tj_teejay | White Collar - "Dodging The Lies"

Title: Dodging The Lies
Author: TeeJay
Genre: Gen
Characters: Neal, Elizabeth, Peter, Mozzie
Summary: The current circumstances of Neal's life put him under a lot of stress. And sometimes stress looks for an outlet, manifesting in illness. In Neal's case, a painful and slightly frightening one.
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Spoilers for pretty much all of season 3 up to 3x07 'Taking Account'
Author's Note: Written for

rabidchild67 because she said: Fics I need right now™: Seriously, Neal's got to be under a lot of stress — how do you live this kind of a double life on so many fronts. How might that affect him physically? I want some stress-induced illness, with an extra large side of angst.
This story is placed around the time of episode 3x07 'Taking Account'. Let me note that this should take place before Sara learns about the treasure.
A big thanks to

imbecamiel for the beta read!
Disclaimer: White Collar, its characters and its settings belong to Jeff Eastin and USA Network. And, guys? Your characters are not only welcome, they're wonderful. I'm just borrowing, I promise.

+-+-+-+-+

It started with a strange tingle near his temple. Something between an itch and an ache, and it hurt when he touched it. Neal didn't think much of it, blaming it on a zit or maybe a mosquito bite.

The next morning, reddened patches of skin started to appear on the left side of his forehead, and by early afternoon they had blossomed into blisters. It looked pretty bad, and Peter had sent him to see a doctor. The diagnosis was quickly made: herpes zoster, or in other words, shingles. He was sent home with antiviral medication, painkillers, and orders to rest and to return if he started experiencing problems with his vision.

The doctor had asked him if he was suffering from unusual stress, because that was often what brought on shingles. Neal had shaken his head and negated the question. Because, really, what could he say? Yeah, I'm leading a double life on so many fronts that I'm not sure anymore who I'm supposed to be on any given day? He'd gotten a proverbial pat on the back and the advice to take it easy anyway.

Easier said than done, Neal thought sarcastically. How did you relax and take it easy when a multi-billion dollar collection of treasure was right there at your fingertips, was waiting for you to enter into a world of splendor and luxury, and the only person standing between that and yourself was the one person who had control over your life? How did you relax when there was a perfectly forged passport for an untraceable alias lying hidden in your wall, just waiting to be used? How could you relax when you knew that the moment you activated that alias, you'd have to leave behind everything and everyone you'd grown attached to over the last year, including a beautiful woman you were starting to fall for?

So he'd just nodded, taken the prescription, and gone back to his apartment. Neal wasn't accustomed to being sick. Sure, he suffered through the occasional cold or stomach flu, but he usually just braved those by trying to ignore them as best as he could. Back before he worked for Peter Burke, there was no time or place to succumb to bodily weaknesses. A life on the run was a life of doing what was necessary to survive. And in prison, showing weakness put you at a disadvantage, which was why you were well advised not to.

And now... Now he was stuck between a rock and a hard place. There were people in his life who cared about him. Genuinely cared. It was new, and he'd have to lie if he said he didn't like it. It also complicated things. A lot.

Peter called in the early evening. Neal gave him a status report, telling him he'd be off work for at least a week. Judging from his voice, even over the phone, Peter was seriously concerned. He asked if Neal needed anything. El had offered to come by too if he did. Neal assured him there was no need for company or mother-henning.

There was also the matter of Peter never having had chickenpox. The doctor had specifically said that there was a high risk for contracting it from someone with shingles since it was the same virus that caused both. After multiple reassurances that, really Peter, this wasn't a big deal and he was just fine, Peter reluctantly capitulated, and told Neal to get some rest.

+-+-+-+-+

Neal had hopes that this would be over before he knew it. The blisters would dry up and go away in a few days. Unfortunately, that didn't happen. The next day, the pain spread from his temple all over his forehead, developing into a full-blown headache that didn't seem to want to relent. On top of that there was the fever and chills, and worst of all the fatigue. He spent most of the day in bed, getting up only for vital tasks and bodily needs.

June was worried and made sure he had enough to eat and drink. She kept peeking her head in every few hours to ask how he was feeling and if he needed anything. Neal didn't mind. It gave him a feeling of unfamiliar but welcome security that someone was there to look after him in times of need.

One time she came to his bed and lightly touched his good cheek, giving him a reassuring smile, with a look of comforting pity a mother might give her sick child. He'd closed his eyes and reveled in the warmth of the simple gesture. He thought he heard a softly whispered, "Poor boy," but afterward wasn't sure whether he'd imagined it.

