Another Step Forward – A White Collar FanFiction Story

By Dash

12/20/210

Notes and Dedication:

This will really make MUCH more sense if you read story #1 in this series – One Step Forward. This part picks up within hours of that story ending.

Another Step Forward:

Glancing out of the bedroom window as he slipped a sweatshirt over his head, Peter smiled. It was Saturday, which meant two days off to relax around the house with Elizabeth, take care of the normal boring chores that piled up during the week and, hopefully, catch up on his sleep. He had no regrets about the nighttime schedule he was keeping, up easily three or four times during the week to keep Neal company, but it did take its toll and he was tired. It had been a very stressful month and he was hoping that the faint flicker at the end of the tunnel was actually light and not a speeding training barreling toward him. Pushing that thought out of his mind, he glanced through the open door of the guest room and saw that Neal was already up. The bed was neatly made and the only sign that someone had even been living in the room for the past two weeks was a book sitting on the nightstand. The thought that the younger man had made so little impact made him feel sad for some reason. He had seen Neal's studio apartment of course multiple times and while he was neat, he wasn't normally this neat. There was always a sketch pad sitting around, stray books, shoes toed into a corner, the normal signs off life. Trying not to read too much into the situation, he headed down the steps and was greeted with the smell of brewing coffee.

"Morning, honey," Elizabeth said, glancing through the open kitchen door at the sound of him walking through the dining room.

He leaned in and kissed her. "Morning. Smells great in here. What kind of coffee is that?"

She grinned and held up her mug for him to sip. "Something from Kenya that June had sent over yesterday." When he glanced at her, she added, with a small embarrassed smile, "I think it's a thank you for taking care of Neal. She had food sent over last week, too."

"She did? What?"

Elizabeth smiled. "Remember the basket of cookies and that coconut cake?"

"That was great cake, I thought it came from an event?"

She shook her head. "No, June, courtesy of 'The Greatest Cake.'" Then she shrugged. "I thought I mentioned it when I served it? I wasn't trying to keep it a secret." She glanced at him. "It's not a problem, is it?"

Peter shook his head. "It's fine – I just didn't realize or didn't remember." His smile slowly widened and he shook his head at the memory of the younger man's heart-stopping leap onto the awning. "The Greatest Cake …"

Laughing, knowing what he was thinking of, she kissed him again as she pulled her mug back. "I'm sure I told you, you were too distracted inhaling cake and then the cookies the next day."

He grinned. "Those were good cookies, too." Reaching for her cup, he added, "And even better coffee."

"Get your own," she said, twisting away. "There's plenty and several types."

"Where is Neal at anyway?" he asked, pulling down his own mug.

She gave him a small smile. "He was restless and wanted to go out, so I sent him out to get pastries for breakfast."

Peter groaned. "Honestly, El? I thought we wanted less roaming, not more."

Leveling her gaze at him, she eyed him for a minute. "What did you want me to do, Peter? Tell him no? You told me that you'd be the bad cop; I was to be supportive. Plus you just said nothing at night, it's 8 am, broad daylight." Seeing his reluctant nod, she smiled. "And I made him take Satch and told him that it was too cold for the dog to be out too long, so twenty minutes max." She glanced at the clock. "Which is up in about three minutes."

He glanced at the clock as well and knew that, once again, his wife was right. He knew Neal and knew that the younger man would never dream of being late with Elizabeth's instructions ringing in his ears. He might push against Peter's boundaries, but his respect for Elizabeth wouldn't allow him to do that with her. Leaning over, he kissed her. "You're right, of course."

"While you're in that sort of mood," she said, "and Neal's gone, I want to talk to you about something for tomorrow."

Trying not to be concerned about her request – since he had told her last night that he had finally paddled Neal and she had been glad, hoping that this arrangement was going to give him the structure he needed – he took a sip of coffee. "What?" he asked with a smile, trying to appear casual.

She smiled back, reading his nerves. "I need to go to the Brooklyn Museum tomorrow morning, before they're officially open. I've got an event there next Saturday and need to do another walk through with the staff at 11:00." Shaking her head, she added, "You'd think they'd never done this before, considering all the problems we're having. But I think it would be good for Neal. We can go, you guys can walk around while I'm working …"

"An art museum?" Peter said skeptically.

