White Collar - "Flatline" (2/2)
Title: Flatline (2/2)
Author: TeeJay
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Peter, Elizabeth, June
Written for: rabidchild67 for the collarcorner ficswap
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Spoilers for season 3, up to and very much including 3x10 'Countdown', PG-13 rated off-screen sex scene of a canon pairing
Summary: Elizabeth's kidnapping and its aftermath have caused a rift between Neal and Peter that is hard to bridge. Then Neal gets shot during a random bank heist, and everything changes.
Disclaimer: White Collar, its characters and its settings belong to Jeff Eastin and USA Network. And, guys? Your characters are not only welcome, they're wonderful. I'm just borrowing, I promise.
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Part 1
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Peter gets status updates on Neal from June at regular intervals. He doesn't know if June tells Neal about their conversations, but he has a feeling she doesn't.
Three days in, he's surprised to hear that Mozzie seems to have made an appearance at Neal's bedside. Peter (and the rest of law enforcement) are now more than ever personae non gratae for Mozzie, so Peter doubts he's ever going to see the little guy again. But this tells Peter that there's no rift big enough between Neal and Moz that couldn't be bridged by one of them nearly losing their life.
He briefly wonders if that also means the tear between Neal and him can be patched. There's a flicker of hope that it's possible. It lifts Peter's spirits immeasurably. He's sure his team would thank Mozzie if they knew or could, because it means Peter is less grouchy and less irritable at work. Win/win.
June reports steady progress where Neal's state of health is concerned. After five days, they release him from the ICU to the General Surgery ward. He's being weaned off the morphine, slowly but steadily. He's more alert and improving daily.
Peter wonders if he and Elizabeth should send flowers. Or a card. Or chocolates. Or all of the above. He imagines Neal receiving it, and knows it'll be wrong, send the wrong signals. Dammit, he wants Neal to know he cares, wants Neal to know just how badly it scared him to watch him die-if just for a long, scary minute or two. But he also knows that the only way to do that, and do it right, is to talk to Neal in person. And he also knows the day will come.
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The day does come, but it's more than two weeks after that fateful day in the ICU where Peter stood with his hand braced against the glass window.
He's met with June upon his request, the day previously. Ironically, they sit on Neal's rooftop patio with a mild breeze tugging at their hair and a cup of delicious Italian roast in front of them. June's housekeeper also makes a mean pecan pie.
They talk for a long time, and Peter tells her that he wants to talk to Neal, needs to talk to Neal. What he really wants to hear from her that he can, that Neal won't break down, or work himself into a frenzy, or tear his stitches, or... do whatever else it might be that's detrimental to his healing process. He wants to coax out of her just how ready Neal is to accept apologies from Peter, to listen, to f- No. He can't really expect forgiveness. Or can he?
June is as mysterious and non-judgmental as always, but she does divulge information that has subtext between the lines which is for Peter to extract and interpret. As he is about to leave, she places her hand on his arm and meets his eyes. There's no verbal communication, but he can read in her eyes what she wants him to know: Don't hurt him any more than you've already done. And: Yes, I think he's ready.
His chest heaves with a relieved intake of breath as he covers her hand with his for a second. It's accompanied by a grateful smile as he leaves.
Now, he's standing in front of the door to hospital room no. 194 with frayed nerves, a lump the size of Panama in his throat, and absolutely nothing in his hands. He's contemplated flowers again, or chocolates, but it still seemed wrong.
He doesn't know how long he's stood here, trying to pluck up the courage. Eventually, he gathers what little resolve he has left and knocks. There is no answer, so he opens the door. Inside, there are two hospital beds, one empty, one occupied by a mid-40's something patient leafing through a sports magazine.
He man looks up at Peter, who's stupidly stunned. "You looking for Neal?"
Peter clears his throat, tries to swallow to conquer the sudden dryness. His voice is croaky and shaking when he speaks. "Uhm, yes, uh, yeah." He chides himself for how clumsy his response is.
"Check the community area on the seventh floor. He likes to go there in the afternoon. Says you can see the sun arching perfectly over Manhattan. Or something. I don't know what he's talking about half of the time."
Peter has to smile to himself, because that sounds just like Neal. And even if Peter doesn't really understand it either, he understands why it would hold an appeal for Neal. "Thanks," he mutters to the man.
The community area isn't hard to find. The only hallway not blocked off by tinted glass doors leads to a rather roomy cafeteria that opens into a space in the corner which is furnished with comfortable looking armchairs and coffee tables. The windows are large and flood the room with sunlight. It looks more welcoming than anything Peter has ever seen in any hospital.
A girl who could still be well in her teens leans against the wall behind the counter, because at a quarter to six, the bulk of patients are in their rooms in anticipation of dinner. The cafeteria closes in fifteen minutes anyway, and only few chairs are occupied.
Peter stops just shy of crossing the room, his eyes searching, scanning. Neal isn't hard to find. He's sitting by himself in one of the armchairs with his gaze directed out the window. When Peter takes a few, tentative steps closer, he can see why Neal likes the view. It's indeed a beautiful vista of Manhattan up here.
He takes in Neal's form, the way the (no doubt expensive) bathrobe doesn't cover up the fact that he's lost a lot of weight, the way his hair looks dull and ungroomed, the way the white tape stands out starkly against the skin on the back of his left hand, holding a cannula in place.
Something squeezes around Peter's heart and enlarges the lump that's taken up residence in his throat. He has to resist the impulse of turning on his heel and fleeing the scene. But what the hell, he's come this far. Peter Burke is many things, but seldom a coward.
He places one foot in front of the other, slowly ambling closer to where Neal sits. He hasn't noticed him yet, and still doesn't when Peter is only half a dozen feet from him.
Peter gathers up all his courage as he speaks the name. "Neal?"
Neal's head whips around, his face marred by a pained grimace, because the quick movement must have aggravated his injury. His eyes widen, and Peter isn't sure what he sees in them. Surprise, shock, hurt, resentment, antipathy. A little bit of all of it.
Neal struggles to stand, and Peter has to suppress the urge to hold out a hand to help him up. Neal manages with a groan whose aftershock he quickly smoothes off his face. His expression turns to stone, his mouth a thin line. "I have nothing to say to you," he says-cold, unfeeling, matter-of-fact, "so you might as well leave."
"Neal," Peter rasps the name again. "Can we just talk? Please?" He has to blink away tears, which strikes him as strange because he should have expected this.
"I don't know what's there to talk about."
Peter says nothing, they engage in a staring match that is more than uncomfortable. It registers with Peter how haggard Neal looks, dark circles under his eyes, cheekbones standing out against pale skin.
Finally, Peter buckles, utters his desperate plea. "Neal, please. You don't have to talk. Just listen. If you still want me to leave afterwards, I will. Just hear me out... please."
He can see the decision making process playing out in Neal's features. After a painful eternity that can't have lasted more than ten seconds, Neal turns around and wordlessly eases himself back down into the armchair he previously occupied. It's not quite an invite, but it's not flat-out rejection. Take it or leave it.
Peter takes it, of course he does. He gingerly sits down in the armchair that stands near. Not close enough to invade Neal's space, not too far away to make an impact.
He doesn't know how to start. This is awkward. He's got to make every word count, and he starts with the most important part. His voice is low. "Please let me say I'm sorry. I've wanted to apologize for so long. Those things I said to you, I know I can't take them back, but I would if I could.
"I mean, I was angry, but I realize now that's no excuse. Hindsight is 20/20, right? You know how I heard you were shot? I got a call from NYPD. I was in the office. I rushed here, to find you in surgery. El and I waited for hours in that terrible waiting room. You were unconscious after, and we..."
He pauses, draws in an unsteady breath. Neal is stubbornly staring out the window. "The doctors weren't sure what was going to happen. It was... I guess I started to realize a few things there and then. I was hoping you'd wake up so I could apologize, and then-"
His eyes are transfixed on Neal, who has not moved an inch all through his speech. Not even his jaw muscles are working. "And then your heart gives out and they have to resuscitate you, and-" The images come flooding back, and Peter takes two breaths, all the while studying a lifeless Neal.
"Neal, Goddammit, I watched you die!" Peter says forcefully.
That shakes something loose in Neal, because he turns his head, meets Peter's eyes for a brief moment. "What do you mean?"
"The day you flatlined in the ICU, I was there. Outside your room, watching it all through the window."
He sees Neal swallow, digest the information. "You saw that?" he asks hollowly.
Peter nods before he speaks. "It scared the hell out of me."
Something plays on Neal's features, something that sends cracks rippling through the façade. "Jesus."
"Yeah," Peter exhales.
"I'm sorry you had to see that," Neal says, his tone still carefully neutral.
Peter can't stay so calm. "No, Neal, you don't. You don't get to apologize for this. Don't you dare apologize."
Neal turns his palms upwards in defense. "What? What do you want from me?"
Peter huffs sarcastically, "Want from you? I want nothing from you. I'm the one that's in your debt. I need to make good on the things I messed up. You tell me what you want from me."
"Well, you already attempted an apology," Neal says bitterly.