She asked if he wanted some company, but he'd just forced a smile and told her he'd be okay. June had left it at that and quietly closed the door behind her because she was the kind of person who knew when not to intrude.

In the evening, Elizabeth called and practically begged him to let her see him. Neal finally agreed—more readily, actually, than he had intended.

Elizabeth's first flinching reaction at the ugly rash covering the side of his face hadn't gone past him. He could certainly understand it. He'd tried all day to avoid looking at himself in the mirror.

"Oh Neal," she said, stepping closer, taking in his slumped shoulders, the tired shuffle of his feet dragging across the floor. It looked like she wanted to envelop him in a hug but wasn't sure if she could or should. So instead she stood in front of him and squeezed his upper arm, giving him an encouraging smile.

She unloaded a number of Tupperware containers on the table. "I brought some chicken soup and pastries. There's pecan pie too."

Neal's stomach gave an unpleasant lurch at the thought of ingesting anything, but he toughed it out and smiled back. "Can you put it in the fridge? Maybe later. June's feeding me pretty well." It wasn't even a lie.

"Oh, sure, honey."

She spent the next half hour fussing over him at the dining table, trying not to be too obvious about it. He took it in stride, awkwardness giving way to gratefulness. He loved Elizabeth, and having her here comforted him more than anything.

If Neal hadn't been off his game, he might have been able to con Elizabeth into believing he was doing as well as he wished he was, but as it stood she saw the strained lines of fatigue on his face, noticed his suppressed sighs. She took his hands and squeezed them, then gently ordered him back to bed after making sure he wasn't hungry or didn't need anything else. As much as he loved her company, he was glad when she left because the anvil chorus in his head seemed to be aggravated by moving around too much. He lay back against the pillow and closed his eyes, wishing for this to pass.

He was rather rudely woken by someone barging into his apartment an hour later—a characteristically chipper and clueless Mozzie.

"Neal, you gotta see this! I went through the—"

Mozzie looked bewildered (in a Mozzie kind of way) when Neal groggily lifted his head from his pillow. "Oh," was all Mozzie added.

"Moz," Neal started.

Mozzie pointed a finger at Neal's face. "What is that on your face?"

"Shingles."

"Oh no," Mozzie croaked.

"Relax, Moz, it's not contagious as long as you don't touch it. Did you have chickenpox?"

"Yeah. I was 13. It sucked. Still have the scars to show for it."

"Then you should be safe."

Mozzie didn't budge. Neal let his head sink back on the pillow, sighing a tired, "Are you just gonna stand there all night?"

Mozzie harrumphed. "I, uhm..."

"Moz, it's fine. I'm not expecting you to stay."

Mozzie's voice was gentler, more compassionate than Neal would have expected. "Are you okay? I mean, is there anything I can get for you?"

Neal almost smiled. "No, thanks, I'm okay. June's doing a great job at mothering, and Elizabeth dropped by earlier."

"Well, okay, then... Call me if you need me, all right?"

"'kay," Neal just mumbled. Mozzie was gone within the next ten seconds.

+-+-+-+-+

It was the next morning that Neal grew worried. The fever had lessened, but he was now experiencing blurred vision in his left eye. His eyelid was painfully swollen and the white in his eye had turned a frightening shade of crimson. He quelled the first panic rising up in his chest and called Elizabeth.

She drove him to see the ophthalmologist. After putting him through all kinds of tests, they treated him with a dose of intravenous antiviral agents and corticosteroids. He was told that there were multiple possible complications from ocular shingles, but that it was still early and there was no immediate concern about lasting damage. His retina and cornea didn't show signs of infection and the blurry vision was from the conjunctivitis. He was given eye drops and released back into the custody of a very worried Elizabeth.

"Let me take you home with me," she urged him on the way back to the car.

"No," Neal protested. "I don't wanna give Peter chickenpox."

"Neal, I hate the idea of you alone in that apartment."

"I won't be alone. June's checking on me. Besides, I have a phone to call for help if I need to."

"Oh, I know, but it's not the same."

"Elizabeth, please," Neal pleaded. "This is bad enough, I don't want Peter to go through any of this. Adult chickenpox is worse than having it as a kid. I really can't."

She sighed a heavy sigh. "Okay, fine. But you'll call me if you need me." It wasn't a question.

"I will. I mean, I did, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did."

"Thank you, Elizabeth," he said, his voice serious, grateful.

"Oh, Neal, any time."

Three quarters of an hour later, he sat alone at his dining table, the thoughts in his head chasing each other in distressing frenzy in directions that scared Neal. Despite the steroids and antivirals, the vision in his left eye was still fuzzy, if not worse than before. What if he went blind? What if this spread to the other side of his face too?

