Fic: The End and the Beginning (2/9)
Title: The End and the Beginning (2/9)
Author: reve_silencieux
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Neal, Peter, Sara, Mozzie, Jones, Elizabeth, OFC (N/S)
Spoilers: Season Five
Warnings: Spoilery (highlight to read) Permanent Injury - Paralysis
Word Count: 49,000 (This chapter: 7441)
Beta: sapphire2309
Summary: Five years after the events of The Last Con, Peter and Jones stumble across a case that opens up old wounds.
Previous Chapters: Chapter One
Chapter Two
Neal didn’t bother to check whether they followed him inside. Peter was like a dog with a bone when it came to anything involving Neal. He stopped just inside the living room and turned around. He watched as Peter took in the room with quick, furtive glances before his eyes came to rest on Neal.
People always stared at him-before averting their eyes. Neal was used to it. Peter, though, his eyes drifted over him, from the chair upwards, and he wasn’t surprised to see that the shock had turned to sadness. Often he wondered what would happen if he ever saw Peter again. But Peter had no reason to ever cross paths with Neal, not anymore.
Until now.
It had been a risk, alerting the museum of the forgery, but he had felt compelled to. He knew the FBI would get involved, and there was a chance that someone might recognize him. But he’d hoped his face had been forgotten in the years since his death. Obviously someone had remembered though. Someone had made the connection and called Peter.
Seeing Peter and Jones on his doorstep had stirred up old feelings, long since buried. Given the situation he wasn’t totally surprised, but at the same time it made his heart race and ache at the sight of his old friends.
Peter’s gaze cut back up to Neal’s face and he saw the shift from sadness to anger. It was inevitable. Neal acknowledged that he had every right to be mad at him. If their positions had been reversed, he would have been upset too.
“What the hell happened, Neal?” Peter threw out angrily.
Even though he’d been expecting it, Neal rolled back, feeling like he'd been punched. “What does it look like, Peter? I’d think it was rather obvious,” he replied, unable to help the sarcasm coloring his voice.
“How would I know?” Peter waved a hand in the air. “I got a phone call that you and Sara died in a car accident, and I believed it. I was shocked, but I had no reason to doubt it. Why, Neal? Why would you put us through that?” His shoulders slumped, and the air seemed to deflate out of him.
“I’m sorry, Peter. I had no other choice,” Neal said quietly.
“Because of what? This?” Peter’s eyes darted down to his still legs.
Neal's hands gripped his wheels tightly. He felt a slow tendril of anger burn through him. He knew he no longer looked like the old, charming Neal Caffrey. He had accepted that a long time ago. But now, he was faced with those who knew him from before. He felt exposed-like their expectations of him had fallen. It had helped that those who knew him now had never met that man, and had no problems trusting or accepting him.
But it still hurt a lot-especially coming from Peter.
“Because of what?” he repeated, incredulous. “You want to know why?” He leaned forward. “Did you ever wonder about all those people you put away?” he asked, a hard edge to his voice. “Did you ever think about them afterwards? Or did you just go on blissfully with your life?”
Peter's eyes widened. “Are you saying-”
“What do you think they thought of me, huh?” Neal cut him off. “I was a traitor, an ex-con helping the feds. You got to hide behind the badge, you got the protection that it afforded, but I didn't.”
“It wasn't an accident, was it?” Jones asked softly, looking down at Neal, his face a mix of sympathy and horror.
He didn't want their pity. Shaking his head sharply, he replied bitterly, “No, it was a hit.”
The room stilled and the air felt as though the temperature had dropped ten degrees. He glared at them, daring them to say something. To realize they lived an easy life, despite the danger they faced every day.
“Neal?” Sara’s voice called out quietly.
Neal glanced over, grateful for the interruption. He'd expected Peter's anger, but not his own. At the hospital he'd been too worried about Sara to really be angry. There had been regret, frustration and sadness afterwards, but he'd known he couldn't change anything so he had just moved on.
Apparently he'd just buried it instead. His eyes connected with Sara and she looked at him worried. She'd heard him he knew, and with a pang he wished he'd never spotted the forgery. Sara didn’t need any of this now, neither Peter nor the memories he awakened. It would only hurt her more.
While he hadn’t been truly surprised by the late night awakening, he knew she was on edge. Five years of staying under the radar and he'd made this decision without her, and possibly at the worst time. She stood in the doorway, halfway in the shadows and holding a baseball bat like a pro. It should have been comical, considering she looked like she might topple over any second-nine months pregnant and half-asleep-except for the fact that he knew she was scared, her grip on the bat was white-knuckled.
There were no guns in their house, and Sara no longer had her baton, but that didn’t stop her. Sara didn’t cower to anyone, and Neal loved that about her. The essence of Sara Ellis had not changed with Witness Protection or the intervening years.
“It’s okay, Sara,” he reassured her and she lowered the bat, stepping out of the dark hallway.
Her eyes flickered with thinly veiled distrust as she took in Peter and Jones’ presence. “Peter,” she said coolly, a slight quiver in her voice giving away the tension and fear that he knew was flowing through her. She moved to his side and he reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze.
“Sara.” Peter’s jaw dropped. “You’re pregnant!”
Sara raised an eyebrow. “Great powers of observation there, Peter. I can tell you haven’t lost your touch.” Peter looked annoyed and seemed about to bite off something when Neal shook his head and glanced back at Sara.
“How’s Madeline?”
Sara tore her eyes away from their midnight visitors, and back down at him. “She’s still asleep.”
He nodded, feeling relieved. One less thing to worry about. “Good. Why don't you go back to bed too? This will probably take a while.”
“Are you sure?” She looked at him, concerned, glancing briefly at Peter and worrying her lip between her teeth.
He knew she wanted to stay, felt that she should be a part of this conversation, but she needed her sleep. It was a constant battle between them, each feeling the need to take care of the other. Right now, she took precedence, no matter what happened tonight.
“It’ll be okay, I promise,” he repeated softly, even though he knew it would do little to calm her. She didn't seem convinced but she nodded. Bending down, she kissed him lightly, and he touched her cheek, giving her a small smile. She left without another word, a clear sign that she was too tired to argue.
Neal turned his attention back to Peter, who stood there looking stunned.
“You have a daughter?”
“Yes, so please keep your voice down.” He moved further into the living room, situating himself across from the couch. Peter and Jones followed.
Peter looked back towards where Sara had disappeared. “Sara didn’t seem too happy to see us.”
He let out a bitter laugh. “Why would she? She’s nine months pregnant, woken up in the middle of the night, afraid that she’s going to lose everything we’ve built here.”
“What?” Peter looked at him startled and confused.
Neal crossed his arms, frustration building in him again, despite knowing better. He attributed it to the late hour, but fear was a more likely cause. “You don't get it. We didn't fake our deaths for the fun of it, Peter. We're in Witness Protection. Once the Marshals find out that you're here, they'll whisk us away and we'll have to start all over again.”
The light dawned on Jones' face and Peter just looked like he'd been run over by a tractor trailer. The hits just kept coming.
“We're FBI, though,” Jones was the first one to speak.
He shook his head. “It doesn't matter. You're from our old lives.” He rolled forward, his eyes searching. “You think that I didn’t want to tell you? This is the one time I followed all the rules. It’s not just my life-it’s Sara’s too. And I have a family to think of now.”
“We won’t tell anyone,” Peter insisted.
Neal just shook his head again. He wished it could be as easy as a promise. “It’s not that simple. The local office contacted you. They made the connection. You keeping quiet doesn’t mean it all goes away. The Marshals won’t accept that.”
Jones straightened and shared a look with Peter. “Neal, they didn’t contact us. We’re the only ones that know you’re here.”
For a moment, Neal stilled at the realization that he could keep this life that he’d worked so hard for. “You mean…” he trailed off as his mind quickly put it all together. “The painting came from the Met,” he breathed.
“Exactly.” Jones nodded. “A few forgeries have popped up in the area in the past year. So when we got the call about this one, we knew it could be connected. I only realized you were here when I saw your employee file. Called Peter right away, but told no one else.”
Neal glanced at Peter who held a placating hand in the air. “I only found out an hour ago.” Neal nodded numbly, knowing that it explained the shock and anger on Peter’s part, although he didn’t think that Peter would have reacted any differently, even with time.
Jones hesitated a moment and shrugged his shoulders. “I knew it was probably better to keep things quiet for now. I had Thompson run background checks on everyone. That’s as far as I went.”
“Thompson?”
“Ryan Thompson. New probie at the office. He’s been with us, maybe a year?” Jones looked at Peter to confirm and got a nod in return.
Neal raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure he didn’t do his thesis on me at Quantico? I was a popular choice, I recall.”
