WC Fic: Illustrations (part 8 of 9)
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Title: Illustrations (part 8 of 9)
Author: Ivorysilk
Rating: R
Summary: In short, Neal is hurt and Peter suffers, while Elizabeth picks up the pieces. Please see part one for notes and disclaimers.
Part one
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A/N: This is the part where I seriously try to skip to the end, as you will see. Even though I clearly gave up trying to write the middle bits, I have still failed. So yeah, there will be yet another part, even though I have clearly skipped huge swatches of things in order to just say Man and Wife. Sigh. Sorry. Anyway, this is posted here thanks to virgo_79, who noticed a posting error in an earlier part (thanks!), forcing me to open my fic document, and then I was like, I should just post this next chunk since it is mostly done, and since writing the filler bits will just make it longer, which is counter productive. So, anyway, here it is. Hopefully the next part will be the last!
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“I can’t, Moz,” said Neal, as Mozzie poured himself a glass of Neal’s good cava.
“Well,” said Mozzie, full of bonhommerie, I know you’re not working in the morning, but do not worry, mon frere--I knew you were still on antibiotics and whatever. I have for you the next best thing.”
“What, soda pop?”
“Please! Perrier, the driver’s beverage of choice. And you should eat something--I spoke to Mrs. Suit; she’s worried. I didn’t think you’d mind if I partook, however. After all, this is a celebration.”
“Not at all, Moz, if you’d asked, considering it’s my wine. What’s the occasion?”
“To you, finally leaving behind the Man and his means of control. You, my friend, are once again able to write your own destiny.”
“Well,” said Neal, shifting slightly in his seat. “About that.” He paused, because the healing wound still pulled a little, and also, he hadn’t completely formulated his thought in a way that wouldn’t cause Moz to go through the roof. “Peter--well, the Bureau--has offered me a contract.”
Mozzie snorted with laughter. “A contract! That’s rich! After forcing you to labour for them for a paltry sum, they now want you to willingly sign your life away? Pshaw! I hope you told him what--”
“Peter doesn’t want me to take it,” said Neal bluntly, cutting off Mozzie’s tirade.
“Wait a minute,” said Mozzie slowly, eyes widening. “I take it, by this statement, that means that you do?”
“I might.” Neal shrugged nonchalantly, elaborately casual.
Mozzie was, as expected, horrified. “Neal! Have you learned nothing from me this past decade? Seriously?”
“You know me, I’m open to exploring my options.” They may have had a similar conversation while Neal was in prison. Neal knew Mozzie would remember.
“Neal, this isn’t prison, you just got out of prison,” Mozzie said with an elaborate hand gesture. “Besides,” he added consideringly, “last time you said that, you went right back to the Suit.”
“It’s different now, Moz,” said Neal simply.
Mozzie examined Neal intensely for a moment, before asking astutely, “What sense does the Suit want me to talk you into this time?”
Neal shrugged silently once more, looking away from the scrutiny. Moz smiled inwardly. Bingo. That small break was as close to a fidget as the con-man ever got.
“Please. The Suit always has his reasons. What did he say to you?” Mozzie’s voice was sharp and probing.
“He wants me to go to school. Get a degree, maybe.” Neal said the words flippantly, at odds with the discomfort blatant in his eyes..
“And you don’t want to?” asked Mozzie knowingly. “Or is it just that you don’t want to leave the Suit behind?”
“I have never been averse to the idea of school, Moz. That’s not the problem.”
“Well, then, what is--because if you want to,” began Mozzie dubiously, “we could get the funds by liquidating--”
Neal cut him off. “Peter offered to pay. He and Elizabeth. I don’t think they can afford it, though--they’d have to take out a second mortgage or something.” Neal looked angry at the idea, the calm demeanour fading.
“I take it you do not want them to?” Mozzie asked the question hesitantly, watching the storm darken in Neal’s blue eyes.
“I’m not a pet, Moz.” The words were sharp and bitter.
“No,” said Mozzie gently, “but I have already pointed out the deeply disturbing paternalistic relationship you have with the Suit.”
“I’m not their kid, either.” The words were even more bitter, verging on genuine anger, now.
Did you want to be? thought Mozzie to himself, but aloud he said, “No, but for better or worse, the Suit feels responsible for you.” Moz paused, and then leaned forward, and said, “You know the Suit cares about you, Neal. He’s put himself on the line for you, more than once. Getting the mark to care about you is part of--”
“He’s not a mark!” Neal half-rose, shouting, and Mozzie threw his hands in the air, fed up with this conversation and this difficult to deal with Neal.
