WC: Better Men
White Collar -- Fanfiction
Disclaimer:
All recognizable characters are property of Jeff
Eastin and USA Network.
No copyright infringement intended.
Title: Better Men
Author's notes:
This came together fairly quickly after letting the first half of S3 sink in. It was conceived as a one-shot. Now that it's finished, I'm having some thoughts to add a few more chapters to the story (at least before the reality of S3.5 hits in January). But let's see how I feel about it down the line.
Thanks to nice_disguisefor admirable resilience in getting this beta'ed -- despite the disappointing lack of character nudity.
Comments, suggestions and criticism are always welcome.
Summary:
With a friendship nearly in ruins Peter and Neal talk about past misjudgments and hopes for a future that may already be forfeit.
Better Men
The knock on the backdoor is hardly audible.
At Peter’s feet, Satchmo lifts his head, pricks his ears and sniffs the air. He thumps his tail against the floorboards in a moderately excited rhythm before yawning widely and returning his muzzle to its resting position across Peter’s right loafer.
Peter makes no move to get up from the couch. He chokes his beer bottle in both fists. The bottle is empty, tepid and sticky, like the air in his un-airconditioned house, like the stagnant darkness of the godforsaken night that surrounds him. With the lights turned off, the night has seeped into his living room, blackness barely warded off by the single scented oil nightlight that is plugged into an outlet at the top of the staircase. It is what he needs right now. He wants the darkness to dull his vision and focus his mind. He needs his head to stop spinning out of control.
Across the room the knock is repeated in the same nondescript staccato but delivered with more determination. Peter doesn’t bother getting up. He knows who is outside. He also knows that whenever that someone knocks on his door, he does so to announce his entry, not to request it. Neal Caffrey has never asked permission. Not to come into his home, or into his life, for that matter. Why should tonight be different from any other day in the - how long has it been?
The doorknob rotates and squeaks a little in the process. Peter resolves to fix it first thing in the morning, like he has promised Elizabeth to do for months. He’ll do it right after cleaning the tomato stain from the kitchen rug. Right after washing the dirty pot still sitting on his stovetop.
The door slowly swings inward. The timer switch to the backyard lights has clicked off at midnight, and Peter can scarcely make out the contours of the person slipping inside his house. He doesn’t need to. He would recognize that man anywhere, by the fluidity of his movements, by the way he becomes an immediate, palpable presence in any space he steps into. He watches in silence as Neal closes the door behind him then takes a few steps into the room before coming to an irresolute halt. Neal’s head turns from side to side, scanning the darkened room, his gaze brushing over Peter’s furniture and over his body. Peter remains completely still. He tells himself that he is testing Neal’s observation skills while, in truth, he is holding on to a foolish hope that Neal will simply go away. Like any hope he has ever held for his consultant, this one is tentative.
“Peter,” Neal breaks the silence. There is enough ambivalence in his inflection that Peter harbors a shred of doubt that Neal is truly aware of his presence. He briefly debates staying mum and invisible when his dog settles those negotiations for him. With a languorous stretch the Labrador gets to his feet. He ambles over to their visitor and bumps his big head against Neal’s leg with enough weight to produce a dull thud.
“Hey, Satch.” Neal’s voice is soft and genial, and Peter is convinced he can hear Neal smile. He allows himself a deep breath.
“It’s two in the morning,” Peter says blankly. There is an edge to his tone that Neal won’t fail to notice. Satchmo must be picking up on the tension in the room. His nails click on the wood floors as he trots over to the bottom of the staircase to lie down.
“I was sure you’d be awake,” Neal replies. His head pivots on his shoulders again, his eyes trying to find something to lock onto in the darkness. “Do you mind if I turn on the light?”
Peter thinks Neal gestures towards the kitchen. He nods and suspects that his approval goes unnoticed. But when has his approval ever made a difference with Neal?
The small table lamp on the kitchen desk springs to life, filling the back of the house with a muted glow that doesn’t penetrate the darkness shrouding Peter on the couch. Neal turns to face the living room, takes two measured steps forward then stays in the cone of light. The shift of balance in the room is not random. Neal Caffrey doesn’t leave things like this up to chance. It is very unlike Neal to leave himself exposed while giving the opposition the advantage of anonymity. He remains silent for now, perhaps to choose his words with care, perhaps to offer Peter the opportunity to draw his own conclusions.
Peter feels a certain gratitude for this. It’s the first sentiment he has been willing to acknowledge for several hours. Suppressing any emotions stirring in him has been the only way to deal with the events of this night. Denial of his red-hot anger was the only thing that stopped him from putting his fist through the wall or, possibly, straight into his consultant’s face. The only way not to blame Neal was to insist that placing any blame was counterproductive.
Peter takes in the man across the room. Neal has foregone his trademark fedora and the perfectly coordinated suit and tie, has opted for a pair of plain black slacks and a black button down shirt, open at the neck and with the sleeves rolled up. A dark canvas satchel dangles from his left hand, the slack shoulder strap touching the floor. It doesn’t take a stroke of genius to put two and two together. Neal has always traveled light on the run.
“I spoke to Keller,” Neal states before Peter has a chance to say anything.
“What?” Peter jumps to his feet. “Did you talk to Elizabeth?”
Across the room Neal extends a palm, prompting him to stay put. Perhaps asking him to stay in the shadows.
“No. But he assured me Elizabeth is fine. Frightened but unharmed,” Neal continues to speak, keeping his tone dry and matter-of-fact. Peter equally admires and despises the other man for his ability to stay in control of his emotions.
Peter’s mind revs back into overdrive. There are a dozen questions at the tip of his tongue. He needs to know how Neal contacted Keller, wants to know why Neal didn’t insist on evidence that Elizabeth was well. He purses his lips and swallows the urge to question Neal further. It spares him the torment of uttering the name of his wife and the term proof-of-life in the same sentence.
“You trust him?” Peter asks instead. Only years of practice keep a tremor out of his words.
“On this. Yes,” Neal affirms. He squares his shoulders, injecting his stance with the confidence Peter needs to see from him right now. “It won’t matter much longer. You’ll have her back before dawn. I will make this right, Peter. I promise.”
