kate’s death, when they sent him back to jail. His subconscious sent him a message. Don’t let this illusion of freedom fool you. This was not real. It would end soon.
A man of action like him could not find happiness in laziness. He painted, and painted some more as if to chase away worry-a sentiment beyond control-and prepare himself for the outcome. Imprisonment loomed ahead. He had to find the courage to weaken the fortress of his fear instead of waiting for the sword of Damocles to strike him.
Despite his autonomy of motion, the company of his friend, and the pleasantness of their environment, loneliness felt worse than alone in ten feet square.
He missed breakfasts with June, dinners at Peter and El’s, walks with Satchmo… even thoughts of stakeouts in the van put a smile on his face.
Isolation grew as did desperation. He considered committing suicide, ending his life as he knew it by flying back to New York, ringing at June’s door, hugging her tight and calling Peter to surrender. They would share one last bottle of wine or beer together before he would escort him to the penitentiary where he would spend the rest of his life. Most people did make a commitment about the rest of their lives; seldom chose prison for location and felons for company.
If he had a talent for storytelling, he would tell himself stories of potential cases: Peter interrogating suspects, Diana and Jones in action, arresting criminals. Instead he drew them. A collection of sketches decorated his lodging, their faces etched in his mind, his mind etched on paper. Next to his bed he kept his favorite one, Kate asleep dressed in her long hair as if she could lay there next to him, his imaginings his sole comfort, the reality too bitter to taste. When the future didn’t look bright, he retrieved in the past, in the reassuring arms of nostalgia.
In his bedroom closet, so exiguous it would not hold a tenth of his Manhattan wardrobe, a few Hawaiian shirts and shorts cohabitated with the fedora and silk tie he wore that day. He told Mozzie he tossed them away. He lied. He was not sure why. Mozzie would not take offense. He had skeletons in his closet, too; only his did not take the form of fashion accessories.
The locals called him Victor, but he still answered to Neal. Victor’s status around the vicinity matched Neal’s around the office, same approach, same availability and same altruism. The difference resided in Victor’s lack of playfulness and his permanent preoccupation-he had to stay on his guard, a situation all too familiar to Neal, who had learned to live with the inconvenience. Victor and Neal, two faces of the same person-exchanging roles at will-the former living in the outside world, the latter confined behind a false identity.
Little by little, Neal’s inclinations shifted. The gourmet hadn’t tasted fine cuisine, the dandy hadn’t donned a fancy suit, nor had the art enthusiast set foot in an exhibit in a while, more by lack of restaurants and museums in the area than by necessity to remain inconspicuous. This life he imagined, he desired, he made his, did not meet his expectations. Circumstances had hastened his departure. Precipitation caused nothing but a conflict of emotions. His reason rushed him to flee; his heart pushed him to stay. He chose to leave, aware of whom he left behind: friends he called family. How could he enjoy the fruit of his success when it felt like failure?
Neal and Victor represented his heart and reason, the instruments of the duality he internalized, the good and the evil fighting to get the upper hand. He suspected Mozzie encountered more than once in the novels he devoured the twin and his evil counterpart. Given what happened in his life, he could become the hero of a future story, and with luck, he would give it a happy ending.
He had no other choice. He would endure the loss and erase the past. Starting over in such a beautiful place would please many. The majority of fugitives could only count on themselves. He still had a travel companion. Someone next to him.
Setting his mind on moving on and putting the past behind him, proved easier than expected at first. He soon realized the process took time. He did not foresee the tricks his mind would play onto him to point out the mistake of erasing his former life. After Kate’s disappearance, his eyes saw her in every pretty-looking brunette. Hallucination or dementia? No one could tell. Now, he called every dog Satchmo, looked for deviled ham in food joints, and wrote down venues in case El would need to organize a party oversees. Despite the certainty that this would pass with time, just as Kate’s existence and their love for each other had faded in a corner of his mind and heart, the turning of events worried him. It turned into an obsession.
His despondence came from rock-solid beliefs that he could not tell anyone. The idea of talking to a priest had crossed his mind as they were free and available, but he decided against it, unsure whether voicing his quandary out loud would appease his confusion.
Friendship stipulated Mozzie listened without passing judgment, but did that still stand if the nature of the idea implicated a life change? Mozzie would reprove him of even thinking about going back while the FBI would if he went back. The sacrifice would save Peter’s career-at least he hoped so-as he would make sure to surrender to Agent Burke.
