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tj_teejayTitle: Saving Grace In The Eye Of The Storm (2/2)
Author: TeeJay
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Peter, Elizabeth
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Neal!Whump (because I'm sadly addicted) and more or less vague-ish spoilers to things happening in season 3
Summary: Hurricane Irene nears New York City, and Neal has to go out there and run an errand. In the wrong place at the wrong time, Neal is suddenly trapped in the middle of a raging storm.
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.
El was surprised how agreeable a patient Neal really was. She'd half expected him to be whiny and demanding, but he'd been neither. She'd checked on him often, made sure he had everything he needed. At some point he'd wanted to make an attempt up the stairs, and El had made sure he made it there safe and sound.
When she went back to check after a while, she found him on the bed in the guest room, a pillow behind his back, a book in his lap.
"You gonna stay up here?" she carefully asked.
He looked up at her. "If that's okay."
"Oh, of course it's okay. The couch, the guest room, living room, kitchen, it's all yours, wherever you prefer to be."
"Thanks," he told her. "But I'm fine in here for a while."
"Want me to get you anything? Something to drink?"
He indicated the half full bottle of Evian on the nightstand. "Thank you, but I'm good."
She let out a quick chuckle. "This whole mother-henning thing, is it too much?"
He laughed. "No, it's... sweet, actually."
"So... you don't mind?"
"No, I don't mind," he assured her. "So, how can I convince you that I don't need anything for at least the next hour or two? Besides," he picked up his Blackberry from the night stand, "I can always call your landline."
"Or just call down the stairs,"
"Or that."
"Well then, Mr. Caffrey, I will go downstairs and not bother you again for at least the next two hours. That is what you were implying, is it not?"
He grinned at her. "Too obvious?"
"Maybe a little."
"Sorry," he shrugged awkwardly, grimacing as it aggravated his bruised ribs.
"Oh, don't worry about it. I'm trainable. One more thing. Peter wanted me to make sure—"
"I took my painkillers," he interrupted.
"And have you?"
"Would you believe me if I said yes?"
"Neal, I'm not gonna count your pills, but there is no reason for you to suffer any more than you should."
His gaze on her was uncommonly frank. "Which is why I took two of them just ten minutes ago. And I'm not just saying that."
She nodded. "And I will take your word for it." She waved in the direction of the door. "You know, just call if you—"
"Need anything. I know."
She gave him a self-conscious smile. "Sorry. I'm leaving now. I promise."
He just chuckled and Elizabeth made her way down into the living room.
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It was actually almost three hours later that Elizabeth checked on Neal again. Not so much on purpose but more a cursory peek through the door that was slightly ajar on the way back down from the bathroom.
A slight draft of air caressed her face as she stole a gaze into the room. Neal was sitting by the open window, his gaze directed at the street in front of the house. There was something slightly heartbreaking in the way he looked so forlorn. Elizabeth couldn't help but enter.
His gaze traveled up to her face, and she could see that he didn't bother hiding the exhaustion, the weariness, the physical pain.
She came up behind him, placing her hands gently on his shoulders. "Isn't this a little too chilly?"
He looked back out the window. "I just needed some fresh air."
"You want me to close it?"
"No, not yet," he said.
She thought she could feel him shivering just a little beneath her hands, so she went over the bed and got the woolen blanket that was folded neatly at the foot of the bed. She unfolded it and carefully draped it over Neal. "Here, how's that?"
"Perfect."
She squeezed his shoulder again just a little, then sat down on the edge of the bed, not far from Neal. "This the first time you've injured a leg?" she asked.
"Actually, no. Why do you ask?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. Seems like you know how to handle crutches."
"I broke my leg once. As a kid. I was maybe 14 or 15, I think. I was on crutches for two or three weeks."
"Sports injury?"
"No. It was..." he trailed off, and Elizabeth could sense that it wasn't a memory he wanted to relive, for whatever reason. "It was a long time ago," he added.
"So, Peter never told me the whole story. You were pinned by a falling crane in the middle of a hurricane?"
Embarrassment crept into his smile. "Yeah. Sounds a little sensational, doesn't it?"
She chuckled. "A little. Should I be asking why you were out there in the midst of a storm?"
"It's kind of a long story," he evaded.
"And you know that Peter is going to want to hear it."
"Yeah, I bet he will."
"Are you going to lie to him?"
The question was blunt, provocative. Elizabeth knew Neal too well. He drew in a breath and held it, and it was enough of an answer for her.
"Neal, you know what they say: What goes around comes around. And you know that if you keep doing it, it's going to fall apart somewhere along the way."
His head turned to face her, his eyes flashing with a subdued anger that he quickly smoothed over. "No offense, Elizabeth, but you don't know what you're talking about."
She shook her head slowly. "No, maybe I don't, but I know enough to recognize the signs. You know that Peter still suspects you had something to do with that treasure, that maybe you still have it."
"Yes," he simply said.
"And you know what happens if he finds out that you do, don't you?"
"Who says that I do?" Was she saying that she knew he had the treasure? Or at least knew where it was?
"Well, maybe you don't. Like you said, I don't know what I'm talking about. But, Neal, whatever this is, do you remember that time when you came to talk to me, after this guy, what was his name? Lawrence? Something about Jones and a plane?"
Neal tried to think back, then remembered. "Yeah. You said something about doing the wrong things for the right reasons."
"Tell me I'm wrong when I say, this," she gestured at his injured leg, "had nothing to do with one of those wrong things you did for the right reasons."
"I guess that depends on how you look at it."
"Neal, I'd hate to see you get into trouble. Or worse."
"Elizabeth, if you knew what this was about..."
Her voice was calm, sympathetic. "I think I do. It's about you trying to find your way. You've been conning your way through life for as long as you can remember. And it's hard to give up that way of life. But, Neal, at some point you're going to have to make a decision."
"Con or man?"
She nodded. "Something like that."
He was silent for a long moment. "I wish it was as easy as that." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "At this point, I don't know how to get out of it without hurting somebody."
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"No," he said quickly. "I gotta figure this out on my own."
Her gaze on him was compassionate, maybe a little sad. "I hope you do."
Just at that moment, the Burkes' phone rang. "Let me get that," Elizabeth said.
Five minutes later, she poked her head into the guestroom. "That was Peter, he's going to be here soon. I'm going to start preparing dinner. You know the drill."
He smiled at her. "Holler if I need anything?"
She gave a quick laugh. "I see you're trainable too."
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It was just after six when Peter got home. The day in the office had been ordered chaos. They'd run on a skeleton crew since some of the agents hadn't made it in after the hurricane. Not that this had been too much of a problem. If the commotion of the storm had prompted any white collar criminals to spring to action, it hadn't filtered through to the FBI yet. However, Peter knew it would only be a short-lasting lull. Natural disasters always had a tendency for the slyest of criminals to exploit the ensuing mayhem.
Entering from the vestibule into the living room, he half expected Neal to be lying on the couch, but it was empty, the blanket neatly folded at one end.
"Honey?" he called.
Elizabeth emerged from the kitchen, giving him a warm smile. "Perfect timing, dinner's almost ready."
"Is Neal upstairs?"
"Yeah. Why don't you go get him?"
He held up the black plastic item he was carrying in his hand, waving it slightly. "Right. Then I can also put this back where it belongs."
Upstairs, Peter carefully approached the guestroom. He hesitated, then softly rapped on the door. When no answer was forthcoming, he opened the door a crack, peering in. Neal was lying on the bed, half covered by a beige blanket, eyes closed, seemingly asleep.
Peter couldn't help but smile. Childlike innocence prevailed on the young ex-con's face, and it was hard to believe the deceit he was capable of. Peter had to quell the sudden urge to walk up to him and ruffle a hand through his hair.
He cleared his throat, hoping the noise would wake Neal. It didn't.
"Neal?" Peter carefully probed.
Neal was still lost in the world of slumber, and Peter gingerly sat down on the edge of the bed. He made physical contact with what he thought was Neal's knee.
Neal violently flinched beneath his touch, letting out a pained groan, his eyes immediately wide, panicked.
Peter jerked his hand away, lifting both his arms in defense. "Easy, easy. It's just me. I'm sorry, did I hurt you?"
"No," Neal said groggily, quickly concealing the momentary lapse of self-control. "It's... geez. I'm sorry."
Peter's gaze on him was sympathetic. "No need to apologize. Dinner's about ready. Also, you know what this is for." He held up the tracking anklet.
Neal nodded. "Same model as before?"
"Yep, same one."
Neal peeled the blanket away from his left foot. "Knock yourself out."
Neal's ankle was bare beneath the pant leg, and Peter could see an ugly bruise or two near his shin. The skin around it was swollen too. He hesitated. "That looks kinda ugly. How did this happen?"
Neal just shrugged slightly. "I had to disable the anklet somehow."
"It looks like you clubbed it into oblivion, missing your mark a few times."
"As you remember, I wasn't exactly in a position to take precise aim."
"Neal, did the doctors check this out?"