Peter closes his eyes for a long second. His voice is almost pleading. "Please, Neal, don't mock this. Don't throw it away like that. I meant it when I said I was sorry. You don't know how sorry I am. These past few weeks, months, they've been difficult."
Neal lets out a sarcastic chuckle. "Yeah, right. You think they've been difficult for you?"
"Please," he whispers, "that's not what I meant."
"Oh no, and what did you mean?"
"Can you put yourself in my shoes, just for a moment?"
Neal meets his eyes for another brief, flickering second. Can he? Peter continues. "What would you have done?"
"I wouldn't have thrown myself out of your house."
"Yeah, that was... that was harsh. And uncalled for."
"I also wouldn't have almost choked me to death, and then told me to go to hell when I offered to help."
Peter rubs a weary hand over his eyes. Those images that play in his mind, he wants to erase them forever. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that. I wasn't thinking clearly. I regretted it the moment it was out of my mouth."
"And yet you did it, said it."
Neal is right. The kidnapping, it brought out the worst in him. "God, Neal, that terrible day, I wish I could erase it-all of it."
"But you can't, and here we are."
Peter stays silent for a long moment. What is Neal saying? That he'll never forgive him? It hurts beyond belief, more than Peter would have imagined. "I am truly sorry," he mutters again. "For everything. I wish... things could go back to the way they were. Or at least be better somehow."
Neal doesn't respond. He's gone back to watching the sun reflect in the glass-walled skyscrapers outside. Is better not something they can be?
Peter is afraid of the answer, so he gives in to cowardice and runs. He gets up from the armchair. "Neal, I hope you feel better. El also gives you her best. We'd like to- I'd like to visit again. Can I do that?"
There's no answer, and Peter waits longer than he should. He adds, "Okay, you don't have to decide right now. I'm keeping in touch with June. Let her know, once you decide."
With a last look at Neal's profile, he says, "Goodbye, Neal."
The way down to his car passes in a blur, and inside, he clamps his hands around the steering wheel. More angry tears threaten to fall, and this time he lets them.
He goes over the conversation on the way home. Secretly, he'd hoped for a better outcome, but he knows to count his blessings. He's apologized and Neal listened. It's a start.
El welcomes him with dinner. He tells her about his conversation with Neal, and she listens the way she always does when it's important. She doesn't ask many questions, considers the implications, but she tells him he's done well. Peter isn't so sure.
While cutlery clinks on the dinnerware, he wonders when the last time might have been that Neal had a proper meal. Something home-cooked that's not mass-produced, bland hospital food or plastic-wrapped cafeteria snacks.
"We should send him a care package," Peter says out of the blue.
She frowns at him. "Who, Neal?"
"Yeah. You know, all the good stuff he loves. Your mushroom puff pastries, the blueberry muffins he inhaled last time."
Last time. Yeah, when was that? Two months ago? Three? It feels like half an eternity.
Her gaze on him is skeptical. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"Well, I'm not suggesting we deliver it personally. How about we put something together, give it to June?"
"Yeah, that might work," she agrees.
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Peter drops the goodies for Neal off at June's two days later. It's not just the pastries and muffins, it's also the leather bound copy of Steppenwolf that Neal had grabbed off the Burke's bookshelf and started reading that one time when Peter made him wait on the couch for almost three quarters of an hour.
Peter doesn't even know why he keeps a Hermann Hesse in his collection. He's never read it. He vaguely seems to recall it was a gift from his grandfather before he passed, and Peter kept it purely for nostalgic reasons. Leave it to Neal to pick the one book of classic German literature off the Burkes' bookshelf.
It still has the bookmark in it where Neal left it, a simple sheet of folded paper, but Peter's made one addition. He's written on it, 'You're welcome to finish reading it on our couch any time you want.' He hopes it's not too straightforward, but Peter's never been a man of subtleties.
June calls Peter a week later, inviting him over to her house. This time, they sit in the, well, Peter isn't even sure what room it is. The house has too many to call it living room. Sitting room, maybe? There is more Italian roast, and red velvet cake with an exquisite white frosting. It's a life of splendor Peter isn't used to.
He sips at his coffee, and watches how June holds out a familiar book to him. It's the copy of Steppenwolf. Peter takes it, opens it expectantly. The bookmark has traveled to the very end of the book. He takes out the sheet of paper, but it is just as he left it. There is no response, no message. Peter is immediately crestfallen. He looks at June questioningly.
"I think he liked it," she smiles at him apologetically.
"Did he say anything else?"
"Oh, he said a great deal of things."
"June, you know what I mean."
"Yes. Yes, I do. In fact, he told me to give you a message. He would like to thank you for the food, the muffins were especially delicious."
Peter waits, but there isn't anything else. "What, that's all?"
She shrugs slightly. "I'm afraid so."
Peter breathes out, deflates. He quickly swallows down his disappointment. "Well, tell him next time it'll be double choc."
June smiles at him sagaciously. "I think he'd like that."
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Peter is back at June's house a week later, another care package in hand. He feels slightly guilty that it's taken so long to get this prepared, but one thing had chased another all week, and before Peter knew it, time had flown by.
The basket the goodies come in looks sophisticated, Elizabeth has arranged it all impeccably. There's the promised double-chocolate muffins and brownies as well to make up for the delay.
"The poor boy needs his sugar and calories," Elizabeth had said when Peter had mocked the overabundance of sweet treats. There's also a quarter of Quiche Lorraine she made the night before.
Unexpectedly, it is June herself who opens the door for Peter. "You can go right up," she tells him.
"To Neal's loft?" he asks.
"Yes, he's waiting for you."
Peter is a little shell-shocked. No, make that a lot shell-shocked. "Neal is here?" His throat is suddenly dry.
"Yes, he was released from the hospital yesterday."
"And he's okay up there, alone?"
"Now now, Peter," she chides. "He's hardly alone. And he's tougher than you think. He's made good progress in his recovery."
Peter is glad to hear it, and immeasurably relieved. Having Neal come home is excellent news. "Thank you, June," he nods to her before he makes his way up the stairs. Her eyes follow him with a smile.
He stands in front of Neal's door for a few seconds, tries to prepare himself. This is one way of being thrown off guard.
He knocks, three times. Strong and decisive.
"Come in," he hears a muffled voice from inside.
Peter opens the door and enters. It feels both alien and familiar to be back here. He finds Neal on the couch, a tartan blanket peeled aside to reveal him in a set of stylish looking dark gray track pants and a v-neck t-shirt.
Neal's expression is carefully noncommittal, but if Peter tries very hard, he can just see the tiniest hint of a smile hiding underneath the neutral veneer. Or maybe he's just imagining it.
"Can I come in?" Peter carefully asks.
"A little late to ask, seeing how you've already entered," Neal states.
Peter awkwardly lifts the basket. "More muffins, as promised. Among other things. I think you'll like El's Quiche Lorraine."
Neal actually smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Thanks," he says. "You can put it on the table."
Peter does as ordered, turning around, studying Neal. An uneasy moment passes and Peter starts wringing his hands in front of his body before he shoves them into his pant pockets. "So, how are you feeling?"
It's kind of a stupid question, but maybe it's not, because Peter's only had this on second hand authority for the past couple of weeks.
"Like they dug a bullet out of my chest," is the simple answer.
Fair enough, Peter thinks. The brick wall is still up, and Peter doesn't know how to knock it down or navigate around it. "You must be glad to be home."
"Like you wouldn't believe."
"So, uhm," Peter looks around, and the apartment looks clean and tidy, "is there anything I can do, I can help with?"
Neal gives his head a little shake. "No, everything's been taken care of. June's been great. I have everything I need." He nods to the basket on the table. "Now I even have muffins."
"Yeah, El baked those especially. She says hi."
"I'm sure they'll be delicious."
Shit, what are we doing? Peter muses. They are dancing on eggshells, and he wants to scream. There is so much to say, and here they are, talking about baked goods. But the ice breaker, it has to come from Neal. And for as long as it doesn't, Peter is afraid to push.
"Okay," Peter says, ogling the door from where he is standing by the dining table. "I guess I'll be going. Neal, if you need anything, you can call. Day or night."
He is already turning the doorknob when he hears Neal's voice. "Peter."
He turns around. Neal has a small, cautious smile on his lips. "Thank you. For the care package."
Peter nods. "You're welcome."
Outside in the hallway, he exhales a breath he hasn't even realized he's been holding. That was... uncomfortable. But it had been a small step in the right direction. Hope is tangible again.
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That night, he makes love to Elizabeth. He had missed the physical connection, her soft touch, the exhilaration of their mutual joining. He needs this, and by the time they lie next to each other, breathless and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, he can feel tears prickling at the reaches of his eyelashes.
Peter has this, and Neal has nothing. The treasure is gone, Neal is in pain and still tethered to a two mile radius, Mozzie is God knows where, and Neal has alienated Sara as much as he has alienated Peter. It hardly seems fair.
El's soft hand reaches out, wipes away the stray tear that is sliding down his temple. "Honey, you're upset. What's wrong?"
As if she has to ask.
"It's Neal, isn't it?"
He hates that he can read her so easily, and yet he loves it. And he knows it's wrong to be thinking of Neal when he's just been intimate with his wife in beautiful, mutual bliss. His hand scrubs over his face. "I just... I just can't stop thinking about it."
