Fic (White Collar): Maybe This Year
Title: Maybe This Year
Author: cookielaura
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, El Burke, Satchmo, Peter/El, pre-Peter/El/Neal
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,800
Spoilers: None
Contains: Mostly off-screen car crash, mild hypothermia, mild sexual references
Beta: The awesome wise_old_crone and ohcaptain
Prompt: Post-series, Peter and El have moved to a rural area (or maybe they're just renting a cabin for a winter vacation or something) and Neal turns up at their door, half-frozen and sick.
Notes: Written for the whitecollarhc advent calendar. Title from the Kelly Clarkson song Every Christmas which I listened to whilst writing this. Not season 6 compliant; no s6 references in the comments please as I am behind! /o\ Also, happy holidays :)
September 2nd
Peter’s been staring at the brochure that El has left out on the dining table for a good half hour. Wilderness Cabins. They look idyllic, all wood-burning stoves, Fair Isle print bedspreads, panelled walls and fur throws. El has circled the Christmas rates, which are extortionate, but not entirely out of their price range. She’s put a question mark next to the circle; that’s it, no note. No request, no insistence, just a suggestion. But Peter knows what’s behind it, knows why she’s leaving out brochures like this in September. He knows his wife can’t stand another Christmas like last year. And if he’s honest, neither can he.
They’d tried to make the best of it, El more than Peter. El had spent hours in the kitchen, baking all of Peter’s favourites (gingerbread, snickerdoodles, brandy-soaked fruitcake) and all of her own favourites (stollen, rum-infused truffles, red velvet cupcakes). She baked more than she let on to Peter; it was only when he started rooting around in the freezer for the eggnog ice cream that he found a whole other selection of treats: chocolate and almond marbled Bundt cake, biscotti, cherry cranberry pie. Neal’s favourites.
(They were never eaten; El finally defrosted them and took them to a homeless shelter sometime in February.)
Peter had spent December waiting on the mailman, trying to convince himself that his heart didn’t thud when he rifled through the daily stack of envelopes looking for the right kind of handwriting. As the month wore on and the writing didn’t appear, he allowed himself to nurse the hope that perhaps Neal would come in person instead. He didn’t mention it to El, but every time the doorbell rang he felt her tense next to him, sharing the same unspoken wish. And every time they opened the door to a neighbour or carol singer, he saw her smile falter for just a moment.
They got a card, in the end, arriving so close to Christmas that it seemed like an afterthought.
Dear Peter and Elizabeth, Merry Christmas. Neal.
Not even an X or an O. Peter turned it over and over in his hands, looking for the hidden message, looking for - something. Anything. Eventually he stuck it on the mantel with the other cards, and threw it on the recycling pile with the rest of them on Twelfth Night.
(On the thirteenth night he fished it out and put it in the box under the bed.)
In hindsight, they should have gone away for the holidays last year, to a place where the ghosts of Christmas past didn’t linger, where Neal hadn’t helped them cook Christmas dinner in a steamed-up kitchen as he sang along to the radio, hadn’t laughed at old movies as the three of them squashed onto one couch, unusually uninhibited after too much wine. They should have gone to a place where Neal hadn’t slept in the guest room on Christmas Eve whilst Peter and El whispered to each other that next year, next year there would be no anklet, and they would share a bed.
They had been half right, at least.
Peter shakes himself out of his thoughts as he hears El’s soft footsteps on the stairs. She comes to stand behind him and slips her arms around his neck, her skin warm, smelling of sandalwood and still slightly damp. He tips his head back against her.
‘Good bath?’
‘Mmm,’ she agrees softly, kissing the top of his head.
‘This looks nice,’ Peter ventures, indicating the Wilderness Cabins brochure.
El sits down next to him at the table, smiles and shrugs. ‘I thought it might be nice to get away for Christmas. A change of scenery might do us good, and I love Vermont. We can take Satch, go for walks in the snow. You can show off by chopping firewood.’
