A Chance To Be Better
"Freedom is nothing but a chance to be better."
—Albert Camus
SUMMARY: Neal's sentence is almost up. Endings are hard, as Neal and Peter are finding out. But maybe it's not an ending. Maybe it's a beginning.
Or can it be both?
Spoilers for everything up through the end of Season 5.
Chapter One - The Fastest Way You Can
…..
"I have learned that if you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yesteryears are buried deep, leave it any way except a slow way, leave it the fastest way you can. Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour . . . ."
― Beryl Markham, West with the Night
Peter held the phone in his hand, staring at it. After a moment, he brought up the contact list and scrolled through to the one he was looking for. He contemplated the name, even brought his finger up to hover over it.
Then he stopped.
You said you wouldn't do this, a little voice in his mind reminded.
Don't be ridiculous, another part of his brain shot back. What would be the harm?
He stood there mulling it over until the phone's screen dimmed.
Peter put the phone back in his pocket.
….
(earlier)
The thing was, he'd promised himself that he would give Neal his space. The space, the time he needed to figure out what came next, the path he'd take. A path that Peter freely admitted he hoped would lead back to New York.
Well, he'd freely admitted that to himself. Not to Neal. Not in so many words, anyway.
Peter knew he couldn't push it. The decision was Neal's. His consultant's sentence would soon be over, the anklet removed for good. He was free to roam the world, to do whatever he wanted. He wouldn't be tethered to an FBI desk anymore. And Neal had made it very clear that, when the anklet came off, he was going to take maximum advantage of that fact.
But to Peter, it seemed so obvious that Neal belonged right here. Staying in New York—a city he clearly loved—in an apartment most city dwellers would kill for, surrounded by people who cared about him, and doing a job that he was almost ridiculously good at, especially considering he'd had no formal training whatsoever. It seemed, to Peter, an ideal situation for someone in Neal's position.
But, of course, Neal wasn't Peter. While it might be true that he'd had some influence over Neal during the past four years, Neal's perspective and priorities were his own. It was still hard, sometimes, for Peter to accept that his CI didn't see things the way he did—that what Peter saw as comfortable security might be, for Neal, dreary, mind-numbing drudgery. As the end of Neal's sentence neared, Peter knew he had to accept that reality.
"So . . . " Diana drawled. "Caffrey."
With a sigh, Peter looked up from pouring his coffee. "Yes. Caffrey." The morning case update meeting had just ended but Neal was still in the conference room, half-perched on the table and expounding to a couple of probies—on what topic, Peter thought it better not to ask. There was a lot of laughing and gesturing going on. As always in these cases, Peter reminded himself that there was a lot the probies could learn from Neal.
He ignored the fact that some of what they could learn might not be ideal from the FBI's perspective and brought his attention back to Diana.
"Yes, you know. Dark hair, blue eyes, charming smile—"
"Devious smile," he corrected, adding a dollop of cream.
That made Diana actually laugh out loud; Peter wasn't sure why. "Point taken." She eyed Peter for a moment and her expression grew serious. "He seemed to . . . get his back up a little bit in there—did you notice?"
She was referring, Peter knew, to an off-handed comment he'd made during the meeting. They'd been discussing a major theft that had happened at a DC art museum the day before—outside of their jurisdiction but definitely not outside of the scope of their interest. Neal had shared some unique insights about how one might evade the particular security system in question, hypothetically, of course, which led to what was, for Peter, a pretty standard joke, this time about museums having to increase their security in a few weeks once Neal's anklet was off.
Peter had noticed, absently, that Neal didn't join in the laughter—he'd glanced down with a somewhat pained smile on his face—but Peter hadn't thought much of it, or what it might mean. Like anyone else, Neal could be moody at times and he'd been a bit quieter lately than usual. Peter had chalked Neal's reaction up to nothing more than that.
"Neal's no shrinking violet," he pointed out. "I'm sure you've noticed that he's not exactly shy about taking credit for his past exploits."
"Hard to miss," Diana agreed. "But you weren't talking about his past exploits. You were talking about his future exploits. Well, potential future exploits."
That brought him up short. She was right, he could see that immediately, but he hadn't thought of it that way. "Does it matter?"