"About what?" she whispers.
"Everything. All that's happened since..." He trails off.
"This has really rattled you, hasn't it?"
It has, and it's so obvious. Peter Burke is not usually a man whose cage is easily rattled, who gives in to random emotional outbursts. "Neal didn't deserve this. I need to make it right, and I don't know how." There's a certain desperation to his wish.
"You need to give him time," she soothes. "If you do, it will fall into place."
He knows she's right, but he doesn't like it any better. Patience is not one of Peter's strong suits.
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Giving Neal time is one of the hardest things he's had to do. He keeps looking at his cell phone for messages, keeps checking the answering machine first thing when he comes home at night. On Thursday evening, there's a phone call from June, inviting him over for Saturday evening. If he has time.
Of course he does. Well, actually he doesn't, but he makes the time. This is more important than watching the game with old buddies.
Come Saturday, he is actually nervous as he stands in front of the Manhattan mansion. Which is silly, he chides himself. He's been here hundreds of times, and he's never been nervous.
"Peter, glad you could make it," June's cheerful voice greets him.
"Thank you for the invitation," he smiles, handing her a bottle of Spanish rosé that El has chosen. Peter didn't even know she had a liking for rosé, and he's once more grateful for Elizabeth's astute attention to detail.
"Next time please bring your lovely wife," June winks at him. He is stumped for a moment, because he's not sure if that's actually an invite extended on Neal's behalf.
In the opulent dining room, he finds Neal already seated at the table that is laid for three. Peter feels out of place, because any dinner that requires more than one pair of knives and forks and that is served to you by housekeeping personnel in someone else's home is way outside his comfort zone.
"Peter," Neal nods at him.
"Neal," Peter greets back. "Feeling better, I hope?"
"Much, thank you."
June joins them shortly thereafter. "Well, gentlemen, I'm glad to have such lovely company. Hors d'oeuvres will be served in just a moment."
The three course dinner is a pleasant affair. Surprisingly pleasant, actually. Conversation comes easy, with June's wonderfully nostalgic, yet refreshing anecdotes and Neal's witty repartee. Peter doesn't have such a lot to contribute to stories of conman myths and borderline shady sagas from times long gone. He knows better than to bore them with the Legendary Tales of the FBI's Most Wanted. So he just listens and chuckles and laughs.
The crème brûlée is exquisite, and Peter savors every bite of it, even though he's already full. He takes a sip from the chilled, slightly fruity white wine and watches Neal raise the glass with apple juice to his lips (because Neal is smart enough to know that alcohol and painkillers don't mix). Neal has a mischievous smile tugging at his lips and a lively glint in his eyes that Peter hasn't seen in a long time. A sudden giddy feeling passes through his stomach.
"So, Peter, what do you say?" June addresses him. "We do this again next week? Your wife is of course invited as well."
Peter looks up into Neal's eyes. Their gazes meet, and Peter thinks he can see approval. It's not like June spun this on him out of the blue, and suddenly Peter wonders if this whole thing was her idea in the first place.
"Thank you, June, that's very kind."
He dabs the corner of this mouth with his napkin, then places it on the table next to his plate. "Now, if you'll please excuse me for a moment."
On the way to the bathroom, he feels lightheaded, and he doesn't know if it's merely from the wine. He tries to remember how many glasses he's had, and he's pretty sure it wasn't much more than three. They seemed to magically refill at the hands of June's adept personnel.
Back in the dining room, he has a sudden urge to flee the scene. As entertaining as the evening has been, it can only lead to awkwardness, with no food to distract, no further course to serve. Neal glances up at him curiously, reading his mind.
"Now, Peter, you don't want to leave without asking the lady for a dance, do you? Seeing how I'm currently indisposed and everything."
Peter blanches just a little. Lightheadedness and dancing don't go together well.
"Yes, Peter, I've heard you're quite the dancer," June adds.
He wonders how she knows that particular detail, but then he remembers. The Black Widow case, the tango. Neal must have told her. There is no way he can back down without offending June, and he realizes that.
She has already put on the music, and he holds out his hand. "Milady, it will be my honor," he says courteously.
June is a wonderful dancing partner. She follows all his leads, makes exactly the right moves. Peter enjoys his five minutes of homemade fame quite a bit. He catches glimpses of Neal watching him, which makes the whole thing a little more uncomfortable.
Neal applauds afterwards, but in an appreciative and not in a mocking way. June thanks Peter for the dance. Her expression is tuned between melancholy and content. No doubt Peter has transported her back in time somewhere along the way.
He sits back down at the table for a little while longer. Neal excuses himself for a moment and eases himself out of his chair, his face contorting in pain for a fleeting second. It's a timely reminder of his recent ordeal.
As soon as he is out of earshot, Peter turns to June. "Is he doing okay?"
She gives him a reassuring smile. "He's doing quite well. The physical therapy sessions help. All these stairs, they certainly don't make it easy, but didn't I tell you that he's tougher than you think?"
Peter considers this. Neal's lean physique can be misleading, but Peter knows that underneath he's lithe-all bone and muscle, with a body to be envious of. Or at least used to be. He scolds himself, he needs to give Neal more credit.
"Was this his idea?" Peter gestures at the table.
"I think it was more of a mutual nature, but he encouraged it."
Peter's face lights up. "It was great, I had a wonderful time."
"I'm glad," she tells him.
Peter's just curious, and it's out of his mouth before he can stop it. "You don't always eat this lavishly, do you?"
She chuckles. "No, this was a special occasion. But I do make sure that the poor boy gets a decent meal at least three times a day."
It is then that Neal comes shuffling back into the room. "I hope you're not talking about me."
June doesn't even look sheepish when she tells him, "Oh, you know we were."
This is now getting awkward, so Peter gets up from the table. "Right. I need to get going. I'm sure Elizabeth is waiting to hear all about the wonderful feast I've been treated with."
He pulls June into a brief half-embrace, planting a kiss on her cheek. "Thank you, June. For everything."
"Oh, it was my pleasure. As I said earlier, please bring your wife next Saturday. Same time."
"I will try my very best to clear our schedules."
Peter stiffly takes a step in Neal's direction. He's not sure what to do. Uncomfortably, he holds out a hand. Neal looks at it for a fleeting second, then takes it and gives it a decisive shake. Neal's always had a firm handshake. It strikes Peter that this is the first time they've shared a friendly touch since... before the kidnapping. There used to be a comforting hand on the arm, a clap on the back, a friendly shoulder bump when they were working together. There hasn't been for a long time now.
"See you next week," Peter says, releasing Neal's hand.
"Next week," Neal confirms.
Elizabeth is still up when he gets home. She's taken the laptop downstairs and it looks like she's answering private e-mails on their couch.
She gives him a warm smile when he walks up to her, opening another button at the top of his shirt. "Hey honey. Sylvia and Rachel wrote. They're inviting me for a girls' weekend."
"When?" He hopes it's not next weekend.
"Not sure yet. One of the weekends next month, probably. You think that'll work?"
"Yeah, why not? But the two of us, we have a dinner invitation for next Saturday."
"At June's?"
"Yes."
"With Neal?"
"Yes," he confirms again.
The smile on her face brightens considerably. "That's wonderful. Tell me all about tonight."
He does, and El smiles and chuckles in all the right places. She raises her eyebrows at the part where he danced with June. "Did you do all right?"
"Come on, give me some credit. Have you known me to be a bad dancer?"
"No, quite on the contrary. You, Peter Burke, are an excellent dancer."
"And so says June."
"Oh, I bet she does. And Neal? How is he doing?"
"It's kinda hard to tell, but I had the feeling he was doing well. June said the same. Apparently he's recuperating well. She mentioned physical therapy. He seemed very upbeat tonight."
"Oh, Hon, I'm so glad to hear it."
"Yeah," he sighed, "So am I."
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Next Saturday is not what they expect. Both Peter and Elizabeth are dressed for the occasion. Not cocktail party wardrobe, obviously, but they've made sure they're both clad appropriately.
All the more surprising it is that they are being sent up to Neal's loft.
Neal bids them a somewhat reserved welcome, which is not entirely unexpected. Yet, the atmosphere is comfortable enough, with soft jazz music playing in the background. The table is set for four. It's not the usual barren tabletop, there's an expensive looking table cloth and exquisite tableware and cutlery. Neal stands at the stove, making last preparations with June's help. He moves gingerly, carefully, but he seems content.
Soon they're all grouped around the table, and they find that Neal makes delicious soups. It's not just the soup, the rest of dinner is a true treat. El makes sure to compliment every course. Conversation comes easily enough, and smiles trade faces like the wine does glasses.
By the time dessert has been savored, June and Elizabeth have taken their wine glasses and gone downstairs for a bit. They'd been sticking their heads together, talking about upholstery or something interior decoration related. Peter hadn't really listened except for snippets that filtered through. Either June was truly showing Elizabeth something downstairs she was interested in, or they were clandestinely opening the stage for Peter and Neal to get some alone-time. Peter has a feeling it's the latter more than the first.
