Caput Mundi: A White Collar Drabble
Author: The Playlist Is Magic (Tumblr) The Girl Who Loved Tom Brady
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Don't own White Collar or anything, just playing in the sandbox
Warnings: None, maybe a history lesson or two.
Genre: White Collar - general drabble. Hurt/comfort, angst?
Summary: Neal Caffrey muses on Rome and New York.
A/N: Heavy handed love letter to Rome and to metaphor.
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He balanced on the arches of his feet, lightly brushing his fingers on the balustrade occasionally so he wouldn't fall. The older man watched him like a hawk, studying the con's minute actions as he wavered slightly on the fence. "In all of Rome," Neal said distractedly as he steadied himself. "In all of Rome this…" with a swell of confidence, he brandished his arms wide as to embrace the horizon, "Is my favorite view."
Peter's fingers scraped the wood as he stepped on the fence as Neal had.
Neal smiled as he watched Peter's eyes sweep across the landscape. "I mean," the con began, settling down so he sat on the fence, his legs swinging over the drop before them, "You can't see Saint Pete's, but you have Rome. Pure and Simple. From here you can trace over two thousand years of human history, art, and culture."
"The Eternal City," Peter mused, looking out at the Palatine Hill in the distance.
In Neal's eyes, the agent seemed paler than before, and still avoiding eye contact. "You okay there? Peter? You're looking a little worn about the edges," Neal said worriedly, Rome temporarily forgotten.
"I can't follow you everywhere Neal."
The con artist shrugged, "Va bene."
"I've never been to Rome before. Not even when I was on your case, it brought me a lot of places, but I never visited Rome."
"I love Rome. Here you can… I don't know, appreciate life like the Romans do. Wake up early to the traffic and crawl around past, present, future. Bath in all the luxuries of the ancient world, art and culture."
"I'm perfectly fine in New York."
The con laughed, jumping off the fence and playfully spun around the dusty parking lot once, Peter following him with careful steps. "New York is the place to be, nothing like it - but New York's crown came from Rome first. Sometimes… I love New York, I do, but I can't help but feel that I'm losing a bit of Rome everyday."
"Working with us?"
"No, yes? I don't know. I wouldn't trade New York for Rome, not in a million years, but visiting is nice."
"The food's not bad either," Peter deadpanned looking off in the direction of Saint Peter's cathedral.
Neal cracked a boyish smile, "No, the food is not bad either."
Peter's voice cracked, "I can't go to Rome with you Neal. I can't come here. Not yet."
Neal furrowed his eyebrows, "What does that mean?" He reached out to touch the agent's shoulder, trying to get the older man to finally look at him. "Peter? What do you mean by that?" The con's eyes widened, looking down at Peter's shirt. In vying for the man's attention he had shifted the old corduroy jacket and revealed a growing crimson stain down Peter's side.
"Why did you lead me here, of all places, Neal?" Peter finally turned to the con, searching the younger man's eyes.
But Neal was too busy unbuttoning Peter's shirt in between helpless pressing a palm against the agent's side. "We have to stop this bleeding Peter." The convict shifted so he could lay Peter down on the ground, one hand against the wound all the while, a bullet wound if Neal were to guess.
"Neal…" Peter whispered warmly. That damned paternal smile graced his face… the one reserved exclusively for Elizabeth and, although Peter wouldn't admit to it, for Neal as well.
"NO!" Neal protested as he gripped Peter's shoulder harshly with his free hand. "No Peter. You're going to be fine," the young man promised, primarily for his own sake.
"Look around you Neal. After all we've done together, you still brought me here," the agent repeated calmly, seemingly disconnected to the blood staining the ground beneath him.
Neal followed Peter's eyes, away from the view of Rome, and back at the monastery behind them. He… he knew this church. "It means nothing," the con shook his head, "Nothing at all."
Peter tried to laugh, drops of blood coloring his lips and chin, "Come on Neal, I know my renaissance history too. Say it."