She gave him a look that plainly said it did. "Peter, how do you think Neal's changed since you slapped that anklet on him?"
Peter opened his mouth to answer, then stopped. He felt like he was back in college, having to answer an essay question that seemed simple on the surface, but got more complex the more you thought about it. He took so long, in fact, that Diana chuckled and took pity on him. "Let's try this. How good of a criminal do you think Neal is?"
That was a much easier question, and he answered it quickly. "The best I've ever seen. The smartest."
"Smarter than you?"
"No," he said, just as rapidly. Automatically, he thought back to that conversation between Rachel and Neal in the interrogation room: Do you think you're smarter than your old friend, Peter Burke? And Neal, forced to answer because they needed information from her, had answered, Yes, and he thinks he smarter than me. Which has led to years of debate. "I'm the guy who caught him," Peter added; an obvious point, but by this time it was reflex for him to say it. He was now getting more curious about the point of this discussion. Diana wasn't one for hashing out the obvious, or for wasting time asking questions she already knew the answer to.
"You're also the guy who chased him for four years while Neal was a suspect in multiple cases. How many times in there didn't you catch him?"
Plenty, it was true, but that didn't mean his pride didn't rebel a bit to hear it. Neal had eluded him and all law enforcement for a hell of a long time once he was on their radar. And not by lying low—he'd been doing some pretty brazen stuff during that time, including signature flourishes like sending champagne to surveillance vans. The kind of thing guaranteed to drive an FBI agent crazy. In fact, knowing Neal, Peter thought, it had been calculated to drive him crazy.
Some of his emotion at having his failure pointed out must have showed on his face, because Diana smiled and punched his arm affectionately. "No offense, boss. Hey, let's go upstairs."
Peter was now more curious than ever. They made their way up to his office, meeting Neal on his way out of the conference room, heading back down to his desk. Neal flashed his most winning smile at them.
"Remember, your report, Neal," Peter called out as they passed. They'd just wrapped up a money laundering case; Neal had done most of the work, which meant his reward was doing the case summary. "By the end of the day."
"By the end of the day," Neal repeated brightly. "Of course."
"Written by you. Not one of the probies."
Neal's smile dimmed. His shoulders slumped a bit, and his eyes flicked back in the direction of the conference room where the probies were on their way out. Peter would have bet a hundred dollars that Neal had spent his time after the meeting talking one of the younger agents into writing the damn report. "If you insist."
"I do," Peter told him.
Neal sighed, but didn't argue, just went on down the stairs. Peter smiled to himself and went into his office. Diana sat down across from him.
"Now," she said briskly, setting her coffee down on the desk, "like I said, no offense. I'm just saying—you caught Neal a couple of times out of how many tries?"
"The way this works, I only need to catch him once," he reminded her, a little pointedly.
"I know, I know, but given how long you chased him, and given Neal's own very obvious—how shall I put this?—self-confidence—"
"What a polite way of saying he's the cockiest bastard any of us have ever come across," Peter interrupted.
Diana's eyes lit up. "Exactly! It took you years to catch him the first time—"
"And only a few hours the second time." Peter felt compelled to mention this.
"True, but you know what he would say about both times—it was only because of Kate, he wasn't really trying, et cetera, et cetera."
"Yes, he would say that. The reality, however—"
"Peter." Diana held up a hand. "I get it. And you're right. But you're missing my point. Neal's good, you're good. But he's a master criminal who thinks he's better. And always will. Your catching him a couple of times, as far as I can tell after years of observation, has not appreciably dimmed his own extremely high opinion of himself. Agreed?"
Oh, yes. On that, Peter agreed wholeheartedly—he gave a vigorous nod.
"Good." Diana leaned forward. "So, given all of that, why is he still here? And don't tell me it's because of the anklet," she added before Peter could say it.
"Right," Peter said. "He could run. I know that."
"Damn right he could," Diana replied. "For Neal, getting a fake ID would be child's play and Mozzie seems to have no problem getting cash when he needs it. Neal could run But he never has—well, not counting the time you told him to," she added, sotto voce. "So why not?"
"He wants to be free. Not a fugitive."