He's nursed his glass of Merlot for too long, because truth be told, he's not a fan of the red. Neal looks out the window, swirling the grape juice in his own glass like it's wine, no doubt wishing it was. He takes a sip, swallowing it slowly, then takes another one.
Peter's head whips round when Neal suddenly erupts in an abrupt cough. The juice must have gone down the wrong way, and Peter helplessly watches as Neal succumbs to the coughing fit-a violent one. Neal's face contorts in pain as his body is wracked by the involuntary, yet potent muscle spasms.
Peter's worry meter shoots up, and somehow he remembers something from when his father had a bypass. He quickly goes over to the couch and grabs a pillow, holds it out to Neal. "Here, hold that to your chest. It softens the impact."
Neal gladly accepts it, presses it against his torso. Peter keeps standing by Neal's side, unsure what to do. Neal is now trying to wheeze air into his lungs in between coughs. Finally, after an agonizing minute or two, the coughs subside and Peter softly raps his flat palm between Neal's shoulders.
Neal still gasps for much needed air even after the coughing fit has stopped. Tears have slid down his cheeks, and he tries to compose himself with limited success. His face still radiates lingering pain, deep lines chaperoning the frown on his forehead, white knuckles gripping the pillow that is now in his lap. "Shit," he half mutters, half whispers through clenched teeth.
'Ow,' Peter thinks, because that must have hurt his still mending ribs, must have aggravated the aftereffects of the open-heart surgery. He isn't even consciously noticing it, but his hand is now gently rubbing Neal's back. As the realization hits, he stops the motion and retreats, breaking all physical contact. He stands a step away.
He feels out of place, watching Neal wipe the tears from his cheeks as he draws in shallow breaths in rapid succession. Composure is imminent, or at least en route. Peter gets him a glass of tap water. "Maybe this'll help?"
Neal looks up at him briefly, a hint of gratefulness in his eyes. "Thanks," he mutters, and his voice is hoarse. He takes a careful sip of water.
Peter then gets a paper towel and wipes at the juice that Neal's sprayed across the table during the mishap.
"Leave it," Neal croaks. "I'll get it."
Peter keeps wiping. "Relax, I've got this. I mean, geez, that must have hurt."
"You have no idea."
"You wanna lie down for a while?"
Neal lifts his hands. "No, I'm okay."
Peter studies him, and lingering worry gives way to reassurance because Neal's breathing is evening out, almost back to normal. He gestures to the patio where the Big Apple glitters in white and yellow lights outside the confines of the rooftop. The night is mild, with summer just saying its farewells. "Come on, let's catch some fresh air."
Neal leaves the juice and takes the water with him. Peter abandons the wine, wishing he could exchange it for a bottle of good old domestic beer. It's like Neal reads his mind, because he gives Peter a small grin, telling him, "There's some beer in the fridge."
"Now you're telling me," Peter grumbles.
Neal gives a light chuckle, and Peter wonders if, as terrifying as it was, maybe that coughing fit has been their ice breaker.
A minute later, with a sweating bottle of Heisler Gold in his hand, he stands next to Neal and looks out into the cloudless night. "Thanks for, uh, this," Peter says. "Dinner, I mean."
"Not too fancy for you, I hope?"
"Baby squid and crawfish?"
Neal gives him a knowing smile. "I know you're usually more a pot roast kinda guy. And, I mean, deviled ham? Peter, that's a crime against so many laws in the delicate art of fine cuisine."
Peter chuckles. "Be that as it may, but I've taken El out to a number of expensive restaurants in my time. And enjoyed it."
"Ah, but the price doesn't always reflect the quality."
"Well, the restaurants we've been to, I'd like to think it did."
"Then I'm gonna have to take your word for it."
"Guess you will," Peter teases.
Silence settles that is only disturbed by a faint swooshing of cars, horns honking in the distance, light breezes wrapping around the neighboring buildings. New York never sleeps.
If ever they were going to talk about the things that mattered, Peter knows it will have to be now. "Neal, I'm glad you're okay."
Peter doesn't dare look at Neal, but hopes he'll take the cue. He does.
"So am I."
"It was touch and go there for a while. You know that, right?"
"Yeah," Neal says in a low voice. "They told me. I mean, from my point of view, it's kinda hard to fathom. When I came to, all I knew was the wonderful world of painkillers. Took me a while to realize what had really happened."
"This will sound strange, but you should count that as a blessing."
Neal turns his head, looks at Peter. His voice is grave, fraught with meaning. "You said you watched me flatline."
"I did."
"Do you know for how long?"
Peter shakes his head. "Felt like half an eternity. I can't say. A minute, maybe two?"
"Did they shock me?"
"No. A woman kneeled over you, gave you CPR. They injected all kinds of drugs into you, intubated you. That's all I could see."
"Wow."
"Yeah. It was messy."
"That must have been scary."
"It was." What he really wants to say is, 'I've never been so terrified in my life.'
Neal looks miles away as he admits, "You know, in the hospital, I've had a lot of time to think. This life I have here, for a while I was ready to let it go. Just up and leave, live the kind of life I thought I wanted to live. I had it all planned out, I was literally ready to go. But I held on, waited for the right moment. Mozzie eventually gave me an ultimatum. Forty-eight hours. He even brought a giant hourglass."
He stops, his eyes transfixed on an invisible marker in the distance.
"And?" Peter urges him.
"The last grain of sand fell, and I said no."
"No to what?"
"To running."
"You chose to stay." There's more than a hint of surprise in Peter's words, and unbidden pride swells in his chest. Maybe Neal is not a lost cause.
Neal nods, says nothing.
Peter's gaze joins Neal's invisible marker on the horizon as he considers the implications. They bring tears stinging behind his eyelids. This is big. Neal's been carrying this around with him for all this time, and Peter didn't even know.
"Why?" The question is simple, but he knows the answer is not.
"Because I like what I have. I mean, not all of it, of course. But I knew if I left this behind, if I ran, I could never come back. Guess I wasn't ready to give that up."
Peter swallows against the lump in his throat. "I'm glad you stayed," he endorses, his voice thick with emotion.
"Peter, I'm sorry too."
"Yeah, I know," he says softly.
Neal's voice is suddenly sharp, with a harsh edge to it. "No, I don't think you do. Your life lies in shambles, yours and Elizabeth's. The kidnapping, everything that happened with Keller, your life would be different if it wasn't for me. And at work... You know how things are at work. And all of that... That's all on me."
Peter stays silent at first, doesn't know what to say. He has a feeling that Neal is being a little too hard on himself.
"Neal, is that why you wanted me to leave when I visited you in the hospital? Because you think I can't or shouldn't forgive you? The truth is, I've forgiven you a long time ago. Don't you think it's time you forgave yourself?"
"I'm not sure I can."
"And why not?"
Neal lets out a laugh that is hollow and creases the rapprochement between them, crumples it back into a ball. "You know what, Peter? It doesn't matter."
"Yes, it does. Because I think you know that until you do, it'll be hard for us to get past this."
Neal's gaze on him is hesitant, probing. "Get past this? Is that even possible?"
Peter turns his head to look at Neal's profile. His face looks a lot less gaunt, the dark circles under his eyes have lightened. He tells Neal, "Yes, I'd like to think it is."
"And El?" Neal asks.
"I think you're going to have to ask her, but she's worked through this. We talked about it. A lot. This..." he stumbles on the words, but fights through them. "What happened, I don't ever want to go through it again, but, Neal, I chose this life. I've known the risks for a long time, and so has El. I never expected it would happen to me, but it did. It was terrible and scary, but everyone made it through. And now we're dealing with it. It gets better, and next time... We know what to do to avoid there being a next time. All we can do now is make the best of what's happened and learn from it."
"You make it sound so easy."
"It can be."
Neal shakes his head. "Not for me."
"Come on, Neal. Have a little faith. Look at us. We're here. This is how it gets better."
"So what happens now?"
Peter shrugs. "You recuperate. You come back to work."
Neal lets out a sarcastic chuckle. "It's really as easy as that?"
"If you want it to be," Peter offers.
He nods. "I do."
"Then it will be."
There isn't much more to say, and they both let their gazes catch on the tiny specks of light in the expanse of the city. Peter takes another sip from the beer that is now a notch too warm. They stand like this until they hear the women enter the apartment.
Both Peter and Neal turn around, smiles on their faces. June and El are both a little drunk, and they're a hoot to watch. Peter is almost embarrassed by his wife's giggly fits that June gladly joins. Neal seems to find it more amusing than anything.
Peter knows it's time to call it a night. He calls a cab while Neal tries to keep the women from ingesting more wine and heightening their inebriation.
When the cab arrives, Peter thanks Neal again, extends an invite to the Burkes' home at a yet undetermined time to return the favor-in other words, to cook dinner for Neal. (Something more delectable than pot roast, Peter promises.) Neal welcomes the suggestion, accepts the invite, and Peter can read in his eyes that it's not just out of courtesy or a sense of duty.
Peter accompanies June downstairs with a vibrant El in tow. She falls asleep on his shoulder in the taxi on the way home.
With her soft hair brushing against his neck, he smiles both on the inside and the outside. Something just fell into place, and Peter knows that life will be better. And it will have Neal in it, which is a very integral part that he now realizes has been missing of late.