Peter grins. ‘I do like to chop things.’ He pauses carefully. ‘Isn’t it a little remote though? We might not even have a cell signal. What if - what if we’re needed?’
The sympathy and sadness in El’s eyes makes his throat close up suddenly. ‘Hon,’ she says gently. ‘If he wants to find us, he’ll find us.’
Of course. Of course Neal could find them. Peter’s grateful that El didn’t add He’s had the past sixteen months to turn up at our door.
‘I’ll call and book it tomorrow,’ Peter says.
----
December 23rd
For a few moments, Neal simply stands and stares at the scene in front of him. It’s almost idyllic: a winding road amid a frozen landscape, fir branches heavy with thick, white snow, glistening as the late-afternoon sun sinks below the tree line. The picture is only marred by the tire tracks swerving wildly across the road and leading to the sad figure of Neal’s rental car, its front bumper crushed against a tree trunk in a twisted mess of warped metal and snow.
Neal realises, a little detachedly, that he is shaking. He’s not sure if it’s from the cold or the shock of the crash; it could be the remainder of the sharp spike of adrenaline that had coursed through him when he’d seen - too late - the deer around the bend, when he’d steered sharply to the side, when he’d felt the wheel spin through his helpless hands as the car skidded off the icy road.
The deer had wandered away unscathed, and Neal had stumbled out of the car and into the biting air.
He checks his cell for the third time. Still no signal. He’s seen only a couple of cars in the past hour he’s been driving; there’s no point in waiting for help to come by on this backwoods road.
Neal pushes aside the rising anxiety and pulls himself together. It could be much, much worse. He is only three, maybe four miles from the cabin, and he can follow the road, with the remnants of daylight to guide him. He’s only dressed for the anticipated one-minute walk from car to cabin door, wearing a very stylish yet somewhat impractical pair of Italian leather ankle boots, but at least he has a wool coat and hat in the car. And if he’d imagined turning up at the door looking suave and elegant - well, he’s nothing if not the master of reinvention, and he can be just as alluring in snow-dusted clothes with cold-flushed cheeks and slightly damp hair.
He doesn’t have any other choice, anyway.
He grabs his bag and coat from the car, realising somewhat dazedly that he’s been standing out in the cold in just his shirt and sweater for the last few minutes. He pulls his coat tightly around him, shoves his still-shaking hands into his pockets and sets off down the road.
----
It feels like more than three miles.
He’s been walking for over an hour. Twilight sits heavy over the forest, the landscape tinged dark blue, and he has to squint through the gathering darkness to see the road under his feet, which has turned into a barely marked track thanks to the onslaught of thickening snow.
Neal gives in and turns on the flashlight app on his cell; no point saving battery when he has no signal anyway. He’s shivering so hard he can hardly work the touch screen, and when the flashlight comes on it barely illuminates two feet in front of him. He says a silent prayer that he won’t miss the turn to the cabin.
He wonders suddenly whether Peter and El have gone away because they don’t want Neal to be able to find them. But no - he shakes the thought out of his head - they’d know they’d have to go further than Vermont if they didn’t want Mozzie to be able to track them down in five minutes. Peter’s probably guessed that Mozzie keeps watch on the movements of everyone they used to know, just for fun.
Still, the thought that maybe they won’t want to see him weighs heavy on Neal’s mind - has been worrying him since he got off the plane, was playing on the edge of his thoughts as he drove.
He should have called first. He should have asked permission. He should have kept in contact all along.
He should have done a lot of things.
But if he’d called regularly, if he’d heard their voices, heard them say they missed him, he’d have gone back to New York. He couldn’t even bring himself to write love in the Christmas card he’d sent last year, lest that word should trigger every feeling he had for the both of them, and lead to heartfelt declarations that he didn’t want to make.
He’d had to wait.