Peter rolled his eyes and let a short huff. “No, he did not. I’m sorry to inform you that your… legacy has dimmed somewhat since your death. And while there’s a chance that he’s heard your name at the office, I doubt he’d recognize you.”
It hurt to hear, but logically, Neal knew that everyone had moved on. Aside from his closest friends, the FBI wouldn’t care about or remember a con man that they didn’t have to worry about anymore. There was always someone new on the scene, another case on the desk.
“I can have him interview you tomorrow too, so that my name’s not on the report, just in case the Marshals check,” Jones added.
Neal gave him a small smile and nodded in appreciation. Jones understood. It was going to take a lot more than a promise to keep this secret from the Marshals. But as scared as he was about the prospect of losing everything again, it was a weight off his shoulders, having his friends know the truth, not lying (even in absentia) to Peter.
Peter leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He swiped a hand over his face and took a deep breath. Neal knew exactly what was coming.
“Who was it, Neal? Why go to such lengths?”
He closed his eyes as he remembered the face of the man who had nearly ruined his life. A man who had little regard for anyone that got in his way. If he’d known… Neal shook his head and opened his eyes.
“Isaac Gregory. He wasn’t particularly happy that I helped Interpol and the Metropolitan Police arrest him with a stolen Matisse.”
Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “You worked with Interpol? How come I never heard about that?”
Neal gave him a look, as if to say ‘are you kidding me?’ Peter shrugged and Neal sighed, dropping his hands in his lap. “If you’d heard, would you have believed that the accident was just that? Wouldn’t you have started digging around? Let’s face it Peter, you rush to judgment, like a kid to an ice cream truck-especially when it concerns me.”
Jones coughed, covering up a laugh and Neal grinned. Peter glared at Jones then glanced back at him. “Okay, so you’re probably right, but why not just tell us? We could have at least known you were still alive, even if you had to go into hiding. It would have been hard, but it’s better than thinking you were dead.”
“Do you remember Keller?”
Peter stiffened and Neal nodded. “Yeah, take him and multiply by ten. Gregory is just as ruthless. He has a network throughout Europe and contacts all over the world. The only way to stay alive was for him and everyone else to believe that we were dead. Including you. Because if you knew we were alive, he would have found out, and used you-or Elizabeth, to get to me. I wasn’t going to let that happen, not again.”
Peter let out a long breath. Everyone was silent. Neal knew Peter wouldn’t-couldn’t argue with that. Not when it concerned Elizabeth’s safety. No matter how you looked at it, Neal knew he’d done the right thing. He’d gone over it so many times, but in the end, there had been only one option, as painful as it was.
“I… I just wish…” Peter trailed off, looking up at him, distraught.
Neal smiled sadly. “I know. But we can’t change the past. As much we might want to… and I’m not sure I would anymore. I’m happy, Peter.” He looked around, Madeline’s toys stored in one corner, the big expansive kitchen just around the corner set up for him, and the office for his schoolwork across the hall.
“I have a life here that I love, that I wouldn’t give up for anything. Sure, I want out of this chair, and I’m hopeful that one day I’ll be able to walk my daughter down the aisle, but that’s not what matters. I have Sara and Madeline, and a son in a few weeks. I have a beautiful house that was built just for me, and that makes life easier, but everything else? The fact that I’m no longer Neal Caffrey, ex-con, and have the opportunity to start over clean? I never thought that would be possible.”
He paused and ran a hand over his thigh. “We’ll never know what kind of life I could have had in London, but my past would always follow me around. Is this the way I wanted to go about it? No, but I’ve made the most of it and I don’t want to lose it now.”
“Then why take the risk of notifying the museum of the forgery?” Jones asked.
Neal remembered the moment he’d seen the painting, propped up on one of the easels in the back work room for inventory. It was one of his favorites, and it had been years since he’d seen it at the Met. He’d never been allowed to set foot in the museum while he was on the anklet. Seeing it in person, with no security watching and no crowds milling around, had been wonderful. Until he noticed that something was off. He thought it was the angle-he was obviously seeing it from a different perspective than most-but he quickly realized it was a forgery.
The sheen of the varnish wasn't right. Or, more to the point, the fact that there was varnish. Pissarro had stopped using varnish late in his career. He’d been opposed to the effect it had on the coloring and the matte surface. Oh, it looked real-the brushstrokes were correct, the canvas aged appropriately-but the slightly yellowed varnish gave it away.
He'd stared at it in shock, as he pondered what to do. So accustomed to working on both sides of the law, he didn't know where he belonged now. He couldn't call up Peter anymore, but strangely, he couldn't just leave the forgery there.
“Because I had to,” he finally replied, looking them in the eye. “I couldn't not say something.” He watched a small smile stretch across Peter’s face.
“How did you know?”
Neal glanced back at Jones. “It was good, really good.” Peter rolled his eyes, and it felt like old times. “But someone forgot to do their homework. Pissarro stopped using varnish on his paintings.”
“Are you sure this isn't one he did varnish?” Peter asked, looking a little skeptical.
“I'm sure. I know this painting. Trust me.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “It's not yours, is it?”
Now it really felt like nothing had changed and he shot Peter an annoyed look. “No. Do you think I would risk that now? Besides, when do I have the time? I'm going to school, interning at the museum and raising a two year old. I haven't painted in months.”
“Just making sure.” To his credit, Peter looked apologetic.
Neal relaxed. It had been a while since someone accused him of anything.
“I have painted it though, so that's why I know,” he added.
Peter straightened up suddenly, his eyes narrowed and he looked at Neal intently. “When?”
He shrugged. “I don't know. Sometime when I was in New York. I painted a lot, remember?” he added, looking at Peter pointedly.
“Where is it now?” Jones asked.
Neal glanced between the two. “I put it in storage. But obviously I haven't been back there in years.”
Peter nodded. “I know, we get that,” he reassured him. “But what would have happened to it after you died?”
The proverbial light bulb went off in his head. “You think someone stole my painting?”
“You said it was really good,” Peter pointed out and Neal couldn't help but grin. “Could it be yours?”
Neal paused and tried to remember the painting. He hadn’t intended to study it with such a close eye. It had been years since he’d last laid eyes on it and he had no reason to suspect a forgery. Time away from the FBI and his old life had mellowed him, he surmised. “Possibly. Someone obviously aged it, though.”
“Would you have signed it in any way?” Jones asked, leaning forward.
He shook his head. “No. They weren’t meant to be seen by anyone. I painted them to clear my head. I wasn't expecting anyone to pass them off as the real thing.”
“What would have happened to your storage unit? Is it possible it went up for auction?”
They all remembered the debacle with Mozzie and the auctioned storage unit. It took a split second for them to realize they had their answer.
“Mozzie,” Peter said simply.
Neal nodded and sighed. “Yeah, he had access.”
“Did you ever paint L'Estaque or La Place Valhubert?”
Closing his eyes and shaking his head, Neal could only laugh at the situation. Even 'dead', he was still committing crimes. “Yes. And they would be in storage.”
“And you haven’t contacted Mozzie, right?” Peter asked, his voice getting that anxious, excited tone of his whenever he got going on a case.
“Like I said before, Peter, I had to make everyone believe I was dead,” he said exasperated. “Especially Mozzie. Granted, that’s a tall order with his paranoia and general lack of trust of anything official, but I knew that if Mozzie believed I was dead, then so would Gregory.”
“Exactly!”
Neal blinked and looked at Peter confused.
Peter shook his head and waved a hand in the air. “I mean, if Mozzie knew you were alive, knew the truth, he wouldn't risk your safety.”
“Unless he doesn't know and he’s trying to lure Neal out now,” Jones pointed out.
Frowning, Peter replied, “That's a possibility, but why now? It's been five years.”
“You're trying to understand Mozzie? Really?” Neal asked, a little incredulous. Even after knowing his friend for over a decade, he couldn't begin to explain how the man's mind worked. Mozzie’s paranoid rambles surprised him more often than not.
“You're right, sorry. But it doesn't matter, we still have a job to do.”
“What?” Neal's hands went to his wheels and rolled forward. “Oh, come on, Peter. You can't go after Moz.”
“I can, and I will. This has to stop.” Peter's face was stern and bore no hint of backing down. “Did you know a security guard was shot during one of the thefts?”
Neal froze. “No, that's not possible. Mozzie would never shoot someone, much less carry a gun. You know him, Peter.”
Peter sighed. “Yeah, okay, but that doesn't change anything. We still need to talk to him. He might not have stolen them himself, but he’s involved.”
“He wouldn’t work with someone like that either. He probably just sold them.”
“Sold them?” Jones looked at him surprised.
Neal flashed them a big grin, feeling that old spark that came from a well-planned con. “A Neal Caffrey forgery is worth something to the right person.”
Peter looked heavenward and shook his head, mumbling something under his breath.