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THE END.
Author: TeeJay
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Peter, Elizabeth, June
Written for: rabidchild67 for the collarcorner ficswap
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Spoilers for season 3, up to and very much including 3x10 'Countdown', PG-13 rated off-screen sex scene of a canon pairing
Summary: Elizabeth's kidnapping and its aftermath have caused a rift between Neal and Peter that is hard to bridge. Then Neal gets shot during a random bank heist, and everything changes.
Disclaimer: White Collar, its characters and its settings belong to Jeff Eastin and USA Network. And, guys? Your characters are not only welcome, they're wonderful. I'm just borrowing, I promise.
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Part 1
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Peter gets status updates on Neal from June at regular intervals. He doesn't know if June tells Neal about their conversations, but he has a feeling she doesn't.
Three days in, he's surprised to hear that Mozzie seems to have made an appearance at Neal's bedside. Peter (and the rest of law enforcement) are now more than ever personae non gratae for Mozzie, so Peter doubts he's ever going to see the little guy again. But this tells Peter that there's no rift big enough between Neal and Moz that couldn't be bridged by one of them nearly losing their life.
He briefly wonders if that also means the tear between Neal and him can be patched. There's a flicker of hope that it's possible. It lifts Peter's spirits immeasurably. He's sure his team would thank Mozzie if they knew or could, because it means Peter is less grouchy and less irritable at work. Win/win.
June reports steady progress where Neal's state of health is concerned. After five days, they release him from the ICU to the General Surgery ward. He's being weaned off the morphine, slowly but steadily. He's more alert and improving daily.
Peter wonders if he and Elizabeth should send flowers. Or a card. Or chocolates. Or all of the above. He imagines Neal receiving it, and knows it'll be wrong, send the wrong signals. Dammit, he wants Neal to know he cares, wants Neal to know just how badly it scared him to watch him die-if just for a long, scary minute or two. But he also knows that the only way to do that, and do it right, is to talk to Neal in person. And he also knows the day will come.
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The day does come, but it's more than two weeks after that fateful day in the ICU where Peter stood with his hand braced against the glass window.
He's met with June upon his request, the day previously. Ironically, they sit on Neal's rooftop patio with a mild breeze tugging at their hair and a cup of delicious Italian roast in front of them. June's housekeeper also makes a mean pecan pie.
They talk for a long time, and Peter tells her that he wants to talk to Neal, needs to talk to Neal. What he really wants to hear from her that he can, that Neal won't break down, or work himself into a frenzy, or tear his stitches, or... do whatever else it might be that's detrimental to his healing process. He wants to coax out of her just how ready Neal is to accept apologies from Peter, to listen, to f- No. He can't really expect forgiveness. Or can he?
June is as mysterious and non-judgmental as always, but she does divulge information that has subtext between the lines which is for Peter to extract and interpret. As he is about to leave, she places her hand on his arm and meets his eyes. There's no verbal communication, but he can read in her eyes what she wants him to know: Don't hurt him any more than you've already done. And: Yes, I think he's ready.
His chest heaves with a relieved intake of breath as he covers her hand with his for a second. It's accompanied by a grateful smile as he leaves.
Now, he's standing in front of the door to hospital room no. 194 with frayed nerves, a lump the size of Panama in his throat, and absolutely nothing in his hands. He's contemplated flowers again, or chocolates, but it still seemed wrong.
He doesn't know how long he's stood here, trying to pluck up the courage. Eventually, he gathers what little resolve he has left and knocks. There is no answer, so he opens the door. Inside, there are two hospital beds, one empty, one occupied by a mid-40's something patient leafing through a sports magazine.
He man looks up at Peter, who's stupidly stunned. "You looking for Neal?"
Peter clears his throat, tries to swallow to conquer the sudden dryness. His voice is croaky and shaking when he speaks. "Uhm, yes, uh, yeah." He chides himself for how clumsy his response is.
"Check the community area on the seventh floor. He likes to go there in the afternoon. Says you can see the sun arching perfectly over Manhattan. Or something. I don't know what he's talking about half of the time."
Peter has to smile to himself, because that sounds just like Neal. And even if Peter doesn't really understand it either, he understands why it would hold an appeal for Neal. "Thanks," he mutters to the man.
The community area isn't hard to find. The only hallway not blocked off by tinted glass doors leads to a rather roomy cafeteria that opens into a space in the corner which is furnished with comfortable looking armchairs and coffee tables. The windows are large and flood the room with sunlight. It looks more welcoming than anything Peter has ever seen in any hospital.
A girl who could still be well in her teens leans against the wall behind the counter, because at a quarter to six, the bulk of patients are in their rooms in anticipation of dinner. The cafeteria closes in fifteen minutes anyway, and only few chairs are occupied.
Peter stops just shy of crossing the room, his eyes searching, scanning. Neal isn't hard to find. He's sitting by himself in one of the armchairs with his gaze directed out the window. When Peter takes a few, tentative steps closer, he can see why Neal likes the view. It's indeed a beautiful vista of Manhattan up here.
He takes in Neal's form, the way the (no doubt expensive) bathrobe doesn't cover up the fact that he's lost a lot of weight, the way his hair looks dull and ungroomed, the way the white tape stands out starkly against the skin on the back of his left hand, holding a cannula in place.
Something squeezes around Peter's heart and enlarges the lump that's taken up residence in his throat. He has to resist the impulse of turning on his heel and fleeing the scene. But what the hell, he's come this far. Peter Burke is many things, but seldom a coward.
He places one foot in front of the other, slowly ambling closer to where Neal sits. He hasn't noticed him yet, and still doesn't when Peter is only half a dozen feet from him.
Peter gathers up all his courage as he speaks the name. "Neal?"
Neal's head whips around, his face marred by a pained grimace, because the quick movement must have aggravated his injury. His eyes widen, and Peter isn't sure what he sees in them. Surprise, shock, hurt, resentment, antipathy. A little bit of all of it.
Neal struggles to stand, and Peter has to suppress the urge to hold out a hand to help him up. Neal manages with a groan whose aftershock he quickly smoothes off his face. His expression turns to stone, his mouth a thin line. "I have nothing to say to you," he says-cold, unfeeling, matter-of-fact, "so you might as well leave."
"Neal," Peter rasps the name again. "Can we just talk? Please?" He has to blink away tears, which strikes him as strange because he should have expected this.
"I don't know what's there to talk about."
Peter says nothing, they engage in a staring match that is more than uncomfortable. It registers with Peter how haggard Neal looks, dark circles under his eyes, cheekbones standing out against pale skin.
Finally, Peter buckles, utters his desperate plea. "Neal, please. You don't have to talk. Just listen. If you still want me to leave afterwards, I will. Just hear me out... please."
He can see the decision making process playing out in Neal's features. After a painful eternity that can't have lasted more than ten seconds, Neal turns around and wordlessly eases himself back down into the armchair he previously occupied. It's not quite an invite, but it's not flat-out rejection. Take it or leave it.
Peter takes it, of course he does. He gingerly sits down in the armchair that stands near. Not close enough to invade Neal's space, not too far away to make an impact.
He doesn't know how to start. This is awkward. He's got to make every word count, and he starts with the most important part. His voice is low. "Please let me say I'm sorry. I've wanted to apologize for so long. Those things I said to you, I know I can't take them back, but I would if I could.
"I mean, I was angry, but I realize now that's no excuse. Hindsight is 20/20, right? You know how I heard you were shot? I got a call from NYPD. I was in the office. I rushed here, to find you in surgery. El and I waited for hours in that terrible waiting room. You were unconscious after, and we..."
He pauses, draws in an unsteady breath. Neal is stubbornly staring out the window. "The doctors weren't sure what was going to happen. It was... I guess I started to realize a few things there and then. I was hoping you'd wake up so I could apologize, and then-"
His eyes are transfixed on Neal, who has not moved an inch all through his speech. Not even his jaw muscles are working. "And then your heart gives out and they have to resuscitate you, and-" The images come flooding back, and Peter takes two breaths, all the while studying a lifeless Neal.
"Neal, Goddammit, I watched you die!" Peter says forcefully.
That shakes something loose in Neal, because he turns his head, meets Peter's eyes for a brief moment. "What do you mean?"
"The day you flatlined in the ICU, I was there. Outside your room, watching it all through the window."
He sees Neal swallow, digest the information. "You saw that?" he asks hollowly.
Peter nods before he speaks. "It scared the hell out of me."
Something plays on Neal's features, something that sends cracks rippling through the façade. "Jesus."
"Yeah," Peter exhales.
"I'm sorry you had to see that," Neal says, his tone still carefully neutral.
Peter can't stay so calm. "No, Neal, you don't. You don't get to apologize for this. Don't you dare apologize."
Neal turns his palms upwards in defense. "What? What do you want from me?"
Peter huffs sarcastically, "Want from you? I want nothing from you. I'm the one that's in your debt. I need to make good on the things I messed up. You tell me what you want from me."
"Well, you already attempted an apology," Neal says bitterly.
Peter closes his eyes for a long second. His voice is almost pleading. "Please, Neal, don't mock this. Don't throw it away like that. I meant it when I said I was sorry. You don't know how sorry I am. These past few weeks, months, they've been difficult."