Art. He loved visual art so much. It was an integral part of his life, and it would be meaningless if he went blind. He went over to the easel that had a half-finished painting reminiscent of Monet's garden in Giverny on it, touching the canvas, his fingertips gliding over the jagged surface. This would—

The ringing of his cell phone jerked him back to reality. When he answered, it was Peter’s worried voice that greeted him.

"Neal, I just heard. Are you okay?"

"What if I go blind?" Neal blurted before he could stop himself.

There was silence at the other end, Peter no doubt trying to scramble for an answer. "Is that what the doctor said? That you're going blind?"

"No, he... They said it was a possibility. My eye, I can't really see, it's—" he caught on the thought, the words.

"Neal," Peter's no-nonsense voice rang through to his ear, "You're not going blind. El told me it was conjunctivitis, isn't that what they said? Didn't they give you something?"

"Yeah, but, I don't know... I don't think it's helping."

"You need to give it time."

"What if I've gone blind by then?" Neal's voice came out more frightened than he expected. This dismal, worst-case panic, it wasn't like him. And yet...

"Neal," Peter's voice sobered him. "Listen to me. You don't go blind from shingles in a matter of hours. You keep taking the medication, and El will drive you to the doctor again if it's not getting better, all right?"

He didn't know why, but somehow this reassured him. He covered his right eye with his hand, testing his vision by looking out onto the rooftop patio. Was it just him, or had his eyesight actually improved a little?

"Neal?" Peter's voice demanded.

"Yeah," he said quickly. "Sorry, I..."

"Neal, I can come if you like. You shouldn't—"

"No, Peter," Neal said urgently. "I'm okay. Really."

"I would feel better if someone was staying with you."

Neal tried to rearrange the mask that had unwittingly slipped off in the past few days. "Don't take this personally, but you should be staying away from me right now. I'm still contagious, for a few more days at least. And, really, I'm okay, Peter."

Peter wasn't fooled. "I don't like the sound of this. I'm going to send El over. She won't mind staying the night."

"No, that's really not necessary." Neal surprised himself when he said, more out of desperation than anything, "Look, let me call Sara, all right?"

There was a short pause before Peter said, "And you're not just saying that? You'll call her?"

"Yes, Peter, I'll call her. I'm gonna hang up and call her right away. I promise."

"All right," Peter finally relented.

Neal stared at the cell phone in his hand after he'd hit the disconnect button. Was he really going to call Sara? And what was he gonna say? 'I've come down with something, and now Peter is worried and wants you to babysit?' She just wasn't the type. And something told him that he didn't want her to.

His finger hovered over the call button with her name on the screen. He owed it to Peter, and maybe he also owed it to her to at least let her know he was gonna be out of the picture for a few more days.

"Neal," her cheerful voice greeted him.

"Yeah, hi, Sara."

"Are you all right?"

Neal frowned. He'd barely said three words, and she already knew something wasn't quite right?

"Yeah. Uh, no, actually I think I'm gonna have to cancel our date for Thursday."

Her voice took on worried edge. "Why, is something wrong?"

The story was quickly told, and she was truly sympathetic. "Neal, I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

"No, not really."

"How about I come over, keep you company?"

"No," he said quickly. "They say I'm contagious. It'd be safer if you didn't."

It was a half-lie, but one that he hoped would keep her at arm's length. There were people he felt comfortable letting his guard down with, but even though they had been dating for a while now, there was reluctance to the idea that she would see him like this.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," he said, trying his best conman tone of voice. "I'm fine. June's taking good care of me. I'll call you about that rain check on the dinner date, all right?"

Her voice took on a more amused tone. "I'm starting to think someone's trying very hard to prevent us from going on an actual romantic date."

He played along. "You don't happen to have any enemies with voodoo dolls, do you?"

She chuckled audibly. "Not that I'm aware of."

"Phew. Guess there goes that theory."

There was a pause for a few seconds, and he could hear voices in the background before she spoke again. "Sorry, Neal, but I gotta go. Take care, okay? Call me if I can do anything."

"Will do."

They hung up after saying quick goodbyes, and Neal looked at the cell phone for a moment before he laid it on the table.

This thing, it was becoming trickier by the day. If he thought his life had been complicated before Mozzie had shown him the treasure, it was a hundred times more complicated now. And as much as he enjoyed this... whatever it was with Sara, it certainly wasn't making things easier.

Back when Mozzie had the plane set up to leave the country with the treasure, it had seemed so simple. Become Victor Moreau and run off into the sunset with billions of dollars at his beck and call. He'd been excited, and it had all been so spur-of-the-moment easy. He could see now why Mozzie hadn't wanted to wait. Waiting brought doubts, and doubts were making decisions more difficult.