"Yeah. Even x-rayed it. Looks worse than it is."
"Jesus," Peter sighed, a kind of abject horror in his voice. He withdrew his hand. "I can't put the anklet on that."
"Then go for the other leg. That one's only damaged from the knee up."
Peter looked skeptical, reached over and placed the anklet on the nightstand. "You know what? We'll leave it for now."
"Peter..."
He got up from the bed. "Come on, El's gonna be upset if you don't show downstairs within the next five minutes."
"She does know I'm incapacitated, right?"
"It'd be hard to miss, seeing how she mothered you all day. You need any help?"
"No, I'm good."
"All right," Peter said. "Then let's go check out what the lovely Mrs. Burke made for dinner."
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Dinner was delicious. Nothing special, a homemade potato and broccoli casserole. Neal still enjoyed it. You didn't always need the finer things in life to be content. There was easy conversation, Peter talked a little about his day, El had a story or two to tell about the reception she was planning.
It was really quite homey, and Neal felt strangely out of place—an intruder in a domestic still life who wasn't supposed to be there. He realized that this seemed to be a typical evening at chez Burke, and there wasn't even a bat of an eyelash at letting Neal into their lives to share it with them.
Peter's voice suddenly pulled Neal from his reverie. "You with us?"
Neal shook the distraction from his mind. "Yeah, sorry."
"You zoned out there for a bit. You okay?"
"Yeah, yeah," he quickly assured them. "Just..."
"Mind movies?" Elizabeth asked with a mischievous smile.
"What?" Neal laughed. "Yeah, maybe you can call it that."
Elizabeth got up from the table, collecting the dirty dishes. "Dessert?"
Neal waved a hand in front of him. "Thanks, but I'm full."
"Peter?"
"No, me neither. Thanks."
Peter made a movement to get up. "Here, let me help with the cleanup."
"It's fine," Elizabeth replied, placing her hands on her husband's shoulders. "No big deal. You stay."
Peter stayed in his chair, keeping a watchful eye on Neal who was sitting opposite him. The latter shifted in his chair, raising his arms to fold his hands behind his neck. The movement must have pulled at his sore muscles because Neal grimaced, his brow drawing lines of discomfort.
He eased himself out of the position, his hand finding the corner of the cloth napkin on the table.
Peter took all of this in in silence. Neal's eyes flitted to his, and stayed there. Neither man spoke for a long while, until Neal finally asked, "What?"
"I just can't help but wonder if your little errand was worth all this."
"All this what?"
"A concussion, a busted thigh, bruised ribs, a swollen ankle. Need I go on?"
"No, I get the picture."
"So, was it?"
"I would like to think so, yes."
"Tell me again, why were you out there exactly?"
"To help Mozzie out," Neal simply stated.
"With what? Is one of his hiding places out there? I mean, you said he wasn't there, why would you have to go there if it wasn't to rescue him, or, I don't know..."
"Look, he asked me to look after something that was important to him. It's as simple as that."
"Look after something? What in the world could be so important that you'd go there in the middle of a freakin' hurricane?"
Neal flinched. Peter was getting awfully close to Neal having to resort to more than just half-lies. "Look, it doesn't matter now, does it?"
Peter's voice took on a threatening undertone. "Neal, if this is—"
He realized he was being cornered, so he interrupted, "Peter, please stop asking about this, okay?"
Peter's jaw muscles began to work, to clench and unclench. "He asked you to secure the treasure, didn't he?"
This was just so Peter. Always with the easy accusations, the assumptions. Not that he was off this time, but Neal's stomach still churned when he thought about how Peter had unrightfully accused him of stealing the treasure after the warehouse explosion. Sudden anger he hadn't even realized he was still capable of erupted. "Why, Peter? Why does it always have to come back to the damn treasure?"
Peter's volume of voice now matched Neal's. "Oh, come on, Neal. You know why. It's a multi-billion dollar collection of priceless art that was stolen from its rightful owners. And it's my job to find it if it's still out there."
"And is it also your job to jump to conclusions, the way you tend to do when it comes to accusing me of things you don't have proof for, things that, you know, I might be innocent of?"
"I'd say it was a little more than 'jumping to conclusions', Neal."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"You were at my house last week. While I was pulling an all-nighter in the van and Mozzie took Elizabeth out for an exhibition and dinner. Look at me and tell me you didn't break into our home."
Neal met Peter's eyes, his expression steely. He didn't bother concealing the bitterness in his voice. "What? Is this an interrogation now? Besides, you've already made up your mind. I don't know what you need my testimony for. So you might as well save your breath."
With an expression of resolve Neal pushed himself to his feet, fumbling for the crutches. Without another word, he walked away, aiming for the stairs. Peter stared at his back for a long moment, his mouth a thin line. He heard Neal going up the stairs at a hurried pace. A moment later, there was a clatter and a number of swear words. It sounded like one of the crutches had slid down the stairs.
Peter got up from the chair, but Elizabeth was suddenly in front of him, placing a hand on his chest. Her voice was low. "No. Not now, Peter."
Peter's brow furrowed, the anger not quite at bay, but he acquiesced, sitting back down.
Elizabeth walked to the stairs, collecting the fallen crutch. She joined Neal in the middle of the stairs, handing him the crutch without a word. His face was unreadable, stoic.
"Neal," she finally said softly. He just turned away and continued his way into the guestroom.
She tentatively followed at a safe distance, saw from the door how he sat down on the bed with a frustrated, pained grimace, at the same time letting the crutches fall where he'd stood. He drew in a long breath, scrubbing a hand over his face.
She entered the room, closing the door behind her and hesitantly sat down on the bed next to him, not too close to intrude. He was silent for a moment, then said, "Is this where you're gonna say, ‘Told you so?’"
"Would you like me to?"
"No, I think I can hear it loud and clear as it is. And, Elizabeth, I shouldn't even be here. This is your house, and I have no business staying here, taking your time, intruding on your territory."
"Don't be silly, Neal. You're a friend. I would have hated seeing you alone up in your loft, like this."
"I think you're blowing this out of proportion a little bit. It's not like I need a babysitter. I can move around."
"Yeah, maybe," she admitted. "Would you like to go back?"
He sighed, lowering his head. "Maybe tomorrow."
She reached out and her hand touched his arm, squeezing it reassuringly. "Okay. But please know that you don't have to."
"I'm not sure your husband would agree with you."
"Oh, let me handle Peter. I know him. He'll get over it, don't worry."
Neal looked at Elizabeth's hand on his arm. "Thank you," he said.
She got up from the bed. "I'll let you get some rest."
"Thanks," he muttered as she left the room.
Downstairs, Peter was still sitting at the table, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth. Elizabeth came up behind him, rubbing his shoulders, massaging his tense muscles with her thumbs. She felt him relax under her touch, underlined by the satisfied grunt that came over his lips.
"If you're trying to soften my disposition, it's definitely working."
"Good," she said, continuing her ministrations.
"Is he okay?"
"Oh, he'll be fine. But I think you need to give him a break."
"A break? I've given him so many breaks, I've stopped counting. When is it gonna get through that thick skull of his that the time will come where this is all gonna come down on him, when I can't protect him anymore?"
"Honey, I hate to remind you of this, but it's always very black and white for you. Neal—he lives in the gray areas. I think the shading is becoming a lot clearer to him, but change doesn't come overnight."
"Overnight? He's been doing this for almost two years now. And he... Sometimes I think he hasn't made any progress at all. It's like trouble finds him, no matter where he goes. Or maybe he actively looks for it. I don't know."
"I think you know he's made progress. And some of these decisions, they're hard to make."
"What are you saying? I need to give him time? How much more time am I supposed to allow? We're not talking about a misdemeanor. This is big."
"I know," she sighed. "But I know he's asking himself the right questions."
"Did he say something to you?"
"Not in so many words. You know Neal. He would never give anything away unless he has ulterior motives. But if you read between the lines, it's all there."
"’It’ what?"
"That he's trying to decide what to do with his life, that he's starting to see there is something appealing in a life within the confines of the law."
"What is there to decide?" Peter asked exasperatedly.
"See, there's that black and white thing again."
He sighed. "So you're saying that I should do nothing? That I let Neal decide and make him come to me?"
"Pretty much, yes."
"You know it's not that simple."
"No, with Neal it never is. Still, give him some time to recuperate. He's not going anywhere right now."
Peter had to acknowledge that, as hard as it was. He didn't regret bringing Neal to their house, but ever since the warehouse explosion, there had just been that something... that devilish tickle at the back of his mind that would knock on the door every so often. Peter placed his palms on the table.
"Fine," he said resolutely. "He'll get his reprieve. And you... You owe me."
She bent down, kissing his head. "Thank you. I'll make it up to you, I promise."
Peter pursed his lips. Once more it hit him how he'd gotten so lucky. He had the best wife in the world. And some days it felt like he barely deserved it.
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After Elizabeth had gone, Neal let his back sink down on the bed, dragging his legs up onto it with considerable effort. When he turned his head, his eyes fell on the tracker that Peter had left on the nightstand.