Neal lets out a sarcastic chuckle. "Yeah, right. You think they've been difficult for you?"
"Please," he whispers, "that's not what I meant."
"Oh no, and what did you mean?"
"Can you put yourself in my shoes, just for a moment?"
Neal meets his eyes for another brief, flickering second. Can he? Peter continues. "What would you have done?"
"I wouldn't have thrown myself out of your house."
"Yeah, that was... that was harsh. And uncalled for."
"I also wouldn't have almost choked me to death, and then told me to go to hell when I offered to help."
Peter rubs a weary hand over his eyes. Those images that play in his mind, he wants to erase them forever. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that. I wasn't thinking clearly. I regretted it the moment it was out of my mouth."
"And yet you did it, said it."
Neal is right. The kidnapping, it brought out the worst in him. "God, Neal, that terrible day, I wish I could erase it-all of it."
"But you can't, and here we are."
Peter stays silent for a long moment. What is Neal saying? That he'll never forgive him? It hurts beyond belief, more than Peter would have imagined. "I am truly sorry," he mutters again. "For everything. I wish... things could go back to the way they were. Or at least be better somehow."
Neal doesn't respond. He's gone back to watching the sun reflect in the glass-walled skyscrapers outside. Is better not something they can be?
Peter is afraid of the answer, so he gives in to cowardice and runs. He gets up from the armchair. "Neal, I hope you feel better. El also gives you her best. We'd like to- I'd like to visit again. Can I do that?"
There's no answer, and Peter waits longer than he should. He adds, "Okay, you don't have to decide right now. I'm keeping in touch with June. Let her know, once you decide."
With a last look at Neal's profile, he says, "Goodbye, Neal."
The way down to his car passes in a blur, and inside, he clamps his hands around the steering wheel. More angry tears threaten to fall, and this time he lets them.
He goes over the conversation on the way home. Secretly, he'd hoped for a better outcome, but he knows to count his blessings. He's apologized and Neal listened. It's a start.
El welcomes him with dinner. He tells her about his conversation with Neal, and she listens the way she always does when it's important. She doesn't ask many questions, considers the implications, but she tells him he's done well. Peter isn't so sure.
While cutlery clinks on the dinnerware, he wonders when the last time might have been that Neal had a proper meal. Something home-cooked that's not mass-produced, bland hospital food or plastic-wrapped cafeteria snacks.
"We should send him a care package," Peter says out of the blue.
She frowns at him. "Who, Neal?"
"Yeah. You know, all the good stuff he loves. Your mushroom puff pastries, the blueberry muffins he inhaled last time."
Last time. Yeah, when was that? Two months ago? Three? It feels like half an eternity.
Her gaze on him is skeptical. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"Well, I'm not suggesting we deliver it personally. How about we put something together, give it to June?"
"Yeah, that might work," she agrees.
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Peter drops the goodies for Neal off at June's two days later. It's not just the pastries and muffins, it's also the leather bound copy of Steppenwolf that Neal had grabbed off the Burke's bookshelf and started reading that one time when Peter made him wait on the couch for almost three quarters of an hour.
Peter doesn't even know why he keeps a Hermann Hesse in his collection. He's never read it. He vaguely seems to recall it was a gift from his grandfather before he passed, and Peter kept it purely for nostalgic reasons. Leave it to Neal to pick the one book of classic German literature off the Burkes' bookshelf.
It still has the bookmark in it where Neal left it, a simple sheet of folded paper, but Peter's made one addition. He's written on it, 'You're welcome to finish reading it on our couch any time you want.' He hopes it's not too straightforward, but Peter's never been a man of subtleties.
June calls Peter a week later, inviting him over to her house. This time, they sit in the, well, Peter isn't even sure what room it is. The house has too many to call it living room. Sitting room, maybe? There is more Italian roast, and red velvet cake with an exquisite white frosting. It's a life of splendor Peter isn't used to.
He sips at his coffee, and watches how June holds out a familiar book to him. It's the copy of Steppenwolf. Peter takes it, opens it expectantly. The bookmark has traveled to the very end of the book. He takes out the sheet of paper, but it is just as he left it. There is no response, no message. Peter is immediately crestfallen. He looks at June questioningly.
"I think he liked it," she smiles at him apologetically.
"Did he say anything else?"
"Oh, he said a great deal of things."
"June, you know what I mean."
"Yes. Yes, I do. In fact, he told me to give you a message. He would like to thank you for the food, the muffins were especially delicious."
Peter waits, but there isn't anything else. "What, that's all?"
She shrugs slightly. "I'm afraid so."
Peter breathes out, deflates. He quickly swallows down his disappointment. "Well, tell him next time it'll be double choc."
June smiles at him sagaciously. "I think he'd like that."
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Peter is back at June's house a week later, another care package in hand. He feels slightly guilty that it's taken so long to get this prepared, but one thing had chased another all week, and before Peter knew it, time had flown by.
The basket the goodies come in looks sophisticated, Elizabeth has arranged it all impeccably. There's the promised double-chocolate muffins and brownies as well to make up for the delay.
"The poor boy needs his sugar and calories," Elizabeth had said when Peter had mocked the overabundance of sweet treats. There's also a quarter of Quiche Lorraine she made the night before.
Unexpectedly, it is June herself who opens the door for Peter. "You can go right up," she tells him.
"To Neal's loft?" he asks.
"Yes, he's waiting for you."
Peter is a little shell-shocked. No, make that a lot shell-shocked. "Neal is here?" His throat is suddenly dry.
"Yes, he was released from the hospital yesterday."
"And he's okay up there, alone?"
"Now now, Peter," she chides. "He's hardly alone. And he's tougher than you think. He's made good progress in his recovery."
Peter is glad to hear it, and immeasurably relieved. Having Neal come home is excellent news. "Thank you, June," he nods to her before he makes his way up the stairs. Her eyes follow him with a smile.
He stands in front of Neal's door for a few seconds, tries to prepare himself. This is one way of being thrown off guard.
He knocks, three times. Strong and decisive.
"Come in," he hears a muffled voice from inside.
Peter opens the door and enters. It feels both alien and familiar to be back here. He finds Neal on the couch, a tartan blanket peeled aside to reveal him in a set of stylish looking dark gray track pants and a v-neck t-shirt.
Neal's expression is carefully noncommittal, but if Peter tries very hard, he can just see the tiniest hint of a smile hiding underneath the neutral veneer. Or maybe he's just imagining it.
"Can I come in?" Peter carefully asks.
"A little late to ask, seeing how you've already entered," Neal states.
Peter awkwardly lifts the basket. "More muffins, as promised. Among other things. I think you'll like El's Quiche Lorraine."
Neal actually smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Thanks," he says. "You can put it on the table."
Peter does as ordered, turning around, studying Neal. An uneasy moment passes and Peter starts wringing his hands in front of his body before he shoves them into his pant pockets. "So, how are you feeling?"
It's kind of a stupid question, but maybe it's not, because Peter's only had this on second hand authority for the past couple of weeks.
"Like they dug a bullet out of my chest," is the simple answer.
Fair enough, Peter thinks. The brick wall is still up, and Peter doesn't know how to knock it down or navigate around it. "You must be glad to be home."
"Like you wouldn't believe."
"So, uhm," Peter looks around, and the apartment looks clean and tidy, "is there anything I can do, I can help with?"
Neal gives his head a little shake. "No, everything's been taken care of. June's been great. I have everything I need." He nods to the basket on the table. "Now I even have muffins."
"Yeah, El baked those especially. She says hi."
"I'm sure they'll be delicious."
Shit, what are we doing? Peter muses. They are dancing on eggshells, and he wants to scream. There is so much to say, and here they are, talking about baked goods. But the ice breaker, it has to come from Neal. And for as long as it doesn't, Peter is afraid to push.
"Okay," Peter says, ogling the door from where he is standing by the dining table. "I guess I'll be going. Neal, if you need anything, you can call. Day or night."
He is already turning the doorknob when he hears Neal's voice. "Peter."
He turns around. Neal has a small, cautious smile on his lips. "Thank you. For the care package."
Peter nods. "You're welcome."
Outside in the hallway, he exhales a breath he hasn't even realized he's been holding. That was... uncomfortable. But it had been a small step in the right direction. Hope is tangible again.
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That night, he makes love to Elizabeth. He had missed the physical connection, her soft touch, the exhilaration of their mutual joining. He needs this, and by the time they lie next to each other, breathless and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, he can feel tears prickling at the reaches of his eyelashes.
Peter has this, and Neal has nothing. The treasure is gone, Neal is in pain and still tethered to a two mile radius, Mozzie is God knows where, and Neal has alienated Sara as much as he has alienated Peter. It hardly seems fair.
El's soft hand reaches out, wipes away the stray tear that is sliding down his temple. "Honey, you're upset. What's wrong?"
As if she has to ask.
"It's Neal, isn't it?"
He hates that he can read her so easily, and yet he loves it. And he knows it's wrong to be thinking of Neal when he's just been intimate with his wife in beautiful, mutual bliss. His hand scrubs over his face. "I just... I just can't stop thinking about it."