“I don’t understand you at all! What do you want from me, Neal?”
“Nothing,” said Neal, closing his eyes. “I don’t know. I think that’s the problem.”
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Until Neal decided what he wanted to do--and Peter had convinced Reese that forcing Neal to decide when he was in pain and recovering from a job-related injury wasn’t the best timing--Hughes had agreed to keep Neal on the payroll on a short-term contract, mostly to allow the F.B.I. to extend medical benefits over him until he was fully recovered. The terms weren’t great, but did allow Neal to receive full medical until he got back on his feet, but a few weeks were all Hughes would allow--he was fair-minded, but wanted to keep the pressure on and wouldn’t allow Peter to let go of that tactical advantage.
Neal recovered quickly enough in the time allotted--he was young and healthy, and between June and her staff, Peter, Elizabeth, Mozzie, Sara, and everyone else, he was more or less forced to follow medical advice, and so his convalescence remained on track--until the day came when he was permitted to go back to work. Given that there were still three weeks left on his contract, and his desk had remained untouched, eventually there came the morning he sauntered into the office, jaunty hat in place over his pretty curls, whereupon he was mobbed by half the office staff.
Clearly, he’d been missed.
Peter grinned, watching the crowd around Neal’s desk. He let it go on until a bit after ten, at which time he came out of his office, barking at everyone about whether they had enough to do, and that they were stopping Caffrey from doing his job after he’d been off loafing for too long.
“Peter,” said Reese, when the crowd parted to reveal him in the middle of the fray, “we’re just updating Caffrey after he’s been away. You understand.”
Everyone laughed, and even Peter had to grin, but they all dispersed quickly enough after that, which had been Peter’s aim. Peter knew Caffrey revelled in the attention--but he also knew that Neal needed a bit of breathing room right now. He e-mailed Neal to come up to his office after he’d had a chance to get settled, and they spent the rest of the morning de-briefing.
By the end of the morning, back in sync, it was like Neal had never left, like the last few months had never happened. Neal’s wit was as sharp as his suits, his eye as keen as it ever was--and looking up at Neal, hunched over a file photo across his desk, suit jacket carefully hung on the back of his chair--Peter wondered how he would cope if Neal really did leave White Collar.
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It was late in the day when Peter stormed out of his office, did the double finger point at Neal, and stomped back into his office, clearly fuming.
Neal arrive, with a mock-frightened look on his face, asking, “I feel like I’m walking into the lion’s den. What have I done now?”
“Close the door,” snapped Peter tersely.
“Oookay,” said Neal, complying, taking only a small step into the room, but keeping a good distance between himself and Peter. “What--”
“I hear Ruiz approached you for Organized Crime.” Peter’s eyes were blazing, and he was clearly livid.
“Hey, Peter, whoa. Slow down,” said Neal, holding his hands out in a conciliatory gesture. “So what if he--”
“He did! And you’re considering it. Dammit, Neal!” Peter thumped his fist on his desk in frustration.
“Peter, you know me, I’m just keeping my options open.” Neal kept his face open and friendly and non-threatening, smiling equanimously.
“Ruiz is not an option!” erupted Peter, rising out of his chair to point and gesticulate.
“He is. A well-paying one, too. “Not only would I get the same salary I was offered for White Collar, I’d get hazard pay--”
“You are a hazard!” yelled Peter, loud enough that people in the bullpen below turned their heads to look up through the glass. “No!”
“Peter ... “ said Neal, amusement clear in his voice, “you can’t actually tell me what to do anymore, you know.”
And Peter deflated. “I--I guess I can’t.” Neal wanted to snatch the teasing words back. He hadbeen planning to talk to Peter about the offer--of course he had. He just hadn’t, yet, but he hadn’t meant to keep it from the older man either.
“Peter, look, I was going to--” began Neal.
Peter waved him off. “No, you’re right. It’s fine. I’m sorry. Listen, Neal, there’s something else I want to talk to you about,” said Peter awkwardly, gesturing to a chair, and running his hands through his hair.
“What?” asked Neal brightly, taking the offered seat, happy to move on.
“With your permission, I’d like to ask Diana to look into Crawley.” The words dropped like stones into the sudden silence.
“What? Why?” Neal forced himself not to take a step back, not to give into the urge to physically run away. He hadn’t expected--
“You know why,” Peter said steadily, keeping his voice low and neutral.