Chuckling, Neal rocked his chair back playfully. “Admit it, Peter, you missed me,” he teased. If he were honest with himself, he missed seeing that look on Peter’s face. So many of his antics over the years had been just to rile Peter up.
“I missed you.” Peter pointed at him. “Not the trouble that follows you around.”
“You can’t blame me for this!”
“No, but-”
“I think it’s getting late and we should head on out,” Jones interrupted, cutting them off before they could argue further.
“It was late when you showed up,” Neal remarked wryly and raised an eyebrow.
Jones coughed and glanced at Peter for a brief second, then back at Neal. “Thompson will interview you tomorrow. I have a few things to go over with Security and after that, we’ll head back to the office to finish up the local side of the investigation.”
Peter frowned, and his face betrayed at his annoyance for a few seconds, before he relaxed and reluctantly nodded. “Right. I’ll have Jones drop me off at the FBI office first, so that I’m not anywhere near the museum.”
Neal raised an eyebrow. “How are you going to explain your sudden visit? It sounds like Jones and Thompson have everything under control.”
“I’ll figure something out. Don’t worry about it.”
“It’s a little hard not to worry considering that two people from my former life are here, and my name’s been run.” He gave both of them a pointed look. “The Marshals are going to notice that.”
Jones winced. “Sorry about that.”
His lips stretched tight and Neal took a deep breath. “It couldn’t be helped, I realize that. I knew the risk and I took it.” He stopped and thought for a moment. “You ran everyone’s name, right?” Jones nodded and Neal gave him a small smile. “Good. That will help diffuse the attention.”
“How is it that you weren’t flagged?” Jones asked. “You’re in the system-your face, your fingerprints, everything. I know not everyone in Witness Protection is innocent, but I didn’t think they could just erase someone’s criminal history.”
“That’s because Neal Caffrey is dead,” he said. “A dead man can’t walk around or have a driver’s license for that matter.”
“Yes, we know that,” Peter replied exasperated, “but just because Neal Caffrey is dead, doesn’t mean that no one would want to attribute something to your criminal past. Or find some of your old work and want to match fingerprints or what-have-you.”
Neal sighed. “They couldn’t erase Neal Caffrey, so they just made sure I can’t ever be connected to him. Mozzie would be impressed, to say the least. My records from NCIC to Interpol and Europol have been… how should I put it?” He paused. “Disconnected. As it was explained to me-if anyone were to run facial recognition or my fingerprints against those databases, they wouldn’t come up with Neal Caffrey. You’d have to manually compare to get a match.”
Peter cocked his head to the side and pursed his lips. “So if you committed a crime now, they wouldn’t be able to connect you to your past.”
The anger flared up in him again, and Neal’s eyes hardened. “No, but that’s not going to happen. I know you’ve never fully trusted me-”
Peter held up a hand, interrupting him. “Hey, wait a second. I do-”
Neal shook his head. “No, you don’t. You came in here angry-which I understand, but tell me, when Jones first told you I was alive, what was your first thought? “'He lied again’ or ‘what did he do now?’” Peter opened his mouth, then closed it and sighed.
Nodding, Neal shot him a look. “It doesn’t matter what I do to prove myself to you. To you, I’m always the con-the criminal that can’t be trusted. I’ll do something that will screw things up. And maybe I did. Maybe I should have let the painting go. Then this wouldn’t have happened, I wouldn’t be putting my family in danger."
“What? Neal, no.” Peter leaned forward and looked at him pleadingly. “You are my friend and I do trust you. And you did the right thing. Don’t doubt that. I’m proud of you. The Neal that I know is a good man. He’s been thrown into some bad situations, and he might have made some poor choices, but I could always trust him.”
Neal looked away, and swallowed the retort on his lips. He didn’t want to argue. Peter might say it now, but death tended to make people only remember the good in someone. For five years Peter had probably mourned the friend he lost, but the second he was alive, Neal was a criminal again. He couldn’t help but lash out. There was always suspicion, mistrust and anger. Forgiveness was an afterthought, if it was there at all.
He knew that Peter never fully trusted him to go straight. They were friends, but they would always be agent and con.
“If I’m arrested, the Marshals will know,” he said quietly. “As they like to remind me, not everyone gets a second chance. I’m a very unique case.”
“That’s an understatement if I ever heard one,” Peter said lightly, and Jones chuckled softly.
Normally he would have beamed with pride, finding their words a compliment, but now it only hurt. His fingers curled tight, and the nails bit into the palm of his hands.
“It’s not just because of the deal you gave me,” he replied, his voice hard, and he forced his hands to lay flat on his legs. “Once you’re out of WitSec, you don’t get to come back. I’m an exception because I was only a kid the first time. We couldn’t stay in Europe-not with Gregory’s network, so Interpol struck a deal with the US Marshals.”
“And you ended up here,” Peter finished, and raised an eyebrow. “I have to say, it’s one of the last places I would have expected to find you.”
“Especially in suburbia,” added Jones.
Neal rubbed his eyes tiredly and sighed. “That's the point. Neal Caffrey's never been here. I was told to make a list of places where I would be known or had ever allegedly pulled off a con or theft. From there, we were given a choice of cities big enough for Sara to find a job and with good universities for me.” He paused and looked at them wearily. “We’ve made a life here, Peter. We’re happy,” he stressed.
A pained smile crossed Peter’s face and he nodded slowly. “You deserve it, Neal. I am happy for you-please believe me when I say that.”
“Thank you, Peter,” he replied quietly, and wondered if this was how it was going to end. The two of them yelling and pasting on a smile later, hoping that everything would be all better.
Jones glanced at his watch. “I think we really need to call it a night now. We’re all going to need some sleep if we want to function tomorrow.”
Peter slapped his hands on his legs and exhaled slowly, nodding again. “He's right. But we need to continue this. The case isn't over just because we know Mozzie's behind it. There's still a lot we have to discuss.”
“Is it okay if we come over tomorrow night?” Jones asked, concern evident on his face.
Neal froze, resting his hands on his wheels. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. We’ll be lucky to keep this meeting from the Marshals. If they stop by…”
Peter shared a look with Jones, then glanced back at Neal. “What if we met somewhere else?”
Frowning, Neal thought about leaving Sara and Madeline alone. It wasn’t that Sara couldn’t take care of herself and their daughter, but her nerves would be shot. He didn’t feel right leaving her by herself in this situation. And if the Marshals did show up, he didn’t want Sara to have to lie.
He sighed and shook his head. “No, we’ll do it here-just park in the garage. Let’s try not to announce to the whole world that you’re here.”
“Okay." Peter smiled and gave him a short nod. "We can do that.” He stood up and Jones followed suit.
Neal swiveled and started to lead them back to the front door.
Peter stopped in the front foyer, looked down at him, and asked lightly, “So, how is that you ended up with a house with a three car garage and I'm still parking on the street?”
Neal quirked an eyebrow. “Have you ever tried cleaning snow off your car while sitting down?”
A mortified expression immediately crossed Peter's face and shook his head. “Sorry, I didn't think about that.”
He chuckled. People often slipped up around him, but he was used to it. “Don't worry. I've had to make a lot of adjustments in my life, but at least I get a few perks, like good parking.”
“Right, right...” Peter still looked embarrassed.
“We'll see you tomorrow, Neal,” Jones smiled and gave him a curt nod, turning to open the front door.
Peter stood at the doorway after Jones walked out, and hesitated. He looked down at Neal, his eyes downcast and sad. “I wish we could have been there for you, Neal.” He paused just a moment, then turned and left, the door closing softly behind him.
Neal stared at the door, his heart caught in his throat.
“Me, too, Peter. Me, too,” he whispered.
*~*~*~*
He was numb.
Numb from grief, fear... sadness.
His brain tried to send a signal to wiggle his toes, but nothing happened. He exhaled slowly, and knew he was fooling himself. Nothing had changed since his last attempt. It wasn’t ever going to change. Not now, not tomorrow and certainly not the day after that.
It was hard to accept. But his fingers drifted down and trailed along his still legs, and it was impossible to deny, feeling only the blanket beneath his fingertips, and not the gentle pressure on his legs. His body wasn’t his own anymore.
Everything had been turned upside since he'd woken up the day before, hazy, and completely unaware that his life had irrevocably changed.
He just wanted to rewind-before the car crash, before the Chagall was stolen, before waking up to a new name and a new life. But even he couldn’t pull that off. Time was his enemy. It either slipped through his fingers too fast or too slow.
All he could focus on was the quiet tick of the clock, counting away to a life he no longer had control over. He was used to change, used to having certain things out of his reach, but this? This… was more than he could handle.
Waking up and having Reena tell his that his name was now Alec Miller hadn’t worried him. Names were a dime a dozen. But then he’d remembered the accident… and Sara. His last memory was of her being thrown across the cab and watching with horror as her head slammed against the window.
