The Starry Night - part four

[germanjj]

//back to part three//
//part four//


-- 4//1 --

Neal blinks himself awake, disoriented for a second, before he feels another body next to him, feels the heavy comforting weight of an arm around his torso and the soft touch of lips against his shoulder.

He wants to cry with it. He knows what he feels, knows what this is in his heart, clenching it, hurting it.

It's love and it's too soon after Kate, too familiar, too dangerous.

Neal swallows heavily, can't understand how he ended up here, in the bed of the man who once stole him away from Kate, who locked him up and let him back out again. He looks down at Peter, his eyes traveling over the smooth skin of the other man, the soft curve of his lips.

He lingers there for a second, basks in the warmth of another person he knows, he trusts, he loves, for one moment longer, before he carefully slides from underneath the sheets and climbs out of the bed.

It's warm in the house, the floor soft and comfortable under his bare feet, when Neal wanders through it. It's not completely dark, city lights giving just enough shine that he can make his way through the rooms.

He doesn't know what drives him, doesn't question it; he just follows his steps, wandering through a home that is not his, but might as well be.

He touches a hand to the table where they just ate a few hours ago, stands a moment by the door to the patio. He studies the pictures on the wall and on the shelves, closes his eyes a moment standing in the hallway.

He imagines that this is his life, his home, safe for him to be. He imagines what it would feel like to belong here, to be part of this. What it would feel like to just walk back into the bedroom, crawling back underneath the sheets and curling himself up against the warm sleeping body. To be able to sleep until the morning and wake up in another person's arms. To sit at a breakfast table, surrounded by the people he belonged to.

He imagines what it would feel like to have that. Every day.

Neal lets out a deep breath and opens his eyes. It's time for him to go.

-- 4//2 --

It's cold outside. A cold that seeps right underneath his skin, freezes him from the inside out. Neal clenches his jaw and keeps on walking.

There is one more place he needs to go to before he can leave for good.

It's not a plan he had thought out long, not something he's been mulling over and over. But it's a backup plan, something that's been in the back of his head for years, always looming just underneath the surface, ready to be pulled out if needed.

Neal walks a few blocks, before he raises an arm and calls down a cab.

The driver is in his mid-fifties, doesn't talk much about asking for the address and other than that minding his own business.

Neal gets in the back, reaches for the small bag he's been carrying with him.

His moves are quick and efficient, as he gets out the small, black device he's been hiding under the floor of his apartment, together with the ID.

He hasn't tried it yet, can't be sure that it's really working the way it should be.

But his hands don't shake as he pulls up the leg of his pants, resting his foot on his knee. The light of the anklet is blinking rhythmically.

Neal looks up.

He has to hurry, he's only left a minute or two before he leaves his radius.

Neal pulls a needle from his sleeve, hidden beneath the fabric.

It only takes him a second to unlock the anklet, but that's not the problem. He's trained on similar ones hundreds of times for this moment.

It's getting the device between the open ends fast enough before the signal sends again, that's causing a little trouble.

Neal holds his breath as the little machine clicks into place. The cab driver doesn't even glance back in his direction.

It works.

The green light keeps blinking calmly just like it did before and Neal breathes out carefully, something inside him loosening up.

And something else clenching deep inside his belly.

There's no going back now.

Neal slips the anklet from his foot, which is wider now, easily to slip out of.

He rubs his ankle, feels weird now that the weight is gone.

"This is your stop," the cab driver announces from the front and Neal nods, hands him some dollar bills, and gets out of the car.

He doesn't watch the cab leave, just turns around the corner and ignores the tickling in the back of his head.

The anklet is leaving his radius.

Neal looks down at his watch.

He doesn't have much time until the FBI will figure out that he's not in that cab.

-- 4//3 --

Peter finds him exactly where he thought he would.

He calls Jones, ordering him to stay back and let him do this alone.

Peter gets out his car, his hands brushing over the gun in the holster and the handcuffs dangling from his belt.

This is hard enough as it is.

He makes his way to the park house, uses the key he has from a few days ago to get into private garage of Jeffrey Eindhoven.

He doesn't have a search warrant and that's what has been keeping him from going in here.

But he doesn't need it right now.

There's a thief in the garage he has to catch.

"Step away from the car!"

Neal swivels around to him, making huge eyes at Peter. And the gun pointing at him.

"Peter," Neal breathes out. He doesn't put his hands in the air, just stares.

"I know you better than anyone else, remember? I always catch you." The words have never hurt more, biting their way through his chest. Peter doesn't lower his gun; he won't shoot, would never shoot, but Neal doesn't need to know that and Peter needs his hands raised and with the gun pointing at the suspect to keep a grip on himself.

"Neal, what are you doing here?" He asks his friend and he hopes the other man catches the meaning of his words.

Neal takes a look at the open trunk. "There's something I had still left to do," he whispers.

Peter takes a few steps forward, sideglances into the car.

