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White Collar - "5 Times Peter Burke Saw Neal Caffrey Cry"
Title: Five Times Peter Burke Saw Neal Caffrey Cry
Author: TeeJay
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Peter, Neal (and a little bit of Elizabeth)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for 1x14 'Out Of The Box'
Summary: I think the title says it all: Five times Peter saw Neal cry.
Author's Note: This is kinda dark and angsty. Every now and then, I need a McPunisher fic to purge all the dark, angsty thoughts from my mind and project them onto someone else. And Neal is such an easy target. That said, I am not sorry. ;o)
The fourth time was inspired by a particularly haunting scene from Prison Break in season one. You'll know which one if you've seen the show. And, geez, I made myself cry when writing the fifth time. *sniff*
An armful of kudos to the wonderful![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rabidchild67 for the beta.
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.
The first time, it was a single tear. It was Neal, in a hangar, saying goodbye to a life he had built for himself but was all too ready to let go in the face of love and hope.
He handed Peter his FBI badge. "Thank you for this."
Neal blinked, his eyes wide, trying to evade the emotion. "I gotta go." It came out almost choked.
The plane's engines in the background whined a pitch higher. Departure was imminent.
Peter knew if there ever was a moment where he could make even a hint of a difference, it was now. "You said goodbye to everyone but me. Why?"
Neal stopped walking, turned around. "I don't know."
"Yeah you do. Tell me."
"I don't know." Denial. Evasion.
"Why?" Peter insisted.
"You know why." A single tear left a wet trail on Neal's cheek.
"Tell me!"
His voice was on the verge of breaking. There was a desperate plea in his eyes, one that said, Don't. Don't do this. I have already made my decision. You're fucking this up. "Because you're the only one who can change my mind."
"Did I?"
It was a simple question. There was no simple answer. And because Neal perfectly knew it, he walked away without a word.
And then he didn't. He turned around, said Peter's name. And then love and hope went to hell.
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2
The second time, it was pure anguish. It was the same day. The same hangar. The same love and hope.It only took a few seconds to realize, a few minutes to sink in. Peter had to give his all to hold back a desperate, despaired Neal, to keep him from running towards the flames.
Neal shouted words, denial and her name until his throat was hoarse. He didn't even notice he was crying.
Peter held on fast, refused to let go. In the end, they both sank to the ground, spent and in shock.
Peter hadn't seen Neal broken until that day. He wouldn't forget it for a long time—maybe never.
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3
The third time, it was quiet, subdued grief. Peter was sure Neal hadn't intended anyone to witness it, least of all Peter.
Peter had asked for the surveillance videos of Neal's cell. Inmates were filmed for security purposes. The footage wasn't routinely checked unless something suspicious came up.
Truth was, Peter didn't even have any suspicions. He was worried for Neal, so he simply asked for the footage, and there it was. No one had asked why he needed it. One of the perks of being an FBI agent.
El came home when he was just about to watch it. She sat down with him on the couch as he fast forwarded through it. When they got to the part where Neal sat down on the cot, his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking for the woman he had loved and lost, she took his hand and squeezed it.
A single tear dislodged and rolled down her cheek as Peter wordlessly slung his arm around her shoulder and drew her close.
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4
The fourth time, Peter blamed himself. It was three years into Neal's stint with the FBI. This particular undercover operation had gone so well, until, well... it hadn't. Maybe someone had tipped off the perps, or maybe there'd been a flaw in their strategy, but Neal had said the activation phrase, and the FBI team had rushed in—but not before there was a bone-piercing scream from Neal filtering over the audio channel, and then another one.
By the time Peter got to the hotel room, Neal was sitting with his back against the wall, his fist pressed to his mouth, his breaths coming out in staccato gasps, his face contorted in pain.
Peter crouched down next to him, lightly touching his shoulder. There was no blood that he could see. "Neal, what is it? Where are you hurt?"
"Right foot. They crushed my toes," he managed through clenched jaw muscles.
He looked at Neal's foot, it was still inside the leather lace-up he was wearing.
"Neal, I need to take your shoe off. There's gonna be swelling, and the sooner we get your foot out of there, the better. You think I can take your shoe off?"
He opened his eyes, then nodded feebly. "Yeah," he half whispered.
"Okay," Peter said, repeating, "Okay," as a way to convince himself it would be.