"Something out of the house," she corrected him. "And then lunch afterward. Something for him to do, a reason for him to get out – it's been two weeks now that he's been here. He's got to be restless and this will be something other than what happened for him to focus on."

He thought for a moment, seeing the wisdom in what she was saying even if the idea of a restless Neal in a museum gave him a headache. "All right, we can ask him but if he says no, if he's not interested, then you have to let it go."

"Do you think he'll say no?"

Peter shrugged, still remembering the other man's refusal to be released initially. "I don't know – I wouldn't think so, but I'm not sure what's going on in his head right now. I don't think he fully knows what he wants, what exactly to do."

She nodded. "I'll ask in front of you so you can agree and tell him it's OK. If he says no, maybe you can push a bit?"

"A bit," he agreed.

Kissing him, she smiled and took a sip of her coffee as she heard the front door open and then close. "What did you get, Neal?" she called, taking a couple of steps into the doorway to watch him struggle with the bag and the dog's leash before finally gently tossing the string-tied box onto the chair so he could unhook the dog.

"Morning, Neal," Peter said, walking into the dining room. "How are the streets?"

The younger man glanced up and smiled. "Morning, it's cold out there, but nothing's icy, I think because of the wind, it's keeping everything dry." Shivering slightly as he took off the coat, he nodded toward the box sitting on the chair. "I wasn't sure what would be best so I got an assortment."

Gently pushing Satchmo's curious nose away from the blue and white box, Peter smiled. "Feels like more than an assortment." The uncertainty in the other man's voice and actions unnerved him. There was a time when he would have loved Neal to be less sure of himself, less cocky and more human, but now that it was the reality, he found he missed it. He knew the wounds were still fresh and he hoped that time really did heal all wounds, or at least made them better so that the younger man could live with them.

Neal shrugged. "I wasn't sure and everything looked good." Following the older man, he settled at the table. "It's really cold out there," he said, cradling the mug of coffee Elizabeth handed him in his hands.

"It's a good day to stay inside," Peter said, reaching into the box and pulling out a large cheese danish. He smiled. "Excellent choice." Turning to Elizabeth, he asked, "What do you want, honey?"

Reaching over, she snagged his danish. "That looks good, thanks."

Neal laughed at Peter's mock outrage.

"Are you teaching my wife some of your tricks?" he asked, shaking his head.

Holding up his hands, Neal smiled, "If I was teaching her my tricks, you wouldn't have seen her take it or even notice it was switched with an apple tart until you bit into it. But there should be another cheese in there, so you can't get too upset."

Extracting a second cheese pastry, he asked, "What do you want?"

"Oh, I'm good, thanks though," Neal said, reaching for the paper.

Peter looked at him and said in a firmer voice, "Neal."

He glanced up and tried to look puzzled. "What?"

"What do you want?" he repeated slowly, slightly enunciating each word. Peering into the box, he said, "There are some apple tarts, a couple of kinds of doughnuts, chocolate croissants, plain croissants, two sticky buns and a bear claw to round out the baker's dozen."

"What if I said I ate something already, walking back?" he said, looking at the other man.

Peter stared at him. "Then I'd say you're going to have something else now."

Neal sighed, glancing at Elizabeth for possible support, but she was studiously ignoring the conversation by focusing on the newspaper. "Peter …"

"Neal."

"But I'm really not …"

"And an apple tart it is," the older man said, cutting him off and pulling the pastry free, putting it on the plate in front of Neal.

Neal made a face. "What if I wanted a sticky bun?"

"Then you can have that after the apple tart," Peter said firmly, picking up a section of the paper and ending the conversation.

"Are you going to make me sit at the table until I finish it, too?" Neal shot back, the annoyance clear in his voice.

Not rising to the bait, knowing that any discussion with the con artist would just give him more fuel and encouragement, Peter ignored him. Not looking at his wife, he felt her foot brush his and he slightly shook his head, not wanting her to get involved. "The paper says we're going to have snow and rain on and off all day, but it'll move out by tonight," he said a minute later.

