As I'm Letting Go [e] Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey - 01.14 Out of the Box
Title: As I'm Letting Go
Rating: e
Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey
Warnings: spoilers
Spoilers: 01.14 Out of the Box
Genres: Friendship, Gen
Chapters: 1
Completed: Yes
Word count: 1,187
Disclaimer: Neal's collar would be a literal one around his neck instead of an anklet if I was in charge of the show. What? I like collars, okay? We all have our kinks. DON'T JUDGE ME FOR MINE. :P
Notes: flailed over by musicalluna.
Summary: Neal's enjoying his well-earned freedom, as he should, but would it kill him to send a postcard once in a while? Post-series.
It was déjà vu.
Except it wasn't, because this had actually happened before.
Neal was gone and Peter was left behind wondering if he'd ever see the other man, the one he'd learned to call friend despite their many and obvious character disparities: FBI agent and confidence artist. Down-to-earth everyman and cultured sophisticate. Lawman and criminal. Good guy and... good guy.
Maybe they weren't so different, not in the ways that counted at any rate. Though when it came to being content to stay in one place and put down roots, there was an obvious and noticeable difference.
Still, Peter thought as he looked out of his office window at the dusky New York morning, this time wasn't exactly like the last. This time, Neal wasn't a criminal on the run, desperate to believe the lies of the man manipulating his life for a chance at happily ever after with the woman who very likely was manipulating him just as much.
He hadn't said goodbye to Peter, though. That was the same. Everyone else got a phone call or a friendly slap on the back or a hug, a tip of that ridiculous hat or a blinding grin and a wink... Peter got nothing. Again.
He took another sip and wondered if this was what it felt like to send a child off to a college all the way across the country: telling yourself that they were better for the guidance and love you'd given them, worried they would still get hurt, hurting yourself for the knowledge that they would inevitably make mistakes, and finding enough faith to pray they weren't big ones.
Mostly hoping that they would remember to send a postcard or call once in a while so you wouldn't be up late every night, sleepless with the nagging worry that they were lying dead in a ditch somewhere.
Even after a month, Peter still started his day by logging into the Marshals' database and entering Neal's tracker designation before he remembered that it couldn't tell him where his charge was anymore. It was second nature after four years and some change, a muscle memory that he wasn't really making an effort to train himself out of.
Of course he still had ways to track Neal. It wasn't for nothing that he had caught the elusive forger far more than twice when all was said and done, though most of those had found Neal hoping for him to show up with the cavalry in tow.
But it wasn't his job anymore to keep tabs on Neal Caffrey. He might have done it anyway, but it felt discomfitingly like a betrayal.
Neal was not the same young man Peter had caught all those years ago. He'd changed under Peter's careful watch and tutelage and Peter had to continue giving him the trust that Neal had most certainly earned through blood, sweat, and tears.
Besides, all of Peter's flags in the system were still there. If Neal did do something monumentally stupid, Peter would hear of it.
Peter was perversely torn between not wanting an e-mail alerting him to his failure, to Neal's possible involvement in a crime, and the desire to have some sign that the brilliant young ex-thief was still alive.
With a sigh, Peter turned and set his cup down on his desk, settling into his chair and studiously ignoring the anticipatory fizz in his bones as he checked his e-mail. He was elated and frustrated when it was all the usual stuff, no red flags waving at him, and he snorted in amusement at his internal conflict.
And then he picked up the stack of mail deposited on his desk by the office courier. Files, forms, and flattery, the usual mix of official correspondence-
There it was. Innocuously tucked in between a request for a letter of recommendation and a reminder that he had his semi-annual administrative review coming up.
He looked at the picture for a moment, holding it close enough to confirm that it was laminated, but not printed, each swirl and stroke meticulously created by a no-doubt-familiar hand. He dug a magnifying glass out of his desk drawer and searched until he found it, a tiny constellation of stars that formed the initials NC.
A smile curved his lips and he turned it over.
Dear Peter,
Paris is great this time of year-as I'm sure you remember. I wasn't actually planning on staying here so long, but something about this city just... calls to me.
Peter could hear the laugh, the slightest edge of rueful embarrassment shading it.
The mornings are misty and beautiful, the sunsets vibrant and spectacular. A man could live here forever, paint a different canvas every day, and never run out of source material or inspiration. The people, the architecture, even the very spirit of the city sing to the artist in me, a siren seducing the unwary (or uncaring?) sailor.
Peter's head shook gently back and forth, smile widening at the fanciful-but-sincere language.
And yet, I find my thoughts turning to another city as I eat croissants and sip champagne. In fact, I find myself sometimes wishing they were hot dogs with too many onions and cheap beer in a plastic cup. You've ruined me, you Philistine.
Peter laughed aloud. "I made you better you mean," he murmured.
It was signed simply "Neal". He couldn't even say goodbye on a postcard, Peter thought with no little amusement.
Last time, Neal said it was because he knew Peter was the one person who could change his mind. Peter wondered if it was the same this time, if Neal had left without a word because he was afraid he wouldn't be able to escape otherwise.
A sigh and a last smile for the fond thoughts the card had sparked and Peter returned to his work. He had his proof and he was more than sure it wasn't going to be the last such note.
And if he harbored a secret hope that he'd read between the lines to what Neal didn't say, that this trip to see the world and revisit old stomping grounds was more of a way to say goodbye to them in person, well, no one needed to know that but Peter.