Diana looked pained. "Yes, but do you really think that's the only reason? Which brings me back, by the way, to my first question, about how Neal's changed."
Peter thought about it, watching Diana watch him. He thought about Neal, working cases, sharing his knowledge to catch a variety of offenders, with empathy for both criminals and victims. Neal, reeling from Rachel's deception and recovering after his abduction.
Neal, after Elizabeth's kidnapping: I stayed in New York because of you. Peter didn't know if that was true anymore, though.
"I think," he said slowly, after a pause, "that Neal's learned something about consequences. Dealing with victims—hell, maybe even being a victim—has given him a better understanding of what it's like to be on the other side of a con or a crime. Which may have made him a little less impulsive. Maybe," he added, his tone turning skeptical.
Diana's expression had gone from pained to pleased.
Peter went on. "He's learned that there are honest ways—legal ways—to use that brain and those skills of his. That he can even enjoy doing that."
"I agree. With all of that. But you've left out one very important aspect of how Neal's changed."
Peter frowned, thinking about what he'd said, what he'd forgotten. "Well, I also think he likes his life here, probably more than he'd be comfortable admitting."
"Yep. But you didn't mention how Neal feels about you."
"Ah," Peter said. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. This was getting into some more complicated territory, and Diana had been out on maternity leave for much of it. It wasn't something Peter particularly wanted to dwell on.
"Yeah," Diana said. "I understand, from Jones, that you and Neal had a bit of a . . . rough patch after the charges against you were dropped."
Peter focused on not reacting. He could only imagine what Jones had told her. The other agent had seen the frostiness between him and Neal up close and personal, without knowing the reasons why. But Jones, even less inclined than Peter to cut Neal any slack, had his own ideas about what had happened—and as Peter knew from their conversations on the subject, they didn't favor Neal.
"You're the acknowledged Caffrey expert," Diana remarked. "But I thought you might appreciate an outsider's perspective."
"I always value your opinion," Peter replied. Which was true. Particularly when it came to Neal. Like Peter, Diana could appreciate the nuances in things, and his relationship with Neal was nothing if not nuanced.
"It looks to me like the two of you have mostly gotten past whatever issues you had. Back more to where you were. With Neal respecting you. Trusting you. Not wanting to disappoint you."
"I'm not so sure."
"Sometimes I think it's almost in spite of himself, but I do believe that's how Neal feels," Diana said. "And that's one of the biggest ways he's changed over the last four years. Four years ago, I really don't think Caffrey's behavior would be affected one bit by what you thought. Well, except in the sense that he wanted to impress you with how awesome he was."
"Oh, he still wants that," Peter said, unable to keep from smiling.
"Definitely," Diana replied, smiling back. "But I think now he also wants to impress you with how . . . good he can be. That's important, Peter. Because it means that you are a big part of the changes in Neal."
"I think you're giving me too much credit."
Diana shook her head. "No, you're underestimating yourself. Look, I know you're worried about what he'll do when the anklet comes off. Worried about him backsliding. And you have reason to. Neal's not perfect, and he's always going to be tempted. But you might find him motivated more by faith—by higher expectations—than you might think. Especially your expectations. They matter to him. Your belief that he can't—or hasn't—changed, that his future is the same as his past, might do more damage than you realize. And that," she added, "would explain his subdued reaction to the idea that he'll be robbing museums the first chance he gets once he's free."
He didn't answer for a long moment. "It's one theory."
"Which makes a hell of a lot of sense. Like I said, you're the Caffrey expert," she said. "But I've been watching him pretty closely myself."
Elizabeth had told him this more than once—that Neal respected him, that Peter could influence him that way. While not denying it, Peter had always felt it was of limited use. Now Diana was saying the same thing. Peter still thought they were overemphasizing his role in things, but he had long ago learned the folly of arguing with Diana.
"If everything you said about Neal is true," Diana said, "then he's got lots of reasons to stay on the legal side of things. And it's time for you to realize that you're one of those reasons. Expect the best from him and you just might get it."
"If what you're saying is true," Peter shot back, "then why isn't he thinking about staying?"
Diana looked surprised. "How do you know he's not?"
