WC: By Choice - Part 2.1
White Collar -- Fanfiction
Disclaimer:
All recognizable characters are property of Jeff Eastin and USA Network.
No copyright infringement intended.
Title: By Choice - Part 2.1
- Rating: PG-13
- Category: Hurt/Comfort, Drama
- Spoilers: None
Author's notes:
We're told the upcoming season three is about choices. This is my take on a few of those choices. The story is written in two parts. Due to post length restrictions I had to subdivide. A massive thank you to nice_disguise for burning the midnight oil on the beta and for always telling me like it is. All remaining mistakes, factual incorrectness and scarcity of gratuitous shirtlessness are entirely my fault.
This is post 3 of 4.
Summary:
Wrong choices. Impossible choices. Choices made against our better judgment.
BY CHOICE
PART 2.1
7.
There are times Peter wishes he didn’t have a job that required him to sleep with his phone on his nightstand. This is one of those times. It’s 2 a.m. and he is fast asleep, happily exhausted after a Saturday date night with his wife. And what an evening it had been. They had forgone a heavy dinner and had gone upstairs before the 9-o’clock news. El had opened all the windows and they had made love with the late summer breeze brushing over their naked bodies. By the time Peter had drifted off to sleep with Elizabeth pressed against him, the sound of a warm, heavy rain had drowned out the late night street noise.
The rain is still drumming against the siding, but it’s the hum of his vibrating phone that stirs Peter from his sleep. He nearly knocks the phone off the nightstand when he gropes for it blindly. He glances at the display, noting the caller ID and the late hour. Captain Shaddock from NYPD calling two hours past midnight. This can’t be good.
“This is Burke.” His business-like voice belies his immediate alarm. He slides out from under Elizabeth’s arm and out of bed. Tiptoeing into the hallway, Peter shrugs into his robe. He pins the phone to his ear with his shoulder to close the belt.
“It’s Frank Shaddock, Peter. I’m sorry to call you at this hour. But we have a situation I wanted you to be aware of before I have to go through the official channels.”
“What’s going on?” Peter pulls the bedroom door closed behind him and heads down the stairs, stepping over the dog sleeping on the landing. Satchmo picks up his head and whines softly.
“We responded to a reported burglary at the Whitney about an hour ago.” Shaddock explains and pauses.
“What was stolen?” Peter frowns. A break-in at the renowned gallery was rare, but not necessarily a reason to alert the lead agent of the White Collar unit in the middle of the night.
“A Cézanne. Cut neatly from the frame. That’s not the reason I’m calling you.”
“What is?” The feeling of unease that has started somewhere under his solar plexus is now slowly crawling up Peter’s spine. “Any leads on a suspect?”
“A couple of witnesses report seeing a white male with a poster tube in the vicinity of the museum. Six feet tall, slender build. And in a fedora.” Shaddock hesitates for a moment. “I know that doesn’t have to mean anything but I thought I’d give you a heads up. You wouldn’t mind checking your partner’s tracking data for me?”
“Of course. And I appreciate you calling me, Frank.” It doesn’t go unnoticed that the police captain refers to Neal as his partner. Frank Shaddock is one of the few people outside his unit who never gives Peter grief about his deal with the con man. Peter is already opening his laptop. There is a reason he never shuts it off anymore. The other man waits patiently on the line while Peter pulls up the latest tracking data. He releases a breath of relief. Neal is at June’s. Good boy.
“Looks like Caffrey has been at his home since 7p.m. this evening.” Peter says and furrows his brow when he scrolls through the detailed log. There is an irregularity at 11p.m., when the log reports a deactivation and immediate reactivation of Neal’s anklet by no one other than himself. Son of a gun.
“Sorry, Frank, can’t help you here.” With his phone still pressed against his ear, Peter makes his way over to his jacket hanging by the front door. His heart is beating in his throat when he fishes his key ring out of his pocket. The electronic key to the tracker is in its usual place. Peter feels almost guilty for being suspicious. Almost.
“No reason to be sorry, Peter,” Shaddock sounds equally relieved. “It’s a good thing the kid has his act together these days, right?”
“Yeah, right,” Peter chuckles. “Listen, I’ll make sure someone from my unit is getting in touch with you to help with the investigation.”
“No need, Peter. Agent Jones is already talking to my men. Don’t let this ruin your weekend.”
“Alright, then. Thanks again for the call, Frank. Let’s have a beer sometime soon.” Peter hangs up. He rakes his fingers through his hair.
A blip in the data. Not the first. Nothing more. It couldn’t be. Neal wouldn’t have.