"About what?" she whispers.
"Everything. All that's happened since..." He trails off.
"This has really rattled you, hasn't it?"
It has, and it's so obvious. Peter Burke is not usually a man whose cage is easily rattled, who gives in to random emotional outbursts. "Neal didn't deserve this. I need to make it right, and I don't know how." There's a certain desperation to his wish.
"You need to give him time," she soothes. "If you do, it will fall into place."
He knows she's right, but he doesn't like it any better. Patience is not one of Peter's strong suits.
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Giving Neal time is one of the hardest things he's had to do. He keeps looking at his cell phone for messages, keeps checking the answering machine first thing when he comes home at night. On Thursday evening, there's a phone call from June, inviting him over for Saturday evening. If he has time.
Of course he does. Well, actually he doesn't, but he makes the time. This is more important than watching the game with old buddies.
Come Saturday, he is actually nervous as he stands in front of the Manhattan mansion. Which is silly, he chides himself. He's been here hundreds of times, and he's never been nervous.
"Peter, glad you could make it," June's cheerful voice greets him.
"Thank you for the invitation," he smiles, handing her a bottle of Spanish rosé that El has chosen. Peter didn't even know she had a liking for rosé, and he's once more grateful for Elizabeth's astute attention to detail.
"Next time please bring your lovely wife," June winks at him. He is stumped for a moment, because he's not sure if that's actually an invite extended on Neal's behalf.
In the opulent dining room, he finds Neal already seated at the table that is laid for three. Peter feels out of place, because any dinner that requires more than one pair of knives and forks and that is served to you by housekeeping personnel in someone else's home is way outside his comfort zone.
"Peter," Neal nods at him.
"Neal," Peter greets back. "Feeling better, I hope?"
"Much, thank you."
June joins them shortly thereafter. "Well, gentlemen, I'm glad to have such lovely company. Hors d'oeuvres will be served in just a moment."
The three course dinner is a pleasant affair. Surprisingly pleasant, actually. Conversation comes easy, with June's wonderfully nostalgic, yet refreshing anecdotes and Neal's witty repartee. Peter doesn't have such a lot to contribute to stories of conman myths and borderline shady sagas from times long gone. He knows better than to bore them with the Legendary Tales of the FBI's Most Wanted. So he just listens and chuckles and laughs.
The crème brûlée is exquisite, and Peter savors every bite of it, even though he's already full. He takes a sip from the chilled, slightly fruity white wine and watches Neal raise the glass with apple juice to his lips (because Neal is smart enough to know that alcohol and painkillers don't mix). Neal has a mischievous smile tugging at his lips and a lively glint in his eyes that Peter hasn't seen in a long time. A sudden giddy feeling passes through his stomach.
"So, Peter, what do you say?" June addresses him. "We do this again next week? Your wife is of course invited as well."
Peter looks up into Neal's eyes. Their gazes meet, and Peter thinks he can see approval. It's not like June spun this on him out of the blue, and suddenly Peter wonders if this whole thing was her idea in the first place.
"Thank you, June, that's very kind."
He dabs the corner of this mouth with his napkin, then places it on the table next to his plate. "Now, if you'll please excuse me for a moment."
On the way to the bathroom, he feels lightheaded, and he doesn't know if it's merely from the wine. He tries to remember how many glasses he's had, and he's pretty sure it wasn't much more than three. They seemed to magically refill at the hands of June's adept personnel.
Back in the dining room, he has a sudden urge to flee the scene. As entertaining as the evening has been, it can only lead to awkwardness, with no food to distract, no further course to serve. Neal glances up at him curiously, reading his mind.
"Now, Peter, you don't want to leave without asking the lady for a dance, do you? Seeing how I'm currently indisposed and everything."
Peter blanches just a little. Lightheadedness and dancing don't go together well.
"Yes, Peter, I've heard you're quite the dancer," June adds.
He wonders how she knows that particular detail, but then he remembers. The Black Widow case, the tango. Neal must have told her. There is no way he can back down without offending June, and he realizes that.
She has already put on the music, and he holds out his hand. "Milady, it will be my honor," he says courteously.
June is a wonderful dancing partner. She follows all his leads, makes exactly the right moves. Peter enjoys his five minutes of homemade fame quite a bit. He catches glimpses of Neal watching him, which makes the whole thing a little more uncomfortable.
Neal applauds afterwards, but in an appreciative and not in a mocking way. June thanks Peter for the dance. Her expression is tuned between melancholy and content. No doubt Peter has transported her back in time somewhere along the way.
He sits back down at the table for a little while longer. Neal excuses himself for a moment and eases himself out of his chair, his face contorting in pain for a fleeting second. It's a timely reminder of his recent ordeal.
As soon as he is out of earshot, Peter turns to June. "Is he doing okay?"
She gives him a reassuring smile. "He's doing quite well. The physical therapy sessions help. All these stairs, they certainly don't make it easy, but didn't I tell you that he's tougher than you think?"
Peter considers this. Neal's lean physique can be misleading, but Peter knows that underneath he's lithe-all bone and muscle, with a body to be envious of. Or at least used to be. He scolds himself, he needs to give Neal more credit.
"Was this his idea?" Peter gestures at the table.
"I think it was more of a mutual nature, but he encouraged it."
Peter's face lights up. "It was great, I had a wonderful time."
"I'm glad," she tells him.
Peter's just curious, and it's out of his mouth before he can stop it. "You don't always eat this lavishly, do you?"
She chuckles. "No, this was a special occasion. But I do make sure that the poor boy gets a decent meal at least three times a day."
It is then that Neal comes shuffling back into the room. "I hope you're not talking about me."
June doesn't even look sheepish when she tells him, "Oh, you know we were."
This is now getting awkward, so Peter gets up from the table. "Right. I need to get going. I'm sure Elizabeth is waiting to hear all about the wonderful feast I've been treated with."
He pulls June into a brief half-embrace, planting a kiss on her cheek. "Thank you, June. For everything."
"Oh, it was my pleasure. As I said earlier, please bring your wife next Saturday. Same time."
"I will try my very best to clear our schedules."
Peter stiffly takes a step in Neal's direction. He's not sure what to do. Uncomfortably, he holds out a hand. Neal looks at it for a fleeting second, then takes it and gives it a decisive shake. Neal's always had a firm handshake. It strikes Peter that this is the first time they've shared a friendly touch since... before the kidnapping. There used to be a comforting hand on the arm, a clap on the back, a friendly shoulder bump when they were working together. There hasn't been for a long time now.
"See you next week," Peter says, releasing Neal's hand.
"Next week," Neal confirms.
Elizabeth is still up when he gets home. She's taken the laptop downstairs and it looks like she's answering private e-mails on their couch.
She gives him a warm smile when he walks up to her, opening another button at the top of his shirt. "Hey honey. Sylvia and Rachel wrote. They're inviting me for a girls' weekend."
"When?" He hopes it's not next weekend.
"Not sure yet. One of the weekends next month, probably. You think that'll work?"
"Yeah, why not? But the two of us, we have a dinner invitation for next Saturday."
"At June's?"
"Yes."
"With Neal?"
"Yes," he confirms again.
The smile on her face brightens considerably. "That's wonderful. Tell me all about tonight."
He does, and El smiles and chuckles in all the right places. She raises her eyebrows at the part where he danced with June. "Did you do all right?"
"Come on, give me some credit. Have you known me to be a bad dancer?"
"No, quite on the contrary. You, Peter Burke, are an excellent dancer."
"And so says June."
"Oh, I bet she does. And Neal? How is he doing?"
"It's kinda hard to tell, but I had the feeling he was doing well. June said the same. Apparently he's recuperating well. She mentioned physical therapy. He seemed very upbeat tonight."
"Oh, Hon, I'm so glad to hear it."
"Yeah," he sighed, "So am I."
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Next Saturday is not what they expect. Both Peter and Elizabeth are dressed for the occasion. Not cocktail party wardrobe, obviously, but they've made sure they're both clad appropriately.
All the more surprising it is that they are being sent up to Neal's loft.
Neal bids them a somewhat reserved welcome, which is not entirely unexpected. Yet, the atmosphere is comfortable enough, with soft jazz music playing in the background. The table is set for four. It's not the usual barren tabletop, there's an expensive looking table cloth and exquisite tableware and cutlery. Neal stands at the stove, making last preparations with June's help. He moves gingerly, carefully, but he seems content.
Soon they're all grouped around the table, and they find that Neal makes delicious soups. It's not just the soup, the rest of dinner is a true treat. El makes sure to compliment every course. Conversation comes easily enough, and smiles trade faces like the wine does glasses.
By the time dessert has been savored, June and Elizabeth have taken their wine glasses and gone downstairs for a bit. They'd been sticking their heads together, talking about upholstery or something interior decoration related. Peter hadn't really listened except for snippets that filtered through. Either June was truly showing Elizabeth something downstairs she was interested in, or they were clandestinely opening the stage for Peter and Neal to get some alone-time. Peter has a feeling it's the latter more than the first.
He's nursed his glass of Merlot for too long, because truth be told, he's not a fan of the red. Neal looks out the window, swirling the grape juice in his own glass like it's wine, no doubt wishing it was. He takes a sip, swallowing it slowly, then takes another one.