He'd been afraid of the worst, because he always seemed to lose everyone he loved. His heart had been ready to jump out of his chest as he searched Reena’s face frantically, hopeful for a sign that would tell him otherwise. He hadn’t realized it then, when looking at the anxious expression on her face, that she’d been afraid he’d noticed his legs. But he hadn’t been worried about himself. His only concern had been about Sara.
It had been a relief to see her dozing in a recliner off to his left, though her face was bruised, and there was a cast on her arm. He didn’t question Reena, just let himself drift back to sleep, thankful that Sara was alive.
When he woke up next, Sara was there, holding his hand. Still hazy and numb, it hadn't hit him until she told him. Her eyes red and puffy, with dried tear tracks splayed on her cheeks, she’d explained what had happened. It had been like a punch to the stomach, and he'd stared at her in shock as he fought to prove them all wrong, his mind reaching out to feel his legs.
But it was as if there was nothing there.
It hurt, unbelievably so, and he’d wanted to cry and scream. But he’d looked at Sara with her battered and bruised body, and realized that he could have lost so much more. He’d pushed his pain aside, just thankful that it’d happened to him, and not her. Sara was alive, and he’d held onto her tightly, letting himself take comfort in that. He would face the rest of it later.
He didn’t find out about Reena’s offer of Witness Protection until after they talked with the doctors, after he realized his life was never going to be the same.
Neal didn't know what hurt worse-that they had to go into hiding or that Sara had made the decision willingly. She was giving up her life for him. Because of him.
It was all his fault. He’d done this to her. Neal gripped the blanket in his hand, breathing in hard. Forget his legs. He’d ruined her life. Kate, Peter and Elizabeth... They all would have been better off without him in their lives.
He could adapt-used to years of life on the run, of leaving himself behind. A new name, a new city, new circumstances-that was his normal. But it’d been his choice. She didn't deserve this.
Even so, he was too selfish to let her go. He wanted to wake up beside her every day, to watch her smile and laugh, to start a family with her. Everything he’d dreamt of these past few months. He couldn’t give that up. Not now, not after working so hard to have this second chance. Kate’s face in the window of the plane flashed in his mind, reminding him of how easily he could lose everything.
He nearly had.
Was he wrong to keep her in this life? Would he just hurt her again? He'd tried to convince her that she would be better off without him, but she had been firm. It was just a job, she'd told him.
He knew it was more than that. It was her identity, her sense of self, her life, her past. It didn't matter that she'd lost her family a long time ago, that she had few friends today. She’d made a life for herself in London, and he didn't want her to look back and regret it.
“I chose my job before,” she'd said softly, looking down where their hands intertwined. “It was lonely.”
He hadn't pushed after that, just quietly accepted it, thankful to have her at his side.
It wasn't going to be easy, he knew that. 'Jessica' felt weird on his tongue, she stumbled over ‘Alec’, and this was only the beginning. They still had to get through the next few months. Both of them would heal with time, and life would eventually return to a semblance of normal.
Until then, though, it would be a hard road.
Neal knew she was trying to be strong for him, and he was trying to do the same for her. As the nurses worked around him during the day, moving him, turning him, and doing every little thing that he couldn't do himself, he'd laid there helplessly, and swallowed the fear that was building within him. The fear that threatened to completely overwhelm him.
Somehow he would get through this, but right now it seemed too impossible to even contemplate.
He watched shadows dance across the pale walls as the sun set, slowly enveloping the room into darkness. Sara had been discharged earlier and Reena had taken her to a safe house. He was alone now, and the ICU was quiet. He felt a tear slide down his cheek but he made no move to wipe it away. It didn’t matter who saw him now. There wasn’t anyone left to impress.
He’d been holding it in as the doctors had talked to him, and run tests; as he discovered exactly what he could feel, or rather, couldn’t feel anymore; as he watched the nurses handle him with care, and the reality of his new life hit him hard.
He gulped back air and stifled a sob. More tears fell, blurring his eyes into a watery kaleidoscope. He finally reached up to wipe them away. He hadn’t lost everything, he tried to convince himself, but that didn’t help much.
His spine had shattered. His spinal cord had been severed. He was being held together by plates and screws. There were still bone fragments in his back. They were waiting for the swelling to go down before they went in again to remove them. But that wouldn't change anything, he knew that. He held out no hope for a miracle.
He was paralyzed and it was permanent.
Neal remembered hearing the word ‘lucky’ from one of the doctors, and his mind had gone into a rage as they talked in clinical terms, explaining why his low break was actually a good thing.
Good? How was it good? He ran his hands down his legs, still trying to accept the emptiness that he felt below his waist. The sheer nothingness. It didn’t matter what the doctors said. Because he was broken.
He tossed the blanket aside angrily and stared down at his legs. Right now he couldn’t care less that it could have been worse, that a few inches higher and he could have lost feeling in his chest or even his hands. It was hard to look at the bright side when he couldn’t move-couldn’t do anything but lay there, dependent on everyone else.
The doctors had been blunt. It would take months of therapy before he could go home and try to get on with his life.
They didn't know the half of it.
Neal had no idea what kind of life he and Sara would have, where they would live, what they would do. They would have nothing-no one, to fall back on. For most of his life, he'd had someone. Ellen, Mozzie, Peter. He had taken the leap to move to London, to start over, but he'd always known he had friends at his back. Friends who now thought he was dead.
It wasn't right that they had to suffer too. He had a lot of regrets over his life, but none more so than the pain he'd caused them over the years. He hated that he was disrupting their lives once more, and wished he could spare them now.
He thought of June, who'd been so nice and supportive of him. She’d opened her home after losing Byron. This would devastate her.
Or what about Mozzie? He’d stood by him through everything, and would do anything for him. Neal might have left New York and that life behind, but that didn't matter, not to their friendship. Mozzie would drop everything at a moment's notice for Neal. He probably wouldn't believe that Neal was dead, though, and that worried him. Mozzie would hang on to anything, any possibility, and it would probably be months before he accepted it.
Then there was Elizabeth, who, despite how rocky the last year and a half had been, had always been the intermediary between Peter's suspicious nature and himself. She'd seen him as a person first and criminal second. He didn't know if without her, that Peter would have given him a chance.
And Peter?
The man had become his best friend, his partner, his conscience.
Of anyone, he wished he could tell Peter, let him know that it had all been worth it, the years of friendship, the support when no one else believed him, the lies and cover ups for all his mistakes... for making him a better man.
Neal squeezed his eyes shut and took a long shuddering breath. He couldn't say goodbye to them. After everything, after all they had done for him, they didn't deserve this. To get a phone call and nothing more.
But it kept them safe. Not just him and Sara, but Mozzie, Elizabeth, Peter, and anyone who had known him. He wouldn't let Gregory use them as leverage. No one else should be hurt because of him, not when he'd hurt them so much before.
And maybe this was for the best. Trouble followed him around. They’d been through enough and they could move on with their lives now. He would just be a memory. Hopefully they could smile and laugh at the memory, instead of remembering all the chaos he’d brought to their lives. That was all he wanted for them, some happiness, even if it came at his expense. He could live with that.
It was the only thing he could do for them, because he knew otherwise. There would be no happy ending for everyone. Not this time. He wasn’t walking out of this, wasn’t escaping with a few slick words and a sly grin like so many times before.
His luck had run out.
He tugged the blanket back over his legs, the vestiges of his old life too painful to look at. The corner caught on his foot and he yanked at it, frustration building in him at what should have been a simple task. But no, he was flat on his back and couldn't do so much as nudge a blanket over his feet, much less get out of his hospital bed.
There would be no more sneaking through air vents or dancing past security cameras, but that didn’t bother him as much as everything else.
He thought about Sara, and wanting to take her to the south of France and walking along the beach, sand between their toes, laughing, stumbling along like drunken teenagers.
Or having the first dance at their wedding, where he would spin her around and hold her in his arms, as they let the music wash over them, the two of them alone in the moment.
But that would never happen. There would be no dancing. No looking down in her eyes as he dipped her and kissed her senseless to the whoops and hollers of their friends.
Or falling into bed, making love to her in the moonlight, and feeling her shudder beneath him. He wouldn't feel that anymore, wouldn't feel her touch...
He swiped at his eyes and his heart pounded in his chest.
It was all gone.
What kind of life could he give her? He couldn't be there for her-not the way he wanted. He wasn't that man anymore.
How could she stay with him?
His eyes fixed on the ceiling, his chest heaving, and swallowed back the tears. Gone, gone, gone... His life, his friends…. He couldn't feel anything. Nothing. Gasping, his shoulders shook as he cried silently.
He couldn't lose her too. Not now. Hadn’t he lost enough?
He wasn't perfect, wasn’t innocent by any means, and he’d made his fair share of mistakes, but why this? Why now?