Peter started to untie the shoe lace, and Neal emitted a pained groan. Peter briefly looked at him; Neal had his eyes firmly closed but didn't say anything, so he kept going.
"Okay, I'm gonna take it off now."
As soon as he started tugging at the leather footwear, Neal sucked air in through his teeth, and Peter tried to be as gentle as possible. Neal leaned forward with his elbows on his thighs, biting down on his lip as Peter finally manage to wrestle the shoe off.
"The sock needs to come off too," Peter said.
When Peter rolled down the sock cuff towards the toe area, Neal sniffled once behind a hand that was pressed to his mouth. Tears of raw, unbridled pain rolled down his face from eyes that were still firmly clamped shut. It was accompanied by a faint whimper escaping his lips.
Peter's stomach clenched, but he knew he needed to do this. It would be over soon, the pain would lessen. He kept going, and Neal's hands came forward and wrapped around Peter's arm as if to say, 'Stop, Peter, it fucking hurts so much!'
Peter muttered a consoling, "You're okay. Just this last bit, then it's over."
When the sock was finally removed from Neal foot, Neal leaned forward and looked at his foot. His toes were swollen red, already starting to turn slightly blue. Neal's lips were pressed together and a tear dislodged from his chin as he emitted a sob, digging his the heels of his hands into his eyes. He leaned back against the wall, waiting for the pain to recede.
"What happened?" Peter asked hoarsely.
Neal drew in a quick breath through his nose, holding it for a second while trying to compose himself. "They took a hammer to my toes. Repeatedly," he said in a strained voice.
Peter looked around and noticed the tool with the large peen discarded on the floor a few feet away. He winced at the sheer thought of the damage it had inflicted.
"Shit," he muttered, then looked around the room. He addressed one of the agents. "Have you called 911?"
"Yes, they should be on their way."
Touching Neal's shoulder, he said, "I'll be right back."
He returned two minutes later with a bucket full of ice from the ice maker down the hall. He wrapped some of it in a towel and handed it to Neal. "Here, put that on there. That should help."
Neal looked a little less pale, a little less fragile. He gratefully accepted the towel and gingerly placed it on his foot.
Peter hovered close by. "You holding up?"
Neal nodded, his voice exhausted, spent. "Yeah. For now."
"Good." He let his hand briefly linger on Neal's head. "Just hang in there. EMS should be here soon."
By the time the paramedics arrived, there was no trace left on Neal's face that he'd succumbed to tears, and Peter silently swore to himself that he'd never mention it to anyone.
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5
The fifth time, Peter almost cried with him. The truth was, the occasion was very bittersweet.Peter had owned Neal for four years, and those four years had been a rollercoaster ride. And even though it hadn't always been easy, they had certainly been some of the most interesting years in Peter's career—as well as his life.
And now that those four years were over, for the first time, Peter realized just how much he was going to miss Neal's presence at the desk in the bullpen, quietly studying their next case with a rapt attention few people gave an FBI case file, or in the conference room, suggesting another harebrained caper with the slightest hint of a smile on his lips. Or even in the car, when he would annoyingly fumble with the car computer, trying to find an agreeable radio station or get "the map thing" on the screen.
Diana had organized a party of sorts on Neal's last day. They had spent hours the night before, putting post-its all over his desk so that they covered every square inch of it, interspersing the pale yellow ones with bright blue ones that spelled "Farewell, Neal". There were balloons and streamers stuck to walls and computer screens, and they'd decorated the little bust on his desk with fake glasses and a party hat. Peter had made sure there was champagne in the fridge and he'd even asked El for an ample supply of proper glass flutes for the occasion.
Neal had been genuinely touched. There were hearty laughs and claps on shoulders, hugs, and just camaraderie all around. Neal had made friends here, and after four years, people hardly saw him as the convicted con artist anymore. Peter had watched it and taken it in with his heart swelling just a little. Neal had done well. Really well.
With all the farewell party festivities over, Peter cleared away the last dishes and stray items in the conference room. He saw Neal sauntering up the stairs, stopping in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorframe. Uncharacteristic melancholy shone in his features. "You know, I never thought I'd say this, but I'm gonna miss this place."
Peter gave him a small smile but kept his voice honest. "I never thought I'd say this, but we're gonna miss having you around, too."
Neal shifted his position. He lifted up his left pant leg. "Before we break out in teary farewells, can we get this last thing taken care of?"