Peter's head whips round when Neal suddenly erupts in an abrupt cough. The juice must have gone down the wrong way, and Peter helplessly watches as Neal succumbs to the coughing fit-a violent one. Neal's face contorts in pain as his body is wracked by the involuntary, yet potent muscle spasms.
Peter's worry meter shoots up, and somehow he remembers something from when his father had a bypass. He quickly goes over to the couch and grabs a pillow, holds it out to Neal. "Here, hold that to your chest. It softens the impact."
Neal gladly accepts it, presses it against his torso. Peter keeps standing by Neal's side, unsure what to do. Neal is now trying to wheeze air into his lungs in between coughs. Finally, after an agonizing minute or two, the coughs subside and Peter softly raps his flat palm between Neal's shoulders.
Neal still gasps for much needed air even after the coughing fit has stopped. Tears have slid down his cheeks, and he tries to compose himself with limited success. His face still radiates lingering pain, deep lines chaperoning the frown on his forehead, white knuckles gripping the pillow that is now in his lap. "Shit," he half mutters, half whispers through clenched teeth.
'Ow,' Peter thinks, because that must have hurt his still mending ribs, must have aggravated the aftereffects of the open-heart surgery. He isn't even consciously noticing it, but his hand is now gently rubbing Neal's back. As the realization hits, he stops the motion and retreats, breaking all physical contact. He stands a step away.
He feels out of place, watching Neal wipe the tears from his cheeks as he draws in shallow breaths in rapid succession. Composure is imminent, or at least en route. Peter gets him a glass of tap water. "Maybe this'll help?"
Neal looks up at him briefly, a hint of gratefulness in his eyes. "Thanks," he mutters, and his voice is hoarse. He takes a careful sip of water.
Peter then gets a paper towel and wipes at the juice that Neal's sprayed across the table during the mishap.
"Leave it," Neal croaks. "I'll get it."
Peter keeps wiping. "Relax, I've got this. I mean, geez, that must have hurt."
"You have no idea."
"You wanna lie down for a while?"
Neal lifts his hands. "No, I'm okay."
Peter studies him, and lingering worry gives way to reassurance because Neal's breathing is evening out, almost back to normal. He gestures to the patio where the Big Apple glitters in white and yellow lights outside the confines of the rooftop. The night is mild, with summer just saying its farewells. "Come on, let's catch some fresh air."
Neal leaves the juice and takes the water with him. Peter abandons the wine, wishing he could exchange it for a bottle of good old domestic beer. It's like Neal reads his mind, because he gives Peter a small grin, telling him, "There's some beer in the fridge."
"Now you're telling me," Peter grumbles.
Neal gives a light chuckle, and Peter wonders if, as terrifying as it was, maybe that coughing fit has been their ice breaker.
A minute later, with a sweating bottle of Heisler Gold in his hand, he stands next to Neal and looks out into the cloudless night. "Thanks for, uh, this," Peter says. "Dinner, I mean."
"Not too fancy for you, I hope?"
"Baby squid and crawfish?"
Neal gives him a knowing smile. "I know you're usually more a pot roast kinda guy. And, I mean, deviled ham? Peter, that's a crime against so many laws in the delicate art of fine cuisine."
Peter chuckles. "Be that as it may, but I've taken El out to a number of expensive restaurants in my time. And enjoyed it."
"Ah, but the price doesn't always reflect the quality."
"Well, the restaurants we've been to, I'd like to think it did."
"Then I'm gonna have to take your word for it."
"Guess you will," Peter teases.
Silence settles that is only disturbed by a faint swooshing of cars, horns honking in the distance, light breezes wrapping around the neighboring buildings. New York never sleeps.
If ever they were going to talk about the things that mattered, Peter knows it will have to be now. "Neal, I'm glad you're okay."
Peter doesn't dare look at Neal, but hopes he'll take the cue. He does.
"So am I."
"It was touch and go there for a while. You know that, right?"
"Yeah," Neal says in a low voice. "They told me. I mean, from my point of view, it's kinda hard to fathom. When I came to, all I knew was the wonderful world of painkillers. Took me a while to realize what had really happened."
"This will sound strange, but you should count that as a blessing."
Neal turns his head, looks at Peter. His voice is grave, fraught with meaning. "You said you watched me flatline."
"I did."
"Do you know for how long?"
Peter shakes his head. "Felt like half an eternity. I can't say. A minute, maybe two?"
"Did they shock me?"
"No. A woman kneeled over you, gave you CPR. They injected all kinds of drugs into you, intubated you. That's all I could see."
"Wow."
"Yeah. It was messy."
"That must have been scary."
"It was." What he really wants to say is, 'I've never been so terrified in my life.'
Neal looks miles away as he admits, "You know, in the hospital, I've had a lot of time to think. This life I have here, for a while I was ready to let it go. Just up and leave, live the kind of life I thought I wanted to live. I had it all planned out, I was literally ready to go. But I held on, waited for the right moment. Mozzie eventually gave me an ultimatum. Forty-eight hours. He even brought a giant hourglass."
He stops, his eyes transfixed on an invisible marker in the distance.
"And?" Peter urges him.
"The last grain of sand fell, and I said no."
"No to what?"
"To running."
"You chose to stay." There's more than a hint of surprise in Peter's words, and unbidden pride swells in his chest. Maybe Neal is not a lost cause.
Neal nods, says nothing.
Peter's gaze joins Neal's invisible marker on the horizon as he considers the implications. They bring tears stinging behind his eyelids. This is big. Neal's been carrying this around with him for all this time, and Peter didn't even know.
"Why?" The question is simple, but he knows the answer is not.
"Because I like what I have. I mean, not all of it, of course. But I knew if I left this behind, if I ran, I could never come back. Guess I wasn't ready to give that up."
Peter swallows against the lump in his throat. "I'm glad you stayed," he endorses, his voice thick with emotion.
"Peter, I'm sorry too."
"Yeah, I know," he says softly.
Neal's voice is suddenly sharp, with a harsh edge to it. "No, I don't think you do. Your life lies in shambles, yours and Elizabeth's. The kidnapping, everything that happened with Keller, your life would be different if it wasn't for me. And at work... You know how things are at work. And all of that... That's all on me."
Peter stays silent at first, doesn't know what to say. He has a feeling that Neal is being a little too hard on himself.
"Neal, is that why you wanted me to leave when I visited you in the hospital? Because you think I can't or shouldn't forgive you? The truth is, I've forgiven you a long time ago. Don't you think it's time you forgave yourself?"
"I'm not sure I can."
"And why not?"
Neal lets out a laugh that is hollow and creases the rapprochement between them, crumples it back into a ball. "You know what, Peter? It doesn't matter."
"Yes, it does. Because I think you know that until you do, it'll be hard for us to get past this."
Neal's gaze on him is hesitant, probing. "Get past this? Is that even possible?"
Peter turns his head to look at Neal's profile. His face looks a lot less gaunt, the dark circles under his eyes have lightened. He tells Neal, "Yes, I'd like to think it is."
"And El?" Neal asks.
"I think you're going to have to ask her, but she's worked through this. We talked about it. A lot. This..." he stumbles on the words, but fights through them. "What happened, I don't ever want to go through it again, but, Neal, I chose this life. I've known the risks for a long time, and so has El. I never expected it would happen to me, but it did. It was terrible and scary, but everyone made it through. And now we're dealing with it. It gets better, and next time... We know what to do to avoid there being a next time. All we can do now is make the best of what's happened and learn from it."
"You make it sound so easy."
"It can be."
Neal shakes his head. "Not for me."
"Come on, Neal. Have a little faith. Look at us. We're here. This is how it gets better."
"So what happens now?"
Peter shrugs. "You recuperate. You come back to work."
Neal lets out a sarcastic chuckle. "It's really as easy as that?"
"If you want it to be," Peter offers.
He nods. "I do."
"Then it will be."
There isn't much more to say, and they both let their gazes catch on the tiny specks of light in the expanse of the city. Peter takes another sip from the beer that is now a notch too warm. They stand like this until they hear the women enter the apartment.
Both Peter and Neal turn around, smiles on their faces. June and El are both a little drunk, and they're a hoot to watch. Peter is almost embarrassed by his wife's giggly fits that June gladly joins. Neal seems to find it more amusing than anything.
Peter knows it's time to call it a night. He calls a cab while Neal tries to keep the women from ingesting more wine and heightening their inebriation.
When the cab arrives, Peter thanks Neal again, extends an invite to the Burkes' home at a yet undetermined time to return the favor-in other words, to cook dinner for Neal. (Something more delectable than pot roast, Peter promises.) Neal welcomes the suggestion, accepts the invite, and Peter can read in his eyes that it's not just out of courtesy or a sense of duty.
Peter accompanies June downstairs with a vibrant El in tow. She falls asleep on his shoulder in the taxi on the way home.
With her soft hair brushing against his neck, he smiles both on the inside and the outside. Something just fell into place, and Peter knows that life will be better. And it will have Neal in it, which is a very integral part that he now realizes has been missing of late.
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THE END.