“You said you wouldn’t tell anyone!” Neal tried to keep the panic from his voice. “And I won’t,” Peter said immediately, firmly, and Neal managed to draw in a breath at that solid reassurance. “Not without your permission. Not ever. But Neal--I can’t stand this. I can’t fix it--it’s too late for that--but I can’t stand to let it continue. I know, if you thought about it, you couldn’t--”
“I don’t! I don’t want to think about it!” Neal tried to stop his voice from rising, but it was like all his control had been shattered by the unexpected turn in the conversation.
“Neal, eventually you’re going to have to,” said Peter frowning.
“No, I don’t, Peter,” said Neal stubbornly. “You shouldn’t either--can’t you just forget about it?” There was a desperate edge to Neal’s voice, and Peter’s heart broke to hear it.
“I won’t mention it again, if you don’t want me to, Neal. But no, I can’t just forget it. I’m sorry. I just want to help--”
“Really? So now, you want to help? Peter, I’m sorry, but”--Neal bit off his last words.
“But what? Just say it, Neal. Whatever it is, just--”
“It’s a little late for that, now isn’t it?” interrupted Neal, bitterly, angrily.
“I don’t understand, what are you--”
“I told you back then too, and you didn’t help.” Neal hurled the words at Peter almost accusingly, wanting to hurt him, wanting to--
“What? I didn’t--” Peter had gone pale, confused but horrified at the very suggestion.
“The cards, Peter. I sent you birthday cards. I didn’t--I didn’t know who else to--” Neal began to falter, remembering his hope, remembering how he’d waited, remembering the lack of response, remembering how he had no other options, remembering the despair when no one came--
“Oh, God. Oh, God, Neal.” Peter’s face was white with shock.
“You never answered them. You never even tried to get in touch with me--” Neal knew his voice shouldn’t sound that broken, he wasn’t--
“Neal, back then, I didn’t--I was trying to put you behind me, a case I’d spent too much time on. I didn’t even know you back then, Neal--and I never even guessed--” Peter was trying to explain, recovering a bit from his shock, and abruptly, Neal didn’t want to talk about it.
“What will you tell her?” Neal interrupted, shifting gears again.
Peter tried, still reeling. “Neal, I swear to you, I didn’t--”
“It doesn’t matter. What are you planning to tell Diana?” Neal’s voice was hard and unyielding.
Peter sighed. “Nothing. Nothing about you, I swear it. But Neal, I won’t lie to you either. It’s Diana. She’s smart. If I ask her to do this, she’ll take an educated guess as to why.” Peter was trying very hard to keep his tone neutral, not to persuade Neal one way or another. This had to be Neal’s decision.
“I ... I don’t--” Neal stumbled over the words. His eyes were wild and Peter couldn’t stand it. Hated that he’d been the one to do this, to bring this up again.
“Just think about it, okay? You don’t need to tell me right now,” Peter tried to sound reassuring and calm, trying to get Neal to understand that all he was trying to do was give Neal an option--
“Okay,” Neal whispered.
“What?” Peter asked, startled. What did Neal mean by--
Then Neal nodded, firmly. “Okay.”
“Good.” Peter nodded back. “Just take your time, and whatever you decide, I’ll--”
“No, no, I don’t want to. Just go ahead. Let Diana do it. I don’t want to think about it. It’s fine.” Neal said the words in a rush.
“Neal,” said Peter, concerned that he’d messed up, somehow--conversations with Caffrey, dammit, were full of unexpected booby-traps--”there’s no pressure here. You should--”
“No.” And Neal, impossibly, was smiling, bright and wide. You’d have to know him really, really well to see the cracks behind the smile, Peter thought.
Peter knew him really, really well.
“Go ahead. It’s fine, Peter,” repeated Neal.
It wasn’t fine. It was far from fine. Neal’s hands, Peter could see, were shaking. But Neal had clearly made a decision.
How badly did he hurt you? Peter wanted to ask; the words were on the tip of his tongue. But he swallowed them down, and leaned forward instead, taking those trembling hands in his own, “Okay,” Peter said, squeezing lightly over the cold fingers. “Okay.”
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“Neal”, said Peter, leaning down near Neal’s desk, not even a full week later. “We got him.” Peter smiled, repeating the words. “We got him.”
The words were cryptic, and they were working on half a dozen cases at the moment. Neal glanced up at Peter, startled, wondering--
Peter meant Crawley. The look in his eye, the smile on his face--Crawley.
Neal smiled, tried to make it look like it was supposed to look (how was it supposed to look? He didn’t even know, so he defaulted to happy and breezy and cheerful but clearly that was wrong, because Peter was giving him an odd look but--)
They’d gotten Crawley. But--
Neal forced himself not to think about it. Not to think about it.