This little piece of black plastic, it signified so much. And it would be so easy to just disregard it and live Victor Moreau's life in splendor, together with Mozzie (pardon, Bob) on that Caribbean island. Still, a black, menacing tentacle weaved itself into that particular picture every time he thought about it.
If he left now, went AWOL, he knew he could never come back. And the puzzle pieces were coming together, forming a picture that had a 'Do not want' watermark in there somewhere. It had surprised Neal himself, because it had just always been such a natural assumption that the life that came with the tracker would be temporary, that he'd up and leave as soon as he got the chance.
But the more he considered it, the less assurance he could find in the idea. He'd lived that life of a conman on the run. That life that felt like the possibilities were endless, that life that was governed by the next job, the next rush, the next exhilarating surge of adrenaline. But it was also a life that had him constantly look over his shoulder, on his guard, not trusting anyone. It was an exciting life, but when it came down to it, also a lonely one.
Yes, he'd shared that life with Kate, and it had been good then. But eventually, it had driven her away. And then gotten her killed.
And in this life, the one he was leading now, something unexpected had happened. He'd made friends. Not just business partners or mutual allies to fall back on in times of need. True friends—true friends who cared, who took him in, no questions asked, who were concerned about his well-being, his state of mind, his way of life. It was... new. And he had to admit that it also felt good, like something worth fighting for.
Picking up the tracker, he twirled it in his hands. The LED on it glowed a taunting yellow in the dim light. If he put it on, he'd be back on a leash. Two miles—with exceptions. Yes, he'd come to curse the damn thing more than once, but considering the alternatives, it was still much preferred to prison. And, if he searched for an honest answer deep within him, even preferable to a life that meant giving up Neal Caffrey.
He made a decision. The time to spend his days on a white-sanded beach with an umbrella-garnished drink in his hand would come soon enough. He sat up and snapped the tracker around his right ankle.
Ironically, the click it made and the beep it emitted as the light turned to green had a strangely liberating ring to it.
Neal leaned back after the deed was done, feeling exhaustion washing over him. He wanted to close his eyes, just for a moment, rest for a few minutes, gather his strength.
The next thing he knew, he opened his eyes groggily to darkness that was only penetrated by faint light floating in through the window. After shaking off the disorientation, he realized it was dark outside and the yellow glow came from the street lights. He fumbled for the lamp on the nightstand, the movement increasing the dull pain in his thigh in its throbbing intensity. He blinked against the harsh, sudden brightness, barely suppressing a moan.
When his eyes had adjusted, he stole a glance at his cell phone. Twenty-eight minutes past midnight. He must have dozed off. Another glance at the nightstand found a note lying there, pinned underneath the orange pill bottle he was all too familiar with. In Elizabeth's elegant writing, the note said, "You might want these close by."
Pain relief sounded good right about now. Someone (presumably Elizabeth) had also leaned the crutches against the nightstand, within easy reach. A pair of his pajamas lay folded on the nearby chair, a duffel bag with fresh clothes on the floor next to it. For a fleeting moment, he gave in to gratefulness for Elizabeth's kind and thoughtful nature. There was definitely something to be said for not being in his loft by himself right now. Trying to gather some resolve, he drew in a breath, clenched his teeth, and inched his legs over the edge of the bed, struggling into an upright position.
He tried to make his way into the bathroom as quietly as he could, hoping it wouldn't wake Peter and Elizabeth. Fishing the pill bottle from his pant pocket, he shook two of them out into his hand and swallowed them down with water from the tap.
He caught sight of himself in the mirror, once again startled by the scrapes and bruises marring his skin. All things considered, he'd been very lucky, but he would be wearing the immediately visible reminders of his accident for a while. With a sigh he took to a semblance of routine by going through the motions of nightly bathroom rituals before making his way back to the guestroom.
Once back in bed, he knew rest wouldn't come easy. He'd just caught a good five hours of sleep, and he was wide awake. It wasn't helping that his leg was sending painful reminders of the assault on his thigh muscle up into his brainstem. In the end, all he could do was wearily hope for the painkillers to kick in sooner rather than later.
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His alarm clock woke Peter the next morning, same way it always did on weekdays—6:15 sharp. Peter groaned as he hit the snooze button, feeling Elizabeth shift next to him. She turned over, smiling tiredly at him. "Morning," she muttered.
Peter emitted another grunt. He'd never been a morning person, and this was just part of their ritual.
Elizabeth peeled herself out of bed, choosing her attire for the day from their wardrobe, giving Peter another few minutes. He turned onto his side, closed his eyes again. Sleep still clung on, fogging his brain, but there was something tingling at the edges of his subconscious. Something was different, something about—
Neal. He was here, in the guestroom, possibly still sleeping.
Peter opened his eyes, trying to kick-start his brain into working mode. He rolled onto his back again, his eyes fixed on the white ceiling. It was too early to think about the day ahead, the challenges it would bring.
Elizabeth joined him again fifteen minutes later. She bent down next to him, giving him a soft kiss on the forehead. "Time to get up, hon."
"Is Neal still sleeping?" he asked her.
"I don't know, I didn't check. I didn't hear anything."
Peter grunted in acknowledgement. El told him, "I'll go get things ready downstairs. Let him get some more sleep. We can wake him for breakfast."
By the time that Peter had showered, shaved and dressed, El had the table set for three in the living room. "You wanna go wake him?" she asked.
"Yeah," Peter replied.
The door to the guestroom opened with a little squeak, and the picture that greeted Peter was just shy of adorable. Neal was tangled in the bed sheets, hair unruly, lips slightly pursed, breathing even, his right foot dangling over the edge of the bed.
The first thing Peter noticed was the anklet around Neal's lower leg. He frowned, trying to remember if he'd had a lapse in memory. But, no, he had clearly left the anklet on the nightstand the evening before. Neal must have put it on himself. Peter wasn't sure what to make of it, but it was surely something positive.
He edged closer to the bed. "Neal?" he asked tentatively.
He could see Neal's eyelids flickering ever so slightly, but that was the only reaction his verbal command solicited. Peter studied Neal again more closely. It almost looked as if the scrapes and bruises had turned a shade angrier overnight. Neal's cheeks seemed a little flushed, and a disconcerting notion occurred to Peter. Had Neal developed a fever?
Peter's hand found Neal's forehead, relief flooding through him when it felt warm, but not unnaturally so. It was probably just the tossing and turning, the fitful night he assumed Neal had had.
Neal stirred underneath his touch, emitting a soft grunt. Peter withdrew his hand from Neal's head, placing it on his shoulder—careful, as to not cause any unwarranted pain.
"Peter?" Neal blinked up at him.
"Yeah. Sorry to wake you, but we thought maybe you wanted some breakfast."
The noise Neal made sounded much like, "Unh," and Peter couldn't hide a small smile. "You can go back to sleep if you want."
"No," Neal sighed. "It's okay. Just give me a few minutes."
"Take all the time you need."
Peter and Elizabeth were already digging into their cereal by the time Neal joined them, wrapped in a bathrobe but looking well groomed enough to have the suaveness of the usual Neal Caffrey shine through.
"Morning," he greeted them with a bright smile.
"Morning," Elizabeth chirped back, getting up from her chair. "You drink your coffee with milk, right?"
"Black in the morning, thanks," Neal replied.
Elizabeth gave a quick nod. "Black it is."
Peter shoved the box with cereal over to Neal. "All we have is bran flakes." He gave a disapproving frown. Leaning in, he whispered, "El's not real fond of the stuff that actually tastes good."
"I heard that," she chuckled. "Neal, I can make you toast if you like."
Peter rolled his eyes. "Great, he gets toast. I get unsweetened oatmeal or bran flakes."
"You, Peter Burke, are not hobbling around on one leg."
"If that's what it takes to get a decent breakfast in this house, maybe I should shoot myself in the foot."
"Oh, quit whining. Neal? Toast?"
He smiled at her. "No, bran flakes are just fine."
Peter drew a grimace, like Neal was being agreeable on purpose. Neal just shrugged apologetically at Peter. "What? I like bran flakes."
"Yeah, sure you do."
Elizabeth placed a mug of steaming coffee in front of Neal. "So, do you want to stay here today? You know that we love to have you, right?"
Neal shoved another spoonful of flakes into his mouth, chewing them with fervor. "I will be fine at June's house. I can't ask you to stay home another day."
"Well, you don't have to. I was planning to go to the office for a while today. There's some things I need to wrap up there, but the rest of the day, I can work from home. It's no trouble. Really. I'd much rather see you here than in that huge mansion. Besides, didn't you say June was out of town?"
"Yeah, she's visiting her son in Florida."
"See, all the more reason for you to stay with us."
Neal attempted a questioning glance at Peter, picking at his flakes that were getting soggy now.
Peter realized what this was about. After all, they hadn't really talked since last night. "I promise there's not gonna be any more interrogations," he told Neal with an earnestness to his voice.
Neal slowly met his eyes, held his gaze. "No strings attached, huh?"
