The letter from Victor Moreau came on a typical Friday for Sara.
She had just entered her apartment, flicking through the mail in her hand as she locked the door behind her. She was subconsciously moving at a slightly faster rate than normal, probably due to a quiet sense of urgency.
There was a company event that night that she would be attending, and she knew she had to make a good impression. There would be quite a few higher-ups there, and she didn't want any of them doubting that she was worthy of a transfer.
She was still, however, Sara Ellis, a confident woman by nature. She hadn't risen through the ranks of Sterling Bosch by backing down or getting nervous when a challenge rose, but by lunging head on to strike first, before it could strike at her. She was quick, efficient, and sometimes rather merciless in her work.
It was still the silent rush that had sunk into her bones that made her glance through her mail quicker than normal, to the point where she was already two envelopes past Victor Moreau when the name sunk in.
A memory flashed in her mind. A secret safe, cracked slightly open. A passport, with an unrecognized name that did not match the face she knew.
The dazzling smile of a man of whom Sara had probably felt every emotion possible for.
She paused, carefully moving back to the envelope from the conman. There was no return address - something that didn't surprise her, but rather cemented the idea in her mind that it was, in fact, from Neal - and the envelope did feel a bit thin. She worked a lot with envelopes, although most of the time she was trying to figure out if it held something that would be potentially hazardous towards her. She dealt with disgruntled people who were angry at her for recovering items on behalf of her company from them far too often for her taste.
She did take it as a sign that she was performing her job adeptly, so she kept any personal feelings about the threats to a minimum. She realized soon into her line of work that few would turn their words into the promised actions, and even fewer would ever get close to succeeding. Of course, no one had succeeded yet, as she was still alive and kicking (and whacking the occasional thief with her baton).
She held the letter uncertainly in her hands. Why had Neal put it under Moreau's name? They both knew she would recognize it from the fake passport she had stumbled upon in Neal's room, so it wasn't for confidentiality.
Was this his attempt to send something to her discreetly? Was he in trouble with the FBI again?
No, that couldn't be it. She was convinced that wasn't it. They had left things off clear enough, she knew. While their emotions towards each other weren't simple, the fact that they, or at least these versions of themselves, couldn't have a proper happy ever after was brutally transparent.
To another time. Another place.
Another us.
She gripped the letter rather harshly in her hands, before separating it from the other white colored envelopes and placing it on the countertop. It wouldn't be time sensitive, she reasoned, since he sent it towards the normal (and legal) way to send a letter.
First, she would attend the company party. Then, she could dedicate the weekend to the letter.
The call from Peter Burke came on a particularly uneventful Sunday afternoon.
The first indication that something was off was the fact that her personal phone was the one ringing. She hadn't been in England long enough to form social connections to any real extent, so that meant someone from New York was calling her.
Hearing Peter's voice when she answered made her even more nervous.
It was the tone. A tone that carried the weight of worlds, and was now struggling as it realized it had to pass on one of those worlds to another.
"Sara, I'm sorry to bother you," Sara had never heard Peter's tone like this. "But it's Neal."
Concern flooded into her. Peter wouldn't call her unless it was grave, she knew. She felt tears burn in her eyes as her mind realized far too quickly what the call was about. Why his tone was so…not what it should be. How he's not calling with slight exasperation at whatever Neal had done, or…or…this sadness.
"No," Her voice came out a shocked whisper, as it muttered a word that she wished held real power. But it didn't. It was just a sound, one that couldn't bring the dead back to life.
Because that was what Peter was calling about, wasn't it? It was the only reason Peter would call to her with that tone.
"Sara…" Peter's voice cracked, "Neal's dead. Keller...He shot him."
Sara's throat tightened and suddenly there was a tremble in her nerves that she couldn't explain. She prided herself on her confidence and quick wit, but none of that could be found on the woman standing in the apartment, having thought only a few minutes ago that today was doomed to be a boring one. She wished that were true now. She longed for it.
"No." She repeated once more because her mind was on a loop. Her voice was louder, albeit more shaky. She recognized the movements her body was about to take moments before they did, and she managed to get out, "I can't...do this right now. Thanks...thanks for telling me." A millisecond later, she hung up.
Because she was extremely grateful that she was informed by Peter personally rather than through the grapevine. Or worse, not at all.
Neal is dead.
Neal Caffrey, the man who would probably have been the love of her life if their situations had been different. If they had been different. If they hadn't been forced to live in two separate worlds.
Neal…with his wit that matched her own. A smile that held a mystery. Eyes that were as blue as the cloudless sky. A voice that held nothing but pure potential, as his words were carefully crafted using his infamous silver tongue.
No, they could not have been together. He was always hiding something - that was just his nature. He was always running. And Sara, well, had been dealt enough emotional damage from getting attached to runaways. She never completely understood that part of him, just like she never understood how her sister could just leave like that.
Victor Moreau. A coldness shot through her, climbing quickly until it reached and clenched her heart in its icy grip. She had received the letter just a couple days ago.
And now the sender of the message was dead - killed - and the envelope still sat on Sara's counter. She had forgotten about it.
And now Neal was dead.
A million 'what if' questions raced into her mind as panic, fear, and, most of all, guilt shot through her. She surged forward, forgetting about everything else as she seized the letter and ripped it open.
And there it was. Neal's handwriting. His neater than average scrawl that she had once mocked and asked if he was simply using someone else's style, because she didn't believe his was so neat. He had smirked at her with that face and said that he couldn't confirm anything and…now he was dead.
She had been lying, though. Because of course Neal Caffrey, Neal Not-A-Hair-Out-Of-Place Caffrey, Neal I-Only-Wear-Expensive-Suits-And-Ridiculous-Hats Caffrey, had neat handwriting.
She stared at the letter in front of her, wiping her eyes when it suddenly became slightly blurry from the tears that snuck through. Damn Neal, going and dying and making her so damn desperate to read these words because it was the last thing he ever sent her, ever said to her. For being so reckless and determined and so damn him that he went and died and made Sara cry over him.
For making Sara love him so much it hurt.
She read the letter so quickly the first time that she wasn't able to make heads or tails of it. She had to take a moment and a few deep breaths before she was able to summon some of her infamous strength.
Then, she read it again.
The letter hit the floor the moment she finished it. She recognized it - recognized the depth of it.
She understood what was being said, and what she was being offered.
And she found that
America would know nothing of what happened next.
They would live on, completely unaware of a couple that once resided in the midst of one of their most famous cities. The one that had fought there fiercely and loved even fiercer.
The one that had to break apart, because they knew that that had not been the time nor place for them. They were not yet the people they needed to be to be able to stay together in the tumultuous world they lived in.
The one that had now found their time and place in Paris. The one that now laughed and ate and loved on France's streets.
The one that had finally become the them they needed to be to be together.
The one that had risen beyond the regrets of their past lives to forge a newer, permanent one.
The one that would not be forced apart ever again.