The next few hours were a blur. He had a thousand questions. He asked none of them. He threw himself into paperwork and cases and chatting with anyone who’d listen. He avoided Peter, who kept trying to get him alone, spending most of the afternoon conveniently away from Peter’s reach, consulting in whichever other department had been trying to get him, and some that hadn’t. But then, then all that was left was the subway and home.
And his mind wouldn’t stop spinning. They’d gotten Crawley, Peter had said. Did that mean they’d just found something, but were still investigating? Had they arrested him? Was he already in jail? Neal hadn’t asked, hadn’t wanted to know--but now, he needed to know. It was late--late in the day, Peter was at home, at home with Elizabeth--he could call, Peter wouldn’t--Peter would be irritated, he couldn’t ask--
Even if he wasn’t in jail, Neal reasoned, even if he’d just been charged, they’d suspend Crawley, at least during the investigation, at the very least. Neal wondered what kind of evidence they had. He wondered how strong it was, particularly if he didn’t--and he had no intention to--testify.
But--but they would’ve suspended Crawley without notice, without warning. How would Jacobs get his morphine for the cancer pain that he didn’t want to tell the authorities he had? He still had two years left. Crawley just snuck it to him, no questions asked, no payment either. He’d just said he had a grandma that had died, once, and no one should have to suffer that.
And sometimes--sometimes Crawley had been -- kind. He’d--Neal had once been in the infirmary on his birthday, and while Crawley hadn’t let him out, he’d--he’d taken him out to the yard, let him stay there for hours, and had given him ice cream after. It hadn’t--Neal remembered the ice cream, cold and sweet on his tongue. He’d never tasted anything so good.
And once, once when Neal actually had been sick, Crawley had--
Neal lay on his bed and tried not to think about it. What Crawley had done--it hadn’t actually been that bad, some of the men in there, some of the men had been through worse, before Crawley, Neal had been through worse and, marked as the good doctor’s, Neal had at least been spared the attentions of the other inmates, so in a way Crawley had done him a favour--and Neal hadn’t wanted to press charges, hadn’t even wanted anyone to investigate, he hadn’t, but he’d agreed, in the end he’d agreed--
He lay on his bed, and tried to sleep. He drifted, for who knows how long, until his mind seized on a thought and wouldn’t let go.
They’d kill Crawley in prison. He’d be beaten, and raped, and eventually murdered. He wasn’t like Neal--he wouldn’t survive. He wouldn’t--
He could picture Crawley, bleeding and battered, begging for mercy. He imagined Jacobs, cursing Neal in the middle of the night while he writhed in pain. Neal was responsible. It was all his fault. How could he have let this happen? How could he have let--
He needed to talk to Peter. He needed to talk to Peter, right now, he had to, he had to --
The phone was in his hand and he was dialing without thinking.
“Burke.” Peter’s voice barked into the phone, rough with sleep. Peter had been sleeping, he’d --
“Peter? Peter, I just--I needed--” Neal couldn’t organize his thoughts, he shouldn’t have called--
“Caffrey, it’s past two in the morning, where are you?” Peter’s voice was loud and peevish in Neal’s ear, and Neal didn’t know how--
“I --” The phone shook in his hand.
Peter interrupted whatever he’d been about to say, demanding, “Are you okay?”
Neal swallowed, taking a breath, looking up at the clock, and realizing, “I’m -- I’m fine, I’m at home, I just, I didn’t know, I hadn’t looked at the time, tell Elizabeth I’m sorry--” he knew he’d woken Elizabeth, he hadn’t meant to, but he had to know, he had to explain, had to--
“Okay, okay, slow down. What’s this about, Neal?” Peter’s voice was suddenly calm and so, so gentle and reasonable, Neal wanted to cry--Peter would fix it, Peter had to fix it--
“Nothing, it’s fine, I -- it can wait, it can--” Hearing Peter’s voice was almost enough, nothing would change in the next few hours, he should never have called, he could tell Peter in the morning--
“Neal. I’m coming over, okay? Whatever it is, we’ll sort it out.” Peter’s voice had turned soothing, like he was talking down a vic--
Oh, God, what had he done? Peter couldn’t come, what would he say, he was behaving like an idiot--“No! No, it’s fine, I didn’t mean--”
“I’m coming,” Peter’s voice was firm and strong and brooked no argument. “You stay there, and don’t do anything until I get there, all right? Got it? Just hang tight. I’m on my way.”
“No,” said Neal helplessly, appalled at himself, he was getting everything wrong but now Peter was determined and he didn’t know what to say--“you don’t need to--”
“Neal,” said Peter. “You’re my friend, and I want to come. It’s okay. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
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Part nine.