“Everything okay, honey?” In her robe, Elizabeth is looking down at him from halfway up the stairs.
“Yeah, everything’s fine,” Peter assures her, distractedly rubbing the back of his neck. “Just Frank Shaddock asking for help on a case. Go back to sleep. I’ll be right up.”
“Okay.” Elizabeth sighs and blinks sleepily at the dog on the landing. Satchmo suddenly jumps to his feet at with a bark and trots to the back of the house. Thumping his tail against the back door, he is whining excitedly. “Can you let the dog out for a minute? He’ll keep us up for the rest of the night with this.”
“Sure.” Smiling, Peter watches his wife climb back up the stairs and turns his attention to the retriever that paces back and forth by the back door.
“Don’t expect to come anywhere near me when you’re all wet.” Peter grumbles as he unlocks his back door. The dog almost knocks him off balance as he pushes past him.
The air that rushes in through the open door smells of rain and feels surprisingly refreshing on Peter’s heated face. He needs to stop getting worked up over every Caffrey-inspired crisis. He opens the door wide and steps out onto the patio.
Peter instantly recognizes the figure standing in front of him.
“Peter.” Neal’s voice is thin and muffled by the heavy raindrops pelting down around them. The dog circles his feet with excited yelps.
“Satchmo, inside!” Peter orders without raising his voice. The dog obeys.
Peter stares at the document tube dangling from its strap in Neal’s right hand. Then his eyes sweep up the other man’s body to come to rest on his face that is obscured by the shadows under the dripping rim of his fedora.
“Take off the hat.” Peter demands, his tone flat.
“Peter, let me explain.”
“Take off the damn hat! I want to see your face when I speak to you.”
Neal keeps his left arm motionless at his side as he drops the poster tube to the ground and pulls his hat off his head. He holds it pressed against his front as if to put up a barrier that could somehow shield him from Peter’s anger. He blinks repeatedly as the rain now hits his face.
For a few seconds Peter scrutinizes the man he has come to call his partner and friend. The lines of Neal’s face appear hard in the patchy light. His jaw is set as he observes Peter’s every move. He looks nervous. He should be. Insecure. Good. Distracted. Why?
“When did you take it?” Peter asks and takes a step closer to be able to read any hidden deceit, any carefully restrained emotion in the con man’s face. For an instant, Neal looks confused as his gaze flits down to the stolen painting lying in its protective case at his feet.
“When did you take my key to your tracker?” Peter clarifies.
“The other night. At the barbecue.” Neal admits. “Peter, I-“
“I invited you to my house!” The agent snarls. “I brought you into my family, and you son-of-a-bitch have the gall to steal from me in my own four walls?”
“You left me no choice, Peter!” Neal doesn’t back off. He shifts on his feet and there’s a flicker of anguish or stubborn defiance or something in his eyes that Peter can’t quite place. He doesn’t really care.
“There’s always a choice, Neal, and you continuously make the wrong one.” Peter sounds defeated in his own ears. “And apparently, so do I. Five minutes ago I made a fool of myself telling the NYPD that my partner was at home and couldn’t possibly be the person who has just stolen a priceless masterpiece. I trusted you, Neal!”
“Let me explain. Please!” Neal pleads. For a moment he seems to sway on his feet. Peter raises a hand to silence him.
“Yes, you will explain yourself, Neal. To the police, to a lawyer and to a judge. I am done with your lies. I’m washing myself clean of you.” Peter rubs his palms against each other and he almost wants to laugh at the heavy rain that has chosen to be the perfect prop in his final act of friendship with Neal Caffrey.
Another imperceptible stagger in Neal’s posture and a small groan, perhaps, then both heads whip around in the direction of the house and of the frenetic ring of the doorbell.
“God knows why I care, but I’m hoping for your sake that that’s the NYPD, who are here to arrest you, not your colleagues at the FBI. Stay here.” Peter turns to walk inside and pauses mid-turn. He narrows his eyes. “Try to run and you will regret it for the rest of your life, Neal. And that’s a promise.”
“Just hear me out. I need your help, Peter!” Neal’s despair is undisguised in his trembling voice.
Peter snorts dismissively and throws another long look at the man he thought he knew. His voice grates in his throat when he speaks again.
“You’ve had my help, kid. It did you no good.”
8.
“What’s going on?” Elizabeth meets him at the bottom of the stairs, hugging herself in her robe, the dog hiding behind her legs. “Why are you soaked?”
“I’ll explain in a minute.” Peter briefly settles his hand on her shoulder as he walks past her.
The doorbell won’t stop.
