Fic - Tacenda - Peter/Neal - PG-13

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Title: Tacenda
Author:
turtlebaby_02
Fandom: White Collar
Written For: Remix Redux 11: The Eleventh Hour on AO3
Characters (Pairings): Peter/Neal
Rating: Teen
Word Count: 1950
Warnings: This is not a happy ending kind of fic.
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. I'm just playing.
Summary: Tacenda: (n.) Things better left unsaid; matters to be passed over in silence.Author's Notes: This was written as a remix of rabidchild's fic Outside Looking In which absolutely gutted me the first time I read it.  And when my assignment came through, I was drawn to it again.  I could never do it justice - for it's beauty and it's ouch, but I only hope that what I managed is at least worthy as tribute. This wasn't my first attempt, I gave Peter a voice too (that I'll share with permission from the original author as it is not my world or my dialogue) - but it was always Neal's story. Thanks again, friend, for letting me play in your world.


What did he know anyway? About trusting someone so completely that it was ok to share them? He knew it wasn't something he would be good at. He knew in the end it would be something that hurt. Love was commitment and loyalty and designed for two people.

Not for three.

He knew himself well enough to know he didn't share well. An ill advised threesome had cost him a girlfriend, not because either of them fell for the other party; but because he was never fully capable of trusting her again.

No, he's definitely a monogamist - and faithful to a fault. And well, he wanted it all. The fairy tale, the happy ending, the picket fence. Problem was, those weren't things he could forge or steal. They had to be given to him. And damn if he ever learned how to ask.

But he knows it exists, he knows it's out there because his friend wears it like an armor. He sees what Peter has with Elizabeth and sometimes (usually late at night after too much wine and too much time at the Burkes' kitchen table listening to their easy conversation) he admits to himself that overcooked meatloaf and bickering over dry cleaning is the exact shape of the ache in his heart that not even the biggest heist could fill. He covets it and protects it because even if it's not his to have, it's his faith in it that holds him together, sometimes. He nurtures it vicariously by reminding Peter of anniversaries and to call his wife when the clock strikes past time for him to be home. He does it even if he can't imagine anything coming between them.

And then.

"It's ok, you know." Peter's voice was too damn low and too damn soft.

Neal covered the stutter in his heart (Oh, God. What does he know?) and schooled his face against guilt for crimes unknown with a smirk. "What's that?"

Peter took a moment too long to answer, his eyes flitting from the table to the space just over Neal's left shoulder. "That you love me."

Oh. "Well, yeah, You're my friend, Peter."

"Neal..." A brush of their pinkies, the move careful and almost undetectable but somehow electric.

"Like family." Panic tried to steal his words as he purposely misunderstood and got to his feet fast shoving his hands deep in his pockets.

"Ok, yeah." Something like grief slipped over Peter's face like a mask. "Family." He stared Neal down for long seconds, the anguish bright in his eyes. And then it was gone with a blink and he smiled again before he excused himself and went home. To his wife. Where he belonged.

A month crept by and the further away from the conversation he got the easier it was to convince himself that the sadness on Peter's face had been a figment of his imagination. That there was no way he could have meant it like that. But oddly, the more he convinced himself, the worse he felt.

It took him another month to admit to himself that not only had he not misunderstood Peter; but that maybe he'd been right. Maybe he was a little in love with a man who'd already found his happy ending.

"Belize?" Mozzie rotated the globe in the corner. "I thought you liked it here."

"I do." Neal scrubbed his hand a over his face. "But the tracker will be gone in a month, Moz. And I need..." To be able to breathe.

"I understand." Mozzie shrugged and turned to the door. "I'll set up and get us tickets. Alias?"

"No." I'm not running, I'm not. I just have to get away before I take a crayon to the Mona Lisa.

--

He spent the next two weeks behaving. Dotting his i's and minding his q's. But the cases crept by and the days dragged and he couldn't find it in him to admit that he was off, that Peter was off, that they were off. He tried, he did, to keep awkward moments to a minimum, to avoid being alone with the other man. But it was painfully clear that nothing was the same.

Two weeks until he knew freedom again and everything went south, right into the gutter.

"Jesus, Neal!" Peter's hands were gentle against his skin. "Don't you die on me now, Caffrey. Don't you dare."

"M'ok." But damn if there wasn't pain pulsing across his stomach. The world tilted black and his eyes lost Peter's worried face. He hadn't even noticed they'd closed until Peter's hand was tapping them back open.

"Dammit, Neal. Stay with me, ok? You need to stay awake."

But awake was hard and his eyes drifted again. Unconsciousness claimed him then but not before Peter's words could wreck him more than the bullet ever could. "I love you, Neal. You can't die, ok? I love you."

--

He woke to a nurse shoving a thermometer in his ear and a searing pain in his side. But it only took him seconds to zero in on the other presence in the room. He sucked air through his teeth as he shifted to see him.

"He needs more pain medication." Peter spoke before he had a chance. "Can you find someone to approve that?"