"Nope."
Elizabeth smiled sweetly at him. "Come on, Neal. Just say yes."
His mouth slowly curved into a smile. "Looks like I don't have much of a choice."
Her responding smile was mischievously content. "Oh, you never did."
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It wasn't just the next day that Neal stayed at the Burke's house. Elizabeth insisted that he didn't go back until he got rid of the crutches, was more mobile again. In the end, Neal was thankful for all the help, because he had to concede that it felt great to have someone there to make things easier when you were incapacitated. More than he'd care to admit.
Peter had kept his promise and not brought up anything about the treasure again. Conversations had been pleasant, sometimes stimulating and often entertaining.
During the day, when he was left by himself, Neal read or made progress on working his way through the Burkes' DVD collection, frowning at some of the choices ('Little Nicky'? Really?), trying to avoid daytime television as much as possible—with limited success. Peter would give him a file to peruse here and there, but since he was still officially on sick leave, it wasn't anything taxing.
He missed his easel, his painting equipment, because painting always grounded him, let him forget the world around him. It was the one pastime that would let him truly relax—unless it was something that was part of a con and came with a deadline. But even then, he could get lost in the composition of colors, the pure act of creating something beautiful.
At least Mozzie had dropped by, bringing him his sketchpad and some pencils and charcoal. It wasn't the same, drawing while you were sitting in a chair with the pad on a table, but Neal was content with what he had. At the end of the day, he'd ended up with a finished charcoal drawing of a happily panting Satchmo who'd been so patient to obey Neal's command and sit still long enough for him to at least draw the necessary outlines.
He'd given the drawing to Peter and Elizabeth that night, both of which had huge, admiring smiles on their faces. "An original Caffrey," Peter had marveled.
"Yeah, I even signed it."
"Where do we hang it?" Peter had asked Elizabeth.
In the end, they couldn't agree on a spot, and El concluded that particular argument by saying she'd get it framed and then they could always decide later.
The next day, Peter took Neal for a follow-up doctor's appointment. Everything looked good, and since Neal had already started to put weight on the injured leg, he was given the go-ahead to lose the crutches if he felt comfortable enough without them. It was a recommendation Neal all too readily took to.
By the time Peter and Elizabeth got home that evening, Neal had packed his duffel bag and made up the bed in the guestroom. At dinner, he carefully broached the subject of returning to June's house, and Peter and Elizabeth fully supported his decision.
It was Peter who drove him into Manhattan, and it was Peter who carried his bag and indulged his slow and laborious ascent up to his loft.
Back in familiar surroundings, Neal leaned against one of the dining table chairs, catching his breath. A quick look around, he found that nothing was amiss. Even the patio outside was back to normal, with the boxwoods and furniture in their rightful places.
He watched Peter open the fridge, inspecting the contents.
"Yeah, that thing should be gaping empty," Neal commented.
Peter smiled a wistful smile. "Actually, it's not."
Neal frowned. "Did you...?"
"Not personally, but let's just say I made some inquiries with June's housekeeping staff."
Neal was genuinely touched. "Thank you, Peter. You didn't have to."
"Oh, I know. You can repay me by making sure you keep enough beer in there."
"Deal," Neal said.
Peter looked around. "So, anything else you need?"
"No, I think I'm good, thanks."
Peter sat down in the chair opposite Neal anyway, even though he could probably have easily taken the cue and left. He studied Neal for a short moment.
Neal broke the silence that was getting uncomfortable. "What, do I have something sticking out of my nose or something?"
"No. I'm just wondering... At my house, you put the anklet back on. Why?"
Neal just shrugged. "I figured why delay the inevitable?"
"I think you know there was more to it than that."
Neal said nothing, but they both understood. And it was like nothing more needed to be said on the matter. Still, Peter looked as if he wasn't finished.
"I know I said I wouldn't bring it up again, but, Neal, if this was about the treasure, if you have it, or know where it is..." Peter scrubbed a hand over his chin, feeling the beginnings of a stubble there. "It's like you have this habit of getting tangled up in the deep end, only crying for help when it's too late. You're treading on very dangerous ground, and if this blows up in your face, I can't protect you."
"And I wasn't asking you to."
"No, and God knows why I keep trying, but, Neal, please don't do anything you're going to regret."
"Why, Peter? Why do you care?"
Peter let out an incredulous breath. "Why? Geez, I thought you'd have realized this by now, but I'm your friend. I hate seeing you get hurt."
Neal said nothing, averted his eyes. Guilt was seeping through the cracks, mixed with doubt and a barely tangible hint of shame. He was already caught up in a tangled web of half-truths and purposeful omissions now, a web that had Peter on one side and Mozzie on the other. And both were pulling at him with equal force.
Peter's voice pulled him from his reverie. "Neal, can you promise me something?"
"What?"
"That whatever it is you're planning, you're gonna think about it—and think hard about it? About the repercussions, the collateral damage."
"What do you mean?" Neal asked.
"Oh, come on. You must realize that it's not just you anymore. I'm in this too. You're more than just my CI. I keep sticking my neck out for you. You think I will walk away clean from this if it turns out you stole the treasure and hid it all this time?"
"I didn't steal the treasure," Neal asserted once more.
"And maybe you didn't, hopefully you didn't, but if you know where it is, then I swear to God, Neal, you better not mess this up."
It was sound advice at any rate, and Neal had no intention of messing this up. Of course he was already well engulfed in the deep end, and he knew it. However, he hoped it wasn't too late to swim back to more shallow waters. As to how or when that would happen, he had no idea.
Neal sighed, leaning back in the chair, his face carefully neutral. What was there to say without incriminating himself? "I don't have any intention of messing this up," he finally said.
"Maybe not, but we both know your intentions haven't always led to the most favorable outcomes. I'm just gonna say this: Don't let yourself get buried under anything heavier than that crane. Because I think it was pretty much my maximum hoisting capacity."
"Yeah, I get that." And he did, but then Mozzie appeared in front of his mind's eye, along with a Degas, a Rembrandt, a Manet, and countless other masterpieces stashed away in a Manhattan warehouse. He pushed the images aside. Looking up, he studied a rarely thoughtful looking Peter.
"Thank you," Neal said, and the sincerity in his tone was loud. "You probably saved my life out there."
"Yeah, I probably did." A small, mischievous grin worked its way into Peter's features. "You know what? That makes me 3 and 0."
"Not quite. 3 and 1, if I recall correctly. The poisoned Armagnac?"
"Oh yeah, how could I forget?"
Peter got up from the chair and walked closer to Neal. He gave him a good natured pat on the shoulder. "Let's keep those scores where they are. You good on your own, got everything you need?"
Neal nodded. "Yeah, I'll be fine. No doubt Moz will drop by later. I have a feeling he's going to want to rope me into a game of Parcheesi, now that June is out of town."
Peter let out a chuckle. "Well, I guess there could be worse things than that."
"There could be."
"Okay," Peter moved towards the door. "Guess I'll be going then. I don't wanna see you in the office for at least another three days."
"Aye, sir," Neal said mockingly.
"I'm serious, Neal."
"I know. But, you know, if you wanna drop off a few case files..."
Peter smiled. "Okay, I'll think about it."
The door closed behind him with a soft click, and Neal was left staring at it. He gingerly stretched out his injured leg, feeling the tug of the sore muscle that hovered just at the edge of pain.
This had surely been a lesson—if not in humility, then in judgment. He'd known for a long time that he couldn't hold off indefinitely on making a decision. Leave or stay, that's what it came down to. Neal Caffrey or Victor Moreau. And right now, even with the constraints and inconveniences, the life of Neal Caffrey didn't look all that unappealing.
It wasn't just that, however. If he chose Victor Moreau, Neal Caffrey would die. Forever. There'd be no coming back—ever.
Was he ready for that?
It didn't take long for the answer to come.
No.
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THE END.
Author: TeeJay
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Peter, Elizabeth
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Neal!Whump (because I'm sadly addicted) and more or less vague-ish spoilers to things happening in season 3
Summary: Hurricane Irene nears New York City, and Neal has to go out there and run an errand. In the wrong place at the wrong time, Neal is suddenly trapped in the middle of a raging storm.
Disclaimer: White Collar, its characters and its settings belong to Jeff Eastin and USA Network. And, guys? Your characters are not only welcome, they're wonderful. I'm just borrowing, I promise.
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El was surprised how agreeable a patient Neal really was. She'd half expected him to be whiny and demanding, but he'd been neither. She'd checked on him often, made sure he had everything he needed. At some point he'd wanted to make an attempt up the stairs, and El had made sure he made it there safe and sound.
When she went back to check after a while, she found him on the bed in the guest room, a pillow behind his back, a book in his lap.
"You gonna stay up here?" she carefully asked.
He looked up at her. "If that's okay."
"Oh, of course it's okay. The couch, the guest room, living room, kitchen, it's all yours, wherever you prefer to be."
"Thanks," he told her. "But I'm fine in here for a while."