Neal knew he had to make one at some point. As soon as they had the manifest, he'd have to face what was nagging at the back of his mind. In the end, it boiled down to the big question: Con or man? Because he could now see what it meant that he couldn't be both.

+-+-+-+-+

A week into his sick leave, Mozzie's iambic pentameter knock announced his presence. "Come in," Neal called from where he was painting by the easel in the corner.

Mozzie carefully popped his head in. "Is it safe to enter?"

"If you mean whether I'm alone, then yes. If you mean whether I'm still contagious, I couldn't tell you."

"Herpes zoster is only contagious until the blisters dry out and crust over."

Neal drew a face. "TMI, Moz. And, here, take a look yourself." He turned around and walked closer.

Mozzie surveyed Neal's forehead carefully. "That looks much improved."

"It does. Feels that way too."

Mozzie opened the door and stepped inside. He looked around, and Neal had a fleeting suspicion he was checking whether there was an open wine bottle from which he could casually help himself. When there wasn't, Mozzie sat down at the table, a watchful eye on Neal, who walked back to the easel and continued his work.

"Monet?" Mozzie asked. "I'm not sure I recognize the particular painting."

"Not Monet per se. But it's his garden."

"Who painted it?"

"Neal Caffrey?"

"You mean Victor Moreau."

"Or George Devore, Steve Tabernacle, Leonard Parker, George Danvary. Benjamin Cooper. Shall I go on?"

"No, I get the picture. You know, figuratively speaking."

"Yeah," Neal said with a sigh to his voice.

There was an awkward pause before Mozzie asked, "So... how are you feeling?"

Neal stopped painting, turning around in mock surprise. "Do I detect genuine concern for my wellbeing?"

Mozzie actually looked hurt. "What, I can't be concerned for my friend's state of health? How did you contract the bubonic plague anyway?"

"Nice, Moz." He went back to work on the canvas. "They say it's usually brought on by stress."

"Stress? Ha! You work 30 hours a week. 35 tops. How does that figure?"

"Yeah, I don't think the FBI work is really the problem."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

Neal stopped his ministrations with the brush, putting down the palette he was holding. "Moz, what do you think I've been doing all this time? Why do you think Peter's not on our tail this very minute? I'm scrambling to find new ways of dodging the lies every day. Sara's starting to ask questions too. How long before one of us slips up?"

"It's only a matter of time before we can get our hands on the manifest. After that, everything will fall into place."

"Yeah, the manifest," Neal sighed. "And then what?"

"Are you serious? Then we fence what we need to finance our getaway. Please don't tell me you're having second thoughts."

Neal sat down at the table opposite Moz. "I've had second thoughts from the beginning. This whole thing... don't you think it's wrong?"

Mozzie's voice was laden with exasperation. "Wrong? No. It's everything that was ever right."

"It's loot that the Nazis stole. It may have been from Russian museums, but that doesn't mean that it's okay to make a profit from it. It's got holocaust blood written all over it. And we're trying to sell it to live a life in luxury? No, Moz, there is nothing remotely right about that."

Mozzie rolled his eyes. "What the hell happened to you, Neal? Oh, wait, I think I know. I've always been afraid the Suit would eventually rub off on you."

"You say that as if it's a bad thing."

"It is!"

Neal leaned back in his chair. "Moz. Seriously, what are we doing? Do you really wanna fence the treasure?"

"As if you need to ask," he huffed. "I take it you don't?"

Neal let out a long breath. "I... don't know anymore."

"It's not just the Nazi thing, is it? It's Peter, June, this whole new life."

Neal nodded almost imperceptibly. "It's part of it. I mean, this," he pointed to the side of his face, "It's made me think. Is it really worth it? I've lived a life on the run, I know what it's like. Years I've spent living in and out of hotels, dumps, barren apartments, constantly looking over my shoulder. I'm just not sure anymore if I wanna go back to that."

"Are you seriously telling me you'd rather go three more years wearing a 2-mile radius on your ankle than live a free life with anything you could ever wish for?"

"Anything but what matters. And it would hardly be a free life."

"Po-tay-toes, Po-tah-toes. It'd be better than this."

"No, Moz!" The vehemence in Neal's voice made Mozzie flinch ever so slightly. Calmer, he added, "That's where you're wrong. We'd be rich, but we'd also be lonely."

"That's never bothered you before."

"Come on, you know it was different then. Even after Kate ran."

Moz gave him a quizzical look. "It's Sara, isn't it?"

Neal shrugged slightly.