"Oh. Uh, yeah. Sure."
They both went into Peter's office that was conveniently adjacent to the conference room. Neal lifted his left foot to place it on the desk. Peter got out the key. The anklet emitted a short beep as the LED turned from green to yellow when Peter slipped it off Neal's ankle.
Neal gave the thing an almost doleful glance that Peter found just slightly amusing. "Don't tell me you're gonna miss this too."
"No," Neal said quickly. "That thing, I'm definitely not gonna miss."
"So..." Peter looked at him. "I guess that means freedom."
"Yeah." Neal let it hang in the air for a moment. "Wow. What am I gonna do with all that territory out there to explore? You know, legally."
"Oh, I'm sure you'll get used to not having a radius to stick to all too quickly. Oh, before I forget..." He bent down and opened his desk drawer, getting out an envelope that he held out to Neal. "This is something I wanted to give you. Consider it my farewell gift."
"Peter..."
"Come on, open it."
He did, and Peter watched as first comprehension, then awed surprise spread over Neal's face. "Chicago? The Art Institute? Are you serious?"
"You've been raging about the Matisse exhibition ever since last Christmas. See, sometimes I do listen."
"No, Peter, I can't possibly accept this."
"Yes, you can. El had all these air miles collected, so the flight didn't even cost us anything. And in case you hadn't noticed, it's Economy."
Neal chuckled. "Never look a gift horse in the mouth, right?" He sobered. "Thank you, Peter. This really means a lot."
"Now, don't get any ideas while you're there. I'm sure the museum won't take kindly to having one of their masterpieces swapped out with a forgery," Peter teased.
"Now that you mention it," Neal grinned, "that's not a half bad idea. I've always wanted an original Matisse."
"Yeah, well, I think you know who our prime suspect will be, once the museum files charges."
"Does the FBI have a White Collar office in Chicago?"
"Oh, you bet they do."
"Do they have someone as good as you?"
Peter's mouth curved into a lopsided half-smile. "That I'm not so sure of."
Neal waved the envelope in the air. "This is going to be great. I'll send you and El a postcard."
"Just like old times."
"Just like old times," Neal echoed. "Speaking of which..." He reached into his jacket pocket, taking out a black leather wallet. Neal's FBI Consultant ID. He looked at it fondly for a long moment, then held it out to Peter. "I think you'll want this back."
Peter's gaze lingered on Neal's hand before he took the badge. "This is it then, I guess," Peter commented, sounding more sentimental than he'd intended.
"Thank you, Peter," Neal said, his voice solemn. "For everything."
Peter met Neal's gaze, and saw his eyes were brimming with unshed tears. One of them dislodged when he blinked, and Neal wiped it away quickly with the back of his free hand.
"Geez," he said in what came out half laugh, half embarrassed admission. "Here we go with the teary outbursts."
Peter was just barely keeping his own emotions in check. He took a step closer and drew Neal into a heartfelt hug. "I'm gonna miss you around here," he choked out into Neal's shoulder.
Neal returned the hug and wiped at his eyes again when they separated. "This isn't the last you'll be seeing of me. You know that, right?"
"Oh, I'm holding you to that. I think El will be very mad at you if you don't come visit at regular intervals."
"Uh oh, I better not mess with Mrs. Suit."
"No, she is definitely not to be messed with." Peter gave Neal a good-natured clap on the shoulder. "Now get outta here. Before someone hands you a file and asks you to consult."
"Okay, I can see when I'm not wanted. See you around."
"Yeah."
Peter remained standing in his office, watching Neal walk down the stairs in slow, deliberate steps, his gaze on the by now mostly empty bullpen. Neal picked up the cardboard box with his personal belongings from his (now former) desk. In the glass doors to the elevator area, he remained standing for a long moment, surveying the office one last time. From the distance, Peter couldn't quite see but well imagined the emotions on the young man's face.
Yes, he would be missing Neal, and he already knew it would be strange to let his gaze wander down into the bullpen, finding an eager-to-please, just-out-of-the-academy agent occupying Neal's desk. Life would go on, and Peter would eventually get used to having Neal there as a friend and no longer a colleague.
And for just a minute, he pondered how amazing it all was. As skeptical as he had been then to engage in the deal Neal had proposed four years ago, the more grateful he was now that he'd managed to persuade Hughes to agree to it. Neal had enriched the lives of the people around him, and Peter had a feeling that they had formed a friendship that could very well last for life.