“Coming!” Peter yells through the door as he fumbles with his keys. Whichever junior agent or officer lacks the wits to exercise self-restraint in ringing his doorbell at 2:30 in the morning is about to be relegated to a year’s worth of weekend duty. When he finally wrestles the lock open, Peter finds himself face to swollen face with yet another con man who is completely impervious to his authority.
“Suit.” Mozzie acknowledges his presence and briefly sweeps his eyes over Peter’s bathrobe as if to reevaluate his choice of greeting. Unimpressed and uninvited the short man squeezes past him and into his house. “Tell me that Neal made it here.”
Peter catches Elizabeth’s flabbergasted look as her eyes dart between her dripping wet husband and their late night guest, who is freely roaming their living room in search of his friend.
“Will anybody tell me what’s going on here?” Elizabeth demands. “Mozzie? What happened to your face?”
“Labor dispute.” Mozzie quips and widens his search radius to the dining area before poking his head into the kitchen. “Neal?”
“He’s not here.” Elizabeth informs him, no less bewildered.
“Actually, he is, honey.” Peter corrects her apologetically. “He’s in the backyard.”
Mozzie bolts out onto the patio only to return to the inside of the house before Peter has a chance to follow.
“It’s good to see that you maintain your delightful sense of humor at this hour, Suit, but enough with the wild goose chase. Now, where is Neal?”
“He’s-“ Peter pushes the short man aside and hurries outside. The patio is empty. The document tube is lying in the center of the table. Peter picks it up and takes it with him as he rushes back inside, past his wife and Mozzie and out the front door. Standing on the rain-drenched pavement, he scans the deserted road. He knows this search is pointless. Perhaps as pointless as his friendship with Neal. He suddenly feels utterly defeated.
He climbs the front steps to his home and is met by Elizabeth’s worried look. Mozzie appears as distraught and guilty as ever. Peter points the poster tube at the short man.
“Is this what I think it is?” He slips into interrogation mode. He has a case to solve.
Mozzie nods.
“Did Neal steal it?”
A shrug and a tilt of the head.
Setting his jaw, Peter looks at the con man and then at his wife.
“I’m going to put on some dry clothes,” he says flatly. “And then you’re going to tell me everything I want to know. Here or at the Bureau. Take your pick.”
9.
“Think, Mozzie!” Peter implores.
In the passenger seat Mozzie is as agitated as he has been since his full confession some twelve hours ago. When Peter had touched base with Jones at 4 a.m. for an update on the museum burglary, the news hadn’t been good. The accidental discharge of the guard’s gun, the burglar’s drop to the bottom of the elevator shaft, the traces of blood found in the ventilation duct. Peter doesn’t have to wait for the DNA test results to know that Neal is in a boatload of trouble. And hurt. How badly is anyone’s guess.
“Think,” Peter repeats. He knows his impatience isn’t helping. Neither are the anger and resentment he still harbors for Neal, Mozzie and this entire messed up situation. At least anger and resentment keep him going on cold coffee and an empty stomach. At least they distract him from the fear for Neal’s life that threatens to overwhelm him, despite it all.
“I’m thinking,” Mozzie squeaks. He cleans his glasses with a wrinkled handkerchief for the umpteenth time. “He could be anywhere. He made it to your place. That means he’s fine, right? I mean, you couldn’t even tell something was wrong, right?”
“Right. He seemed fine. Fine enough.” Peter tugs on his collar. Neal’s influence must be rubbing off on him. He can’t even be completely honest with himself anymore. He has repeatedly gone over those moments on the dark patio. The oddly stiff way Neal had carried himself, his inability to get a word in when he should have been talking Peter’s ear off no matter how much the agent tried to shut him down. Peter should have known because he knows Neal better than Neal knows himself.
“Concentrate,” he tells his passenger as much as himself. “We’ve been driving around for hours and this approach hasn’t gotten us anywhere. Diana has called every hospital in a hundred mile radius. I need you to think hard. Where would Neal go if he were injured and needed help?”
“He’d go to you,” Mozzie states matter-of-factly. Peter rubs the back of his neck.
“Let’s say I’m not home. What’s plan B?”
“He’d come to me.”
“Yes, but you’re here. Where does that leave us? More importantly, where does that leave Neal?”
“Wednesday!” Mozzie proclaims excitedly and leaves Peter at a complete loss.
“That’s three days from now. If he’s been shot he may not have that long.”
Three days. Peter knows the statistics. He also knows that thinking about statistics is more palatable than thinking about his injured friend. Three days are a long time to survive and a longer time to be alone and in pain somewhere.