Mozzie's voice piped up again. "But, Neal, are you really sure that's what you want? I know you. It goes against your nature. Remember what I said? Happy endings aren't for people like us. Can you see yourself living a white picket fence life with a wife and three kids, holding down a 9-to-5 job? Because I can't. Besides, are you sure that Sara is worth giving all of this up for? Let me tell you, you're wearing the pink love glasses right now, my friend. Say she finds out about the treasure, about Victor Moreau's intentions? Do you think she's going to stay? I mean, think about it."

"Why would she find out? If we stop this right here, right now, she doesn't have to know about any of it."

"Now you're the one deluding yourself. I may not be the best person to give advice about long-term relationships, but they usually don't work unless you trust each other."

"Who says I don't trust her?"

Mozzie just gave him a quit-the-BS look, and Neal remained silent. He leaned forward with his elbows on the tabletop, rubbing the good side of his face, his fingers catching on the three day stubble. "This has got to end, one way or another."

"And what does that mean exactly?"

"I don't know, Moz."

"You're going to have to make a decision. Soon."

"I know."

"In the meantime I need to know where your loyalties lie."

Now Neal looked offended. "Do you seriously think I would blow the whistle on you? After everything?"

Mozzie shrugged ever so slightly. "As Chris Carter so aptly put it: Trust no one."

Neal smiled noncommittally. "You always were the paranoid type. And don't misquote 'The Laughing Corpse' again."

"You mean 'paranoia is the secret to longevity'? Which is still true, by the way."

"While that may be, it also takes the fun out of life."

"That's what you say, mon ami."

It was then that Neal's cell phone started ringing. Neal held it up to Moz. "It's Peter."

Mozzie drew a face. "I have business out in the world of the borderline shady anyway."

"No, wait, you don't have to go."

Mozzie got up from the table, giving Neal a quick nod. "Oh, but I do. I'll see you when I see you."

Neal gave Mozzie a quick, non-committal look, watching him exit as he picked up the call and held the phone to his ear. "Peter."

"How's our one-eyed pirate?" Peter asked.

"Very funny. Not so one-eyed anymore. In fact, I might be cleared to come back to work next week."

Peter's voice took on a more serious tone. "Glad to hear that. People are starting to miss you around here."

"Aw, you can't see it, but that's making me all gooey inside. Let me guess, Diana's complaining she can't shove off her copyright infringement cases on me."

Peter chuckled. "Something like that."

"It feels good to be missed."

"Yeah, I bet you'll regret saying that after you've worked the next few copyright infringements."

Now it was Neal's turn to chuckle. "So, I guess you didn't just call to tell me how much you miss my invaluable case-solving skills."

"Actually, I didn't. Does the name Carl Mahone ring a bell?"

"As a matter of fact, it does."

Neal and Peter spent the next few minutes discussing the scammer Peter and his team were currently investigating before Peter asked Neal, "Hey, if you're up for it, why don't you come over tonight?"

"Is there televised baseball and cheap beer involved?"

"No, but I hear there's food involved."

"Take-out?"

"Believe it or not, Elizabeth mentioned filets mignon and green asparagus."

"All right, I'm sold."

"Good. I’ll see you tonight."

"Thanks, Peter. See ya tonight."

Neal hung up and sighed. Whatever happened when he made his final decision, he would definitely miss this.

He couldn't say the realization startled him as much as he thought it would.

+-+-+-+-+

THE END.

Current Mood: tired

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

rabidchild.livejournal.com

OH! I'm kinda speechless - this was absolutely lovely.

First off, I saw "shingles" and said, "GROAN." Bear with me...

But then the story unfolded, and you've captured so very much of what makes for really GOOD hurt/comfort. And it's every bit as angsty as tearful-bedside-confessions, just in a different way. Let me elaborate:

I love the casual mothering June delivers. Neal makes a sympathetic but not pitiful woobie in your hands!

I really love how not only El steps up and lends a hand - as anyone would for a friend - but also how Neal calls her first when he's getting worse and he needs help. (Made my little OT3 heart go pitter-pat!). I REALLY loved Neal confessing his fears to Peter that he might lose his eyesight - those moments were so real (and I've been there).

And, finally, I love the conversation at the end between Moz and Neal. This needs to happen in the show, for rilz. These two need to have this conversation!

So: AWESOME FIC, just awesome. You've portrayed Neal's inner thoughts and feelings very realistically and humanly. I think that's the best part of this.

Brava. Take a bow! This is one of - if not THE - best thing of yours I've ever read.

From:

lean back and enjoy the show - mostly friends only

White Collar - "Dodging The Lies"

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags