Set sometime after season 6 (ok, you might call me a hopeless optimist, but there has to be a season 6). Neal has served his sentence 3 years ago. Now, he's free, and everything should be fine. However, something went seriously wrong. To make matters worse, Peter and Neal became estranged. Since both of them are men, they have problems to talk. But Neal needs a friend, desperately. What else to expect? No one is going to die. There will be hurt and comfort. Like the story title implies, friendship, too.
Now...
Neal sat in his aisle seat, obviously at ease while chatting animatedly to June. He was looking forward to the second half of the opera. He loved Verdi, however, hadn't been at the Met for almost three years. Act one and two haven't failed his expectations so far.
Truth be told, he felt a bit odd, sitting in the unfamiliar seat and all. It was comfy, without a doubt, but so plushy and spacious.
June's friends had given her the tickets for this evening's exquisite performance since they were cruising the Caribbean and, therefore, couldn't enjoy La Traviata themselves. Thereupon, June has asked her tenant for company a couple of days ago.
After some hesitation, Neal has agreed. Right now, he was glad that he had obliged her. He was dressed in one of his best suits and had already admired his looks earlier on at length in the mirror hanging in his bedroom. He had spent the afternoon in gleeful anticipation discussing with June the cast which included a new Japanese tenor who had built up a world-wide reputation. Of course, the ex-con had never ceased to study the arts section in the national newspaper, no matter where he had stayed at the time.
Still, this was his first public appearance since he had returned to New York a month ago. Somehow, it felt strange to sit once again in one of the best seats in the Metropolitan Opera as if nothing had changed. He had been a regular guest here, at least whenever he could persuade Peter to extend his radius generously. The thought made him smile.
The radius, together with the tracking anklet, were gone a long time ago, same applies for his handler. The con man didn't have to ask anyone nowadays if he wanted to visit a museum, the opera or any other place. No more obligations to turn up early morning at the Bureau to solve boring mortgage frauds. No need to report to anyone else but himself.
Neal uttered a bitter sigh. Irony of fate, wasn't it? But why spoiling this perfect evening with disturbing thoughts about Peter Burke and the FBI? He had put on his flashing smile before he turned to June to draw her attention to a spectacular diamond necklace he had spotted. Both of them discussed the clarity and size of the stones, not to forget the anticipated black-market price. Old habits die hard.
The gong chimed for the first time when someone stopped next to his seat, staring in his face disbelievingly.
"Neal? Is that really you?"
The ex-criminal was caught by surprise and paled visibly. How likely was it that Peter Burke visited the opera? Seriously, this was against all odds. In fact, as a high class gambler he knew everything about weighing the odds.
Smiling politely, he welcomed his former handler without any marked enthusiasm. "Oh! Hi Peter, nice to meet you! How are you? I haven't seen you in years."
Burke threw him a baffled look. "How am I? Well, I'm fine. Thanks for asking. Do you have any idea how worried I've been? El and me both! The last time we've talked, you gave me your flight details so that I could pick you up at JFK three days later. That was the last bit of information I got from you. Only, that has been Thanksgiving more than a year ago!"
The agent had started talking in a soft voice, but it has increased considerably in loudness and agitation while he was speaking.
Neal feigned indifference. "Oh come on. Don't pout. I had realized I wasn't up for a homey Thanksgiving family dinner yet. I'd got an invitation that was just too good to miss. You won't believe how luxurious those yachts are down in St. Trop. I mean a helipad aboard, that's something big! Not to forget two Playmates and one of George Clooney's ex-girlfriends. Besides, I've send you a message! So you can't persist in saying that you haven't known about my whereabouts."
Agent Burke worked hard to keep his emotions under control listening to the bratty ramblings. "You've sent a postcard from Nice, weeks later. 'Sorry, but I'm not in the mood for New York right now. Something came across. Don't worry, nothing illegal. I'll get in touch later on.'
Thanks for your message! I've had no idea where or how you've been all those months or, while we're on it, that you're back. Now, I run into you, out of the blue, here in Manhattan. And all you can say is 'Hi, Peter!' What's wrong with you? Why haven't you had at least the grace to call once you've returned? I was worried sick, and so was El, and Diana, and Clinton!"
Then...
All preparations for Thanksgiving have been completed, more or less. According to Elizabeth, rather less. However, her husband has thought tangerine colored candles and matching napkins or another dessert – she had already made two – wouldn't spoil the celebration if they were missing.
Peter has been waiting quite relaxed at the airport to pick up his friend who was scheduled to arrive with an Air France flight at 2:30 pm. He was really looking forward to the reunion. Neal had spent more than a year roaming Europe and Asia after serving his sentence. Now, he was about to come back to live in New York.