Why him?
Chapter Three
Author: reve_silencieux
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Neal, Peter, Sara, Mozzie, Jones, Elizabeth, OFC (N/S)
Spoilers: Season Five
Warnings: Spoilery (highlight to read) Permanent Injury - Paralysis
Word Count: 49,000 (This chapter: 7441)
Beta: sapphire2309
Summary: Five years after the events of The Last Con, Peter and Jones stumble across a case that opens up old wounds.
Previous Chapters: Chapter One
Chapter Two
Neal didn’t bother to check whether they followed him inside. Peter was like a dog with a bone when it came to anything involving Neal. He stopped just inside the living room and turned around. He watched as Peter took in the room with quick, furtive glances before his eyes came to rest on Neal.
People always stared at him-before averting their eyes. Neal was used to it. Peter, though, his eyes drifted over him, from the chair upwards, and he wasn’t surprised to see that the shock had turned to sadness. Often he wondered what would happen if he ever saw Peter again. But Peter had no reason to ever cross paths with Neal, not anymore.
Until now.
It had been a risk, alerting the museum of the forgery, but he had felt compelled to. He knew the FBI would get involved, and there was a chance that someone might recognize him. But he’d hoped his face had been forgotten in the years since his death. Obviously someone had remembered though. Someone had made the connection and called Peter.
Seeing Peter and Jones on his doorstep had stirred up old feelings, long since buried. Given the situation he wasn’t totally surprised, but at the same time it made his heart race and ache at the sight of his old friends.
Peter’s gaze cut back up to Neal’s face and he saw the shift from sadness to anger. It was inevitable. Neal acknowledged that he had every right to be mad at him. If their positions had been reversed, he would have been upset too.
“What the hell happened, Neal?” Peter threw out angrily.
Even though he’d been expecting it, Neal rolled back, feeling like he'd been punched. “What does it look like, Peter? I’d think it was rather obvious,” he replied, unable to help the sarcasm coloring his voice.
“How would I know?” Peter waved a hand in the air. “I got a phone call that you and Sara died in a car accident, and I believed it. I was shocked, but I had no reason to doubt it. Why, Neal? Why would you put us through that?” His shoulders slumped, and the air seemed to deflate out of him.
“I’m sorry, Peter. I had no other choice,” Neal said quietly.
“Because of what? This?” Peter’s eyes darted down to his still legs.
Neal's hands gripped his wheels tightly. He felt a slow tendril of anger burn through him. He knew he no longer looked like the old, charming Neal Caffrey. He had accepted that a long time ago. But now, he was faced with those who knew him from before. He felt exposed-like their expectations of him had fallen. It had helped that those who knew him now had never met that man, and had no problems trusting or accepting him.
But it still hurt a lot-especially coming from Peter.
“Because of what?” he repeated, incredulous. “You want to know why?” He leaned forward. “Did you ever wonder about all those people you put away?” he asked, a hard edge to his voice. “Did you ever think about them afterwards? Or did you just go on blissfully with your life?”
Peter's eyes widened. “Are you saying-”
“What do you think they thought of me, huh?” Neal cut him off. “I was a traitor, an ex-con helping the feds. You got to hide behind the badge, you got the protection that it afforded, but I didn't.”
“It wasn't an accident, was it?” Jones asked softly, looking down at Neal, his face a mix of sympathy and horror.
He didn't want their pity. Shaking his head sharply, he replied bitterly, “No, it was a hit.”
The room stilled and the air felt as though the temperature had dropped ten degrees. He glared at them, daring them to say something. To realize they lived an easy life, despite the danger they faced every day.
“Neal?” Sara’s voice called out quietly.
Neal glanced over, grateful for the interruption. He'd expected Peter's anger, but not his own. At the hospital he'd been too worried about Sara to really be angry. There had been regret, frustration and sadness afterwards, but he'd known he couldn't change anything so he had just moved on.
Apparently he'd just buried it instead. His eyes connected with Sara and she looked at him worried. She'd heard him he knew, and with a pang he wished he'd never spotted the forgery. Sara didn’t need any of this now, neither Peter nor the memories he awakened. It would only hurt her more.
While he hadn’t been truly surprised by the late night awakening, he knew she was on edge. Five years of staying under the radar and he'd made this decision without her, and possibly at the worst time. She stood in the doorway, halfway in the shadows and holding a baseball bat like a pro. It should have been comical, considering she looked like she might topple over any second-nine months pregnant and half-asleep-except for the fact that he knew she was scared, her grip on the bat was white-knuckled.
There were no guns in their house, and Sara no longer had her baton, but that didn’t stop her. Sara didn’t cower to anyone, and Neal loved that about her. The essence of Sara Ellis had not changed with Witness Protection or the intervening years.
“It’s okay, Sara,” he reassured her and she lowered the bat, stepping out of the dark hallway.
Her eyes flickered with thinly veiled distrust as she took in Peter and Jones’ presence. “Peter,” she said coolly, a slight quiver in her voice giving away the tension and fear that he knew was flowing through her. She moved to his side and he reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze.
“Sara.” Peter’s jaw dropped. “You’re pregnant!”
Sara raised an eyebrow. “Great powers of observation there, Peter. I can tell you haven’t lost your touch.” Peter looked annoyed and seemed about to bite off something when Neal shook his head and glanced back at Sara.
“How’s Madeline?”
Sara tore her eyes away from their midnight visitors, and back down at him. “She’s still asleep.”
He nodded, feeling relieved. One less thing to worry about. “Good. Why don't you go back to bed too? This will probably take a while.”
“Are you sure?” She looked at him, concerned, glancing briefly at Peter and worrying her lip between her teeth.
He knew she wanted to stay, felt that she should be a part of this conversation, but she needed her sleep. It was a constant battle between them, each feeling the need to take care of the other. Right now, she took precedence, no matter what happened tonight.
“It’ll be okay, I promise,” he repeated softly, even though he knew it would do little to calm her. She didn't seem convinced but she nodded. Bending down, she kissed him lightly, and he touched her cheek, giving her a small smile. She left without another word, a clear sign that she was too tired to argue.
Neal turned his attention back to Peter, who stood there looking stunned.
“You have a daughter?”
“Yes, so please keep your voice down.” He moved further into the living room, situating himself across from the couch. Peter and Jones followed.
Peter looked back towards where Sara had disappeared. “Sara didn’t seem too happy to see us.”
He let out a bitter laugh. “Why would she? She’s nine months pregnant, woken up in the middle of the night, afraid that she’s going to lose everything we’ve built here.”
“What?” Peter looked at him startled and confused.
Neal crossed his arms, frustration building in him again, despite knowing better. He attributed it to the late hour, but fear was a more likely cause. “You don't get it. We didn't fake our deaths for the fun of it, Peter. We're in Witness Protection. Once the Marshals find out that you're here, they'll whisk us away and we'll have to start all over again.”
The light dawned on Jones' face and Peter just looked like he'd been run over by a tractor trailer. The hits just kept coming.
“We're FBI, though,” Jones was the first one to speak.
He shook his head. “It doesn't matter. You're from our old lives.” He rolled forward, his eyes searching. “You think that I didn’t want to tell you? This is the one time I followed all the rules. It’s not just my life-it’s Sara’s too. And I have a family to think of now.”
“We won’t tell anyone,” Peter insisted.
Neal just shook his head again. He wished it could be as easy as a promise. “It’s not that simple. The local office contacted you. They made the connection. You keeping quiet doesn’t mean it all goes away. The Marshals won’t accept that.”
Jones straightened and shared a look with Peter. “Neal, they didn’t contact us. We’re the only ones that know you’re here.”
For a moment, Neal stilled at the realization that he could keep this life that he’d worked so hard for. “You mean…” he trailed off as his mind quickly put it all together. “The painting came from the Met,” he breathed.
“Exactly.” Jones nodded. “A few forgeries have popped up in the area in the past year. So when we got the call about this one, we knew it could be connected. I only realized you were here when I saw your employee file. Called Peter right away, but told no one else.”
Neal glanced at Peter who held a placating hand in the air. “I only found out an hour ago.” Neal nodded numbly, knowing that it explained the shock and anger on Peter’s part, although he didn’t think that Peter would have reacted any differently, even with time.
Jones hesitated a moment and shrugged his shoulders. “I knew it was probably better to keep things quiet for now. I had Thompson run background checks on everyone. That’s as far as I went.”
“Thompson?”
“Ryan Thompson. New probie at the office. He’s been with us, maybe a year?” Jones looked at Peter to confirm and got a nod in return.
Neal raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure he didn’t do his thesis on me at Quantico? I was a popular choice, I recall.”
Peter rolled his eyes and let a short huff. “No, he did not. I’m sorry to inform you that your… legacy has dimmed somewhat since your death. And while there’s a chance that he’s heard your name at the office, I doubt he’d recognize you.”