Peter steps forward now, and Neal doesn’t beckon him to stay back.
“You cut a deal.” He says and doesn’t even try to make it sound like a question. For an instant he is ashamed of the undercurrent of hopeful optimism in his voice when he meets his consultant’s eyes that are dark with grim determination. Determination that falters in the face of Peter’s scrutiny, and Neal’s gaze swiftly drifts off to find refuge in the kitchen area.
“I’d like some water.” He points a thumb at the sink and doesn’t wait for Peter’s nod to round the kitchen island. Peter watches him shoulder his satchel in the process, as if Neal needed a physical reminder that he has somewhere to go, as if that bag, packed with a handful of belongings, also held his courage and resolution. Neal grabs a clean glass left to dry by the sink and fills it from the tap. He remains with his back to Peter as he takes a long drink. His eyes find a corner of the glass-front cabinet door above the sink, where the fingerprinting dust has left large, dark smudges. He rubs his fingertips over the stain then abandons his effort to pull a sheet from the roll of paper towels. He wets a corner of the tissue and scrubs at the smudge with renewed vigor.
“Neal,” Peter calls. “Leave it.”
He waits patiently for Neal to discard the tissue and turn to face him. Peter walks over to the dining table, pulls back a chair at the head of the table.
“Sit down for a while. We need to talk.” He keeps holding on to the back of the chair.
“Peter, I should-“ he inclines his head toward the exit.
“Elizabeth is safe for now?”
“Yes,” Neal confirms, and Peter for once is sure that Neal wouldn’t lie to him.
“Then sit,” Peter insists. “Five minutes. Sit down.”
Neal hesitates for a moment, glances at the backdoor then joins Peter at the dining room table. He slides into the chair Peter holds out for him, lets his bag drop to the floor. Peter settles into the chair closest to Neal’s, at the long edge of the dining table. He studies Neal, who sits with his shoulders slightly hunched and his bare forearms rested on the tabletop, fingers clasped. Neal looks at his hands and at the flower arrangement at the center of the table, and anywhere but at him. His face holds on to self-possessed neutrality that threatens to crack in the tight lines around his mouth. Neal waits for him to say something.
Peter stays still in his chair. He lets the silence grow oppressive around them. Neal Caffrey doesn’t handle silence well. He has learned as much. Neal prefers to be asked, even interrogated. Questions give him something to work with, give him words to contort and rearrange into the half-truths he submits for answers. Silence leaves him without tools, with an empty canvas but without brushes or paint. Silence doesn’t let him breathe. The flash of panic Peter catches in a fleeting side-ways glance from Neal says as much. Peter tightens his lips and lets Neal suffocate a little longer.
Finally, there is a defeated exhalation.
“Peter, I don’t often say that I’m sorry,” Neal says, quietly and finds the nerve to look Peter in the eye.
“That’s not true,” Peter replies expressionlessly. “You never say you’re sorry.”
Neal considers this. And nods.
“I am sorry,” he continues. “I never wanted for Elizabeth to be drawn into this.”
There is true anguish in Neal’s imploring eyes now, and Peter suddenly finds it difficult to hold on to his stone-faced composure.
“Neal, I believe you. But I can’t accept your apology. Not now. Maybe never. If anything happens to her, I won’t be able to forgive you. I need you to know that.”
“I know,” Neal replies and lowers his eyes. A different man may have taken the opportunity to smoothly transition into a self-flagellating litany, insisting that, above all, he will never be able to forgive himself. But Neal remains quiet. Silence is his self-imposed punishment. And Peter lets it settle around them again.
He keeps his eyes on Neal in his raw, unfinished state that he rarely got to see through the years. There’s a sheen of perspiration on his forehead and under the open collar of his shirt. Perhaps the humid summer night is sticking to him, perhaps even Neal is unable to hide the most basic physical reactions to plain and simple dread. Dread of what will happen should he fail to deliver on his promise and dread of what it will mean should his plan succeed. Whatever that plan is.
“The deal you made. Talk.” Peter finally requests, and he finds that his voice has softened.
“I can’t.”
“Try.”
“Peter,” Neal looks over and practically begs. “Until Elizabeth is safe I intend to stick to every detail of the demands Keller made. And that includes not telling you. Please, don’t ask me to endanger her any further.”
Peter nods his understanding.
“Then tell me what you can.”
Neal exhales audibly through his nose. Peter waits for Neal to sort through the facts in his head, filter the information into something vague enough to share.
“Let’s say that I entered an unholy but mutually beneficial alliance with Keller. I told him that with Mozzie in the FBI spotlight almost as much as I am, it was impossible for me to move the treasure. So, I enlist his help, he gets sixty percent of the profits.”
Peter’s skepticism that Neal would permit anyone to shortchange him in a deal must be written all over his face.
“The extra ten percent are for sparing me the burden of having to live with the death of your wife on my conscience,” Neal adds with a level, unemotional voice that makes Peter’s stomach turn.
“We’re talking about the treasure you claim not to have?” Peter states, neither failing to detect the hint of sarcasm in his own tone nor the suspiciously shifty glance Neal directs at him.
“What’s important is that Keller believes I have it,” Neal evades a straight answer. “I insisted that Elizabeth be let go the moment I meet up with him. After she is safe, it won’t matter if Keller calls my bluff.”
“When he calls your bluff,” Peter corrects. “Because you don’t have the treasure.” He is afraid to blink, lest he should miss the smallest reaction in his consultant’s face. There is none.
Peter leans back in his chair, rakes his fingers through his hair. He knows what Neal’s gamble implies. Keller won’t take deception of this magnitude lightly. And what if Neal has the treasure after all? Or if not the treasure then perhaps something of similar value? His association with a convicted murderer would prevent Neal from ever being offered leniency by a judge and jury again. Peter can’t think about the consequences for Neal yet. He needs to focus on the primary objective, getting his wife back. There can’t be any slipups. If Neal with his knowledge of the treasure walks into a trap then they will have lost the last bargaining chip they’ve had with Keller.