“Not when. Where,” Mozzie corrects and makes it sound like there is obvious logic in his train of thought. “Today is Sunday. That means Neal would expect to find me at Wednesday.”
“You’re not making any sense.” Peter shakes his head. Then enlightenment hits him. “One of your lairs?”
Mozzie nods eagerly.
“You told me you checked all of them this morning when you demanded an hour of free time and $100 for a cab!” Peter’s tolerance of the short man is wearing thin.
“I want to check again. Just Wednesday.” Mozzie insists. “You got another $20?”
“I’m coming with you.” Peter grumbles. The short man readies himself to fire off a valve of protest, but the agent’s no-nonsense expression prompts him to reconsider. “I don’t care about your secret hideouts or what’s going on there. This is about Neal, and I’m coming with you.”
Mozzie sighs theatrically but nods.
“Just turn the damn car around, Suit.”
10.
“Any other theories?”
Peter braces his arms on the Poker table and watches Mozzie pace the small space of his subterranean hangout.
“I was sure he would be here.”
“Well, there’s no trace of him, so let’s move on.” Peter topples a tall stack of poker chips sitting on the felt tabletop. As far as venting frustration goes, the act does next to nothing. He checks his watch. It’s 5 p.m. Neal has been MIA for over fourteen hours. “I need to get gas and then we’ll swing by June’s again. Maybe the parks and the cemetery next. Let’s check France after that.”
“But I was sure.” Mozzie is nothing if not obstinate. Peter can relate to his dissatisfaction.
“You were wrong. It happens, Mozz.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
Peter just makes a sweeping gesture into the room that is nicely decorated but is clearly missing one important decorative detail: their friend.
Peter frowns. Why was he still thinking of Neal in those terms?
“I know he’s not here right now, and as far as I can tell he hasn’t been here all day, but what if he didn’t make it?” Mozzie’s face brightens. The reason for this sudden Aha moment escapes Peter.
“There is no if here, Mozzie. He obviously didn’t make it.” Hungry, tired and worried, Peter is running out of patience. It is beyond him how Neal is dealing with the short guy.
“Stop stating the obvious and give me a hand, Suit.” Mozzie waves him over to the wall-mounted bookcase. He grabs the vertical edge and leans heavily against it. Grating against the tile floor, the bookcase moves an inch.
“What is this?” Peter asks, more puzzled than curious.
“A horrible cliché,” Mozzie replies and throws his weight against the shelves again. “And a hidden escape route,” he adds with a grunt when the doorway finally gives way to reveal a dark passage.
“Escape route? To where?” Peter stares into the dark, musty tunnel.
“The subway system.” Mozzie replies with wide, excited eyes. “And more.”
“And you only thought of this just now?”
“Have you ever seen Neal take the subway?” Mozzie asks with raised brows.
“Touché,” Peter relents. He points into the passageway. “Does he know about this?”
“Yes.” Mozzie nods as he starts to rummage through several drawers and cabinets until he finds the flashlights he is looking for. “But he hasn’t used the tunnels in several years. Notre amis isn’t exactly the guy drawn to dark and dank spaces, I think.”
“You think?”
“As soon as I figure out how that kid’s brain is ticking, I’ll be sure to send you a copy of my detailed psychoanalytical profile.” Mozzie holds out the maglite and the headlamp he has gathered. “Take your pick.”
“I’m not putting anything on my head.” Peter replies sullenly and opts for the heavy maglite.
“Suit yourself, Suit.” Mozzie slips the headlamp’s elastic band over his head and looks decidedly ridiculous. He shoulders Peter aside to search through stacks of paper on the pushed in bookcase. Having found what he is looking for, he returns to the poker table and unfolds a large sheet of tracing paper. Peter steps closer to take in the diagram of the chaotic network of subway lines, access tunnels and ventilation shafts laid out in front of him. He looks at the gaping tunnel entrance that offers no hint at the endless labyrinth looming beyond. He sighs, realizing that he may very well be spending hours, perhaps days, scouring the Manhattan underground.
“Now, about those tunnels.” Mozzie speaks, adrenalized and surprisingly optimistic. “We are going to have to split up.”
11.
Tilting his flashlight onto the folded map in his hand, Peter confirms his bearing. He has covered the first two quadrants they have marked off. Hopefully, Mozzie is making similar progress on the Eastern side of the system. Peter pulls out his blackberry to check the time. It’s the only use for his smart phone, which turns out to be rather dumb in the absence of cell reception. 6:30. One more hour before he’ll head back to meet up with Mozzie.