Title: Illustrations (part 8 of 9)
Author: Ivorysilk
Rating: R
Summary: In short, Neal is hurt and Peter suffers, while Elizabeth picks up the pieces. Please see part one for notes and disclaimers.
Part one
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A/N: This is the part where I seriously try to skip to the end, as you will see. Even though I clearly gave up trying to write the middle bits, I have still failed. So yeah, there will be yet another part, even though I have clearly skipped huge swatches of things in order to just say Man and Wife. Sigh. Sorry. Anyway, this is posted here thanks to virgo_79, who noticed a posting error in an earlier part (thanks!), forcing me to open my fic document, and then I was like, I should just post this next chunk since it is mostly done, and since writing the filler bits will just make it longer, which is counter productive. So, anyway, here it is. Hopefully the next part will be the last!
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“I can’t, Moz,” said Neal, as Mozzie poured himself a glass of Neal’s good cava.
“Well,” said Mozzie, full of bonhommerie, I know you’re not working in the morning, but do not worry, mon frere--I knew you were still on antibiotics and whatever. I have for you the next best thing.”
“What, soda pop?”
“Please! Perrier, the driver’s beverage of choice. And you should eat something--I spoke to Mrs. Suit; she’s worried. I didn’t think you’d mind if I partook, however. After all, this is a celebration.”
“Not at all, Moz, if you’d asked, considering it’s my wine. What’s the occasion?”
“To you, finally leaving behind the Man and his means of control. You, my friend, are once again able to write your own destiny.”
“Well,” said Neal, shifting slightly in his seat. “About that.” He paused, because the healing wound still pulled a little, and also, he hadn’t completely formulated his thought in a way that wouldn’t cause Moz to go through the roof. “Peter--well, the Bureau--has offered me a contract.”
Mozzie snorted with laughter. “A contract! That’s rich! After forcing you to labour for them for a paltry sum, they now want you to willingly sign your life away? Pshaw! I hope you told him what--”
“Peter doesn’t want me to take it,” said Neal bluntly, cutting off Mozzie’s tirade.
“Wait a minute,” said Mozzie slowly, eyes widening. “I take it, by this statement, that means that you do?”
“I might.” Neal shrugged nonchalantly, elaborately casual.
Mozzie was, as expected, horrified. “Neal! Have you learned nothing from me this past decade? Seriously?”
“You know me, I’m open to exploring my options.” They may have had a similar conversation while Neal was in prison. Neal knew Mozzie would remember.
“Neal, this isn’t prison, you just got out of prison,” Mozzie said with an elaborate hand gesture. “Besides,” he added consideringly, “last time you said that, you went right back to the Suit.”
“It’s different now, Moz,” said Neal simply.
Mozzie examined Neal intensely for a moment, before asking astutely, “What sense does the Suit want me to talk you into this time?”
Neal shrugged silently once more, looking away from the scrutiny. Moz smiled inwardly. Bingo. That small break was as close to a fidget as the con-man ever got.
“Please. The Suit always has his reasons. What did he say to you?” Mozzie’s voice was sharp and probing.
“He wants me to go to school. Get a degree, maybe.” Neal said the words flippantly, at odds with the discomfort blatant in his eyes..
“And you don’t want to?” asked Mozzie knowingly. “Or is it just that you don’t want to leave the Suit behind?”
“I have never been averse to the idea of school, Moz. That’s not the problem.”
“Well, then, what is--because if you want to,” began Mozzie dubiously, “we could get the funds by liquidating--”
Neal cut him off. “Peter offered to pay. He and Elizabeth. I don’t think they can afford it, though--they’d have to take out a second mortgage or something.” Neal looked angry at the idea, the calm demeanour fading.
“I take it you do not want them to?” Mozzie asked the question hesitantly, watching the storm darken in Neal’s blue eyes.
“I’m not a pet, Moz.” The words were sharp and bitter.
“No,” said Mozzie gently, “but I have already pointed out the deeply disturbing paternalistic relationship you have with the Suit.”
“I’m not their kid, either.” The words were even more bitter, verging on genuine anger, now.
Did you want to be? thought Mozzie to himself, but aloud he said, “No, but for better or worse, the Suit feels responsible for you.” Moz paused, and then leaned forward, and said, “You know the Suit cares about you, Neal. He’s put himself on the line for you, more than once. Getting the mark to care about you is part of--”
“He’s not a mark!” Neal half-rose, shouting, and Mozzie threw his hands in the air, fed up with this conversation and this difficult to deal with Neal.
“I don’t understand you at all! What do you want from me, Neal?”