It hurt to hear, but logically, Neal knew that everyone had moved on. Aside from his closest friends, the FBI wouldn’t care about or remember a con man that they didn’t have to worry about anymore. There was always someone new on the scene, another case on the desk.
“I can have him interview you tomorrow too, so that my name’s not on the report, just in case the Marshals check,” Jones added.
Neal gave him a small smile and nodded in appreciation. Jones understood. It was going to take a lot more than a promise to keep this secret from the Marshals. But as scared as he was about the prospect of losing everything again, it was a weight off his shoulders, having his friends know the truth, not lying (even in absentia) to Peter.
Peter leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He swiped a hand over his face and took a deep breath. Neal knew exactly what was coming.
“Who was it, Neal? Why go to such lengths?”
He closed his eyes as he remembered the face of the man who had nearly ruined his life. A man who had little regard for anyone that got in his way. If he’d known… Neal shook his head and opened his eyes.
“Isaac Gregory. He wasn’t particularly happy that I helped Interpol and the Metropolitan Police arrest him with a stolen Matisse.”
Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “You worked with Interpol? How come I never heard about that?”
Neal gave him a look, as if to say ‘are you kidding me?’ Peter shrugged and Neal sighed, dropping his hands in his lap. “If you’d heard, would you have believed that the accident was just that? Wouldn’t you have started digging around? Let’s face it Peter, you rush to judgment, like a kid to an ice cream truck-especially when it concerns me.”
Jones coughed, covering up a laugh and Neal grinned. Peter glared at Jones then glanced back at him. “Okay, so you’re probably right, but why not just tell us? We could have at least known you were still alive, even if you had to go into hiding. It would have been hard, but it’s better than thinking you were dead.”
“Do you remember Keller?”
Peter stiffened and Neal nodded. “Yeah, take him and multiply by ten. Gregory is just as ruthless. He has a network throughout Europe and contacts all over the world. The only way to stay alive was for him and everyone else to believe that we were dead. Including you. Because if you knew we were alive, he would have found out, and used you-or Elizabeth, to get to me. I wasn’t going to let that happen, not again.”
Peter let out a long breath. Everyone was silent. Neal knew Peter wouldn’t-couldn’t argue with that. Not when it concerned Elizabeth’s safety. No matter how you looked at it, Neal knew he’d done the right thing. He’d gone over it so many times, but in the end, there had been only one option, as painful as it was.
“I… I just wish…” Peter trailed off, looking up at him, distraught.
Neal smiled sadly. “I know. But we can’t change the past. As much we might want to… and I’m not sure I would anymore. I’m happy, Peter.” He looked around, Madeline’s toys stored in one corner, the big expansive kitchen just around the corner set up for him, and the office for his schoolwork across the hall.
“I have a life here that I love, that I wouldn’t give up for anything. Sure, I want out of this chair, and I’m hopeful that one day I’ll be able to walk my daughter down the aisle, but that’s not what matters. I have Sara and Madeline, and a son in a few weeks. I have a beautiful house that was built just for me, and that makes life easier, but everything else? The fact that I’m no longer Neal Caffrey, ex-con, and have the opportunity to start over clean? I never thought that would be possible.”
He paused and ran a hand over his thigh. “We’ll never know what kind of life I could have had in London, but my past would always follow me around. Is this the way I wanted to go about it? No, but I’ve made the most of it and I don’t want to lose it now.”
“Then why take the risk of notifying the museum of the forgery?” Jones asked.
Neal remembered the moment he’d seen the painting, propped up on one of the easels in the back work room for inventory. It was one of his favorites, and it had been years since he’d seen it at the Met. He’d never been allowed to set foot in the museum while he was on the anklet. Seeing it in person, with no security watching and no crowds milling around, had been wonderful. Until he noticed that something was off. He thought it was the angle-he was obviously seeing it from a different perspective than most-but he quickly realized it was a forgery.
The sheen of the varnish wasn't right. Or, more to the point, the fact that there was varnish. Pissarro had stopped using varnish late in his career. He’d been opposed to the effect it had on the coloring and the matte surface. Oh, it looked real-the brushstrokes were correct, the canvas aged appropriately-but the slightly yellowed varnish gave it away.
He'd stared at it in shock, as he pondered what to do. So accustomed to working on both sides of the law, he didn't know where he belonged now. He couldn't call up Peter anymore, but strangely, he couldn't just leave the forgery there.
“Because I had to,” he finally replied, looking them in the eye. “I couldn't not say something.” He watched a small smile stretch across Peter’s face.
“How did you know?”
Neal glanced back at Jones. “It was good, really good.” Peter rolled his eyes, and it felt like old times. “But someone forgot to do their homework. Pissarro stopped using varnish on his paintings.”
“Are you sure this isn't one he did varnish?” Peter asked, looking a little skeptical.
“I'm sure. I know this painting. Trust me.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “It's not yours, is it?”
Now it really felt like nothing had changed and he shot Peter an annoyed look. “No. Do you think I would risk that now? Besides, when do I have the time? I'm going to school, interning at the museum and raising a two year old. I haven't painted in months.”
“Just making sure.” To his credit, Peter looked apologetic.
Neal relaxed. It had been a while since someone accused him of anything.
“I have painted it though, so that's why I know,” he added.
Peter straightened up suddenly, his eyes narrowed and he looked at Neal intently. “When?”
He shrugged. “I don't know. Sometime when I was in New York. I painted a lot, remember?” he added, looking at Peter pointedly.
“Where is it now?” Jones asked.
Neal glanced between the two. “I put it in storage. But obviously I haven't been back there in years.”
Peter nodded. “I know, we get that,” he reassured him. “But what would have happened to it after you died?”
The proverbial light bulb went off in his head. “You think someone stole my painting?”
“You said it was really good,” Peter pointed out and Neal couldn't help but grin. “Could it be yours?”
Neal paused and tried to remember the painting. He hadn’t intended to study it with such a close eye. It had been years since he’d last laid eyes on it and he had no reason to suspect a forgery. Time away from the FBI and his old life had mellowed him, he surmised. “Possibly. Someone obviously aged it, though.”
“Would you have signed it in any way?” Jones asked, leaning forward.
He shook his head. “No. They weren’t meant to be seen by anyone. I painted them to clear my head. I wasn't expecting anyone to pass them off as the real thing.”
“What would have happened to your storage unit? Is it possible it went up for auction?”
They all remembered the debacle with Mozzie and the auctioned storage unit. It took a split second for them to realize they had their answer.
“Mozzie,” Peter said simply.
Neal nodded and sighed. “Yeah, he had access.”
“Did you ever paint L'Estaque or La Place Valhubert?”
Closing his eyes and shaking his head, Neal could only laugh at the situation. Even 'dead', he was still committing crimes. “Yes. And they would be in storage.”
“And you haven’t contacted Mozzie, right?” Peter asked, his voice getting that anxious, excited tone of his whenever he got going on a case.
“Like I said before, Peter, I had to make everyone believe I was dead,” he said exasperated. “Especially Mozzie. Granted, that’s a tall order with his paranoia and general lack of trust of anything official, but I knew that if Mozzie believed I was dead, then so would Gregory.”
“Exactly!”
Neal blinked and looked at Peter confused.
Peter shook his head and waved a hand in the air. “I mean, if Mozzie knew you were alive, knew the truth, he wouldn't risk your safety.”
“Unless he doesn't know and he’s trying to lure Neal out now,” Jones pointed out.
Frowning, Peter replied, “That's a possibility, but why now? It's been five years.”
“You're trying to understand Mozzie? Really?” Neal asked, a little incredulous. Even after knowing his friend for over a decade, he couldn't begin to explain how the man's mind worked. Mozzie’s paranoid rambles surprised him more often than not.
“You're right, sorry. But it doesn't matter, we still have a job to do.”
“What?” Neal's hands went to his wheels and rolled forward. “Oh, come on, Peter. You can't go after Moz.”
“I can, and I will. This has to stop.” Peter's face was stern and bore no hint of backing down. “Did you know a security guard was shot during one of the thefts?”
Neal froze. “No, that's not possible. Mozzie would never shoot someone, much less carry a gun. You know him, Peter.”
Peter sighed. “Yeah, okay, but that doesn't change anything. We still need to talk to him. He might not have stolen them himself, but he’s involved.”
“He wouldn’t work with someone like that either. He probably just sold them.”
“Sold them?” Jones looked at him surprised.
Neal flashed them a big grin, feeling that old spark that came from a well-planned con. “A Neal Caffrey forgery is worth something to the right person.”
Peter looked heavenward and shook his head, mumbling something under his breath.