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THE END.
Author: TeeJay
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Peter, Neal (and a little bit of Elizabeth)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for 1x14 'Out Of The Box'
Summary: I think the title says it all: Five times Peter saw Neal cry.
Author's Note: This is kinda dark and angsty. Every now and then, I need a McPunisher fic to purge all the dark, angsty thoughts from my mind and project them onto someone else. And Neal is such an easy target. That said, I am not sorry. ;o)
The fourth time was inspired by a particularly haunting scene from Prison Break in season one. You'll know which one if you've seen the show. And, geez, I made myself cry when writing the fifth time. *sniff*
An armful of kudos to the wonderful
rabidchild67 for the beta. 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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1
1
The first time, it was a single tear. It was Neal, in a hangar, saying goodbye to a life he had built for himself but was all too ready to let go in the face of love and hope.
He handed Peter his FBI badge. "Thank you for this."
Neal blinked, his eyes wide, trying to evade the emotion. "I gotta go." It came out almost choked.
The plane's engines in the background whined a pitch higher. Departure was imminent.
Peter knew if there ever was a moment where he could make even a hint of a difference, it was now. "You said goodbye to everyone but me. Why?"
Neal stopped walking, turned around. "I don't know."
"Yeah you do. Tell me."
"I don't know." Denial. Evasion.
"Why?" Peter insisted.
"You know why." A single tear left a wet trail on Neal's cheek.
"Tell me!"
His voice was on the verge of breaking. There was a desperate plea in his eyes, one that said, Don't. Don't do this. I have already made my decision. You're fucking this up. "Because you're the only one who can change my mind."
"Did I?"
It was a simple question. There was no simple answer. And because Neal perfectly knew it, he walked away without a word.
And then he didn't. He turned around, said Peter's name. And then love and hope went to hell.
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2
The second time, it was pure anguish. It was the same day. The same hangar. The same love and hope.It only took a few seconds to realize, a few minutes to sink in. Peter had to give his all to hold back a desperate, despaired Neal, to keep him from running towards the flames.
Neal shouted words, denial and her name until his throat was hoarse. He didn't even notice he was crying.
Peter held on fast, refused to let go. In the end, they both sank to the ground, spent and in shock.
Peter hadn't seen Neal broken until that day. He wouldn't forget it for a long time—maybe never.
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3
The third time, it was quiet, subdued grief. Peter was sure Neal hadn't intended anyone to witness it, least of all Peter.
Peter had asked for the surveillance videos of Neal's cell. Inmates were filmed for security purposes. The footage wasn't routinely checked unless something suspicious came up.
Truth was, Peter didn't even have any suspicions. He was worried for Neal, so he simply asked for the footage, and there it was. No one had asked why he needed it. One of the perks of being an FBI agent.
El came home when he was just about to watch it. She sat down with him on the couch as he fast forwarded through it. When they got to the part where Neal sat down on the cot, his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking for the woman he had loved and lost, she took his hand and squeezed it.
A single tear dislodged and rolled down her cheek as Peter wordlessly slung his arm around her shoulder and drew her close.
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4
The fourth time, Peter blamed himself. It was three years into Neal's stint with the FBI. This particular undercover operation had gone so well, until, well... it hadn't. Maybe someone had tipped off the perps, or maybe there'd been a flaw in their strategy, but Neal had said the activation phrase, and the FBI team had rushed in—but not before there was a bone-piercing scream from Neal filtering over the audio channel, and then another one.
By the time Peter got to the hotel room, Neal was sitting with his back against the wall, his fist pressed to his mouth, his breaths coming out in staccato gasps, his face contorted in pain.
Peter crouched down next to him, lightly touching his shoulder. There was no blood that he could see. "Neal, what is it? Where are you hurt?"
"Right foot. They crushed my toes," he managed through clenched jaw muscles.
He looked at Neal's foot, it was still inside the leather lace-up he was wearing.
"Neal, I need to take your shoe off. There's gonna be swelling, and the sooner we get your foot out of there, the better. You think I can take your shoe off?"
He opened his eyes, then nodded feebly. "Yeah," he half whispered.
"Okay," Peter said, repeating, "Okay," as a way to convince himself it would be.
Peter started to untie the shoe lace, and Neal emitted a pained groan. Peter briefly looked at him; Neal had his eyes firmly closed but didn't say anything, so he kept going.