“Nothing,” said Neal, closing his eyes. “I don’t know. I think that’s the problem.”
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Until Neal decided what he wanted to do--and Peter had convinced Reese that forcing Neal to decide when he was in pain and recovering from a job-related injury wasn’t the best timing--Hughes had agreed to keep Neal on the payroll on a short-term contract, mostly to allow the F.B.I. to extend medical benefits over him until he was fully recovered. The terms weren’t great, but did allow Neal to receive full medical until he got back on his feet, but a few weeks were all Hughes would allow--he was fair-minded, but wanted to keep the pressure on and wouldn’t allow Peter to let go of that tactical advantage.
Neal recovered quickly enough in the time allotted--he was young and healthy, and between June and her staff, Peter, Elizabeth, Mozzie, Sara, and everyone else, he was more or less forced to follow medical advice, and so his convalescence remained on track--until the day came when he was permitted to go back to work. Given that there were still three weeks left on his contract, and his desk had remained untouched, eventually there came the morning he sauntered into the office, jaunty hat in place over his pretty curls, whereupon he was mobbed by half the office staff.
Clearly, he’d been missed.
Peter grinned, watching the crowd around Neal’s desk. He let it go on until a bit after ten, at which time he came out of his office, barking at everyone about whether they had enough to do, and that they were stopping Caffrey from doing his job after he’d been off loafing for too long.
“Peter,” said Reese, when the crowd parted to reveal him in the middle of the fray, “we’re just updating Caffrey after he’s been away. You understand.”
Everyone laughed, and even Peter had to grin, but they all dispersed quickly enough after that, which had been Peter’s aim. Peter knew Caffrey revelled in the attention--but he also knew that Neal needed a bit of breathing room right now. He e-mailed Neal to come up to his office after he’d had a chance to get settled, and they spent the rest of the morning de-briefing.
By the end of the morning, back in sync, it was like Neal had never left, like the last few months had never happened. Neal’s wit was as sharp as his suits, his eye as keen as it ever was--and looking up at Neal, hunched over a file photo across his desk, suit jacket carefully hung on the back of his chair--Peter wondered how he would cope if Neal really did leave White Collar.
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It was late in the day when Peter stormed out of his office, did the double finger point at Neal, and stomped back into his office, clearly fuming.
Neal arrive, with a mock-frightened look on his face, asking, “I feel like I’m walking into the lion’s den. What have I done now?”
“Close the door,” snapped Peter tersely.
“Oookay,” said Neal, complying, taking only a small step into the room, but keeping a good distance between himself and Peter. “What--”
“I hear Ruiz approached you for Organized Crime.” Peter’s eyes were blazing, and he was clearly livid.
“Hey, Peter, whoa. Slow down,” said Neal, holding his hands out in a conciliatory gesture. “So what if he--”
“He did! And you’re considering it. Dammit, Neal!” Peter thumped his fist on his desk in frustration.
“Peter, you know me, I’m just keeping my options open.” Neal kept his face open and friendly and non-threatening, smiling equanimously.
“Ruiz is not an option!” erupted Peter, rising out of his chair to point and gesticulate.
“He is. A well-paying one, too. “Not only would I get the same salary I was offered for White Collar, I’d get hazard pay--”
“You are a hazard!” yelled Peter, loud enough that people in the bullpen below turned their heads to look up through the glass. “No!”
“Peter ... “ said Neal, amusement clear in his voice, “you can’t actually tell me what to do anymore, you know.”
And Peter deflated. “I--I guess I can’t.” Neal wanted to snatch the teasing words back. He hadbeen planning to talk to Peter about the offer--of course he had. He just hadn’t, yet, but he hadn’t meant to keep it from the older man either.
“Peter, look, I was going to--” began Neal.
Peter waved him off. “No, you’re right. It’s fine. I’m sorry. Listen, Neal, there’s something else I want to talk to you about,” said Peter awkwardly, gesturing to a chair, and running his hands through his hair.
“What?” asked Neal brightly, taking the offered seat, happy to move on.
“With your permission, I’d like to ask Diana to look into Crawley.” The words dropped like stones into the sudden silence.
“What? Why?” Neal forced himself not to take a step back, not to give into the urge to physically run away. He hadn’t expected--
“You know why,” Peter said steadily, keeping his voice low and neutral.
“You said you wouldn’t tell anyone!” Neal tried to keep the panic from his voice. “And I won’t,” Peter said immediately, firmly, and Neal managed to draw in a breath at that solid reassurance. “Not without your permission. Not ever. But Neal--I can’t stand this. I can’t fix it--it’s too late for that--but I can’t stand to let it continue. I know, if you thought about it, you couldn’t--”
“I don’t! I don’t want to think about it!” Neal tried to stop his voice from rising, but it was like all his control had been shattered by the unexpected turn in the conversation.