The slick sole of Neal’s shoe slips on a patch of ice and he grabs onto the nearest tree branch to steady himself, frozen fingers grasping clumsily for purchase as he curses himself once again for not bringing gloves. Heavy clumps of snow fall from the branch, scattering over his arm, some finding its way down his coat sleeve, the cold seemingly determined to invade him however possible. He shakes off the snow and allows himself to stop for a moment, leaning tiredly against the tree trunk and closing his eyes against the vicious wind that seems to cut right through his clothes and threatens to rip his fedora from his head unless he continuously pushes it down.
He’s so cold, so tired. Walking in the snow has caused icy water to leech up his trousers as far as his knees. Every step seems painful, his body stiff, every millimeter of exposed skin protesting the freezing air.
He could sit down, he thinks. Just for a moment. Just to rest.
No. Can’t.
He has a sudden flash of himself falling asleep in the snow and never waking up. Not for the first time, he misses the anklet, misses the days when Peter knew where he was constantly, the days when there was nowhere he could go where Peter couldn’t find him. His cage; his safety net.
He pushes on.
He thinks of warm places to ward off the cold. The soft white beaches of Perth, with sea almost unrealistically turquoise. The markets of Morocco, the air thick with spice and heat and color and promise. The huge expanse of rolling sand dunes in Gran Canaria; the bright flower-filled gardens of Madeira; the sun bleached ruins of Thessalonica. Anywhere and everywhere he has run these last nineteen months, trying and failing to escape his feelings.
(He’d almost stayed in New York. Almost taken up the offer of a permanent job at the Bureau, almost taken up that other offer that he saw - hoped he saw - in Peter’s and El’s eyes. But he’d been trapped for so long. There was so much else to see, and he had to know if he belonged out there, chasing rainbows and sunsets and the next big heist.
He knows for sure now.)
It can’t be much further now, surely. His breath is coming out in white clouds, his feet are dragging, his ears and nose feel as if they must be frostbitten. His wool coat is soaked through and hanging heavy from his shoulders; he thinks vaguely that he might be better off without it.
The cell phone slips from his numb fingers and falls to the ground, shocking him out of his thoughts. He grabs for it, does his best to wipe the snow off, heart pounding, knowing he’d be lost without the light.
And then, as he turns the phone from side to side, checking it, the weak beam of light falls on a turn a little further down the road. And a signpost.
Yellow Birch Cabin.
----
Peter watches the credits of the Christmas film roll down the screen. Some ridiculous movie about Santa Claus finding himself a wife, which he and El have laughed through, snuggled together under a fleecy blanket. El’s dozing now, her head on his lap, and he smoothes her hair down gently; he’s so glad they came away. This is just what they needed.
Out of the corner of his eye he sees Satchmo sit up abruptly, roused from his sleep on the rug in front of the fire. The dog’s ears perk up and he barks twice, then runs towards the front door of the small cabin.
Peter frowns and eases himself gently out from underneath El, who’s just started to stir.
‘What’s wrong boy? What’s going on?’ he asks as he looks through the window, trying to see through the near-darkness. Satch seems excited more than wary, so it’s probably just an animal outside, but still, he should check.
He opens the front door a little, squinting out, and for a moment he can’t see anything. Then, out of the dark woods, a figure comes, walking slowly, only slightly visible in the weak light from the cabin windows. Peter tenses, reaches automatically for the holster he isn’t wearing, and then - his heart jumps. He squints again, pulse thudding, not quite believing it.
The figure is wearing a fedora.
Peter jams his feet into his shoes, flings the door fully open and sprints out, hearing El calling his name confusedly behind him. Satch streaks past him.
It’s only a few steps before he’s sure. It’s Neal. A very cold, tired looking Neal, but Neal all the same.
Neal stumbles to a stop a few feet away, seemingly oblivious to the dog jumping up at his side. His eyes are on Peter’s.
‘P’ter?’ His voice is weak.
Peter closes the distance between them and can’t stop himself from pulling Neal into a hug, grasping him tightly, making sure he’s real. The body beneath his arms is shockingly cold, and he pulls back, holding Neal by the shoulders.