“What makes you so sure that Keller believes you? You suddenly partner up with him? Turn against me? Betray Mozzie?” Peter props his elbows onto the table, leaning into the conversation that threatens to turn into an interrogation after all. “It doesn’t make sense, Caffrey. Why would he buy that? I wouldn’t.”
It perplexes him that Neal suddenly smiles.
“Peter,” he says with a belittling, teacherly intonation that instantly irks Peter. “Men like Keller and I double-cross people for a living. The closer the people we con are to us, the bigger the thrill. We will never doubt anyone’s capacity of betrayal. It’s the very essence of our success.”
Peter studies the man by his side, wonders if Neal is aware of the tremendous sorrow that has bled into his eyes in spite of the harsh words that cross his curled lips. Whatever is reflected in his own expression, it prompts Neal to look away. Neal lets his head sink back between his drawn up shoulders and his smile fades. He seems to retreat into his thoughts for a moment that stretches long enough to make Peter question if anything else is forthcoming.
“Maybe that’s why you and I were doomed to fail from the start, Peter,” Neal finally continues, quietly and without emphasis, as if inadvertently voicing a random thought out loud. “I always expected the worst of you. I expected you to be like me. I needed you to be like me. It made things easier.”
“Made what easier, Neal?”
“Playing you.” Neal replies blankly as if that admission carried no weight.
Peter doesn’t know if he is supposed to be shocked. He can’t say that he is. He considers the possibility that Neal wants to deal this verbal blow to push him away, to create the distance he needs to walk out of here. Peter won’t grant him the detachment. Not yet.
“So that’s all it was for you? A game?” He challenges. Peter sits back in his chair again, stretches his arm across the backrest of the empty chair next to him.
“Yes,” Neal admits and looks as if doing so physically hurts. He shifts in his seat, wrings his hands for a few moments of uncomfortable silence. Then he qualifies his statement. “At first.”
He glances over at Peter. Peter is fairly certain that nothing in his face indicates that he is willing to weigh in at this point. Neal vents his frustration with a sigh.
“I thought once I convince you to get me out of prison it would only be a matter of days to trick the anklet, run away, find Kate.”
“Live happily ever after?” Peter offers.
“Something like that.”
“But it wasn’t that easy.”
“That’s the understatement of the century.” Neal’s hollow chuckle lacks any joy. “That damn tracker was a tougher nut than I thought. And you-“ he trails off, blinks up at the ceiling as he shakes his head and wets his lips.
“What?”
“You were so damn good to me, Peter,” Neal spits out like an insult.
“And that’s a bad thing?” Peter frowns at the absurdity of it all.
“Yes!” Neal raises his voice above the muted conversation for the first time. “Because I couldn’t allow myself to like you. Not getting attached is the secret to any con. You can’t con anyone without disregarding their feelings.”
“Or your own,” Peter points out.
“Well, that’s not a problem as long as you don’t have any.” Neal shrugs.
“And you think that’s you?” Peter raises his eyebrows.
“Yes,” Neal says sternly.
“And expected me to be like that?” Peter asks with a quizzical tilt of his head.
“How could you not be?” Neal says and makes it sound like the most logical conclusion.
Peter assumes he must be staring back at him in blank cluelessness because Neal feels compelled to elaborate.
“Look, Peter, we were so evenly matched for such a long time. I didn’t really know who you were. All I knew was that there was a guy who got as big a kick out of the chase as I got out of outrunning him. How could we not be the same person on different sides of the equation?” Neal stops for a moment, his eyes wide and animated with memories of a thrilling past. He reins himself in, composes himself before he continues. “Outsmarting you was never easy, Peter, but it was the best feeling in the world.”
“And it’s not anymore?”
Neal shakes his head no.
“What changed?”
“Back when I thought you had Kate, when I thought you had double-crossed me, it didn’t simply feel like a blow to my ego. It felt like betrayal.” Neal looks him straight in the eye and Peter finds all emotional guards gone from the other man’s face. “After what happened with Adler, after prison, I swore never to let anything touch me again. And there you were, chitchatting with me over coffee, joking with me, keeping Kate from me, looking every bit the Machiavellian bastard I thought you could be. And it hurt. Because I suddenly realized that I needed you to be better than that. Better than me. And I needed you to like me in spite of that.”
Peter settles a hand on Neal’s shoulder and feels the other man shudder under his touch.
“Neal, I liked … I like you. It took me a while to own up to it, but I do,” Peter says. He stops for a second, trying to remember if he ever admitted to this fact out loud, even to Elizabeth. “I haven’t kept you out of prison and out of trouble because you’re a feather in my cap or because you’re convenient. Trust me, you’re anything but. Let’s face it, Caffrey, you’ve been a Texas-sized pain in my rear, Longhorns and all.”
Peter waits for Neal to shoot him an indignant glare that doesn’t materialize. This isn’t one of those skin-deep, bantering exchanges he has had with his consultant from behind the wheel of his car. This is the type of conversation Peter isn’t good at, the type that makes his mouth dry and his hands sweaty. But this is exactly the type of talk he volunteered to have, just recently, when the loneliness of the van and his concern for Neal got the better of him. He lets out a breath from puffed-up cheeks.
“Listen, Neal, I wanted to offer you a future. Not some pipedream of long-lost treasures and infinite riches, but a realistic one. And maybe in that future hard work will not always be justly rewarded, but it lets you sleep damn well at night, Neal. And it makes you feel like a better man the next morning. Not in anyone else’s eyes, but in your own. And don’t tell me that over the past two years, there hasn’t been the occasional morning when you woke up feeling exactly that!”
“Sometimes,” Neal acknowledges with a half-shrug. “But what if that’s not enough, Peter? What if I’ll never be content? What if I am not that man?”