He heard the call of New York City, friendship and a life he had grown to love. The separation so unexpected had thrown him into such turmoil that he saw no cure. Of all the elements that could have gone wrong, never did he expect homesickness as the cause of his demise.
Before he threw it all off, before he made the decision to spend a portion of his life in prison, he had to be sure: sure the regrets would not haunt him forever. He knew how persistent they could become. He still tasted the bitterness of their presence when he thought about Kate.
He went to the beach, settled on the sand warmed by late afternoon sunlight, and tried to empty his heart. Making an ally of the past would help remember it and cherish it. The anger would fly away and maybe with a little luck the guilt that Mozzie, Peter, El, June and all the people he left behind suffered because of him, would, too.
The End
Author: semisweetsoul
Characters: Neal, Mozzie mentions of others
Genre: Angst (Introspection)
Rating: G
Summary: Neal ran, but something went awry. He never thought it could come from inside.
Spoilers: Spoilers for Season 3 finale.
Word Count: 1,614
Disclaimer: I owe nothing you might recognize. Please, don't sue. ♥
A/N: Written for florastuart for wcpairings. Hope you like it! Unbetaed. If you spot a mistake let me know, and I'll fix it. Thanks!
The Fortress of his Fears
Running came as a shock. Peter signaling him to run came as a greater one.
The first few days, Neal followed Mozzie’s instructions to the letter. After all, he spent hours preparing their escape that he owed it to him to obey without questions.
Soon after they embarked on the plane, Moz told him their first destination, an island in the Bahamas so Neal get some color back, and erase his ‘paler than toothpaste’ complexion.
They spent three weeks in matching bungalows near the ocean. Mozzie played tourist with the local population, learning scuba diving, exotic dances, and the weaving of tropical plants- handicrafts a new interest.
When he showed Neal the objects he shaped-a fan, to chase the air so hot in the afternoon; a basket, to carry the pineapples they picked in the inhabitants’ gardens in the cover of night; and shoes, a sort of flip-flop with laces to which Mozzie promised a bright future-the excitement in his eyes assuage the melancholy the abrupt uprooting had awakened.
Often, Neal found Moz sipping cocktails on the beach, entertaining an audience with tales listeners ignored did not come from imagination but experience. Prison escapes, jewelry heists, car pursuits belonged in the American shows television served most nights a week. Word of mouth increased Mozzie’s popularity, and he enjoyed basking in the glory of this recognition. At least, one of them got something out of the situation.
The landscape outside glowed in all the colors available on Neal’s oil palette, yet it contrasted with the storm raging inside him, bolts of lightning illuminating shades of grey and black as a printed tie with the suits he wore, a twinkle of mischief in June’s eyes, a glowing light at his ankle. Memories left behind, some for the worst, some for the better.
The salt-smelling air his lungs inhaled, the turquoise-glinting water his eyes viewed did not suffice to distract him. Thoughts of FBI investigations fueled his mind. Mozzie did not know. Neal sported a smile on his face around his friend, a built-in façade like a mundane image covering a masterpiece.
While Mozzie partied all night long, Neal remained in the obscurity of his room, wondering about his friends and colleagues. He kept his watch on New York time, his old cell phone-emptied of its SIM card-in his pocket and checked old messages from the protagonists of the life fate had him put behind. Such a failure so far!
Sometimes, when confinement became too hard to handle, anxiety creeping up like it did when locked up between four walls, he ran. Exhaustion came as a relief, a way to forget about troubles, the mind focused on getting the body back to a reasonable temperature, the heartbeat to a regular rhythm. It helped to welcome the embrace of slumber.
Visions of the past invaded his dreams. Sleep became scarce. Fighting nightmares drained him more than the nightmares themselves. He experienced such symptoms of sadness after Kate’s death, when they sent him back to jail. His subconscious sent him a message. Don’t let this illusion of freedom fool you. This was not real. It would end soon.
A man of action like him could not find happiness in laziness. He painted, and painted some more as if to chase away worry-a sentiment beyond control-and prepare himself for the outcome. Imprisonment loomed ahead. He had to find the courage to weaken the fortress of his fear instead of waiting for the sword of Damocles to strike him.
Despite his autonomy of motion, the company of his friend, and the pleasantness of their environment, loneliness felt worse than alone in ten feet square.
He missed breakfasts with June, dinners at Peter and El’s, walks with Satchmo… even thoughts of stakeouts in the van put a smile on his face.