‘Neal? What are you doing he- Never mind. Let’s get you inside.’
Neal agrees tiredly, and Peter takes his bag, then loops his arm around him, taking his weight as they head to the cabin, Satch bounding beside them. The feeling of Neal leaning against him, allowing him to all-but-carry him is painfully and beautifully familiar.
He sees El appear at the door, silhouetted in the light. Her hand claps over her mouth, and then she’s running outside, her socked feet sinking into the snow. ‘Neal?’ Her voice is breaking as her hands flutter at Neal’s back, wanting to give him more support.
Neal smiles softly at her. ‘’Liz’beth. Hi.’
Peter pulls Neal through the door and into the small open-plan living room and kitchen. He lets him go, carefully, and Neal sways a little, then steadies.
‘You look frozen half to death,’ El says anxiously, resting the back of a hand against Neal’s cheek to check his temperature. ‘I’ll get a towel. Peter, get him out of those wet clothes.’ She disappears into the bedroom.
Peter takes a close look at Neal. He’s pale, his lips are tinged with blue, the ends of his hair are wet and curling where they haven’t been protected by the hat, and he looks a little stunned.
‘I have presents,’ Neal says suddenly, looking around for his bag, as if afraid that turning up without gifts on the day before Christmas Eve would be deemed unacceptably rude.
Peter shakes his head. ‘Come on, undress,’ he says gently, taking his hat, then helping him out of the sodden coat and laying it over a chair. Neal is wet even beneath his coat, as though he was standing out in the snow in just his jumper.
Neal fumbles with his sweater, hands awkward and uncooperative, but Peter grasps his hands in his own, rubs them for a moment, and then lifts Neal’s arms up so that Peter can tug the sweater over his head.
‘Thanks,’ Neal mumbles, shivering as Peter gets to work on the shirt buttons and strips him to his undershirt, which seems to be dry at least. El reappears with towels and hands them to Peter, then goes to put the kettle on. He starts to dry off Neal’s hair, neck and hands, and Neal simply stands there, pliant and trusting, making Peter’s heart ache. When he’s done, he grabs the blanket from the couch and wraps it around Neal’s shoulders, then pushes the couch closer to the fire and sits Neal down.
El brings a cup of tea over. Neal doesn’t look in any state to hold it, so she holds it up to his mouth and he takes a couple of shaky sips before leaning back on the couch. Satchmo jumps up next to him, pushing close and providing his own type of furry comfort.
El looks worriedly at Peter. ‘Is he hypothermic? Should we take him to the hospital?’ She turns to Neal. ‘How long were you out there?’
He just shakes his head tiredly.
Peter bends down to unlace Neal’s boots. ‘It’s a long drive to the nearest hospital. I think he’ll be alright when we’ve warmed him up. I can’t see any frostbite.’ He gets rid of Neal’s socks, his chest clenching as he feels the temperature of Neal’s feet. How long was he walking for? He desperately wants to ask Neal why he’s here, where he’s come from, why he didn’t drive - and so many other, more important things. But that can wait. He rubs Neal’s feet between his hands.
‘Neal?’ he says. ‘These trousers are wet. Can you take them off?’
Neal moans quietly, but with what appears to be superhuman effort he undoes his belt and pushes his slacks down, letting Peter pull them off completely as he leans back again and closes his eyes.
‘We should get him into bed,’ Peter says to El.
‘Thought that was gonna take longer,’ Neal mumbles, the ghost of a smile on his face.
Peter’s mouth drops open, his brain seems to freeze and he looks at El, who just stares back, wide-eyed.
‘I -’ starts Peter, then stops. ‘Right. Come on.’ He carefully pulls Neal from the couch and guides him to the bedroom, helping him underneath the covers whilst El fetches extra blankets from the wardrobe. Satch lays himself on the bed at Neal’s feet. Even under three layers, Neal continues to shiver.
‘Don’t go to sleep,’ Peter instructs him, and Neal forces his eyes open.