"Want me to get you anything? Something to drink?"
He indicated the half full bottle of Evian on the nightstand. "Thank you, but I'm good."
She let out a quick chuckle. "This whole mother-henning thing, is it too much?"
He laughed. "No, it's... sweet, actually."
"So... you don't mind?"
"No, I don't mind," he assured her. "So, how can I convince you that I don't need anything for at least the next hour or two? Besides," he picked up his Blackberry from the night stand, "I can always call your landline."
"Or just call down the stairs,"
"Or that."
"Well then, Mr. Caffrey, I will go downstairs and not bother you again for at least the next two hours. That is what you were implying, is it not?"
He grinned at her. "Too obvious?"
"Maybe a little."
"Sorry," he shrugged awkwardly, grimacing as it aggravated his bruised ribs.
"Oh, don't worry about it. I'm trainable. One more thing. Peter wanted me to make sure—"
"I took my painkillers," he interrupted.
"And have you?"
"Would you believe me if I said yes?"
"Neal, I'm not gonna count your pills, but there is no reason for you to suffer any more than you should."
His gaze on her was uncommonly frank. "Which is why I took two of them just ten minutes ago. And I'm not just saying that."
She nodded. "And I will take your word for it." She waved in the direction of the door. "You know, just call if you—"
"Need anything. I know."
She gave him a self-conscious smile. "Sorry. I'm leaving now. I promise."
He just chuckled and Elizabeth made her way down into the living room.
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It was actually almost three hours later that Elizabeth checked on Neal again. Not so much on purpose but more a cursory peek through the door that was slightly ajar on the way back down from the bathroom.
A slight draft of air caressed her face as she stole a gaze into the room. Neal was sitting by the open window, his gaze directed at the street in front of the house. There was something slightly heartbreaking in the way he looked so forlorn. Elizabeth couldn't help but enter.
His gaze traveled up to her face, and she could see that he didn't bother hiding the exhaustion, the weariness, the physical pain.
She came up behind him, placing her hands gently on his shoulders. "Isn't this a little too chilly?"
He looked back out the window. "I just needed some fresh air."
"You want me to close it?"
"No, not yet," he said.
She thought she could feel him shivering just a little beneath her hands, so she went over the bed and got the woolen blanket that was folded neatly at the foot of the bed. She unfolded it and carefully draped it over Neal. "Here, how's that?"
"Perfect."
She squeezed his shoulder again just a little, then sat down on the edge of the bed, not far from Neal. "This the first time you've injured a leg?" she asked.
"Actually, no. Why do you ask?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. Seems like you know how to handle crutches."
"I broke my leg once. As a kid. I was maybe 14 or 15, I think. I was on crutches for two or three weeks."
"Sports injury?"
"No. It was..." he trailed off, and Elizabeth could sense that it wasn't a memory he wanted to relive, for whatever reason. "It was a long time ago," he added.
"So, Peter never told me the whole story. You were pinned by a falling crane in the middle of a hurricane?"
Embarrassment crept into his smile. "Yeah. Sounds a little sensational, doesn't it?"
She chuckled. "A little. Should I be asking why you were out there in the midst of a storm?"
"It's kind of a long story," he evaded.
"And you know that Peter is going to want to hear it."
"Yeah, I bet he will."
"Are you going to lie to him?"
The question was blunt, provocative. Elizabeth knew Neal too well. He drew in a breath and held it, and it was enough of an answer for her.
"Neal, you know what they say: What goes around comes around. And you know that if you keep doing it, it's going to fall apart somewhere along the way."
His head turned to face her, his eyes flashing with a subdued anger that he quickly smoothed over. "No offense, Elizabeth, but you don't know what you're talking about."
She shook her head slowly. "No, maybe I don't, but I know enough to recognize the signs. You know that Peter still suspects you had something to do with that treasure, that maybe you still have it."
"Yes," he simply said.
"And you know what happens if he finds out that you do, don't you?"
"Who says that I do?" Was she saying that she knew he had the treasure? Or at least knew where it was?
"Well, maybe you don't. Like you said, I don't know what I'm talking about. But, Neal, whatever this is, do you remember that time when you came to talk to me, after this guy, what was his name? Lawrence? Something about Jones and a plane?"
Neal tried to think back, then remembered. "Yeah. You said something about doing the wrong things for the right reasons."
"Tell me I'm wrong when I say, this," she gestured at his injured leg, "had nothing to do with one of those wrong things you did for the right reasons."
"I guess that depends on how you look at it."
"Neal, I'd hate to see you get into trouble. Or worse."
"Elizabeth, if you knew what this was about..."
Her voice was calm, sympathetic. "I think I do. It's about you trying to find your way. You've been conning your way through life for as long as you can remember. And it's hard to give up that way of life. But, Neal, at some point you're going to have to make a decision."
"Con or man?"
She nodded. "Something like that."
He was silent for a long moment. "I wish it was as easy as that." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "At this point, I don't know how to get out of it without hurting somebody."
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"No," he said quickly. "I gotta figure this out on my own."
Her gaze on him was compassionate, maybe a little sad. "I hope you do."
Just at that moment, the Burkes' phone rang. "Let me get that," Elizabeth said.
Five minutes later, she poked her head into the guestroom. "That was Peter, he's going to be here soon. I'm going to start preparing dinner. You know the drill."
He smiled at her. "Holler if I need anything?"
She gave a quick laugh. "I see you're trainable too."
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It was just after six when Peter got home. The day in the office had been ordered chaos. They'd run on a skeleton crew since some of the agents hadn't made it in after the hurricane. Not that this had been too much of a problem. If the commotion of the storm had prompted any white collar criminals to spring to action, it hadn't filtered through to the FBI yet. However, Peter knew it would only be a short-lasting lull. Natural disasters always had a tendency for the slyest of criminals to exploit the ensuing mayhem.
Entering from the vestibule into the living room, he half expected Neal to be lying on the couch, but it was empty, the blanket neatly folded at one end.
"Honey?" he called.
Elizabeth emerged from the kitchen, giving him a warm smile. "Perfect timing, dinner's almost ready."
"Is Neal upstairs?"
"Yeah. Why don't you go get him?"
He held up the black plastic item he was carrying in his hand, waving it slightly. "Right. Then I can also put this back where it belongs."
Upstairs, Peter carefully approached the guestroom. He hesitated, then softly rapped on the door. When no answer was forthcoming, he opened the door a crack, peering in. Neal was lying on the bed, half covered by a beige blanket, eyes closed, seemingly asleep.
Peter couldn't help but smile. Childlike innocence prevailed on the young ex-con's face, and it was hard to believe the deceit he was capable of. Peter had to quell the sudden urge to walk up to him and ruffle a hand through his hair.
He cleared his throat, hoping the noise would wake Neal. It didn't.
"Neal?" Peter carefully probed.
Neal was still lost in the world of slumber, and Peter gingerly sat down on the edge of the bed. He made physical contact with what he thought was Neal's knee.
Neal violently flinched beneath his touch, letting out a pained groan, his eyes immediately wide, panicked.
Peter jerked his hand away, lifting both his arms in defense. "Easy, easy. It's just me. I'm sorry, did I hurt you?"
"No," Neal said groggily, quickly concealing the momentary lapse of self-control. "It's... geez. I'm sorry."
Peter's gaze on him was sympathetic. "No need to apologize. Dinner's about ready. Also, you know what this is for." He held up the tracking anklet.
Neal nodded. "Same model as before?"
"Yep, same one."
Neal peeled the blanket away from his left foot. "Knock yourself out."
Neal's ankle was bare beneath the pant leg, and Peter could see an ugly bruise or two near his shin. The skin around it was swollen too. He hesitated. "That looks kinda ugly. How did this happen?"
Neal just shrugged slightly. "I had to disable the anklet somehow."
"It looks like you clubbed it into oblivion, missing your mark a few times."
"As you remember, I wasn't exactly in a position to take precise aim."
"Neal, did the doctors check this out?"
"Yeah. Even x-rayed it. Looks worse than it is."
"Jesus," Peter sighed, a kind of abject horror in his voice. He withdrew his hand. "I can't put the anklet on that."
"Then go for the other leg. That one's only damaged from the knee up."
Peter looked skeptical, reached over and placed the anklet on the nightstand. "You know what? We'll leave it for now."
"Peter..."
He got up from the bed. "Come on, El's gonna be upset if you don't show downstairs within the next five minutes."
"She does know I'm incapacitated, right?"
"It'd be hard to miss, seeing how she mothered you all day. You need any help?"
"No, I'm good."
"All right," Peter said. "Then let's go check out what the lovely Mrs. Burke made for dinner."
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Dinner was delicious. Nothing special, a homemade potato and broccoli casserole. Neal still enjoyed it. You didn't always need the finer things in life to be content. There was easy conversation, Peter talked a little about his day, El had a story or two to tell about the reception she was planning.
It was really quite homey, and Neal felt strangely out of place—an intruder in a domestic still life who wasn't supposed to be there. He realized that this seemed to be a typical evening at chez Burke, and there wasn't even a bat of an eyelash at letting Neal into their lives to share it with them.