"Okay, I'm gonna take it off now."
As soon as he started tugging at the leather footwear, Neal sucked air in through his teeth, and Peter tried to be as gentle as possible. Neal leaned forward with his elbows on his thighs, biting down on his lip as Peter finally manage to wrestle the shoe off.
"The sock needs to come off too," Peter said.
When Peter rolled down the sock cuff towards the toe area, Neal sniffled once behind a hand that was pressed to his mouth. Tears of raw, unbridled pain rolled down his face from eyes that were still firmly clamped shut. It was accompanied by a faint whimper escaping his lips.
Peter's stomach clenched, but he knew he needed to do this. It would be over soon, the pain would lessen. He kept going, and Neal's hands came forward and wrapped around Peter's arm as if to say, 'Stop, Peter, it fucking hurts so much!'
Peter muttered a consoling, "You're okay. Just this last bit, then it's over."
When the sock was finally removed from Neal foot, Neal leaned forward and looked at his foot. His toes were swollen red, already starting to turn slightly blue. Neal's lips were pressed together and a tear dislodged from his chin as he emitted a sob, digging his the heels of his hands into his eyes. He leaned back against the wall, waiting for the pain to recede.
"What happened?" Peter asked hoarsely.
Neal drew in a quick breath through his nose, holding it for a second while trying to compose himself. "They took a hammer to my toes. Repeatedly," he said in a strained voice.
Peter looked around and noticed the tool with the large peen discarded on the floor a few feet away. He winced at the sheer thought of the damage it had inflicted.
"Shit," he muttered, then looked around the room. He addressed one of the agents. "Have you called 911?"
"Yes, they should be on their way."
Touching Neal's shoulder, he said, "I'll be right back."
He returned two minutes later with a bucket full of ice from the ice maker down the hall. He wrapped some of it in a towel and handed it to Neal. "Here, put that on there. That should help."
Neal looked a little less pale, a little less fragile. He gratefully accepted the towel and gingerly placed it on his foot.
Peter hovered close by. "You holding up?"
Neal nodded, his voice exhausted, spent. "Yeah. For now."
"Good." He let his hand briefly linger on Neal's head. "Just hang in there. EMS should be here soon."
By the time the paramedics arrived, there was no trace left on Neal's face that he'd succumbed to tears, and Peter silently swore to himself that he'd never mention it to anyone.
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5
The fifth time, Peter almost cried with him. The truth was, the occasion was very bittersweet.Peter had owned Neal for four years, and those four years had been a rollercoaster ride. And even though it hadn't always been easy, they had certainly been some of the most interesting years in Peter's career—as well as his life.
And now that those four years were over, for the first time, Peter realized just how much he was going to miss Neal's presence at the desk in the bullpen, quietly studying their next case with a rapt attention few people gave an FBI case file, or in the conference room, suggesting another harebrained caper with the slightest hint of a smile on his lips. Or even in the car, when he would annoyingly fumble with the car computer, trying to find an agreeable radio station or get "the map thing" on the screen.
Diana had organized a party of sorts on Neal's last day. They had spent hours the night before, putting post-its all over his desk so that they covered every square inch of it, interspersing the pale yellow ones with bright blue ones that spelled "Farewell, Neal". There were balloons and streamers stuck to walls and computer screens, and they'd decorated the little bust on his desk with fake glasses and a party hat. Peter had made sure there was champagne in the fridge and he'd even asked El for an ample supply of proper glass flutes for the occasion.
Neal had been genuinely touched. There were hearty laughs and claps on shoulders, hugs, and just camaraderie all around. Neal had made friends here, and after four years, people hardly saw him as the convicted con artist anymore. Peter had watched it and taken it in with his heart swelling just a little. Neal had done well. Really well.
With all the farewell party festivities over, Peter cleared away the last dishes and stray items in the conference room. He saw Neal sauntering up the stairs, stopping in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorframe. Uncharacteristic melancholy shone in his features. "You know, I never thought I'd say this, but I'm gonna miss this place."
Peter gave him a small smile but kept his voice honest. "I never thought I'd say this, but we're gonna miss having you around, too."
Neal shifted his position. He lifted up his left pant leg. "Before we break out in teary farewells, can we get this last thing taken care of?"
"Oh. Uh, yeah. Sure."