“Give it time.” Peter urges softly. In the back of his mind the cruel truth makes itself known. Neal may be out of time to choose what man he wants to be. Neal may have forfeited his right to choose. Perhaps years ago, perhaps only recently when he set the events of this past day in motion. Peter pushes those thoughts aside. He can’t acknowledge that truth yet. He gives Neal the advice he would have put forward if Neal had come to him a week ago, even a day ago. “Neal, you’ve been on the wrong path for a long time. I know a lot of this has been new territory for you. It’s okay to get lost along the way once in a while.”
“I broke into your house.”
Neal bluntly tosses that fact onto the table, like a shock grenade that is needed to diffuse a conversation that has turned too friendly-too much in his favor-for Neal to cope with it any longer.
Peter retracts his hand from his consultant’s shoulder.
“When?” His voice hardens.
“That night after we helped out Jones’ Navy buddy. You were on your stakeout.” Neal recites the facts.
“I called you.”
“Yes, I was here.”
“Why?”
“I thought you were keeping something from me.”
Peter snorts dismissively.
There is no doubt that Neal knows about the U-boat manifest. He would never underestimate his criminal consultant in this regard. But could he have gotten a hand on it? Peter’s mind spools through every memory he has of buying and installing his new safe, debating if there was any way Neal could be aware of its existence. It’s unlikely. It’s entirely possible. It’s completely irrelevant now.
“Did you find your answer?” He asks bitterly.
Neal only shrugs in his typical, equivocal manner. He regards Peter closely and a trace of defiance returns to his expression, like it always does when Peter catches him in an omission of truth. It’s a look that communicates how entitled Neal feels to his lies and secrets, that makes anyone trying to break through them feel like an intruder.
Peter rubs his face with both hands. He feels tired and beaten, his nerves worn thin by the events of the day, by the unrelenting fear for Elizabeth’s safety. His head is throbbing from slamming once again into the concrete slab that Neal pulls out of thin air whenever Peter thinks he has finally gotten through to the misguided con man.
“You know what the most frustrating thing about this is, Neal?” Peter leans in again his fists clenched on the table. He wants to sound angry, but he just sounds exhausted. “That despite of what you just told me, despite of how … how violated in my trust that makes me feel, all I can think of is that I meant every word I said to you that night.”
Neal gapes at him from wide eyes and looks to have stopped breathing.
“You may not deserve the chances I gave you, Caffrey, and you may not deserve my friendship. But I still believe that you deserve some happiness. You deserve to look in the mirror one day and find that that damn smile of yours has finally spread to where it really matters.”
He reaches across the table and taps two fingers against the center of Neal’s chest. For the short moment their contact lasts, it seems capable of shattering the other man. Neal turns his face away, blinks rapidly. Peter sits back, waits for Neal to collect himself. He grants him the courtesy not to stare.
“What time is it?” Neal sounds like he is speaking around a lump in his throat.
“Almost three.” Peter replies with a glance at his watch.
“I need to get going.” Neal pushes himself to his feet and Peter is marginally aware of the sluggish weariness in his consultant’s movements. He watches Neal pick up his satchel, duck through the shoulder strap and straighten it where it stretches diagonally across his chest. Neal looks ready to go to battle, and that may be close enough to the truth.
“I need you to unlock the tracker, Peter.” He requests quietly.
Peter nods and fetches his keys from his coat before rejoining Neal by the dining room table. Neal props his left foot up on a chair, pulls up his pant leg. The act lacks any of the triumphant glee Neal typically displays in anticipation of having his leash cut. Peter stoops down and suddenly finds it difficult to insert the key. He shakes out his uncooperative fingers and tries again.
“He’s going to kill you.“
Peter hears those words leave his lips. They sound wrong and cruel, interjected by someone who wasn’t in this room a few minutes ago or who is callous enough to point out the irony of discussing a future that no longer exists. The sentence still hangs in the air, when the tracker emits its unremarkable beep as it releases Neal’s ankle.
“Not if I play my cards right, Peter,” Neal finally says. He shakes his pant leg into shape.
“You’re fooling yourself, Neal,” Peter says and straightens out to make eye contact with his consultant. “If you are bluffing about the treasure, you’re as good as dead. And even if-let’s pretend for a second-you stole the art after all. What makes you think that he won’t dispose of you the second he has his hands on it?”
“Honor among thieves?” Neal offers with a half-hearted smile.
“Caffrey, I’ve learned enough about your business to know that it’s no longer a gentleman’s game. Not for the likes of Keller. Old con men like Hale are a dying breed, Neal. You are a dying breed.”
“Maybe so,” Neal concedes and that crooked smile won’t go away. “But not tonight, Peter. Tonight I’m getting you your wife back. And you should clean up that mess in the kitchen. Take a shower, put on some fresh sheets and when she gets here you will simply be a good, loving husband for a few hours. Rumor has it, those are a dying breed too.”
“He’s going to kill you, Neal.”
Spoken a second time, those words are no longer cruel to Peter’s ears. They speak of sadness and resignation and of debts about to be repaid.
Neal inhales deeply and lets his eyes sweep around the half-lit room before they come to rest on Peter’s face again. The steely resolve he came with is back in place.
“I have to go, Peter,” he says with a calm that infuriates and frightens Peter. “You have to let me go.”
Peter closes his eyes and nods his head. For a frozen instant he envisions himself wrapping his arms around the other man, pouring all the gratitude, fear and regret that threaten to burst his chest into an embrace. He can almost feel himself take that small step forward, open his arms.
He doesn’t. The finality of the act would be too much to bear.
In front of him, Neal opens his lips and hesitates as if trying to recapture an important thought that has just escaped his grasp. Then turns, a little too rushed. He closes the distance to the backdoor, pulls it open with a firm grip on the knob.
“Neal,” Peter says from the spot in the dining room that his feet refuse to leave.
Neal turns his head, and his eyes may be pleading with him to spare him a goodbye.
“I wish I could have saved you, Caffrey.”
Neal smiles at him, with sorrow and pity and tenderness.
“Maybe you tried to save someone I’ve never been.”
He closes the door and Peter knows his friend won’t look back as he marches into the night.
Peter fetches the small can of oil from under the sink and fixes the squeaky door.
Continued in Part 2
Disclaimer:
All recognizable characters are property of Jeff
Eastin and USA Network.