Peter's voice suddenly pulled Neal from his reverie. "You with us?"
Neal shook the distraction from his mind. "Yeah, sorry."
"You zoned out there for a bit. You okay?"
"Yeah, yeah," he quickly assured them. "Just..."
"Mind movies?" Elizabeth asked with a mischievous smile.
"What?" Neal laughed. "Yeah, maybe you can call it that."
Elizabeth got up from the table, collecting the dirty dishes. "Dessert?"
Neal waved a hand in front of him. "Thanks, but I'm full."
"Peter?"
"No, me neither. Thanks."
Peter made a movement to get up. "Here, let me help with the cleanup."
"It's fine," Elizabeth replied, placing her hands on her husband's shoulders. "No big deal. You stay."
Peter stayed in his chair, keeping a watchful eye on Neal who was sitting opposite him. The latter shifted in his chair, raising his arms to fold his hands behind his neck. The movement must have pulled at his sore muscles because Neal grimaced, his brow drawing lines of discomfort.
He eased himself out of the position, his hand finding the corner of the cloth napkin on the table.
Peter took all of this in in silence. Neal's eyes flitted to his, and stayed there. Neither man spoke for a long while, until Neal finally asked, "What?"
"I just can't help but wonder if your little errand was worth all this."
"All this what?"
"A concussion, a busted thigh, bruised ribs, a swollen ankle. Need I go on?"
"No, I get the picture."
"So, was it?"
"I would like to think so, yes."
"Tell me again, why were you out there exactly?"
"To help Mozzie out," Neal simply stated.
"With what? Is one of his hiding places out there? I mean, you said he wasn't there, why would you have to go there if it wasn't to rescue him, or, I don't know..."
"Look, he asked me to look after something that was important to him. It's as simple as that."
"Look after something? What in the world could be so important that you'd go there in the middle of a freakin' hurricane?"
Neal flinched. Peter was getting awfully close to Neal having to resort to more than just half-lies. "Look, it doesn't matter now, does it?"
Peter's voice took on a threatening undertone. "Neal, if this is—"
He realized he was being cornered, so he interrupted, "Peter, please stop asking about this, okay?"
Peter's jaw muscles began to work, to clench and unclench. "He asked you to secure the treasure, didn't he?"
This was just so Peter. Always with the easy accusations, the assumptions. Not that he was off this time, but Neal's stomach still churned when he thought about how Peter had unrightfully accused him of stealing the treasure after the warehouse explosion. Sudden anger he hadn't even realized he was still capable of erupted. "Why, Peter? Why does it always have to come back to the damn treasure?"
Peter's volume of voice now matched Neal's. "Oh, come on, Neal. You know why. It's a multi-billion dollar collection of priceless art that was stolen from its rightful owners. And it's my job to find it if it's still out there."
"And is it also your job to jump to conclusions, the way you tend to do when it comes to accusing me of things you don't have proof for, things that, you know, I might be innocent of?"
"I'd say it was a little more than 'jumping to conclusions', Neal."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"You were at my house last week. While I was pulling an all-nighter in the van and Mozzie took Elizabeth out for an exhibition and dinner. Look at me and tell me you didn't break into our home."
Neal met Peter's eyes, his expression steely. He didn't bother concealing the bitterness in his voice. "What? Is this an interrogation now? Besides, you've already made up your mind. I don't know what you need my testimony for. So you might as well save your breath."
With an expression of resolve Neal pushed himself to his feet, fumbling for the crutches. Without another word, he walked away, aiming for the stairs. Peter stared at his back for a long moment, his mouth a thin line. He heard Neal going up the stairs at a hurried pace. A moment later, there was a clatter and a number of swear words. It sounded like one of the crutches had slid down the stairs.
Peter got up from the chair, but Elizabeth was suddenly in front of him, placing a hand on his chest. Her voice was low. "No. Not now, Peter."
Peter's brow furrowed, the anger not quite at bay, but he acquiesced, sitting back down.
Elizabeth walked to the stairs, collecting the fallen crutch. She joined Neal in the middle of the stairs, handing him the crutch without a word. His face was unreadable, stoic.
"Neal," she finally said softly. He just turned away and continued his way into the guestroom.
She tentatively followed at a safe distance, saw from the door how he sat down on the bed with a frustrated, pained grimace, at the same time letting the crutches fall where he'd stood. He drew in a long breath, scrubbing a hand over his face.
She entered the room, closing the door behind her and hesitantly sat down on the bed next to him, not too close to intrude. He was silent for a moment, then said, "Is this where you're gonna say, ‘Told you so?’"
"Would you like me to?"
"No, I think I can hear it loud and clear as it is. And, Elizabeth, I shouldn't even be here. This is your house, and I have no business staying here, taking your time, intruding on your territory."
"Don't be silly, Neal. You're a friend. I would have hated seeing you alone up in your loft, like this."
"I think you're blowing this out of proportion a little bit. It's not like I need a babysitter. I can move around."
"Yeah, maybe," she admitted. "Would you like to go back?"
He sighed, lowering his head. "Maybe tomorrow."
She reached out and her hand touched his arm, squeezing it reassuringly. "Okay. But please know that you don't have to."
"I'm not sure your husband would agree with you."
"Oh, let me handle Peter. I know him. He'll get over it, don't worry."
Neal looked at Elizabeth's hand on his arm. "Thank you," he said.
She got up from the bed. "I'll let you get some rest."
"Thanks," he muttered as she left the room.
Downstairs, Peter was still sitting at the table, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth. Elizabeth came up behind him, rubbing his shoulders, massaging his tense muscles with her thumbs. She felt him relax under her touch, underlined by the satisfied grunt that came over his lips.
"If you're trying to soften my disposition, it's definitely working."
"Good," she said, continuing her ministrations.
"Is he okay?"
"Oh, he'll be fine. But I think you need to give him a break."
"A break? I've given him so many breaks, I've stopped counting. When is it gonna get through that thick skull of his that the time will come where this is all gonna come down on him, when I can't protect him anymore?"
"Honey, I hate to remind you of this, but it's always very black and white for you. Neal—he lives in the gray areas. I think the shading is becoming a lot clearer to him, but change doesn't come overnight."
"Overnight? He's been doing this for almost two years now. And he... Sometimes I think he hasn't made any progress at all. It's like trouble finds him, no matter where he goes. Or maybe he actively looks for it. I don't know."
"I think you know he's made progress. And some of these decisions, they're hard to make."
"What are you saying? I need to give him time? How much more time am I supposed to allow? We're not talking about a misdemeanor. This is big."
"I know," she sighed. "But I know he's asking himself the right questions."
"Did he say something to you?"
"Not in so many words. You know Neal. He would never give anything away unless he has ulterior motives. But if you read between the lines, it's all there."
"’It’ what?"
"That he's trying to decide what to do with his life, that he's starting to see there is something appealing in a life within the confines of the law."
"What is there to decide?" Peter asked exasperatedly.
"See, there's that black and white thing again."
He sighed. "So you're saying that I should do nothing? That I let Neal decide and make him come to me?"
"Pretty much, yes."
"You know it's not that simple."
"No, with Neal it never is. Still, give him some time to recuperate. He's not going anywhere right now."
Peter had to acknowledge that, as hard as it was. He didn't regret bringing Neal to their house, but ever since the warehouse explosion, there had just been that something... that devilish tickle at the back of his mind that would knock on the door every so often. Peter placed his palms on the table.
"Fine," he said resolutely. "He'll get his reprieve. And you... You owe me."
She bent down, kissing his head. "Thank you. I'll make it up to you, I promise."
Peter pursed his lips. Once more it hit him how he'd gotten so lucky. He had the best wife in the world. And some days it felt like he barely deserved it.
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After Elizabeth had gone, Neal let his back sink down on the bed, dragging his legs up onto it with considerable effort. When he turned his head, his eyes fell on the tracker that Peter had left on the nightstand.
This little piece of black plastic, it signified so much. And it would be so easy to just disregard it and live Victor Moreau's life in splendor, together with Mozzie (pardon, Bob) on that Caribbean island. Still, a black, menacing tentacle weaved itself into that particular picture every time he thought about it.
If he left now, went AWOL, he knew he could never come back. And the puzzle pieces were coming together, forming a picture that had a 'Do not want' watermark in there somewhere. It had surprised Neal himself, because it had just always been such a natural assumption that the life that came with the tracker would be temporary, that he'd up and leave as soon as he got the chance.
But the more he considered it, the less assurance he could find in the idea. He'd lived that life of a conman on the run. That life that felt like the possibilities were endless, that life that was governed by the next job, the next rush, the next exhilarating surge of adrenaline. But it was also a life that had him constantly look over his shoulder, on his guard, not trusting anyone. It was an exciting life, but when it came down to it, also a lonely one.
Yes, he'd shared that life with Kate, and it had been good then. But eventually, it had driven her away. And then gotten her killed.