They both went into Peter's office that was conveniently adjacent to the conference room. Neal lifted his left foot to place it on the desk. Peter got out the key. The anklet emitted a short beep as the LED turned from green to yellow when Peter slipped it off Neal's ankle.
Neal gave the thing an almost doleful glance that Peter found just slightly amusing. "Don't tell me you're gonna miss this too."
"No," Neal said quickly. "That thing, I'm definitely not gonna miss."
"So..." Peter looked at him. "I guess that means freedom."
"Yeah." Neal let it hang in the air for a moment. "Wow. What am I gonna do with all that territory out there to explore? You know, legally."
"Oh, I'm sure you'll get used to not having a radius to stick to all too quickly. Oh, before I forget..." He bent down and opened his desk drawer, getting out an envelope that he held out to Neal. "This is something I wanted to give you. Consider it my farewell gift."
"Peter..."
"Come on, open it."
He did, and Peter watched as first comprehension, then awed surprise spread over Neal's face. "Chicago? The Art Institute? Are you serious?"
"You've been raging about the Matisse exhibition ever since last Christmas. See, sometimes I do listen."
"No, Peter, I can't possibly accept this."
"Yes, you can. El had all these air miles collected, so the flight didn't even cost us anything. And in case you hadn't noticed, it's Economy."
Neal chuckled. "Never look a gift horse in the mouth, right?" He sobered. "Thank you, Peter. This really means a lot."
"Now, don't get any ideas while you're there. I'm sure the museum won't take kindly to having one of their masterpieces swapped out with a forgery," Peter teased.
"Now that you mention it," Neal grinned, "that's not a half bad idea. I've always wanted an original Matisse."
"Yeah, well, I think you know who our prime suspect will be, once the museum files charges."
"Does the FBI have a White Collar office in Chicago?"
"Oh, you bet they do."
"Do they have someone as good as you?"
Peter's mouth curved into a lopsided half-smile. "That I'm not so sure of."
Neal waved the envelope in the air. "This is going to be great. I'll send you and El a postcard."
"Just like old times."
"Just like old times," Neal echoed. "Speaking of which..." He reached into his jacket pocket, taking out a black leather wallet. Neal's FBI Consultant ID. He looked at it fondly for a long moment, then held it out to Peter. "I think you'll want this back."
Peter's gaze lingered on Neal's hand before he took the badge. "This is it then, I guess," Peter commented, sounding more sentimental than he'd intended.
"Thank you, Peter," Neal said, his voice solemn. "For everything."
Peter met Neal's gaze, and saw his eyes were brimming with unshed tears. One of them dislodged when he blinked, and Neal wiped it away quickly with the back of his free hand.
"Geez," he said in what came out half laugh, half embarrassed admission. "Here we go with the teary outbursts."
Peter was just barely keeping his own emotions in check. He took a step closer and drew Neal into a heartfelt hug. "I'm gonna miss you around here," he choked out into Neal's shoulder.
Neal returned the hug and wiped at his eyes again when they separated. "This isn't the last you'll be seeing of me. You know that, right?"
"Oh, I'm holding you to that. I think El will be very mad at you if you don't come visit at regular intervals."
"Uh oh, I better not mess with Mrs. Suit."
"No, she is definitely not to be messed with." Peter gave Neal a good-natured clap on the shoulder. "Now get outta here. Before someone hands you a file and asks you to consult."
"Okay, I can see when I'm not wanted. See you around."
"Yeah."
Peter remained standing in his office, watching Neal walk down the stairs in slow, deliberate steps, his gaze on the by now mostly empty bullpen. Neal picked up the cardboard box with his personal belongings from his (now former) desk. In the glass doors to the elevator area, he remained standing for a long moment, surveying the office one last time. From the distance, Peter couldn't quite see but well imagined the emotions on the young man's face.
Yes, he would be missing Neal, and he already knew it would be strange to let his gaze wander down into the bullpen, finding an eager-to-please, just-out-of-the-academy agent occupying Neal's desk. Life would go on, and Peter would eventually get used to having Neal there as a friend and no longer a colleague.
And for just a minute, he pondered how amazing it all was. As skeptical as he had been then to engage in the deal Neal had proposed four years ago, the more grateful he was now that he'd managed to persuade Hughes to agree to it. Neal had enriched the lives of the people around him, and Peter had a feeling that they had formed a friendship that could very well last for life.
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THE END.