No copyright infringement intended.
Title: Better Men
- Rating: PG-13
- Category: Episode Tag (S3 mid-season finale), Drama, Friendship, Alternate canon (with 99.999% certainty)
- Spoilers: Countdown, As You Were + various other references
Author's notes:
This came together fairly quickly after letting the first half of S3 sink in. It was conceived as a one-shot. Now that it's finished, I'm having some thoughts to add a few more chapters to the story (at least before the reality of S3.5 hits in January). But let's see how I feel about it down the line.
Thanks to nice_disguisefor admirable resilience in getting this beta'ed -- despite the disappointing lack of character nudity.
Comments, suggestions and criticism are always welcome.
Summary:
With a friendship nearly in ruins Peter and Neal talk about past misjudgments and hopes for a future that may already be forfeit.
Better Men
The knock on the backdoor is hardly audible.
At Peter’s feet, Satchmo lifts his head, pricks his ears and sniffs the air. He thumps his tail against the floorboards in a moderately excited rhythm before yawning widely and returning his muzzle to its resting position across Peter’s right loafer.
Peter makes no move to get up from the couch. He chokes his beer bottle in both fists. The bottle is empty, tepid and sticky, like the air in his un-airconditioned house, like the stagnant darkness of the godforsaken night that surrounds him. With the lights turned off, the night has seeped into his living room, blackness barely warded off by the single scented oil nightlight that is plugged into an outlet at the top of the staircase. It is what he needs right now. He wants the darkness to dull his vision and focus his mind. He needs his head to stop spinning out of control.
Across the room the knock is repeated in the same nondescript staccato but delivered with more determination. Peter doesn’t bother getting up. He knows who is outside. He also knows that whenever that someone knocks on his door, he does so to announce his entry, not to request it. Neal Caffrey has never asked permission. Not to come into his home, or into his life, for that matter. Why should tonight be different from any other day in the - how long has it been?
The doorknob rotates and squeaks a little in the process. Peter resolves to fix it first thing in the morning, like he has promised Elizabeth to do for months. He’ll do it right after cleaning the tomato stain from the kitchen rug. Right after washing the dirty pot still sitting on his stovetop.
The door slowly swings inward. The timer switch to the backyard lights has clicked off at midnight, and Peter can scarcely make out the contours of the person slipping inside his house. He doesn’t need to. He would recognize that man anywhere, by the fluidity of his movements, by the way he becomes an immediate, palpable presence in any space he steps into. He watches in silence as Neal closes the door behind him then takes a few steps into the room before coming to an irresolute halt. Neal’s head turns from side to side, scanning the darkened room, his gaze brushing over Peter’s furniture and over his body. Peter remains completely still. He tells himself that he is testing Neal’s observation skills while, in truth, he is holding on to a foolish hope that Neal will simply go away. Like any hope he has ever held for his consultant, this one is tentative.
“Peter,” Neal breaks the silence. There is enough ambivalence in his inflection that Peter harbors a shred of doubt that Neal is truly aware of his presence. He briefly debates staying mum and invisible when his dog settles those negotiations for him. With a languorous stretch the Labrador gets to his feet. He ambles over to their visitor and bumps his big head against Neal’s leg with enough weight to produce a dull thud.
“Hey, Satch.” Neal’s voice is soft and genial, and Peter is convinced he can hear Neal smile. He allows himself a deep breath.
“It’s two in the morning,” Peter says blankly. There is an edge to his tone that Neal won’t fail to notice. Satchmo must be picking up on the tension in the room. His nails click on the wood floors as he trots over to the bottom of the staircase to lie down.
“I was sure you’d be awake,” Neal replies. His head pivots on his shoulders again, his eyes trying to find something to lock onto in the darkness. “Do you mind if I turn on the light?”
Peter thinks Neal gestures towards the kitchen. He nods and suspects that his approval goes unnoticed. But when has his approval ever made a difference with Neal?
The small table lamp on the kitchen desk springs to life, filling the back of the house with a muted glow that doesn’t penetrate the darkness shrouding Peter on the couch. Neal turns to face the living room, takes two measured steps forward then stays in the cone of light. The shift of balance in the room is not random. Neal Caffrey doesn’t leave things like this up to chance. It is very unlike Neal to leave himself exposed while giving the opposition the advantage of anonymity. He remains silent for now, perhaps to choose his words with care, perhaps to offer Peter the opportunity to draw his own conclusions.
Peter feels a certain gratitude for this. It’s the first sentiment he has been willing to acknowledge for several hours. Suppressing any emotions stirring in him has been the only way to deal with the events of this night. Denial of his red-hot anger was the only thing that stopped him from putting his fist through the wall or, possibly, straight into his consultant’s face. The only way not to blame Neal was to insist that placing any blame was counterproductive.
Peter takes in the man across the room. Neal has foregone his trademark fedora and the perfectly coordinated suit and tie, has opted for a pair of plain black slacks and a black button down shirt, open at the neck and with the sleeves rolled up. A dark canvas satchel dangles from his left hand, the slack shoulder strap touching the floor. It doesn’t take a stroke of genius to put two and two together. Neal has always traveled light on the run.
“I spoke to Keller,” Neal states before Peter has a chance to say anything.
“What?” Peter jumps to his feet. “Did you talk to Elizabeth?”
Across the room Neal extends a palm, prompting him to stay put. Perhaps asking him to stay in the shadows.
“No. But he assured me Elizabeth is fine. Frightened but unharmed,” Neal continues to speak, keeping his tone dry and matter-of-fact. Peter equally admires and despises the other man for his ability to stay in control of his emotions.
Peter’s mind revs back into overdrive. There are a dozen questions at the tip of his tongue. He needs to know how Neal contacted Keller, wants to know why Neal didn’t insist on evidence that Elizabeth was well. He purses his lips and swallows the urge to question Neal further. It spares him the torment of uttering the name of his wife and the term proof-of-life in the same sentence.
“You trust him?” Peter asks instead. Only years of practice keep a tremor out of his words.