Isolation grew as did desperation. He considered committing suicide, ending his life as he knew it by flying back to New York, ringing at June’s door, hugging her tight and calling Peter to surrender. They would share one last bottle of wine or beer together before he would escort him to the penitentiary where he would spend the rest of his life. Most people did make a commitment about the rest of their lives; seldom chose prison for location and felons for company.
If he had a talent for storytelling, he would tell himself stories of potential cases: Peter interrogating suspects, Diana and Jones in action, arresting criminals. Instead he drew them. A collection of sketches decorated his lodging, their faces etched in his mind, his mind etched on paper. Next to his bed he kept his favorite one, Kate asleep dressed in her long hair as if she could lay there next to him, his imaginings his sole comfort, the reality too bitter to taste. When the future didn’t look bright, he retrieved in the past, in the reassuring arms of nostalgia.
In his bedroom closet, so exiguous it would not hold a tenth of his Manhattan wardrobe, a few Hawaiian shirts and shorts cohabitated with the fedora and silk tie he wore that day. He told Mozzie he tossed them away. He lied. He was not sure why. Mozzie would not take offense. He had skeletons in his closet, too; only his did not take the form of fashion accessories.
The locals called him Victor, but he still answered to Neal. Victor’s status around the vicinity matched Neal’s around the office, same approach, same availability and same altruism. The difference resided in Victor’s lack of playfulness and his permanent preoccupation-he had to stay on his guard, a situation all too familiar to Neal, who had learned to live with the inconvenience. Victor and Neal, two faces of the same person-exchanging roles at will-the former living in the outside world, the latter confined behind a false identity.
Little by little, Neal’s inclinations shifted. The gourmet hadn’t tasted fine cuisine, the dandy hadn’t donned a fancy suit, nor had the art enthusiast set foot in an exhibit in a while, more by lack of restaurants and museums in the area than by necessity to remain inconspicuous. This life he imagined, he desired, he made his, did not meet his expectations. Circumstances had hastened his departure. Precipitation caused nothing but a conflict of emotions. His reason rushed him to flee; his heart pushed him to stay. He chose to leave, aware of whom he left behind: friends he called family. How could he enjoy the fruit of his success when it felt like failure?
Neal and Victor represented his heart and reason, the instruments of the duality he internalized, the good and the evil fighting to get the upper hand. He suspected Mozzie encountered more than once in the novels he devoured the twin and his evil counterpart. Given what happened in his life, he could become the hero of a future story, and with luck, he would give it a happy ending.
He had no other choice. He would endure the loss and erase the past. Starting over in such a beautiful place would please many. The majority of fugitives could only count on themselves. He still had a travel companion. Someone next to him.
Setting his mind on moving on and putting the past behind him, proved easier than expected at first. He soon realized the process took time. He did not foresee the tricks his mind would play onto him to point out the mistake of erasing his former life. After Kate’s disappearance, his eyes saw her in every pretty-looking brunette. Hallucination or dementia? No one could tell. Now, he called every dog Satchmo, looked for deviled ham in food joints, and wrote down venues in case El would need to organize a party oversees. Despite the certainty that this would pass with time, just as Kate’s existence and their love for each other had faded in a corner of his mind and heart, the turning of events worried him. It turned into an obsession.
His despondence came from rock-solid beliefs that he could not tell anyone. The idea of talking to a priest had crossed his mind as they were free and available, but he decided against it, unsure whether voicing his quandary out loud would appease his confusion.
Friendship stipulated Mozzie listened without passing judgment, but did that still stand if the nature of the idea implicated a life change? Mozzie would reprove him of even thinking about going back while the FBI would if he went back. The sacrifice would save Peter’s career-at least he hoped so-as he would make sure to surrender to Agent Burke.
He heard the call of New York City, friendship and a life he had grown to love. The separation so unexpected had thrown him into such turmoil that he saw no cure. Of all the elements that could have gone wrong, never did he expect homesickness as the cause of his demise.
Before he threw it all off, before he made the decision to spend a portion of his life in prison, he had to be sure: sure the regrets would not haunt him forever. He knew how persistent they could become. He still tasted the bitterness of their presence when he thought about Kate.
He went to the beach, settled on the sand warmed by late afternoon sunlight, and tried to empty his heart. Making an ally of the past would help remember it and cherish it. The anger would fly away and maybe with a little luck the guilt that Mozzie, Peter, El, June and all the people he left behind suffered because of him, would, too.
The End