‘Should we get in?’ El asks Peter quietly. ‘Share body heat?’
Peter’s already started pulling off his sweater. He strips down to just his sweatpants, then slips into bed behind Neal, pulling Neal’s back against his front and starting to rub his hand up and down the smooth skin of Neal’s arms, trying to infuse as much heat as possible. He already feels warmer than he did a few minutes ago, and he melts into Peter’s hold, the shivering dying down a little. Peter sighs in relief.
El takes off the cardigan she’s wearing over her T-shirt, and climbs in on the other side of Neal, pressing close to him and stroking the hair away from his face.
‘Better?’ she asks him, and Neal nods shakily. Peter hooks his leg over Neal’s, and gradually the shivering stops altogether.
‘Sorry,’ Neal murmurs after a long while, sounding a little hoarse but much more lucid.
‘For what?’ El asks.
‘Y’know. Turning up like this. Ruining your Christmas.’
‘Oh sweetie, you didn’t,’ El says, at the same time as Peter asks: ‘Are you kidding?’ His voice is rough with emotion and his hold on Neal tightens automatically.
Neal shifts slightly, turning to look at him in surprise. ‘Peter?’
Peter shakes his head, lowers his voice. ‘You couldn’t ruin it. We’ve been waiting for you.’
Neal frowns, confused. ‘Here?’ he asks.
‘No. Not here, specifically.’ Peter feels at a loss as to how to explain himself. There’s so much he wants to say, and he doesn’t know how to say any of it. ‘Just - Neal - we’re always waiting for you.’
A smile spreads slowly across Neal’s face. ‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay,’ he says quietly, and Peter feels all the remaining tension seep out of Neal’s body as he sinks completely into Peter’s arms. El moves closer until the three of them are as entwined as they can be, and it should be strange and awkward and uncomfortable, but it’s not. It’s right.
----
It’s late by the time that Neal stirs and pushes himself up into a sitting position. El has dozed on and off, though she’s awake now, looking more content than Peter can remember for a long time. Peter’s just lain there, keeping a close watch on the temperature of Neal’s skin, which has returned to normal, and trying to make sense of the last couple of hours.
They sit up, one each side of Neal.
‘Okay now?’ Peter asks.
Neal smiles. ‘I’m good.’
‘You want some supper, sweetie? Hot cocoa?’ El asks, and is rewarded with another smile, which is almost up to usual dazzling Caffrey standards.
‘That would be wonderful,’ he says. ‘But, should we talk? I mean, me turning up here out of the blue, you must have questions.’
‘Food first, questions later,’ Peter says firmly, and El shakes her head in agreement.
‘Get your strength back first,’ she tells him.
It’s not long before the three of them are sitting in front of the fire, sandwiches eaten and three cups of cocoa steaming on the coffee table. Neal looks comfortable if slightly swamped in the clothes Peter has lent him, and the color has returned to his face. Satch is curled on Neal’s feet, reluctant to leave him now that he has him back. Peter knows the feeling.
He sneaks a sideways look at Neal, not for the first time in the last few minutes. Apparently he’s not as subtle as he thinks, because Neal turns to look at him, smiling slightly.
‘What, Peter? Just ask.’
‘I was just wondering. You don’t have to answer right away. But… why now? Are you just visiting?’
Neal looks at Peter for a moment, then at El; he has an expression that Peter knows well, the one he wears when he’s assessing how truthful he should be, how much of himself to give away. Then his eyes soften, and he haltingly reaches for both of their hands.
‘I don’t want it to be just a visit,’ he says slowly. ‘And I came because I didn’t want to spend another Christmas without -’ He stops. Peter squeezes his hand encouragingly. He needs to hear it.
‘Without the people I love,’ Neal finishes.
Peter lets out a long, shuddering breath. Across from him, he sees a tear slip down El’s face as she smiles. And for the first time in almost two years, he feels like his world is complete.
‘Welcome home,’ he says.
-end-