“On this. Yes,” Neal affirms. He squares his shoulders, injecting his stance with the confidence Peter needs to see from him right now. “It won’t matter much longer. You’ll have her back before dawn. I will make this right, Peter. I promise.”
Peter steps forward now, and Neal doesn’t beckon him to stay back.
“You cut a deal.” He says and doesn’t even try to make it sound like a question. For an instant he is ashamed of the undercurrent of hopeful optimism in his voice when he meets his consultant’s eyes that are dark with grim determination. Determination that falters in the face of Peter’s scrutiny, and Neal’s gaze swiftly drifts off to find refuge in the kitchen area.
“I’d like some water.” He points a thumb at the sink and doesn’t wait for Peter’s nod to round the kitchen island. Peter watches him shoulder his satchel in the process, as if Neal needed a physical reminder that he has somewhere to go, as if that bag, packed with a handful of belongings, also held his courage and resolution. Neal grabs a clean glass left to dry by the sink and fills it from the tap. He remains with his back to Peter as he takes a long drink. His eyes find a corner of the glass-front cabinet door above the sink, where the fingerprinting dust has left large, dark smudges. He rubs his fingertips over the stain then abandons his effort to pull a sheet from the roll of paper towels. He wets a corner of the tissue and scrubs at the smudge with renewed vigor.
“Neal,” Peter calls. “Leave it.”
He waits patiently for Neal to discard the tissue and turn to face him. Peter walks over to the dining table, pulls back a chair at the head of the table.
“Sit down for a while. We need to talk.” He keeps holding on to the back of the chair.
“Peter, I should-“ he inclines his head toward the exit.
“Elizabeth is safe for now?”
“Yes,” Neal confirms, and Peter for once is sure that Neal wouldn’t lie to him.
“Then sit,” Peter insists. “Five minutes. Sit down.”
Neal hesitates for a moment, glances at the backdoor then joins Peter at the dining room table. He slides into the chair Peter holds out for him, lets his bag drop to the floor. Peter settles into the chair closest to Neal’s, at the long edge of the dining table. He studies Neal, who sits with his shoulders slightly hunched and his bare forearms rested on the tabletop, fingers clasped. Neal looks at his hands and at the flower arrangement at the center of the table, and anywhere but at him. His face holds on to self-possessed neutrality that threatens to crack in the tight lines around his mouth. Neal waits for him to say something.
Peter stays still in his chair. He lets the silence grow oppressive around them. Neal Caffrey doesn’t handle silence well. He has learned as much. Neal prefers to be asked, even interrogated. Questions give him something to work with, give him words to contort and rearrange into the half-truths he submits for answers. Silence leaves him without tools, with an empty canvas but without brushes or paint. Silence doesn’t let him breathe. The flash of panic Peter catches in a fleeting side-ways glance from Neal says as much. Peter tightens his lips and lets Neal suffocate a little longer.
Finally, there is a defeated exhalation.
“Peter, I don’t often say that I’m sorry,” Neal says, quietly and finds the nerve to look Peter in the eye.
“That’s not true,” Peter replies expressionlessly. “You never say you’re sorry.”
Neal considers this. And nods.
“I am sorry,” he continues. “I never wanted for Elizabeth to be drawn into this.”
There is true anguish in Neal’s imploring eyes now, and Peter suddenly finds it difficult to hold on to his stone-faced composure.
“Neal, I believe you. But I can’t accept your apology. Not now. Maybe never. If anything happens to her, I won’t be able to forgive you. I need you to know that.”
“I know,” Neal replies and lowers his eyes. A different man may have taken the opportunity to smoothly transition into a self-flagellating litany, insisting that, above all, he will never be able to forgive himself. But Neal remains quiet. Silence is his self-imposed punishment. And Peter lets it settle around them again.
He keeps his eyes on Neal in his raw, unfinished state that he rarely got to see through the years. There’s a sheen of perspiration on his forehead and under the open collar of his shirt. Perhaps the humid summer night is sticking to him, perhaps even Neal is unable to hide the most basic physical reactions to plain and simple dread. Dread of what will happen should he fail to deliver on his promise and dread of what it will mean should his plan succeed. Whatever that plan is.
“The deal you made. Talk.” Peter finally requests, and he finds that his voice has softened.
“I can’t.”
“Try.”
“Peter,” Neal looks over and practically begs. “Until Elizabeth is safe I intend to stick to every detail of the demands Keller made. And that includes not telling you. Please, don’t ask me to endanger her any further.”
Peter nods his understanding.
“Then tell me what you can.”
Neal exhales audibly through his nose. Peter waits for Neal to sort through the facts in his head, filter the information into something vague enough to share.
“Let’s say that I entered an unholy but mutually beneficial alliance with Keller. I told him that with Mozzie in the FBI spotlight almost as much as I am, it was impossible for me to move the treasure. So, I enlist his help, he gets sixty percent of the profits.”
Peter’s skepticism that Neal would permit anyone to shortchange him in a deal must be written all over his face.
“The extra ten percent are for sparing me the burden of having to live with the death of your wife on my conscience,” Neal adds with a level, unemotional voice that makes Peter’s stomach turn.
“We’re talking about the treasure you claim not to have?” Peter states, neither failing to detect the hint of sarcasm in his own tone nor the suspiciously shifty glance Neal directs at him.
“What’s important is that Keller believes I have it,” Neal evades a straight answer. “I insisted that Elizabeth be let go the moment I meet up with him. After she is safe, it won’t matter if Keller calls my bluff.”
“When he calls your bluff,” Peter corrects. “Because you don’t have the treasure.” He is afraid to blink, lest he should miss the smallest reaction in his consultant’s face. There is none.
Peter leans back in his chair, rakes his fingers through his hair. He knows what Neal’s gamble implies. Keller won’t take deception of this magnitude lightly. And what if Neal has the treasure after all? Or if not the treasure then perhaps something of similar value? His association with a convicted murderer would prevent Neal from ever being offered leniency by a judge and jury again. Peter can’t think about the consequences for Neal yet. He needs to focus on the primary objective, getting his wife back. There can’t be any slipups. If Neal with his knowledge of the treasure walks into a trap then they will have lost the last bargaining chip they’ve had with Keller.