The flight arrived on time, though even an hour later Caffrey hasn't turned up. Peter tried to call him, but the mobile seemed to be disconnected. Using his FBI badge, Peter found out that Caffrey hasn't been aboard.
Burke has waited at the airport checking the next 4 flights coming in from Paris. No, Neal. Towards evening, he was seriously concerned.
He has spent the whole next day, Thanksgiving, at the Bureau to find out what has happened to Neal. Diana Barrigan has helped to call French authorities and hospitals. Clinton has reached an old friend who was working for the CIA, calling in some favors, to get access to intelligence reports. They had found nothing. Neal Caffrey has never boarded a plane in Paris. After a few days, they confirmed he hadn't stayed in a hotel there either.
Peter has been about to go to France himself to find Neal when the postcard has arrived. El, who has been worried all along but tried to be strong and help with the research, had suffered a mental breakdown reading the card. Agent Burke had worked up a cold fury; consequently he canceled his travel plans. That night, he drank himself into oblivion. Something, he had never done before.
Since then, the name Neal Caffrey had never again passed his lips.
Now...
The accused man grinned sheepishly. "I'm sorry. I acted carelessly. I haven't found the time yet to call you. It was on my agenda, I promise. But you know how it is when you return after a long time. It must have been the same for when you came back from Washington. You'll have tons to catch up on."
Deep inside Neal was thinking, 'So much for, I never lied to you.' Right from the very first day after moving back to his old apartment, he has struggled not to call his old friend. He has reached for the phone countless times, even started to dial. Yet still, he couldn't do it. No way. At one point, he was so frustrated, after dialing almost Peter's complete landline number that he had thrown his mobile over the balustrade of the roof top terrace.
Peter tried to calm down. "Look. I don't know what happened. Probably, you've had a good reason to act the way you did. I guess we'll find a way to work it out. I spotted you from our seats in the balcony. Only, I wasn't sure if it's been really you. I haven't said anything to El, yet. Sure is, she would be more than happy to meet you. Why don't you come and join me for a quick chat in the lobby?"
It has taken a while for the former consultant until it dawned on him why the FBI agent was spending an evening at the opera. It offered the perfect excuse. "I can't do that. It's your anniversary, Peter. I won't dare to interfere. You should rather enjoy a romantic evening alone with your pretty wife, with fine music, a glass of champagne or two, but without a drop-dead handsome and charming ex-criminal who draws all the attention onto him."
Agent Burke shook his head once more in disbelief. The Neal Caffrey he had known has had no scruples to impose on anyone. He won't forget the morning he had found his consultant, sitting in his home, on his couch with his wife, patting his dog after he had left his radius without second thoughts. This was a flimsy excuse.
He felt hurt and furious beyond conception. Right now, he could only think 'That miserable son of a bitch!'
Luckily, the gong chimed for the second time and saved Neal. "Listen Peter, it's about time to find your seats. You won't want to be one of these disturbing patrons who come in late. People hate them! I'll call on you one of these days."
And with that he waved goodbye to his former friend with an impertinent nonchalance.
Gasping for air, Peter Burke decided to leave before he would say something really rude or worse, switch over to non-verbal communication...
Trembling with anger and annoyance, he turned on his heels and left.
Neal sat there in silence, biting his lips. June, who had watched as well and listened to the encounter, rested her hand on his in a futile attempt to provide some comfort. She figured out how hard this must have been for her friend.
She didn't approve of Neal's self-imposed communication ban. In fact, she had led many passionate discussions with him about that topic without being able to change his mind. However, she understood his motivations.
After the lights went out and the curtain has risen, Neal whispered with a flat voice. "June, I need to leave. Now! Please call the usher to bring it."
The wise old lady had some doubts if this were the right thing to do. "Are you sure my dear? Maybe, today is as good as ever to..."
"No, please. I can't stay. Sorry if I ruined your evening. I would go myself to fetch it. Unfortunately, as we both know, I can't." He cracked a bitter smile, blinking back the tears.
June felt his hurt, so she didn't hesitate any longer. "Of course, don't worry about my evening. Verdi is quite a bit overrated, isn't it? Give me a minute. I'm going to find someone to help us."
It didn't take her long to return in the company of an employee of the Met. He brought a wheelchair and positioned it next to Neal's seat. With one swift experienced pull he removed the armrest on the aisle and helped the disabled patron to move over from the seat into the wheelchair. Afterwards, he replaced the armrest, so it looked just like every other seat in the row.
June wheeled Neal outside, down the wheelchair ramp towards the disabled parking spot where her limousine was waiting for them.
...
AN:
So far, I only have an idea about the general direction the story might take. There are still some questions unanswered.
I hope you like the start.
And if anyone was wondering, I don't own White Collar and have no idea what's going on in Jeff Eastin's mind. (-Disclaimer!)