"Oh good," Elizabeth said then turned her attention to Neal. The other man had broken the tart in half but, as far as she could tell, hadn't actually eaten any of it. Breaking off a piece of her own Danish, she popped it into her mouth. "Excellent choice," she said, waiting for him to smile before she continued. "I have to go to the Brooklyn Museum tomorrow for an event next week and I wondered if you'd like to come? You can walk around while I meet with their events director. Afterward we can go to lunch some place."

Neal looked at her for a second and gave her what he hoped was an honest-looking smile.

Discreetly watching him, Peter wasn't fooled. When the younger man didn't say anything, he casually took a sip of coffee and said, "That sounds like fun, El. How long are you going to be there?"

"Oh, not too long," she said, matching her husband's tone. "Maybe an hour, hour and a half – we need to review table and station placements and I have a check list from the catering company. They've had problems in the past and want to make sure everything is fixed now."

"That sounds good," Peter agreed. "Not too long." Watching the emotions ghost across the younger man's face, he tried to figure out the best course of action, whether or not letting Neal make the call was empowering or stressful. "I think it's a good idea," he said softly, looking at him, gauging the reaction to his words.

"Yeah," Neal said simply, not looking at either one of them as he did so. Glancing up a second later, he smiled at Elizabeth, as if remembering his manners. "Thank you so much for asking."

She beamed at him. "Oh, you're welcome. I'm so glad you're going to come – it'll make it seem more like a fun outing than just a work trip cutting into my weekend." Popping another bit of Danish into her mouth, she mentally reviewed the nearby restaurants. The area wasn't the best, but there were plenty of choices in the surrounding neighborhoods and she was determined to find something to tempt him.

An hour later and six of the pastries gone, even if one still lay mostly uneaten, but thoroughly broken apart in an effort to disguise the fact, Peter tossed the paper back on the table and eyed Neal. Elizabeth had drifted away – upstairs he thought – about five minutes ago and he was done, too. "Did you eat any of that," he asked, eying the decimated tart on the plate. Picking battles with his partner needed to be done with care and in exactly the right tone, otherwise the younger man simply dug in his heels and it turned into an all out war.

Neal gave him a half smile. "Of course, can't you tell?"

"No and I think that's the point, right?"

Shrugging slightly, Neal glanced at the plate. "I ate some of it," he said firmly.

Peter stood up, motioning with his hand. "Come on, help me do the dishes. I think Elizabeth is pulling together laundry and then going to the grocery store." Scooping up the box and a mug, he walked into the kitchen, confident that Neal would follow him.

Gathering up the other plates and mugs, the younger man pushed his way into the kitchen and put everything next to the sink. He dumped the tart into the garbage can quickly before it could be used as further evidence against him and then started the dishes while Peter put away the remaining pastries.

"You like peanut butter, right," Peter asked out of the blue several minutes later.

Neal glanced up from rinsing a mug. "Yeah, why?"

"Because I'm making you a piece of toast and thought peanut butter would be better than just butter and cinnamon sugar." The words were matter of fact, leaving no room for argument. He held up a hand when he saw Neal open his mouth. "No, stop. We're not discussing this," he said, remembering the issue with dinner several days earlier. Neal, he decided, was doing much better with clear cut expectations and orders.

The younger man eyed him for a long minute before turning back to the sink and finishing the dishes. He jumped slightly at the sound of the toaster popping and tried to block out the sounds of Peter fixing the toast behind him, his stomach twisting slightly at the thought. The few dishes took just another minute and he could only delay so much. Turning back around, he saw the toast laid out on a paper towel, cut neatly into four squares, and made a face.

"Just eat a square," Peter said. "It's about two bites. No breaking it apart, no playing with it."

Neal glanced at him, eyes narrowing slightly as he prepared to become defensive.