“What makes you so sure that Keller believes you? You suddenly partner up with him? Turn against me? Betray Mozzie?” Peter props his elbows onto the table, leaning into the conversation that threatens to turn into an interrogation after all. “It doesn’t make sense, Caffrey. Why would he buy that? I wouldn’t.”
It perplexes him that Neal suddenly smiles.
“Peter,” he says with a belittling, teacherly intonation that instantly irks Peter. “Men like Keller and I double-cross people for a living. The closer the people we con are to us, the bigger the thrill. We will never doubt anyone’s capacity of betrayal. It’s the very essence of our success.”
Peter studies the man by his side, wonders if Neal is aware of the tremendous sorrow that has bled into his eyes in spite of the harsh words that cross his curled lips. Whatever is reflected in his own expression, it prompts Neal to look away. Neal lets his head sink back between his drawn up shoulders and his smile fades. He seems to retreat into his thoughts for a moment that stretches long enough to make Peter question if anything else is forthcoming.
“Maybe that’s why you and I were doomed to fail from the start, Peter,” Neal finally continues, quietly and without emphasis, as if inadvertently voicing a random thought out loud. “I always expected the worst of you. I expected you to be like me. I needed you to be like me. It made things easier.”
“Made what easier, Neal?”
“Playing you.” Neal replies blankly as if that admission carried no weight.
Peter doesn’t know if he is supposed to be shocked. He can’t say that he is. He considers the possibility that Neal wants to deal this verbal blow to push him away, to create the distance he needs to walk out of here. Peter won’t grant him the detachment. Not yet.
“So that’s all it was for you? A game?” He challenges. Peter sits back in his chair again, stretches his arm across the backrest of the empty chair next to him.
“Yes,” Neal admits and looks as if doing so physically hurts. He shifts in his seat, wrings his hands for a few moments of uncomfortable silence. Then he qualifies his statement. “At first.”
He glances over at Peter. Peter is fairly certain that nothing in his face indicates that he is willing to weigh in at this point. Neal vents his frustration with a sigh.
“I thought once I convince you to get me out of prison it would only be a matter of days to trick the anklet, run away, find Kate.”
“Live happily ever after?” Peter offers.
“Something like that.”
“But it wasn’t that easy.”
“That’s the understatement of the century.” Neal’s hollow chuckle lacks any joy. “That damn tracker was a tougher nut than I thought. And you-“ he trails off, blinks up at the ceiling as he shakes his head and wets his lips.
“What?”
“You were so damn good to me, Peter,” Neal spits out like an insult.
“And that’s a bad thing?” Peter frowns at the absurdity of it all.
“Yes!” Neal raises his voice above the muted conversation for the first time. “Because I couldn’t allow myself to like you. Not getting attached is the secret to any con. You can’t con anyone without disregarding their feelings.”
“Or your own,” Peter points out.
“Well, that’s not a problem as long as you don’t have any.” Neal shrugs.
“And you think that’s you?” Peter raises his eyebrows.
“Yes,” Neal says sternly.
“And expected me to be like that?” Peter asks with a quizzical tilt of his head.
“How could you not be?” Neal says and makes it sound like the most logical conclusion.
Peter assumes he must be staring back at him in blank cluelessness because Neal feels compelled to elaborate.
“Look, Peter, we were so evenly matched for such a long time. I didn’t really know who you were. All I knew was that there was a guy who got as big a kick out of the chase as I got out of outrunning him. How could we not be the same person on different sides of the equation?” Neal stops for a moment, his eyes wide and animated with memories of a thrilling past. He reins himself in, composes himself before he continues. “Outsmarting you was never easy, Peter, but it was the best feeling in the world.”
“And it’s not anymore?”
Neal shakes his head no.
“What changed?”
“Back when I thought you had Kate, when I thought you had double-crossed me, it didn’t simply feel like a blow to my ego. It felt like betrayal.” Neal looks him straight in the eye and Peter finds all emotional guards gone from the other man’s face. “After what happened with Adler, after prison, I swore never to let anything touch me again. And there you were, chitchatting with me over coffee, joking with me, keeping Kate from me, looking every bit the Machiavellian bastard I thought you could be. And it hurt. Because I suddenly realized that I needed you to be better than that. Better than me. And I needed you to like me in spite of that.”
Peter settles a hand on Neal’s shoulder and feels the other man shudder under his touch.
“Neal, I liked … I like you. It took me a while to own up to it, but I do,” Peter says. He stops for a second, trying to remember if he ever admitted to this fact out loud, even to Elizabeth. “I haven’t kept you out of prison and out of trouble because you’re a feather in my cap or because you’re convenient. Trust me, you’re anything but. Let’s face it, Caffrey, you’ve been a Texas-sized pain in my rear, Longhorns and all.”
Peter waits for Neal to shoot him an indignant glare that doesn’t materialize. This isn’t one of those skin-deep, bantering exchanges he has had with his consultant from behind the wheel of his car. This is the type of conversation Peter isn’t good at, the type that makes his mouth dry and his hands sweaty. But this is exactly the type of talk he volunteered to have, just recently, when the loneliness of the van and his concern for Neal got the better of him. He lets out a breath from puffed-up cheeks.
“Listen, Neal, I wanted to offer you a future. Not some pipedream of long-lost treasures and infinite riches, but a realistic one. And maybe in that future hard work will not always be justly rewarded, but it lets you sleep damn well at night, Neal. And it makes you feel like a better man the next morning. Not in anyone else’s eyes, but in your own. And don’t tell me that over the past two years, there hasn’t been the occasional morning when you woke up feeling exactly that!”
“Sometimes,” Neal acknowledges with a half-shrug. “But what if that’s not enough, Peter? What if I’ll never be content? What if I am not that man?”