Chuckling, Neal rocked his chair back playfully. “Admit it, Peter, you missed me,” he teased. If he were honest with himself, he missed seeing that look on Peter’s face. So many of his antics over the years had been just to rile Peter up.
“I missed you.” Peter pointed at him. “Not the trouble that follows you around.”
“You can’t blame me for this!”
“No, but-”
“I think it’s getting late and we should head on out,” Jones interrupted, cutting them off before they could argue further.
“It was late when you showed up,” Neal remarked wryly and raised an eyebrow.
Jones coughed and glanced at Peter for a brief second, then back at Neal. “Thompson will interview you tomorrow. I have a few things to go over with Security and after that, we’ll head back to the office to finish up the local side of the investigation.”
Peter frowned, and his face betrayed at his annoyance for a few seconds, before he relaxed and reluctantly nodded. “Right. I’ll have Jones drop me off at the FBI office first, so that I’m not anywhere near the museum.”
Neal raised an eyebrow. “How are you going to explain your sudden visit? It sounds like Jones and Thompson have everything under control.”
“I’ll figure something out. Don’t worry about it.”
“It’s a little hard not to worry considering that two people from my former life are here, and my name’s been run.” He gave both of them a pointed look. “The Marshals are going to notice that.”
Jones winced. “Sorry about that.”
His lips stretched tight and Neal took a deep breath. “It couldn’t be helped, I realize that. I knew the risk and I took it.” He stopped and thought for a moment. “You ran everyone’s name, right?” Jones nodded and Neal gave him a small smile. “Good. That will help diffuse the attention.”
“How is it that you weren’t flagged?” Jones asked. “You’re in the system-your face, your fingerprints, everything. I know not everyone in Witness Protection is innocent, but I didn’t think they could just erase someone’s criminal history.”
“That’s because Neal Caffrey is dead,” he said. “A dead man can’t walk around or have a driver’s license for that matter.”
“Yes, we know that,” Peter replied exasperated, “but just because Neal Caffrey is dead, doesn’t mean that no one would want to attribute something to your criminal past. Or find some of your old work and want to match fingerprints or what-have-you.”
Neal sighed. “They couldn’t erase Neal Caffrey, so they just made sure I can’t ever be connected to him. Mozzie would be impressed, to say the least. My records from NCIC to Interpol and Europol have been… how should I put it?” He paused. “Disconnected. As it was explained to me-if anyone were to run facial recognition or my fingerprints against those databases, they wouldn’t come up with Neal Caffrey. You’d have to manually compare to get a match.”
Peter cocked his head to the side and pursed his lips. “So if you committed a crime now, they wouldn’t be able to connect you to your past.”
The anger flared up in him again, and Neal’s eyes hardened. “No, but that’s not going to happen. I know you’ve never fully trusted me-”
Peter held up a hand, interrupting him. “Hey, wait a second. I do-”
Neal shook his head. “No, you don’t. You came in here angry-which I understand, but tell me, when Jones first told you I was alive, what was your first thought? “'He lied again’ or ‘what did he do now?’” Peter opened his mouth, then closed it and sighed.
Nodding, Neal shot him a look. “It doesn’t matter what I do to prove myself to you. To you, I’m always the con-the criminal that can’t be trusted. I’ll do something that will screw things up. And maybe I did. Maybe I should have let the painting go. Then this wouldn’t have happened, I wouldn’t be putting my family in danger."
“What? Neal, no.” Peter leaned forward and looked at him pleadingly. “You are my friend and I do trust you. And you did the right thing. Don’t doubt that. I’m proud of you. The Neal that I know is a good man. He’s been thrown into some bad situations, and he might have made some poor choices, but I could always trust him.”
Neal looked away, and swallowed the retort on his lips. He didn’t want to argue. Peter might say it now, but death tended to make people only remember the good in someone. For five years Peter had probably mourned the friend he lost, but the second he was alive, Neal was a criminal again. He couldn’t help but lash out. There was always suspicion, mistrust and anger. Forgiveness was an afterthought, if it was there at all.
He knew that Peter never fully trusted him to go straight. They were friends, but they would always be agent and con.
“If I’m arrested, the Marshals will know,” he said quietly. “As they like to remind me, not everyone gets a second chance. I’m a very unique case.”
“That’s an understatement if I ever heard one,” Peter said lightly, and Jones chuckled softly.
Normally he would have beamed with pride, finding their words a compliment, but now it only hurt. His fingers curled tight, and the nails bit into the palm of his hands.
“It’s not just because of the deal you gave me,” he replied, his voice hard, and he forced his hands to lay flat on his legs. “Once you’re out of WitSec, you don’t get to come back. I’m an exception because I was only a kid the first time. We couldn’t stay in Europe-not with Gregory’s network, so Interpol struck a deal with the US Marshals.”
“And you ended up here,” Peter finished, and raised an eyebrow. “I have to say, it’s one of the last places I would have expected to find you.”
“Especially in suburbia,” added Jones.
Neal rubbed his eyes tiredly and sighed. “That's the point. Neal Caffrey's never been here. I was told to make a list of places where I would be known or had ever allegedly pulled off a con or theft. From there, we were given a choice of cities big enough for Sara to find a job and with good universities for me.” He paused and looked at them wearily. “We’ve made a life here, Peter. We’re happy,” he stressed.
A pained smile crossed Peter’s face and he nodded slowly. “You deserve it, Neal. I am happy for you-please believe me when I say that.”
“Thank you, Peter,” he replied quietly, and wondered if this was how it was going to end. The two of them yelling and pasting on a smile later, hoping that everything would be all better.
Jones glanced at his watch. “I think we really need to call it a night now. We’re all going to need some sleep if we want to function tomorrow.”
Peter slapped his hands on his legs and exhaled slowly, nodding again. “He's right. But we need to continue this. The case isn't over just because we know Mozzie's behind it. There's still a lot we have to discuss.”
“Is it okay if we come over tomorrow night?” Jones asked, concern evident on his face.
Neal froze, resting his hands on his wheels. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. We’ll be lucky to keep this meeting from the Marshals. If they stop by…”
Peter shared a look with Jones, then glanced back at Neal. “What if we met somewhere else?”
Frowning, Neal thought about leaving Sara and Madeline alone. It wasn’t that Sara couldn’t take care of herself and their daughter, but her nerves would be shot. He didn’t feel right leaving her by herself in this situation. And if the Marshals did show up, he didn’t want Sara to have to lie.
He sighed and shook his head. “No, we’ll do it here-just park in the garage. Let’s try not to announce to the whole world that you’re here.”
“Okay." Peter smiled and gave him a short nod. "We can do that.” He stood up and Jones followed suit.
Neal swiveled and started to lead them back to the front door.
Peter stopped in the front foyer, looked down at him, and asked lightly, “So, how is that you ended up with a house with a three car garage and I'm still parking on the street?”
Neal quirked an eyebrow. “Have you ever tried cleaning snow off your car while sitting down?”
A mortified expression immediately crossed Peter's face and shook his head. “Sorry, I didn't think about that.”
He chuckled. People often slipped up around him, but he was used to it. “Don't worry. I've had to make a lot of adjustments in my life, but at least I get a few perks, like good parking.”
“Right, right...” Peter still looked embarrassed.
“We'll see you tomorrow, Neal,” Jones smiled and gave him a curt nod, turning to open the front door.
Peter stood at the doorway after Jones walked out, and hesitated. He looked down at Neal, his eyes downcast and sad. “I wish we could have been there for you, Neal.” He paused just a moment, then turned and left, the door closing softly behind him.
Neal stared at the door, his heart caught in his throat.
“Me, too, Peter. Me, too,” he whispered.
*~*~*~*
He was numb.
Numb from grief, fear... sadness.
His brain tried to send a signal to wiggle his toes, but nothing happened. He exhaled slowly, and knew he was fooling himself. Nothing had changed since his last attempt. It wasn’t ever going to change. Not now, not tomorrow and certainly not the day after that.
It was hard to accept. But his fingers drifted down and trailed along his still legs, and it was impossible to deny, feeling only the blanket beneath his fingertips, and not the gentle pressure on his legs. His body wasn’t his own anymore.
Everything had been turned upside since he'd woken up the day before, hazy, and completely unaware that his life had irrevocably changed.
He just wanted to rewind-before the car crash, before the Chagall was stolen, before waking up to a new name and a new life. But even he couldn’t pull that off. Time was his enemy. It either slipped through his fingers too fast or too slow.
All he could focus on was the quiet tick of the clock, counting away to a life he no longer had control over. He was used to change, used to having certain things out of his reach, but this? This… was more than he could handle.
Waking up and having Reena tell his that his name was now Alec Miller hadn’t worried him. Names were a dime a dozen. But then he’d remembered the accident… and Sara. His last memory was of her being thrown across the cab and watching with horror as her head slammed against the window.