“Neal, eventually you’re going to have to,” said Peter frowning.
“No, I don’t, Peter,” said Neal stubbornly. “You shouldn’t either--can’t you just forget about it?” There was a desperate edge to Neal’s voice, and Peter’s heart broke to hear it.
“I won’t mention it again, if you don’t want me to, Neal. But no, I can’t just forget it. I’m sorry. I just want to help--”
“Really? So now, you want to help? Peter, I’m sorry, but”--Neal bit off his last words.
“But what? Just say it, Neal. Whatever it is, just--”
“It’s a little late for that, now isn’t it?” interrupted Neal, bitterly, angrily.
“I don’t understand, what are you--”
“I told you back then too, and you didn’t help.” Neal hurled the words at Peter almost accusingly, wanting to hurt him, wanting to--
“What? I didn’t--” Peter had gone pale, confused but horrified at the very suggestion.
“The cards, Peter. I sent you birthday cards. I didn’t--I didn’t know who else to--” Neal began to falter, remembering his hope, remembering how he’d waited, remembering the lack of response, remembering how he had no other options, remembering the despair when no one came--
“Oh, God. Oh, God, Neal.” Peter’s face was white with shock.
“You never answered them. You never even tried to get in touch with me--” Neal knew his voice shouldn’t sound that broken, he wasn’t--
“Neal, back then, I didn’t--I was trying to put you behind me, a case I’d spent too much time on. I didn’t even know you back then, Neal--and I never even guessed--” Peter was trying to explain, recovering a bit from his shock, and abruptly, Neal didn’t want to talk about it.
“What will you tell her?” Neal interrupted, shifting gears again.
Peter tried, still reeling. “Neal, I swear to you, I didn’t--”
“It doesn’t matter. What are you planning to tell Diana?” Neal’s voice was hard and unyielding.
Peter sighed. “Nothing. Nothing about you, I swear it. But Neal, I won’t lie to you either. It’s Diana. She’s smart. If I ask her to do this, she’ll take an educated guess as to why.” Peter was trying very hard to keep his tone neutral, not to persuade Neal one way or another. This had to be Neal’s decision.
“I ... I don’t--” Neal stumbled over the words. His eyes were wild and Peter couldn’t stand it. Hated that he’d been the one to do this, to bring this up again.
“Just think about it, okay? You don’t need to tell me right now,” Peter tried to sound reassuring and calm, trying to get Neal to understand that all he was trying to do was give Neal an option--
“Okay,” Neal whispered.
“What?” Peter asked, startled. What did Neal mean by--
Then Neal nodded, firmly. “Okay.”
“Good.” Peter nodded back. “Just take your time, and whatever you decide, I’ll--”
“No, no, I don’t want to. Just go ahead. Let Diana do it. I don’t want to think about it. It’s fine.” Neal said the words in a rush.
“Neal,” said Peter, concerned that he’d messed up, somehow--conversations with Caffrey, dammit, were full of unexpected booby-traps--”there’s no pressure here. You should--”
“No.” And Neal, impossibly, was smiling, bright and wide. You’d have to know him really, really well to see the cracks behind the smile, Peter thought.
Peter knew him really, really well.
“Go ahead. It’s fine, Peter,” repeated Neal.
It wasn’t fine. It was far from fine. Neal’s hands, Peter could see, were shaking. But Neal had clearly made a decision.
How badly did he hurt you? Peter wanted to ask; the words were on the tip of his tongue. But he swallowed them down, and leaned forward instead, taking those trembling hands in his own, “Okay,” Peter said, squeezing lightly over the cold fingers. “Okay.”
*********************************
“Neal”, said Peter, leaning down near Neal’s desk, not even a full week later. “We got him.” Peter smiled, repeating the words. “We got him.”
The words were cryptic, and they were working on half a dozen cases at the moment. Neal glanced up at Peter, startled, wondering--
Peter meant Crawley. The look in his eye, the smile on his face--Crawley.
Neal smiled, tried to make it look like it was supposed to look (how was it supposed to look? He didn’t even know, so he defaulted to happy and breezy and cheerful but clearly that was wrong, because Peter was giving him an odd look but--)
They’d gotten Crawley. But--
Neal forced himself not to think about it. Not to think about it.