“Give it time.” Peter urges softly. In the back of his mind the cruel truth makes itself known. Neal may be out of time to choose what man he wants to be. Neal may have forfeited his right to choose. Perhaps years ago, perhaps only recently when he set the events of this past day in motion. Peter pushes those thoughts aside. He can’t acknowledge that truth yet. He gives Neal the advice he would have put forward if Neal had come to him a week ago, even a day ago. “Neal, you’ve been on the wrong path for a long time. I know a lot of this has been new territory for you. It’s okay to get lost along the way once in a while.”
“I broke into your house.”
Neal bluntly tosses that fact onto the table, like a shock grenade that is needed to diffuse a conversation that has turned too friendly-too much in his favor-for Neal to cope with it any longer.
Peter retracts his hand from his consultant’s shoulder.
“When?” His voice hardens.
“That night after we helped out Jones’ Navy buddy. You were on your stakeout.” Neal recites the facts.
“I called you.”
“Yes, I was here.”
“Why?”
“I thought you were keeping something from me.”
Peter snorts dismissively.
There is no doubt that Neal knows about the U-boat manifest. He would never underestimate his criminal consultant in this regard. But could he have gotten a hand on it? Peter’s mind spools through every memory he has of buying and installing his new safe, debating if there was any way Neal could be aware of its existence. It’s unlikely. It’s entirely possible. It’s completely irrelevant now.
“Did you find your answer?” He asks bitterly.
Neal only shrugs in his typical, equivocal manner. He regards Peter closely and a trace of defiance returns to his expression, like it always does when Peter catches him in an omission of truth. It’s a look that communicates how entitled Neal feels to his lies and secrets, that makes anyone trying to break through them feel like an intruder.
Peter rubs his face with both hands. He feels tired and beaten, his nerves worn thin by the events of the day, by the unrelenting fear for Elizabeth’s safety. His head is throbbing from slamming once again into the concrete slab that Neal pulls out of thin air whenever Peter thinks he has finally gotten through to the misguided con man.
“You know what the most frustrating thing about this is, Neal?” Peter leans in again his fists clenched on the table. He wants to sound angry, but he just sounds exhausted. “That despite of what you just told me, despite of how … how violated in my trust that makes me feel, all I can think of is that I meant every word I said to you that night.”
Neal gapes at him from wide eyes and looks to have stopped breathing.
“You may not deserve the chances I gave you, Caffrey, and you may not deserve my friendship. But I still believe that you deserve some happiness. You deserve to look in the mirror one day and find that that damn smile of yours has finally spread to where it really matters.”
He reaches across the table and taps two fingers against the center of Neal’s chest. For the short moment their contact lasts, it seems capable of shattering the other man. Neal turns his face away, blinks rapidly. Peter sits back, waits for Neal to collect himself. He grants him the courtesy not to stare.
“What time is it?” Neal sounds like he is speaking around a lump in his throat.
“Almost three.” Peter replies with a glance at his watch.
“I need to get going.” Neal pushes himself to his feet and Peter is marginally aware of the sluggish weariness in his consultant’s movements. He watches Neal pick up his satchel, duck through the shoulder strap and straighten it where it stretches diagonally across his chest. Neal looks ready to go to battle, and that may be close enough to the truth.
“I need you to unlock the tracker, Peter.” He requests quietly.
Peter nods and fetches his keys from his coat before rejoining Neal by the dining room table. Neal props his left foot up on a chair, pulls up his pant leg. The act lacks any of the triumphant glee Neal typically displays in anticipation of having his leash cut. Peter stoops down and suddenly finds it difficult to insert the key. He shakes out his uncooperative fingers and tries again.
“He’s going to kill you.“
Peter hears those words leave his lips. They sound wrong and cruel, interjected by someone who wasn’t in this room a few minutes ago or who is callous enough to point out the irony of discussing a future that no longer exists. The sentence still hangs in the air, when the tracker emits its unremarkable beep as it releases Neal’s ankle.
“Not if I play my cards right, Peter,” Neal finally says. He shakes his pant leg into shape.
“You’re fooling yourself, Neal,” Peter says and straightens out to make eye contact with his consultant. “If you are bluffing about the treasure, you’re as good as dead. And even if-let’s pretend for a second-you stole the art after all. What makes you think that he won’t dispose of you the second he has his hands on it?”
“Honor among thieves?” Neal offers with a half-hearted smile.
“Caffrey, I’ve learned enough about your business to know that it’s no longer a gentleman’s game. Not for the likes of Keller. Old con men like Hale are a dying breed, Neal. You are a dying breed.”
“Maybe so,” Neal concedes and that crooked smile won’t go away. “But not tonight, Peter. Tonight I’m getting you your wife back. And you should clean up that mess in the kitchen. Take a shower, put on some fresh sheets and when she gets here you will simply be a good, loving husband for a few hours. Rumor has it, those are a dying breed too.”
“He’s going to kill you, Neal.”
Spoken a second time, those words are no longer cruel to Peter’s ears. They speak of sadness and resignation and of debts about to be repaid.
Neal inhales deeply and lets his eyes sweep around the half-lit room before they come to rest on Peter’s face again. The steely resolve he came with is back in place.
“I have to go, Peter,” he says with a calm that infuriates and frightens Peter. “You have to let me go.”
Peter closes his eyes and nods his head. For a frozen instant he envisions himself wrapping his arms around the other man, pouring all the gratitude, fear and regret that threaten to burst his chest into an embrace. He can almost feel himself take that small step forward, open his arms.
He doesn’t. The finality of the act would be too much to bear.
In front of him, Neal opens his lips and hesitates as if trying to recapture an important thought that has just escaped his grasp. Then turns, a little too rushed. He closes the distance to the backdoor, pulls it open with a firm grip on the knob.
“Neal,” Peter says from the spot in the dining room that his feet refuse to leave.
Neal turns his head, and his eyes may be pleading with him to spare him a goodbye.
“I wish I could have saved you, Caffrey.”
Neal smiles at him, with sorrow and pity and tenderness.
“Maybe you tried to save someone I’ve never been.”
He closes the door and Peter knows his friend won’t look back as he marches into the night.
Peter fetches the small can of oil from under the sink and fixes the squeaky door.
Continued in Part 2