There it is, The Starry Night. Undamaged.

Peter can still smell the traces of fire. He finds a tiny pile of ash by Neal's feet.

Peter lets out a deep breath. It's too late. Neal has now destroyed the last traces from his past. Now Peter will never know.

"How did you know?" Neal asks him, getting his focus away from the burned paper.

"That it's here? In his car?"

Neal nods.

"Lucky guess," Peter shrugs. "We found another video from one of the streets. It showed us Jeffrey's car driving away from the crime scene. Who would have thought he'd taken his own car?"

There's a ghost of smile on Neal's lips and Peter wishes that he wasn't here, that they both weren't here right now. He wishes it so bad that it starts burning behind his eyes.

"How did you know?" he asks Neal.

"Saw the car keys in his apartment. The way it looks in there, he doesn't seem to like moving things so much. I figured that if he'd taken the painting with him, it might still be where he put it in the first place."

"The trunk of his car," Peter concludes.

Neal nods. "The trunk."

Peter takes another step, letting his arms fall down halfway.

"You know what's coming now, Neal," he whispers, searches the other man's eyes, and all he can find in Neal is a mirror of his own pain.

"I know."

"You're arrested," Peter starts mechanically, keeps listing all the cold, hard facts and feels himself grow cold inside. "For breaking and entering. For leaving your anklet. For trying to skip town although you're under the custody of the FBI."

Peter looks up, Neal's so close. And his eyes look sad.

"I was at June's, Neal. Your place is empty." Peter explains and he can't even tell Neal how that felt. How it had hurt opening the door to an apartment where Neal Caffrey didn't exist any longer.

Neal bites down on his lower lip and Peter tracks the movement for a second before he looks up again.

"You were gonna leave without saying goodbye?" Peter asks. His voice breaks at the last word.

Neal doesn't answer. He doesn't struggle either. He lets himself be turned around, lets Peter put on the cuffs behind his back.

And if Peter hesitates, lingers, for a moment with his hands around Neal's and standing close enough to inhale the faint scent of Neal's hair, neither says anything about it.

-- 4//4 --

The heat of Peter's hands burns into Neal's skin where he's holding onto him, steering him down the path to Peter's car.

For now, Neal lets himself be stern. And secretly, he's savoring the feeling of Peter's hands on him, of the sound of their steps falling onto the street in synch. He tries to memorize the way Peter is walking so close behind him, their arms brushing, even their legs with every other step.

There has never been a lock Neal couldn't pick.

And he's missed a few hundred opportunities to leave. Every second that ticks by.

He doesn’t know why he hasn’t yet, he only knows that he will have to eventually.

“Watch it,” Peter mumbles, years of training letting him reach out for Neal’s head, pushing him down while shielding it from the roof of the car.

Neal is not sure if he imagines Peter’s breath hitch.

Neal hasn’t been sitting in the back of this car since the last time Peter caught him. It feels different this time. Final.

He watches Peter. Watches the back of his head and the hands on the wheel. His friend's posture is stiff, uneasy, and Neal can see how much this costs Peter.

Deep down, Neal admires him. He knows what Peter feels for him, knows, even before everything happened between them, that Peter cared a lot about him. And he's still doing the right thing. Even if that means to put handcuffs on a man he calls his friend.

Neal swallows thickly.

Even if it means to put handcuffs on a man he maybe lov...

Neal shakes his head, tries to get rid of the thoughts dancing inside his mind. He needs to concentrate now, needs to leave before it's too late.

Neal waits until the car stops.

Peter is doing him a favor, or saving himself the humiliation and pain, and he parks the car in an alley behind the FBI building.

He wears a stern face, when he gets out and opens the door for Neal. He's not looking at him, doesn't meet his eyes for even a second.

Just steps back enough that Neal can climb out of the car.

Neal takes his time.

His heart is racing, pounding inside his chest.

He gets up, brushes against Peter as he's getting out, and the touch makes Peter look up, breaks the mask he's so desperately clinging to, and Neal's breath hitches now as he pushes forward, moves the last few inches until he's right in Peter's space.

Later, he will never be able to tell if it was Peter or him taking the last distance and bringing their lips together.

It's a bittersweet kiss, meant to be the last, and Neal closes his eyes and only lets himself feel for a precious second.

Peter does the same. He doesn't move back, doesn't break the kiss, doesn't move.

It's Neal pulling back.

He doesn't open his eyes, just moves so their cheeks brush and Neal's lips brush against Peter's temple.

"Goodbye," he whispers, the word scratching his throat raw, and then he turns around, opens his eyes, and walks away.

Peter doesn't say anything, doesn't call after him, doesn't call for help.

Neal just imagines that he can hear him breathe out shakily, under the jingle of the handcuffs, that lock Peter firmly to the door handle of his car now.

Neal will never know if Peter just let it happen.

He will never ask.

// epilogue//