The next few hours were a blur. He had a thousand questions. He asked none of them. He threw himself into paperwork and cases and chatting with anyone who’d listen. He avoided Peter, who kept trying to get him alone, spending most of the afternoon conveniently away from Peter’s reach, consulting in whichever other department had been trying to get him, and some that hadn’t. But then, then all that was left was the subway and home.
And his mind wouldn’t stop spinning. They’d gotten Crawley, Peter had said. Did that mean they’d just found something, but were still investigating? Had they arrested him? Was he already in jail? Neal hadn’t asked, hadn’t wanted to know--but now, he needed to know. It was late--late in the day, Peter was at home, at home with Elizabeth--he could call, Peter wouldn’t--Peter would be irritated, he couldn’t ask--
Even if he wasn’t in jail, Neal reasoned, even if he’d just been charged, they’d suspend Crawley, at least during the investigation, at the very least. Neal wondered what kind of evidence they had. He wondered how strong it was, particularly if he didn’t--and he had no intention to--testify.
But--but they would’ve suspended Crawley without notice, without warning. How would Jacobs get his morphine for the cancer pain that he didn’t want to tell the authorities he had? He still had two years left. Crawley just snuck it to him, no questions asked, no payment either. He’d just said he had a grandma that had died, once, and no one should have to suffer that.
And sometimes--sometimes Crawley had been -- kind. He’d--Neal had once been in the infirmary on his birthday, and while Crawley hadn’t let him out, he’d--he’d taken him out to the yard, let him stay there for hours, and had given him ice cream after. It hadn’t--Neal remembered the ice cream, cold and sweet on his tongue. He’d never tasted anything so good.
And once, once when Neal actually had been sick, Crawley had--
Neal lay on his bed and tried not to think about it. What Crawley had done--it hadn’t actually been that bad, some of the men in there, some of the men had been through worse, before Crawley, Neal had been through worse and, marked as the good doctor’s, Neal had at least been spared the attentions of the other inmates, so in a way Crawley had done him a favour--and Neal hadn’t wanted to press charges, hadn’t even wanted anyone to investigate, he hadn’t, but he’d agreed, in the end he’d agreed--
He lay on his bed, and tried to sleep. He drifted, for who knows how long, until his mind seized on a thought and wouldn’t let go.
They’d kill Crawley in prison. He’d be beaten, and raped, and eventually murdered. He wasn’t like Neal--he wouldn’t survive. He wouldn’t--
He could picture Crawley, bleeding and battered, begging for mercy. He imagined Jacobs, cursing Neal in the middle of the night while he writhed in pain. Neal was responsible. It was all his fault. How could he have let this happen? How could he have let--
He needed to talk to Peter. He needed to talk to Peter, right now, he had to, he had to --
The phone was in his hand and he was dialing without thinking.
“Burke.” Peter’s voice barked into the phone, rough with sleep. Peter had been sleeping, he’d --
“Peter? Peter, I just--I needed--” Neal couldn’t organize his thoughts, he shouldn’t have called--
“Caffrey, it’s past two in the morning, where are you?” Peter’s voice was loud and peevish in Neal’s ear, and Neal didn’t know how--
“I --” The phone shook in his hand.
Peter interrupted whatever he’d been about to say, demanding, “Are you okay?”
Neal swallowed, taking a breath, looking up at the clock, and realizing, “I’m -- I’m fine, I’m at home, I just, I didn’t know, I hadn’t looked at the time, tell Elizabeth I’m sorry--” he knew he’d woken Elizabeth, he hadn’t meant to, but he had to know, he had to explain, had to--
“Okay, okay, slow down. What’s this about, Neal?” Peter’s voice was suddenly calm and so, so gentle and reasonable, Neal wanted to cry--Peter would fix it, Peter had to fix it--
“Nothing, it’s fine, I -- it can wait, it can--” Hearing Peter’s voice was almost enough, nothing would change in the next few hours, he should never have called, he could tell Peter in the morning--
“Neal. I’m coming over, okay? Whatever it is, we’ll sort it out.” Peter’s voice had turned soothing, like he was talking down a vic--
Oh, God, what had he done? Peter couldn’t come, what would he say, he was behaving like an idiot--“No! No, it’s fine, I didn’t mean--”
“I’m coming,” Peter’s voice was firm and strong and brooked no argument. “You stay there, and don’t do anything until I get there, all right? Got it? Just hang tight. I’m on my way.”
“No,” said Neal helplessly, appalled at himself, he was getting everything wrong but now Peter was determined and he didn’t know what to say--“you don’t need to--”
“Neal,” said Peter. “You’re my friend, and I want to come. It’s okay. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
*****************************
Part nine.