The nurse looked from Peter to the grimace on Neal's face and nodded. "Of course." She straightened the blankets and left the room.

"Why are you here, Peter?" Talking hurt.

"You... Neal you were shot. Where else would I be?" Peter came closer so he was hovering just over the bed.

"Superficial. I'll be fine." He waved a hand. "Go home to your wife, Peter."

"My - El is fine, Neal."

"So am I. You shouldn't be here." The pain was back on Peter's face and he hated that he kept putting it there. You don't do that to someone you love, even if you can't love them.

"Fine." Peter turned, shoulders slumped, and moved toward the door. With one hand on the doorknob he stopped and spoke again, so soft Neal almost didn't hear him. "I don't know what I would have done if I lost you, Neal." And then he was gone.

Sleep was a long time coming, even with the aid of the painkillers that slowed the world to a dull throb.

--

When he woke again he thought he was alone and sighed heavily, disappointment and relief fighting for majority. He became aware of her as she shifted in her chair and he turned his head too quick in her direction. "Elizabeth?"

"You're an asshole." She stood but didn't approach the bed.

"I see you've talked to Peter." He was getting so tired of this dance.

"A selfish asshole." Now she approached and she was definitely not happy. "Tell me why."

"Did he tell you that he told me he loves me?" Neal met her glare and held it. "Did he tell you he thinks I'm an asshole because I sent him home to you?" He could be angry too.

"Who in the hell do you think told him to tell you?" She rolled her eyes.

"Elizabeth. In case you've forgotten, he's married. To you."

"Yeah, and I knew who he was when I married him. We've always talked about the possibility of... this."

"Of Peter having some midlife crisis and developing feelings for anyone that's not you?" He barked out a laugh to stifle the bubbles of giggles he could feel working their way up his chest. This was absolutely ridiculous.

She searched his face for a long moment before she spoke slow and soft. "Not just anyone, Neal, only you; Every hypothetical has always been you. A midlife crisis does not last 10 years, span 5 continents, or make grown men cry."

"Peter..." There was incredulousness in his voice and something in his chest ached.

"Cried. Hence," She waved a hand at him. "Asshole."

Guilt swept through him. "I can't, Elizabeth."

"Why?" Her voice was hard again. "Don't lie to me and tell me you don't have feelings for him."

"He's your husband." Wasn't that reason enough?

"And just because he loves you, doesn't mean he loves me less. I know what I'm doing, Neal. I'm a big girl. But do you know what you're giving up?"

Neal looked down at his fingers. "I'd be giving up forever for right now." He couldn't make himself meet her eyes. "I can't be his affair, his secret." He lifted his chin. "You should go."

When he finally found her eyes again, the anger was gone. "If you think he would only ever want part of you; if you think for one moment that he would only love you part time then, quite frankly, you don't know my husband at all." She turned to leave. "No offense, Neal, but fuck you."

He waited until the door dropped closed behind her before he exhaled. "Yeah."

--

He spent his recovery week packing up what was his and storing what was June's. In the end the last four years of his life culminated in two suitcases and three boxes of odds and ends.

His stitches itched when he went back to work. He spent the first hour he was there watching Peter not watching him. He spent the next doodling with his head down. And when he couldn't take it anymore he tossed his pen and found himself with his knuckles to Peter's open door.

"I'm sorry." The words were out and they were as real as they'd ever been.

Peter looked up with wide eyes. "Neal." He cleared his throat. There was something loud about the silence, they hadn't talked since the hospital and words unsaid were screaming.

"For being an asshole." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "I might have handled this wrong."

Hope flickered just for a moment before the shutters came back down. "It's fine. Three more days and you'll be rid of me."

"Jesus, Peter. I don't want to be rid of you. Not completely. Not like this." His skin felt tight and he rubbed his hand absently over his stitches. "I need you in my life. Just - just not like this."

"I love you, Neal. When is love ever a bad thing?"

"When it's only half of what you want." He shrugged stiffly. "I can't survive off leftovers, Peter. I'm not wired that way."

"Oh." Peter got to his feet. "Is that what you think? That you'd be satisfying an itch? That somehow I'd love you less because I loved her first?"

"That's how love works." He stared at his shoes. "And I can't - I'd give it all, Peter. But I want it all in return. This, us, this isn't a fairy tale. There is no happy ending."

"Neal -" He turned to walk away but Peter was fast and caught him around the bicep. "But what if there could be. Couldn't we try?" Desperation wasn't something he was used to hearing in Peter's voice.

Maybe they could. But -

He thought of Kate and the promises they made to each other that, in the end, had only meant something to him.

He thought of Sara and the fake proposal that had been all too real to him, about how she left anyway.

He thought of Rebecca and how it felt when she said she loved him even after he knew the truth - about how bad he wanted to believe her, even though it hurt.

He deserved someone who loved him as whole as he loved them. "It's not enough." And he walked away.

He managed to hold his tears until his flight was in the air and New York was disappearing behind him.