He'd been afraid of the worst, because he always seemed to lose everyone he loved. His heart had been ready to jump out of his chest as he searched Reena’s face frantically, hopeful for a sign that would tell him otherwise. He hadn’t realized it then, when looking at the anxious expression on her face, that she’d been afraid he’d noticed his legs. But he hadn’t been worried about himself. His only concern had been about Sara.
It had been a relief to see her dozing in a recliner off to his left, though her face was bruised, and there was a cast on her arm. He didn’t question Reena, just let himself drift back to sleep, thankful that Sara was alive.
When he woke up next, Sara was there, holding his hand. Still hazy and numb, it hadn't hit him until she told him. Her eyes red and puffy, with dried tear tracks splayed on her cheeks, she’d explained what had happened. It had been like a punch to the stomach, and he'd stared at her in shock as he fought to prove them all wrong, his mind reaching out to feel his legs.
But it was as if there was nothing there.
It hurt, unbelievably so, and he’d wanted to cry and scream. But he’d looked at Sara with her battered and bruised body, and realized that he could have lost so much more. He’d pushed his pain aside, just thankful that it’d happened to him, and not her. Sara was alive, and he’d held onto her tightly, letting himself take comfort in that. He would face the rest of it later.
He didn’t find out about Reena’s offer of Witness Protection until after they talked with the doctors, after he realized his life was never going to be the same.
Neal didn't know what hurt worse-that they had to go into hiding or that Sara had made the decision willingly. She was giving up her life for him. Because of him.
It was all his fault. He’d done this to her. Neal gripped the blanket in his hand, breathing in hard. Forget his legs. He’d ruined her life. Kate, Peter and Elizabeth... They all would have been better off without him in their lives.
He could adapt-used to years of life on the run, of leaving himself behind. A new name, a new city, new circumstances-that was his normal. But it’d been his choice. She didn't deserve this.
Even so, he was too selfish to let her go. He wanted to wake up beside her every day, to watch her smile and laugh, to start a family with her. Everything he’d dreamt of these past few months. He couldn’t give that up. Not now, not after working so hard to have this second chance. Kate’s face in the window of the plane flashed in his mind, reminding him of how easily he could lose everything.
He nearly had.
Was he wrong to keep her in this life? Would he just hurt her again? He'd tried to convince her that she would be better off without him, but she had been firm. It was just a job, she'd told him.
He knew it was more than that. It was her identity, her sense of self, her life, her past. It didn't matter that she'd lost her family a long time ago, that she had few friends today. She’d made a life for herself in London, and he didn't want her to look back and regret it.
“I chose my job before,” she'd said softly, looking down where their hands intertwined. “It was lonely.”
He hadn't pushed after that, just quietly accepted it, thankful to have her at his side.
It wasn't going to be easy, he knew that. 'Jessica' felt weird on his tongue, she stumbled over ‘Alec’, and this was only the beginning. They still had to get through the next few months. Both of them would heal with time, and life would eventually return to a semblance of normal.
Until then, though, it would be a hard road.
Neal knew she was trying to be strong for him, and he was trying to do the same for her. As the nurses worked around him during the day, moving him, turning him, and doing every little thing that he couldn't do himself, he'd laid there helplessly, and swallowed the fear that was building within him. The fear that threatened to completely overwhelm him.
Somehow he would get through this, but right now it seemed too impossible to even contemplate.
He watched shadows dance across the pale walls as the sun set, slowly enveloping the room into darkness. Sara had been discharged earlier and Reena had taken her to a safe house. He was alone now, and the ICU was quiet. He felt a tear slide down his cheek but he made no move to wipe it away. It didn’t matter who saw him now. There wasn’t anyone left to impress.
He’d been holding it in as the doctors had talked to him, and run tests; as he discovered exactly what he could feel, or rather, couldn’t feel anymore; as he watched the nurses handle him with care, and the reality of his new life hit him hard.
He gulped back air and stifled a sob. More tears fell, blurring his eyes into a watery kaleidoscope. He finally reached up to wipe them away. He hadn’t lost everything, he tried to convince himself, but that didn’t help much.
His spine had shattered. His spinal cord had been severed. He was being held together by plates and screws. There were still bone fragments in his back. They were waiting for the swelling to go down before they went in again to remove them. But that wouldn't change anything, he knew that. He held out no hope for a miracle.
He was paralyzed and it was permanent.
Neal remembered hearing the word ‘lucky’ from one of the doctors, and his mind had gone into a rage as they talked in clinical terms, explaining why his low break was actually a good thing.
Good? How was it good? He ran his hands down his legs, still trying to accept the emptiness that he felt below his waist. The sheer nothingness. It didn’t matter what the doctors said. Because he was broken.
He tossed the blanket aside angrily and stared down at his legs. Right now he couldn’t care less that it could have been worse, that a few inches higher and he could have lost feeling in his chest or even his hands. It was hard to look at the bright side when he couldn’t move-couldn’t do anything but lay there, dependent on everyone else.
The doctors had been blunt. It would take months of therapy before he could go home and try to get on with his life.
They didn't know the half of it.
Neal had no idea what kind of life he and Sara would have, where they would live, what they would do. They would have nothing-no one, to fall back on. For most of his life, he'd had someone. Ellen, Mozzie, Peter. He had taken the leap to move to London, to start over, but he'd always known he had friends at his back. Friends who now thought he was dead.
It wasn't right that they had to suffer too. He had a lot of regrets over his life, but none more so than the pain he'd caused them over the years. He hated that he was disrupting their lives once more, and wished he could spare them now.
He thought of June, who'd been so nice and supportive of him. She’d opened her home after losing Byron. This would devastate her.
Or what about Mozzie? He’d stood by him through everything, and would do anything for him. Neal might have left New York and that life behind, but that didn't matter, not to their friendship. Mozzie would drop everything at a moment's notice for Neal. He probably wouldn't believe that Neal was dead, though, and that worried him. Mozzie would hang on to anything, any possibility, and it would probably be months before he accepted it.
Then there was Elizabeth, who, despite how rocky the last year and a half had been, had always been the intermediary between Peter's suspicious nature and himself. She'd seen him as a person first and criminal second. He didn't know if without her, that Peter would have given him a chance.
And Peter?
The man had become his best friend, his partner, his conscience.
Of anyone, he wished he could tell Peter, let him know that it had all been worth it, the years of friendship, the support when no one else believed him, the lies and cover ups for all his mistakes... for making him a better man.
Neal squeezed his eyes shut and took a long shuddering breath. He couldn't say goodbye to them. After everything, after all they had done for him, they didn't deserve this. To get a phone call and nothing more.
But it kept them safe. Not just him and Sara, but Mozzie, Elizabeth, Peter, and anyone who had known him. He wouldn't let Gregory use them as leverage. No one else should be hurt because of him, not when he'd hurt them so much before.
And maybe this was for the best. Trouble followed him around. They’d been through enough and they could move on with their lives now. He would just be a memory. Hopefully they could smile and laugh at the memory, instead of remembering all the chaos he’d brought to their lives. That was all he wanted for them, some happiness, even if it came at his expense. He could live with that.
It was the only thing he could do for them, because he knew otherwise. There would be no happy ending for everyone. Not this time. He wasn’t walking out of this, wasn’t escaping with a few slick words and a sly grin like so many times before.
His luck had run out.
He tugged the blanket back over his legs, the vestiges of his old life too painful to look at. The corner caught on his foot and he yanked at it, frustration building in him at what should have been a simple task. But no, he was flat on his back and couldn't do so much as nudge a blanket over his feet, much less get out of his hospital bed.
There would be no more sneaking through air vents or dancing past security cameras, but that didn’t bother him as much as everything else.
He thought about Sara, and wanting to take her to the south of France and walking along the beach, sand between their toes, laughing, stumbling along like drunken teenagers.
Or having the first dance at their wedding, where he would spin her around and hold her in his arms, as they let the music wash over them, the two of them alone in the moment.
But that would never happen. There would be no dancing. No looking down in her eyes as he dipped her and kissed her senseless to the whoops and hollers of their friends.
Or falling into bed, making love to her in the moonlight, and feeling her shudder beneath him. He wouldn't feel that anymore, wouldn't feel her touch...
He swiped at his eyes and his heart pounded in his chest.
It was all gone.
What kind of life could he give her? He couldn't be there for her-not the way he wanted. He wasn't that man anymore.
How could she stay with him?
His eyes fixed on the ceiling, his chest heaving, and swallowed back the tears. Gone, gone, gone... His life, his friends…. He couldn't feel anything. Nothing. Gasping, his shoulders shook as he cried silently.
He couldn't lose her too. Not now. Hadn’t he lost enough?
He wasn't perfect, wasn’t innocent by any means, and he’d made his fair share of mistakes, but why this? Why now?
Why him?
Chapter Three