"It's San Pietro in Montorio. Rebuilt from a medieval church on the same site. Almost all artistic masters of the renaissance, mannerism, and early baroque have designed something or painted some chapel or whatever. Most of the works that weren't frescos are obviously now in the Vatican. Well… some of them are now in the Vatican…" Neal conceded with a broken smile.
The trivial knowledge was a comfortable haven for the con, artfully ignoring the broader meaning behind the masonry. Neal continued rambling textbook facts as both hands pressed against the agent's side. "Architecturally, this church is famous because of the Tempietto, or little temple, located in the interior courtyard. The temple was designed and built in the first few years of the 16th century by renaissance architect Donato Bramante and commissioned by King Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain."
"Neal…"
"It's a jewel of renaissance architecture, borrowing much from earlier Florentine architect Brunelleschi and foreshadowing many traits of the baroque. Nevertheless, it's carefully proportioned in renaissance fashion, diverging from its classical inspiration to a one to two width/height ratio. And for something built during the height of the renaissance under Pope Julius II della Rovere, it's surprisingly humble in the sense it's not even five meters across in diameter."
The agent's face twitched in a mix of pain and obvious annoyance at Neal's impromptu history lesson.
"Not to mention the fact it has Doric columns…"
"Neal stop it," Peter insisted, one hand grasping weakly at the hem of Neal's jacket. "There's more to it than that isn't there?" The agent was losing his focus on Neal, his glassy brown eyes drifting towards the temple.
Neal's hands trembled, slick and stained from blood. "It's supposedly where Saint Peter was martyred," the con replied apologetically. Neal held one side of Peter's face, gently forcing the older man to look at the young con. Neal added defiantly, "That's not going to happen to you Peter. I won't let it."
"That's not true," Peter's voice said above him.
The con's head jerked upwards in the direction of the voice. They were in a warehouse, at least, Neal was, the agent was nowhere to be found. Neal stumbled awkwardly as he pushed himself off the ground, dusting off his trousers and hands. "PETER!" He shouted to the dark warehouse. "PETE!" Neal's feet picked up speed as they carried him through the crates and shelves.
"And you're worried that you're losing who you are?" Peter's question cut at Neal from behind him.
"I… I don't… No. What we have is good. I don't want to lose this, Peter, I need you so I can keep doing this," Neal stumbled over the words.
Peter rounded on the convict, "What about me Neal? Am I going to be a martyr for the cunning Neal Caffrey? I was a good man. I worked hard. I did things the right way. But you…" The agent smiled crookedly, a keen look in his eyes, "I'm just a means to an end for you. Deal with the Suit until you can skip merrily back to caput mundi. And after that? You'll pat yourself on the back, delude yourself into thinking you did a good thing, and that makes up for everything else."
"Peter…" Neal warned, "Please don't do this."
The agent glared daggers at the young convict. "You're just going to use me up," he growled, "I liked my numbers, how the world was black and white… meanwhile you shade my careful, linear world with your grays…" Peter's head tilted to one side, "I lied to my team… because I was covering up for you. I destroyed evidence… for you."
"There wasn't away around that," Neal contested, feeling his face flush as he looked for an exit.
"My wife is sleeping by herself tonight because we're chasing the shadow of your dead lover. Everything I'm doing… everything I've done…"
And then Neal wasn't looking at Peter any more, but the end of the agent's pistol. "Peter?" Neal gulped. The con artist took a hesitant step back from his partner. "Peter… I'm…" He stammered. His words were cut short as he fell backwards over… Peter?
Neal blinked a few times. He was on the Janiculum Hill again, the fading Roman sun bathing the tall pines and Cyprus trees in gold and the terra cotta roofs of Trastevere glittered like copper and bronze. But more important than the history, the art, the culture was the dying friend lying in front of the young man.
He scrambled on all fours to the agent's side, searching his face and chest and the bullet wound sluggishly spilling blood.
The agent's eyes were once more glazed and distant, not quite settling on Neal, a stark contrast to the feral look from the warehouse. "I'm doing…"
Neal waited anxiously as Peter released a gargled cough, crimson staining the agent's lips and teeth.
"… doing for you Neal," he finished with difficulty.
The con choked, "Come on… Peter…"