Reaching over, the other man rested a hand on his shoulder, giving it a gently squeeze. "Just pick it up and eat it, Neal." The toast was crunchy and hot with the peanut butter slightly melting into the bread, off set by the cold grape jelly, threatening in a tempting way to drop off the cut edges. He wasn't sure how he'd handle the situation if the other man argued with him or simply told him to forget it, but he honestly didn't think Neal would do either. Firm directions and boundaries, with clear expectations: that was how to handle Neal.

Picking up the toast, Neal eyed it and bit it in half, not looking at Peter. The square was gone in 30 seconds.

"OK, eat another square," Peter said, turning so he was leaning against the counter next to his friend.

"Is this a new rule?" he asked softly, reaching for the third square a few minutes later with a little prompting, consciously not looking at the other man.

Peter glanced at him and saw him concentrating fully on the counter top and remaining piece of toast. "I think we can consider this an addendum to Rule Number Two," he said with a smile, gently bumping against the other man. "We're changing it to three meals a day, not just dinner, until you're back up to fighting weight."

Neal gave an honest laugh at the term. "Fighting weight, huh? What's that?"

Peter hooked a finger around one of Neal's belt loops and pulled his jeans at least two inches away from his waist. "When these don't do that," he said simply. He guessed that the other man had lost at least 15 pounds and hadn't made much of a dent putting it back on in the last two weeks. Three weeks in prison was the world's best – or worst – crash diet. Compounded by grief, it could be a deadly combination.

"Hey," he protested, trying to pull away. "Some people are just born with a fast metabolism." He smiled though, picking up the last square. "You make good toast."

"Glad you approve; do you want another piece?" As soon as the question was out of his mouth, he knew it was a mistake and what Neal's answer was going to be.

Neal shook his head automatically, "Don't want to ruin my appetite."

Reaching over, Peter patted his back, letting the silence of the house settle over them. "Do we need to talk about last night?" he asked. They had briefly discussed the paddling in the early hours, but he wanted to check.

"Are you going to do it again?"

Trying not to smile, Peter nodded firmly. "That's up to you, of course but if I was a betting man …"

Neal sighed, even as he leaned into his friend. He was silent for a second before asking, "Are you going to keep adding rules?"

Peter smiled, saying, "That's up to you, of course …"

Neal laughed, ducking his head. "But if you were a betting man..." He glanced over quickly and then resumed his study of the counter top, fingers idly folding his napkin. "Thank you," he said softly.

"You're not alone in this battle, Neal," Peter said firmly. "It might feel like it, but I promise you, you're not. You have two people standing right next to you in the fight and a bunch more watching your back."

"And one of them is armed," he said with a smile.

Peter laughed. "Yes, and I think Elizabeth would gladly go after anyone who tried to hurt you with her hands alone."

"I don't want to go back to prison," he said suddenly

Surprised, Peter glanced at him. "Are you worried about that? Why? Because of Fowler?"

Neal shrugged. "I don't know."

Knowing a cop out answer when he heard one, Peter silently debated about pushing and decided not to. Filing the information away to be addressed at another time, he simply shook his head. "Don't worry about it or him, you're not going back." He laughed and deliberately pushed away the half cocked thoughts of going on the run with Neal and Elizabeth if the situation with Fowler became more threatening. Resting his hand on the other man's head, he said, "I think taking you down to the basement and beating some sense into you works much better."

Neal laughed. "Can't escape."

"No," he said firmly, pleased to see the younger man relax a bit. He heard Elizabeth coming down the stairs and gave Neal a final pat on the back. "Come on, let's help El with the laundry."

Pushing himself away from the counter, Neal nodded.

It was almost three o'clock by the time the normal weekend chores were done – the house picked up, bills paid, grocery shopping completed and the last load of laundry churning away in the basement. Elizabeth had kissed her husband, reminded him to please move the clothes from the washer to the dryer in 20 minutes and went upstairs to read and take a nap. Before she left, she had dropped a quick kiss on Neal's head as well. "I'm glad you're coming with us tomorrow."

He smiled. "I'm looking forward to it." The words were a bit of a lie, but as the day had progressed, the idea, once planted, now took root and began to grow into something Fun. The idea felt slightly foreign, but he recognized it as something good and had latched onto the normality of the concept.