Peter takes a right turn and shines his maglite down the next tunnel. A rat and its extended family briefly stare into the flashlight’s beam before scurrying down the dark corridor. There is the deafening rattle of a train going by on the other side of the wall and there is the sickening smell of musty, stale air.
“Neal?” Peter yells down the tunnel after the train has passed. A small part of him holds out hope that Neal may have made it out of town somehow, that he is licking his wounds on a sunny beach somewhere, sipping a cocktail with some girl who doesn’t know any better. The overwhelming part of him needs to know, even if it meant knowing that Neal was lost, maybe already dead, in a place like this. He inhales deeply and follows his dancing light into the darkness.
45 minutes later his sneakers and socks are soaked in what Peter hopes isn’t exclusively rodent pee. He checks his cell phone again. Ten more minutes before he will turn around. Perhaps Mozzie will have had better luck.
“Neal?!” He calls again. His voice is hoarse now and he is desperate for a drink of water. Another train rushes by, behind another wall but close enough to make the ground shake under his feet. Loud enough to almost make him miss the faint plea for help a few yards ahead.
“Peter?”
It is not until the maglite beam finds a foot sticking out from behind a bend in the tunnel ahead that Peter trusts his ears.
Neal sits slumped against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him. He feebly lifts the hand that clutches his fedora when the light blinds him.
“Hi, Peter.” He whispers, the corners of his lips curling into a weak smile. “You found me.”
Peter gets onto his knees by his partner’s side. He puts the flashlight aside and lets his hands hover over Neal for a moment, unsure where to touch.
“It’s what I do best, remember?” Peter settles on resting a palm on the crown of Neal’s damp shock of hair.
Eight years ago, he wouldn’t have guessed that catching Neal Caffrey would turn out to be the easy part. Keeping him and keeping him in line were the hard parts, having to keep him alive the unexpected part. He lets his gaze brush over Neal. The kid’s skin is clammy and pale against his black clothes. A shudder runs through Neal’s body and his smile morphs into a pain-laced grimace.
“You’ve been shot?” Peter asks.
The con man tips his head in the direction of his left shoulder. “I don’t think it’s bleeding anymore.”
“Good. That’s good.” Peter peels Neal’s coat away over the injury. The area is sticky with dried blood. He should dig deeper, get a better look at the wound, but he doesn’t know how much more blood Neal can afford to lose. “We need to get you to a hospital. Do you think you can get up?”
Neal nods unconvincingly.
“Okay. Good.” Peter cups the side of Neal’s neck, his thoughts racing to formulate a plan. Neal doesn’t look like he’s able to walk ten steps, let alone the mile and a half back to Mozzie’s lair, but he can’t leave him here. They will have to try. “Let’s get your jacket off. It’s wet with God knows what. Lean forward.” He pulls the coat down Neal’s right arm and inches it off his left.
“Did Mozzie tell you about the heist?” Neal asks feebly. Peter feels a fresh wave of anger well up in his stomach at the thought of the reckless acts that have brought them here. He swallows his wrath. It has no place at the moment.
“Save your breath, Neal. It’s a long way back. We’ll talk about it later. Now, put your arm around my shoulder. I’ll help you up.” He stuffs the maglite into his pocket, then grabs Neal’s right hand and pulls it around his neck. “On three. One. Two. Three.”
On the unspoken count of four Neal yells in agony and the two men plummet to the floor.
“Shit.” Peter mutters and rolls off of his partner. “You okay?”
“My ankle,” Neal pants, “I think it’s broken.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I forgot.”
Peter shakes his head as he climbs back to his feet. He pats his pant legs in a futile attempt to rid them of a sticky layer of dirt. Fighting to get his gasping breath under control, Neal looks up at Peter. His eyes don’t quite focus. He may be further gone than he is leading Peter to believe.
“Forgetting anything else?”
“How am I supposed to know?” Neal groans. He stretches his arm, giving Peter the two finger beckon to lend him his shoulder again. “Come on. I can do this.”
Peter feels the con man’s arm wrap around his neck again with more determination or perhaps more desperation. They don’t bother counting down this time and make it to a tentative balance on two of Peter’s legs and one of Neal’s.
“Now or never.” Neal grunts, his breathing harsh in Peter’s ear.
“Now or never.” Peter slings his arm around the con man’s waist and takes their first shaky step.
“Wait!” Neal wheezes.
Peter stops instantly and tightens his hold on his consultant, expecting his legs to give out any second.
“What’s wrong, buddy?”
“Forgot my hat.”
“Tough luck, Caffrey,” Peter grumbles and pulls his friend further down the path. “I’m sure it’ll make a wonderful home to one of the rats that showed up for your impending funeral.”
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