Disclaimer: I do not own White Collar, the premise or the characters of the show. No copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: This takes place at the end of 3x08, As You Were, while we leave Neal sitting at the edge of the bed in the Burke's house. No warnings.
Author's Commentary: After having written Criminal Minds fanfiction for two years, switching to White Collar has been a challenge. Neal is much more of a character than, say, Reid is, because somehow I think I might run into a Reid on campus one day, but not into Neal (and I'd very much prefer running into Reid than Neal). In this fandom I feel that I am really 'using' the characters rather than giving them voice as I feel like I do in CM fandom. I only hope that characterization hasn't come off as a result. Second part of this features a conversation between Neal and June, which hopefully will be up soon as well.
Finally, the formatting is a deliberate choice. I hope the italics don't bother you; it only seemed fitting to format this chapter this way. Happy reading.
Sometimes, Neal wants to believe that his choices don't have to be definitive. That he would always have a chance to make another choice; that choices are like cons, there's no final decision, there's only the next one. Sometimes, he wants to believe he doesn't have to choose, that he can have it all. But then, just the other evening, Jones has put into words what Neal knew all along, but has never acknowledged before. That a choice is always a sacrifice. That in real life, no, you simply can't have it all.
All these years, Neal's believed that he could.
He operates on the idea of 'having it all'. A good life, friends and family, doing something meaningful. Somehow, he dreams of a life in which he'll be completely satisfied with everything he has, so deeply content that he won't be tempted to look for things he doesn't have. He doesn't realize that the definition of what he wants is proof that there's no such thing as having it all. It's an inherent contradiction.
And at this particular moment, it feels like everything is disintegrating.
In Neal's mind, Peter's friendly words clash against Mozzie's disappointed silence. The hand which holds the cell phone is shaking; his fingers tighten around the device in an attempt to still the tremor. He straightens at the edge of the bed –of Peter and Elizabeth's bed- with a sigh, and his gaze falls on Satchmo's accusing look.
For some reason, Neal can't face the dog. He can't look at Satchmo, because he has broken his trust, just like he's broken Peter's, and Elizabeth's, and damn it, just like he's broken Mozzie's trust.
Guilt settles in his chest like piles of sand, guilt and shame like water and cement, and he rises to his feet, swallowing sharply as he does. Shards of dim light swarm on the deep blue walls; muffled noises of the traffic outside provide a monotone background, and for a second, Neal feels submerged. Everything feels as though fallen back into slow motion, the echoes of his life fading into garbled nonsense. Deep pressure in his ears, in his head, in his heart, and for that one fleeting moment as he stands by the bed in the blue-walled room, he feels like he's drowning.
Shaking himself off from the feeling, Neal grabs the art manifest and shoves it into the safe without looking at it. He carefully keeps his gaze away from the photograph, the one of the entire White Collar division. He shuts the safe close, arranges everything back to how it was, pockets his cell phone, and turns to walk out.
"I'm sorry, Satchmo," he whispers quickly, patting the dog's head without turning his eyes down. "You won't tell anyone about this, right?" He swallows. "I'm sorry, buddy."
Surely he's just imagining that Satchmo didn't enjoy being petted as he normally does.
Sliding out of the room, Neal paddles down the stairs with the ease of a cat-burglar and swiftly sees himself out of the house. The crisp night air is like a welcoming friend; he fills his lungs with a deep breath and it feels ridiculously right to be outside of the house. For a man who's supposed to belong to the other side of the law, Neal surely has a ridiculously righteous inner compass.
Five minutes later, he's sitting at the backseat of a cab on his way home –on his way to June's- and it is all he can do to keep the nausea down.
/
That night, sleep doesn't come.
Lying flat on his back, Neal feels every bump on the pillow, every tiny crease of the sheets. Embedded at the base of his neck are the roots of a giant headache, pulsing as though it has a life of its own, sending crashing waves of pain through his brain. The nausea is manageable unless he moves; trying not to disturb it, Neal slowly pushes the covers aside when it gets too hot.
It is ironic that in all his life as a conman, his conscience has never bothered him quite this much.
Finally having enough of lying there and waiting for sleep that won't come, he carefully sits up, swings his legs over the edge of the bed and slides his feet into the warm slippers. A hand reaches towards his fragile stomach, pressing it as though to keep it calm, he stands up, paddles through the room in the darkness and walks to the kitchenette to pour himself a glass of milk. Then, he walks out to the balcony.
The cool night breeze rushes to clear the fog of exhaustion from his mind. He isn't really happy to think clearly, but it's better than the alternative.
It has been a hell of a week.
He's been on the edge of the knife for months now, ever since Mozzie has let him in on the Nazi treasure. But then, there had been time to 'make their exit right'. Deep down, Neal knows there is no such thing; in the end, if he- when he retires to the Islands with Mozzie, he will have hurt everyone, and no kind of apology will make it okay. Neal fears it, fears the prospect of setting fire on what he has built. It feels like he is the one who will be burnt the worst.
With a sigh, he rests his arms on the railing. The street below is quiet; the black, naked arms of an oak tree reach towards the sky as though pleading to the heavens. The cold light of the street lamp just below gives it a dramatic glow.
Neal can't help but chuckle at the scene.
Everything around him is décor. He's living on stage; his life, one big con.
Sometimes, he wonders if he'll ever drop the act.
He knows who he is. The way he lives is his reality; there is no alternate universe where Neal Caffrey is an open, honest man. But he also knows that he has changed, that Peter has changed him. He can change for the better, he still has a choice.
The damn choice.
Neal isn't naïve, but still, sometimes, he finds himself wishing.