Peter glanced up from the file he was reading while listening to some golf tournament on TV, recognizing the tone and the effort behind it. "Have you ever been there before?" he asked, once she had gone upstairs. He didn't remember anything in Neal's file, but there were many, many holes.

"This is the one with the fountain out front, right?" Neal asked.

He nodded. "Yeah, it moves with the movements of the people. They'll have it turned off now, of course, but it's pretty neat."

Neal thought for a minute, slowly smiling as he remembered something. "Then yeah, I've been there."

"Do I want to ask for details?"

His smile widened as he went back to his book with a laugh that answered the question.

"Yeah," the agent said, turning back to his own file. "That's what I thought." When he thought about it, which wasn't often now, one of the initial arguments he had made with the Bureau on doing the work release program with Neal was the ability to start filling in some of the main holes in the man's file. These filled in holes would, in turn, fill in other holes in other files and hopefully lead to more closed cases. That hadn't worked exactly as he had planned, but he was grateful in a way. He enjoyed the alleged stories too much to have to put on his FBI cap and actually do something about the old cases.

Yawning, Neal glanced at the TV for a minute before turning back to his book. A second later, he twisted around so that his back was against the couch arm, legs stretched out in front of him on the seat. The house was warm and the earlier snow had turned to rain and was lightly hitting the window. It was a gray, miserable day and being inside was cozy. He yawned again and then said, "Sorry," as he caught Peter glancing at him. "I'm not very entertaining today."

Peter laughed, motioning toward the files and the laptop set up on the table he had pulled over. "And these are?"

Neal shrugged and turned back to his book, sliding down slightly so that he was almost stretched out on the sofa.

Thirty minutes later, Peter glanced back over at his friend and saw him fast asleep, head tipped to the side against the back of the couch. Taking the scene in, Peter mentally added the details to his file bank on the younger man. Over the last couple of weeks, he had watched Neal fake being asleep, restlessly trying to sleep, fight against sleep out of fear and finally drop into an uneasy sleep. This was the first time he had seen the other man actually looking peaceful and relaxed while he slept. Lowering the volume on the TV slightly, he turned back to his files, determined not to wake him.

Neal jerked awake an hour later, pushing himself up with a strangled scream off the couch, eyes wide, the light blanket Elizabeth had just laid on him falling to the floor. He blinked and gasped for air in the growing twilight of the living room.

"Oh my god, Neal, I'm so sorry," Elizabeth said, shocked at the violent awakening. "You looked cold …"

He struggled to regain his composure, sinking back onto the couch and shaking his head. "No, no, I'm sorry. It's totally my fault."

"What's going on?" Peter asked, hurrying down the stairs at the sound of Neal's yell.

"Nothing," Neal said automatically.

"I accidentally woke him up," Elizabeth said at the same time, "and startled him." Sinking down next to him, she picked up his hands and held them between hers, noting how cold and shaky they were. Rubbing them gently, she smiled reassuringly. "It's OK. Deep breaths, right?"

Neal nodded, struggling to obey even as his mind and heart still raced. Taking a deep breath, he felt it catch in his throat and he shuddered.

"It's OK," she said again, softly. Glancing at Peter hovering in the walkway, she motioned for him to back away. She gave him a small smile as he headed down the hall, disappearing into the darkness of the kitchen. She felt the younger man's hands grip hers as the shaking quickened.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"You don't have anything to be sorry about, Neal," she said softly. Reaching out, she gently hugged him, hoping he'd let her and not pull away.

His breath caught in his throat as he struggled not to give in to the emotions battering at his defenses. The last time she had hugged him when he was so on edge, the night he had been released from prison, he had been too numb to feel anything and had been able to hold everything back. Now, he was too tired to resist; the defenses weakened the night before now shattered. He felt a sob escape from his throat as he buried his face in her shoulder and allowed her to hug him tighter. "I'm so sorry," he repeated. "I never meant to hurt you, for anything to happen."

Kissing him on the side of the head, she held him close and gently rocked back and forth, feeling him shake against her. There really wasn't anything to say to make his pain better, so she remained quiet while he cried.