And in this life, the one he was leading now, something unexpected had happened. He'd made friends. Not just business partners or mutual allies to fall back on in times of need. True friends—true friends who cared, who took him in, no questions asked, who were concerned about his well-being, his state of mind, his way of life. It was... new. And he had to admit that it also felt good, like something worth fighting for.
Picking up the tracker, he twirled it in his hands. The LED on it glowed a taunting yellow in the dim light. If he put it on, he'd be back on a leash. Two miles—with exceptions. Yes, he'd come to curse the damn thing more than once, but considering the alternatives, it was still much preferred to prison. And, if he searched for an honest answer deep within him, even preferable to a life that meant giving up Neal Caffrey.
He made a decision. The time to spend his days on a white-sanded beach with an umbrella-garnished drink in his hand would come soon enough. He sat up and snapped the tracker around his right ankle.
Ironically, the click it made and the beep it emitted as the light turned to green had a strangely liberating ring to it.
Neal leaned back after the deed was done, feeling exhaustion washing over him. He wanted to close his eyes, just for a moment, rest for a few minutes, gather his strength.
The next thing he knew, he opened his eyes groggily to darkness that was only penetrated by faint light floating in through the window. After shaking off the disorientation, he realized it was dark outside and the yellow glow came from the street lights. He fumbled for the lamp on the nightstand, the movement increasing the dull pain in his thigh in its throbbing intensity. He blinked against the harsh, sudden brightness, barely suppressing a moan.
When his eyes had adjusted, he stole a glance at his cell phone. Twenty-eight minutes past midnight. He must have dozed off. Another glance at the nightstand found a note lying there, pinned underneath the orange pill bottle he was all too familiar with. In Elizabeth's elegant writing, the note said, "You might want these close by."
Pain relief sounded good right about now. Someone (presumably Elizabeth) had also leaned the crutches against the nightstand, within easy reach. A pair of his pajamas lay folded on the nearby chair, a duffel bag with fresh clothes on the floor next to it. For a fleeting moment, he gave in to gratefulness for Elizabeth's kind and thoughtful nature. There was definitely something to be said for not being in his loft by himself right now. Trying to gather some resolve, he drew in a breath, clenched his teeth, and inched his legs over the edge of the bed, struggling into an upright position.
He tried to make his way into the bathroom as quietly as he could, hoping it wouldn't wake Peter and Elizabeth. Fishing the pill bottle from his pant pocket, he shook two of them out into his hand and swallowed them down with water from the tap.
He caught sight of himself in the mirror, once again startled by the scrapes and bruises marring his skin. All things considered, he'd been very lucky, but he would be wearing the immediately visible reminders of his accident for a while. With a sigh he took to a semblance of routine by going through the motions of nightly bathroom rituals before making his way back to the guestroom.
Once back in bed, he knew rest wouldn't come easy. He'd just caught a good five hours of sleep, and he was wide awake. It wasn't helping that his leg was sending painful reminders of the assault on his thigh muscle up into his brainstem. In the end, all he could do was wearily hope for the painkillers to kick in sooner rather than later.
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His alarm clock woke Peter the next morning, same way it always did on weekdays—6:15 sharp. Peter groaned as he hit the snooze button, feeling Elizabeth shift next to him. She turned over, smiling tiredly at him. "Morning," she muttered.
Peter emitted another grunt. He'd never been a morning person, and this was just part of their ritual.
Elizabeth peeled herself out of bed, choosing her attire for the day from their wardrobe, giving Peter another few minutes. He turned onto his side, closed his eyes again. Sleep still clung on, fogging his brain, but there was something tingling at the edges of his subconscious. Something was different, something about—
Neal. He was here, in the guestroom, possibly still sleeping.
Peter opened his eyes, trying to kick-start his brain into working mode. He rolled onto his back again, his eyes fixed on the white ceiling. It was too early to think about the day ahead, the challenges it would bring.
Elizabeth joined him again fifteen minutes later. She bent down next to him, giving him a soft kiss on the forehead. "Time to get up, hon."
"Is Neal still sleeping?" he asked her.
"I don't know, I didn't check. I didn't hear anything."
Peter grunted in acknowledgement. El told him, "I'll go get things ready downstairs. Let him get some more sleep. We can wake him for breakfast."
By the time that Peter had showered, shaved and dressed, El had the table set for three in the living room. "You wanna go wake him?" she asked.
"Yeah," Peter replied.
The door to the guestroom opened with a little squeak, and the picture that greeted Peter was just shy of adorable. Neal was tangled in the bed sheets, hair unruly, lips slightly pursed, breathing even, his right foot dangling over the edge of the bed.
The first thing Peter noticed was the anklet around Neal's lower leg. He frowned, trying to remember if he'd had a lapse in memory. But, no, he had clearly left the anklet on the nightstand the evening before. Neal must have put it on himself. Peter wasn't sure what to make of it, but it was surely something positive.
He edged closer to the bed. "Neal?" he asked tentatively.
He could see Neal's eyelids flickering ever so slightly, but that was the only reaction his verbal command solicited. Peter studied Neal again more closely. It almost looked as if the scrapes and bruises had turned a shade angrier overnight. Neal's cheeks seemed a little flushed, and a disconcerting notion occurred to Peter. Had Neal developed a fever?
Peter's hand found Neal's forehead, relief flooding through him when it felt warm, but not unnaturally so. It was probably just the tossing and turning, the fitful night he assumed Neal had had.
Neal stirred underneath his touch, emitting a soft grunt. Peter withdrew his hand from Neal's head, placing it on his shoulder—careful, as to not cause any unwarranted pain.
"Peter?" Neal blinked up at him.
"Yeah. Sorry to wake you, but we thought maybe you wanted some breakfast."
The noise Neal made sounded much like, "Unh," and Peter couldn't hide a small smile. "You can go back to sleep if you want."
"No," Neal sighed. "It's okay. Just give me a few minutes."
"Take all the time you need."
Peter and Elizabeth were already digging into their cereal by the time Neal joined them, wrapped in a bathrobe but looking well groomed enough to have the suaveness of the usual Neal Caffrey shine through.
"Morning," he greeted them with a bright smile.
"Morning," Elizabeth chirped back, getting up from her chair. "You drink your coffee with milk, right?"
"Black in the morning, thanks," Neal replied.
Elizabeth gave a quick nod. "Black it is."
Peter shoved the box with cereal over to Neal. "All we have is bran flakes." He gave a disapproving frown. Leaning in, he whispered, "El's not real fond of the stuff that actually tastes good."
"I heard that," she chuckled. "Neal, I can make you toast if you like."
Peter rolled his eyes. "Great, he gets toast. I get unsweetened oatmeal or bran flakes."
"You, Peter Burke, are not hobbling around on one leg."
"If that's what it takes to get a decent breakfast in this house, maybe I should shoot myself in the foot."
"Oh, quit whining. Neal? Toast?"
He smiled at her. "No, bran flakes are just fine."
Peter drew a grimace, like Neal was being agreeable on purpose. Neal just shrugged apologetically at Peter. "What? I like bran flakes."
"Yeah, sure you do."
Elizabeth placed a mug of steaming coffee in front of Neal. "So, do you want to stay here today? You know that we love to have you, right?"
Neal shoved another spoonful of flakes into his mouth, chewing them with fervor. "I will be fine at June's house. I can't ask you to stay home another day."
"Well, you don't have to. I was planning to go to the office for a while today. There's some things I need to wrap up there, but the rest of the day, I can work from home. It's no trouble. Really. I'd much rather see you here than in that huge mansion. Besides, didn't you say June was out of town?"
"Yeah, she's visiting her son in Florida."
"See, all the more reason for you to stay with us."
Neal attempted a questioning glance at Peter, picking at his flakes that were getting soggy now.
Peter realized what this was about. After all, they hadn't really talked since last night. "I promise there's not gonna be any more interrogations," he told Neal with an earnestness to his voice.
Neal slowly met his eyes, held his gaze. "No strings attached, huh?"
"Nope."
Elizabeth smiled sweetly at him. "Come on, Neal. Just say yes."
His mouth slowly curved into a smile. "Looks like I don't have much of a choice."
Her responding smile was mischievously content. "Oh, you never did."
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It wasn't just the next day that Neal stayed at the Burke's house. Elizabeth insisted that he didn't go back until he got rid of the crutches, was more mobile again. In the end, Neal was thankful for all the help, because he had to concede that it felt great to have someone there to make things easier when you were incapacitated. More than he'd care to admit.
Peter had kept his promise and not brought up anything about the treasure again. Conversations had been pleasant, sometimes stimulating and often entertaining.
During the day, when he was left by himself, Neal read or made progress on working his way through the Burkes' DVD collection, frowning at some of the choices ('Little Nicky'? Really?), trying to avoid daytime television as much as possible—with limited success. Peter would give him a file to peruse here and there, but since he was still officially on sick leave, it wasn't anything taxing.
