Hello ... This is my first White Collar fic and I am sooo mad at myself for being late to the party. I only started watching the show about a month ago and was so incredibly sad that it had already ended just as I was starting to love it that I had to write a little something. Sorry, but I don't have a beta for this, so if you see anything amiss, please let me know.
Just so you know, I haven't written a thing in about a year, so any kind of feedback is so very welcome.
I kinda had plans to perhaps write more from Peter's POV, but I'm not sure if that something anyone would like to read. I actually have a plotline in my head that includes some Neal whump, but I kinda wanted to test the waters first and see how it goes.
Sehnsucht
Oh! The one who loves and knows me,
is far away.
I feel dizzy, and it burns
my insides.
Only one who knows longing
understands what I suffer!
-Johann Wolfgang Goethe
...
He smiled broadly at the waitress as she placed the espresso and croissant he ordered before him. He gave his thanks in French and she beamed in return, taken in by his highly polished charm, and piercing, sapphire eyes that met her own without hesitation.
She hid the blush creeping into her cheeks as she turned away and walked back into the café.
The smile remained on his face remained for a few moments before it faded. To most people, he appeared to be a man happily enjoying his breakfast while sitting outdoors on a bright, beautiful Parisian morning, but to anyone who knew him; they would know something wasn't quite right.
They'd see the tiny cracks in the façade he so carefully had built and displayed to the world at large. They'd not the overly bright smile that gleamed with too many teeth and was missing a certain little crinkle from the edges of his eyes, which marked it as the genuine article.
He was really good at faking things and getting away with it. Hell … he had made a living out of it in his former life, but he couldn't fool the people who truly knew him, and really there was only one person who qualified. He would have spotted the forgery right away and called him out on it: Peter Burke.
He was, however, several thousand miles, a vast ocean, and a lifetime removed from him. Yet still, even from this distance, he could almost hear Peter's voice in his head and see his glaring expression that spoke of a dogged resolve to pry the truth out of him no matter the cost. He'd get to the heart of what was eating at him and he wouldn't give up until he had confessed his guts out.
Cut the bullshit, already. Something's wrong and if you don't tell me what it is in the next five minutes, I swear to God, I'll put you in a holding cell until you do.
He would have smirked at the mental image if it hadn't stabbed him with a fresh wave of guilt and melancholy.
It was, after all, an anniversary of sorts.
It was one year ago to the day that he killed Neal Caffrey.
Somehow, in some strange, messed-up version of hope, he kept looking over his shoulder, wondering when Peter would show up and start ripping him a new one for ending the life of his best friend – for causing him so much pain and heartache. He knew what it was like to lose someone he loved and he hated himself for being the cause of such grief, but he had done what was necessary at the time.
At least that's what he told himself each and every night before he fell into a fitful sleep.
The murder still caused him pain, honestly. True, Neal hadn't been the world's most upstanding citizen no matter how far you stretched it and was by all rights, nothing more than a con-man, liar, cheat, thief, forger, and convicted felon. But he had started to turn a corner the day Peter Burke took a chance on him and he had shown Neal how good life on the right side of the law could be. He had learned from him what true loyalty, friendship, and trust was and he had worked hard to change, to become the man Peter was trying to teach him to be.
He almost succeeded.
But in the end, the old adage about leopards and spots came into play.
When it seemed that freedom might be out of reach for him for a long, long time, he had to think fast, offering to infiltrate the Pink Panther's crime syndicate in order to guarantee his full release in writing. Unfortunately, this meant crossing a line from which he couldn't return. Pissing off some of the heaviest hitters in the crime world who had no qualms about hurting or killing the people he had come to love as family meant that Neal had to be taken out of the equation before that happened.
So, he killed Neal.
And became someone else.
He was now Blaine Donahue, Canadian expat from Toronto, looking to pursue a legitimate career in art. In other words, he drew caricatures for tourists near the Louvre and Eiffel Tower when he wasn't working double shifts as one of only two waiters at a tiny bistro in Pigalle. His charm made him just enough money in tips to survive, but he actually hadn't painted anything in months; there just wasn't time and he didn't have enough cash for supplies.
Sure … Neal had little hidey-holes here and there around the world where he had cached money he made from his days as a thief that he could tap into and yes, he had had to break into his stash back when he was Neal in order fund his demise, but now … it felt wrong … it was Neal's money, and he wasn't Neal anymore.
He was a starving artist with a ridiculous name barely making enough to cover his food and rent, but he was an honest, tax-paying, and law-abiding citizen.
Peter would have been proud.
Mozzie would have been aghast.
Neal, however …
Neal would have been conflicted.
… and bored.
He took a careful sip of his piping hot drink and looked out across the plaza as it was bathed in early morning light. A gaggle of teen girls sat on the edge of a fountain, dipping their toes in the cool water, splashing each other and taking selfies with their phones. A couple strolled hand-in-hand directly into the path of a small flock of pigeons, causing the cooing birds to take flight. Just outside the perimeter of tables sitting outside of the café, a busker sat on top of an overturned bucket, strumming a guitar and singing a somewhat off-key rendition of Taylor Swift's "Shake it Off" in French.
He let out a long sigh, his shoulders sloping downwards.
He should be content. The scene before him was just the sort of idyllic, Parisian fantasy Neal had longed for when he had been shackled to a two-miles radius, but now …
He yearned for something else – a different sort of scene.
He wanted to see a yellow taxi cab drive by, narrowly missing a pedestrian swearing at it as he tried to cross the busy street in order to get to the hot-dog cart on the other side. He wanted to see people bundled up and bracing themselves against the arctic winds of a nor'easter that had blown in just in time for Easter and he wanted to hear their scarf-muffled complaints in various languages and accents as spring got pushed back another two weeks.
He wanted to see the gleaming art-deco façade of the Chrysler building while standing under its shadow. He wanted to sneak into Gramercy Park and admire its perfectly manicured gardens. Hell … he'd even take being blinded by the multitude of gaudy, neon lights and flashing billboards of Times Square if it meant he could be in New York once again.
He wanted to fall asleep to the sounds of a city that never fell silent. He wanted his lullaby to be a cacophony of noises; sirens blaring, cars honking, jilted lovers screaming at each other from seven stories up.
But mostly … most of all … he wanted to see his friends.
He was certain that they had all gone on with their lives just fine without him … probably even better in Peter's case without having to babysit a grown man with a rap sheet. He tried not to imagine what they were doing – it hurt too much. But there were times when he just couldn't stop it.
He wondered if Mozzie had stayed in New York or had taken the money and run away for good. He wondered how big Diana's little Theo was now – he had to be walking and talking by now. He hoped June was well and that she still hung on to Byron's Devores that he left hanging in the closet (those things were works of art in their own right). He wondered how Jones was adjusting to his new position and whether or not he ever finally got around to finding himself a girlfriend or not.
But then he would find himself inevitably thinking about Peter and El. They had to have had the baby by now. He wondered if it was a boy or girl and hat they named it (anything was okay except for Neal, which was a cursed name) more than anything though, he wanted to know that they were happy … that their family was healthy and thriving.
As long as they were okay and safe … then the loneliness and homesickness he felt constantly were a small burden he could shoulder for the rest of his life.
Yes … killing Neal had been hard and he mourned his loss, but ultimately, it was for the best.
It had to be; otherwise, he didn't think he could survive the ever-present and invasive longing for New York … for home.
For family.
The End?