Ten minutes later, the tears mostly stopped, he tried to pull away, embarrassed. "I'm so sorry, Elizabeth," he whispered, thankful that the living room was too dark for her to see how horrible he looked or for him to see what a mess he'd probably made of her shirt. "I didn't mean for that to happen. I'm sorry."

She shook her head. "Are you under the impression that I'm at all upset, Neal?"

"I don't know," he said honestly.

"Well, I'm not."

He laughed slightly at her tone. "OK."

Slipping into the living room, Peter held out a glass of water and several tissues for the younger man. "Here, drink this. And she means that since she's not upset, you're not to feel bad or say you're sorry for anything."

Neal glanced up, wiping at his face and accepting the water and tissues.

She chuckled. "See, even Peter knows that one."

The younger man smiled slightly, wiping at his nose and blinking away the last of the tears.

"Drink your water," Peter ordered, sitting down on the other side of him. Reaching for the remote, he flipped the TV on and turned to the news. "Let's see what's going on in the world."

Not letting go of Neal's hand, she leaned back against the sofa cushions and focused her eyes on the flickering screen. Her attention stayed fixed though on the man sitting next to her as he settled back with a tired sigh, his head resting on the sofa back. She saw her husband's hand go up and gently rest on Neal's head before dropping to his shoulder and then his back.

Peter caught her eye over their guest's head and he smiled, mouthing, "Love you."

In the end, they ordered Chinese delivery for dinner and ate in the living room by the light of the TV and several candles. It was bright enough to keep an eye on Neal without exposing him to the harsh glare of the lights.

Curling up against her husband in bed that night, Elizabeth kissed him and sighed. "I'm so glad he finally cried. Do you think this was the first time since Kate died?"

Peter shook his head. "No, but I think it's the first time that he's really let himself go. The other times I've seen at least have been very controlled, a few tears that he quickly put a lid on." He went silent for a moment and added, "This was more like at the hangar, right after the explosion."

She was silent; he had talked very little about the actual accident. The drama and fall out afterward kept him focused on the present and allowed little time to think about the past. Even when he came home that night, he had been focused only on the future, giving her the briefest outline of what had happened. It took another day for him to finally tell her the whole story and even then, she felt he was skimming over the bad areas. Holding him tight, she let the silence settle over the room and gave him time to fill it.

"He was so raw then, all the pretenses of Neal Caffrey - master con artist - gone in a second," he finally said. "I saw bits while he was struggling with whether or not he was going to get on the plane but then afterward….just raw horror and disbelief." He paused, reliving the feel of the heat from the fire and the younger man fighting with every ounce of strength for a few moments before giving up and collapsing. Peter had held him tight during his three attempts to break free, each one weaker but more desperate than the last, as he screamed and cried until finally going silent. "I was worried that something had permanently broken in him," Peter confessed after a long moment. "That he had put the mask back on so tightly there wasn't going to be a way to get past it."

Holding him tightly, she kissed him again, not in invitation, but purely for comfort and connection.

"He didn't even say anything, didn't cry, didn't protest, when the Marshals showed up in the office later that day," he continued, his voice faint in the dark. "Didn't even look at me or anyone, didn't protest when they handcuffed him and led him away."

"Yeah," she said quietly, having heard the horrible story from Jones and later, in more detail, from Diane.

"I did my best, El," he said, turning toward her, "but I couldn't stop them. I didn't have a badge, Hughes was protesting, trying to work out a deal with the agents to at least get him put in the FBI holding cells while it was worked out. When that didn't work, he got on the phone to his contacts, but that was going to take time. Jones tried to go with them so at least Neal wouldn't be alone, but they refused. I got Mozzie on the phone and it was all for nothing."

She heard the tears in his voice as he relived the horrible hours. "It's OK, Peter," she whispered and for the second time, held and tried to give comfort to someone she loved while he cried in her arms. "You did so good, you did everything right," she whispered.

"I tried," he said quietly.

"You did it, Peter," she repeated, pushing away all the anger and hatred she felt toward the people who did this to her husband. "There was no just trying, you did it."