He missed his easel, his painting equipment, because painting always grounded him, let him forget the world around him. It was the one pastime that would let him truly relax—unless it was something that was part of a con and came with a deadline. But even then, he could get lost in the composition of colors, the pure act of creating something beautiful.
At least Mozzie had dropped by, bringing him his sketchpad and some pencils and charcoal. It wasn't the same, drawing while you were sitting in a chair with the pad on a table, but Neal was content with what he had. At the end of the day, he'd ended up with a finished charcoal drawing of a happily panting Satchmo who'd been so patient to obey Neal's command and sit still long enough for him to at least draw the necessary outlines.
He'd given the drawing to Peter and Elizabeth that night, both of which had huge, admiring smiles on their faces. "An original Caffrey," Peter had marveled.
"Yeah, I even signed it."
"Where do we hang it?" Peter had asked Elizabeth.
In the end, they couldn't agree on a spot, and El concluded that particular argument by saying she'd get it framed and then they could always decide later.
The next day, Peter took Neal for a follow-up doctor's appointment. Everything looked good, and since Neal had already started to put weight on the injured leg, he was given the go-ahead to lose the crutches if he felt comfortable enough without them. It was a recommendation Neal all too readily took to.
By the time Peter and Elizabeth got home that evening, Neal had packed his duffel bag and made up the bed in the guestroom. At dinner, he carefully broached the subject of returning to June's house, and Peter and Elizabeth fully supported his decision.
It was Peter who drove him into Manhattan, and it was Peter who carried his bag and indulged his slow and laborious ascent up to his loft.
Back in familiar surroundings, Neal leaned against one of the dining table chairs, catching his breath. A quick look around, he found that nothing was amiss. Even the patio outside was back to normal, with the boxwoods and furniture in their rightful places.
He watched Peter open the fridge, inspecting the contents.
"Yeah, that thing should be gaping empty," Neal commented.
Peter smiled a wistful smile. "Actually, it's not."
Neal frowned. "Did you...?"
"Not personally, but let's just say I made some inquiries with June's housekeeping staff."
Neal was genuinely touched. "Thank you, Peter. You didn't have to."
"Oh, I know. You can repay me by making sure you keep enough beer in there."
"Deal," Neal said.
Peter looked around. "So, anything else you need?"
"No, I think I'm good, thanks."
Peter sat down in the chair opposite Neal anyway, even though he could probably have easily taken the cue and left. He studied Neal for a short moment.
Neal broke the silence that was getting uncomfortable. "What, do I have something sticking out of my nose or something?"
"No. I'm just wondering... At my house, you put the anklet back on. Why?"
Neal just shrugged. "I figured why delay the inevitable?"
"I think you know there was more to it than that."
Neal said nothing, but they both understood. And it was like nothing more needed to be said on the matter. Still, Peter looked as if he wasn't finished.
"I know I said I wouldn't bring it up again, but, Neal, if this was about the treasure, if you have it, or know where it is..." Peter scrubbed a hand over his chin, feeling the beginnings of a stubble there. "It's like you have this habit of getting tangled up in the deep end, only crying for help when it's too late. You're treading on very dangerous ground, and if this blows up in your face, I can't protect you."
"And I wasn't asking you to."
"No, and God knows why I keep trying, but, Neal, please don't do anything you're going to regret."
"Why, Peter? Why do you care?"
Peter let out an incredulous breath. "Why? Geez, I thought you'd have realized this by now, but I'm your friend. I hate seeing you get hurt."
Neal said nothing, averted his eyes. Guilt was seeping through the cracks, mixed with doubt and a barely tangible hint of shame. He was already caught up in a tangled web of half-truths and purposeful omissions now, a web that had Peter on one side and Mozzie on the other. And both were pulling at him with equal force.
Peter's voice pulled him from his reverie. "Neal, can you promise me something?"
"What?"
"That whatever it is you're planning, you're gonna think about it—and think hard about it? About the repercussions, the collateral damage."
"What do you mean?" Neal asked.
"Oh, come on. You must realize that it's not just you anymore. I'm in this too. You're more than just my CI. I keep sticking my neck out for you. You think I will walk away clean from this if it turns out you stole the treasure and hid it all this time?"
"I didn't steal the treasure," Neal asserted once more.
"And maybe you didn't, hopefully you didn't, but if you know where it is, then I swear to God, Neal, you better not mess this up."
It was sound advice at any rate, and Neal had no intention of messing this up. Of course he was already well engulfed in the deep end, and he knew it. However, he hoped it wasn't too late to swim back to more shallow waters. As to how or when that would happen, he had no idea.
Neal sighed, leaning back in the chair, his face carefully neutral. What was there to say without incriminating himself? "I don't have any intention of messing this up," he finally said.
"Maybe not, but we both know your intentions haven't always led to the most favorable outcomes. I'm just gonna say this: Don't let yourself get buried under anything heavier than that crane. Because I think it was pretty much my maximum hoisting capacity."
"Yeah, I get that." And he did, but then Mozzie appeared in front of his mind's eye, along with a Degas, a Rembrandt, a Manet, and countless other masterpieces stashed away in a Manhattan warehouse. He pushed the images aside. Looking up, he studied a rarely thoughtful looking Peter.
"Thank you," Neal said, and the sincerity in his tone was loud. "You probably saved my life out there."
"Yeah, I probably did." A small, mischievous grin worked its way into Peter's features. "You know what? That makes me 3 and 0."
"Not quite. 3 and 1, if I recall correctly. The poisoned Armagnac?"
"Oh yeah, how could I forget?"
Peter got up from the chair and walked closer to Neal. He gave him a good natured pat on the shoulder. "Let's keep those scores where they are. You good on your own, got everything you need?"
Neal nodded. "Yeah, I'll be fine. No doubt Moz will drop by later. I have a feeling he's going to want to rope me into a game of Parcheesi, now that June is out of town."
Peter let out a chuckle. "Well, I guess there could be worse things than that."
"There could be."
"Okay," Peter moved towards the door. "Guess I'll be going then. I don't wanna see you in the office for at least another three days."
"Aye, sir," Neal said mockingly.
"I'm serious, Neal."
"I know. But, you know, if you wanna drop off a few case files..."
Peter smiled. "Okay, I'll think about it."
The door closed behind him with a soft click, and Neal was left staring at it. He gingerly stretched out his injured leg, feeling the tug of the sore muscle that hovered just at the edge of pain.
This had surely been a lesson—if not in humility, then in judgment. He'd known for a long time that he couldn't hold off indefinitely on making a decision. Leave or stay, that's what it came down to. Neal Caffrey or Victor Moreau. And right now, even with the constraints and inconveniences, the life of Neal Caffrey didn't look all that unappealing.
It wasn't just that, however. If he chose Victor Moreau, Neal Caffrey would die. Forever. There'd be no coming back—ever.
Was he ready for that?
It didn't take long for the answer to come.
No.
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THE END.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-10-06 08:44 pm (UTC)Love your Elizabeth too - she's definitely the emotional adult here.
Brava!
no subject
Date: 2011-10-06 08:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-06 08:58 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-06 10:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-07 01:10 pm (UTC)And thank you for giving Elizabeth her spark back and making her the kind,strong woman again who can not only see through Neal but can also tell Peter to let go. I was missing her in season 3.
I tried to review yesterday when I read this the first time but LJ wouldn't let me. :)
no subject
Date: 2011-10-07 03:50 pm (UTC)Of course, the whump junkie in me is hopelessly in love with the Peter finds Neal unconscious and buried under a crane part :P
*hugs fic* It's made of win! :D
no subject
Date: 2011-10-07 06:03 pm (UTC)I know, LJ was being troublesome yesterday. Thank God is was only scheduled maintenance and not another hacker attack. You wouldn't believe how long it took me to even post this last night!
no subject
Date: 2011-10-07 06:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-07 06:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-07 07:16 pm (UTC)Thank you, but you know it's been so, SO MUCH fun for me, too \o/ Team work FTW! :D
no subject
Date: 2011-10-07 10:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-07 10:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-14 04:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-14 06:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-14 06:50 am (UTC)Maybe not, but you were showing a LOT more thoughtfulness about the issues than TPTB are.
From this story, I'm betting that El's figured out (and sympathizes with) Neal's dilemma: to do/be what Peter wants, he'd have to "rat" on Mozzie, his oldest friend. Hence, her getting Peter to back off and give Neal some space...
no subject
Date: 2011-10-15 09:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-15 09:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-02 09:20 pm (UTC)I dearly appreciate the bond Peter and Neal have created on the show since the beginning and the angst we lived through season 3 breaks my heart, although it also makes a good story : the theme of the trust they shared and that has been seriously shaken from both sides , it's powerful stuff.
Really liked their final conversation in your tale.
no subject
Date: 2011-11-02 09:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-15 07:13 pm (UTC)EEK!
I love how El is so reasonable and responsible and always sees things that Peter and Neal don't or won't see by themselves.
But very good job! I thought everyone was really in character :)
Delightful story
Date: 2012-03-31 05:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-08-11 08:08 am (UTC)