"Has he told you what he's going to do?" Peter asked, deliberately not answering the question. He wondered what he'd say if Neal had told Diana—when he hadn't said anything to Peter. Neal's silence on the subject had been a source of quiet, but growing disappointment for Peter.
"Nah, he's playing his cards close to the vest," she said, eyes twinkling. "Or still figuring it out, maybe. But, you know, he will. One of these days."
"He won't even talk about what he's going to do," he'd said to El over breakfast a few days later, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. El was back from DC, back with him, thank God, for so many reasons, not the least of which was that he really needed someone to talk to about this. Someone who wasn't Jones or Diana. Elizabeth missed the National Gallery, yes, but she'd missed Peter more, and he was privately and selfishly glad for it. "Every time I ask him, he changes the subject—you know how he does. I've kind of given up asking him."
El looked back at him. "Maybe that's because he doesn't know what he's going to do."
"Or maybe he just doesn't want to tell me."
She considered it. "Okay. Possibly that, too."
"Well, either way, that's ridiculous," he said, the heat audible in his voice. When El didn't answer, he added, "Don't you think? I mean, first of all, he's got to know. The end of his sentence is almost here, and he's had four years to figure this out."
His wife sighed. "Actually, for the last four years, Neal has had very little control over anything in his life. Every day, he's had to be where he's told to be, do what he's told to do."
"That's a little unfair—"
Elizabeth held up a hand. "This isn't about you, hon, and it's certainly not meant as a criticism. Supervising Neal has been your job, and I know better than anyone that you've given him as much flexibility as anyone could expect you to—a lot more, in some cases."
Peter nodded, mollified.
"But you need to start looking at things from his perspective, and the reality is, his life has not been his own for four years. Now, suddenly, Neal has lots of choices—no limits at all, really, on what he does next. Is it any surprise that he's not sure which way to go? That maybe he wants to do a bunch of different things for a while?"
"I guess not." He eyed her, considering for a moment, and then it hit him. "You know, counting the time he spent in prison, it's been a lot more than four years. Really, it's been closer to eight years since he could make any real choices about his life."
Her eyes widened a bit. "Eight years, right. And Neal's only, what, in his early thirties? That's practically half of his adult life." Compassion flooded her features. "So, even more reason that he might be . . . struggling with it."
It was a hell of a long time, Peter had to admit. He hadn't realized it until this moment, and the knowledge was already shifting his perception of the situation. Still, he couldn't help asking. "Do you really think he doesn't know? Or is it that he knows and just doesn't want to tell me?"
"Could be either," she responded. "Though I have a pretty good idea which one it is."
He looked a question at her; she really wanted to roll her eyes at him for seeming to not know, but instead tried to explain. Usually all Peter needed in situations like this, especially where Neal was concerned, was just a little push in the right direction.
"Peter, we both know that Neal doesn't owe you anything beyond the day that anklet comes off. Right now, you know where he is every second. Could you blame him for wanting a taste of what everyone else in the world takes for granted—the freedom to wander around as he pleases, with no one knowing his whereabouts?"
That seemed to strike a chord, and Peter didn't hesitate to answer. "No."
"And you're right," Peter continued, "he won't owe me anything as a supervisory agent. That'll be over. But what about as—as a friend?"
She could see the hurt on his face—she was pretty sure Peter didn't even realize how much it showed—and automatically reached out to touch his hand. "That's why I think he doesn't know. As an agent, you have no right to ask. But as a friend, you sure as hell do. And that's why, if he knew, Neal would tell you. Something, anyway. I feel sure of it."
Peter relaxed a little, looking thoughtfully off in the distance.
"I know what you want for Neal. Does he?" When Peter didn't say anything at first, so Elizabeth continued, "When you've talked about his future, were you asking as his handler—or as his friend?"
Peter waved a hand in exasperation. "He never lets me get far enough to even talk about it!"
"So . . . maybe he has the wrong idea. Instead of demanding information he can't give, why don't you share some with him?"
"Like what?" He frowned at her.
"Like what options you can provide for him. You've talked about this with the higher-ups, right?"
"Sure." Peter nodded. "The bureaucratic wheels are in motion to keep Neal on as a paid consultant. I mean, nobody questions the results. I've got enough support to swing it." He paused, shrugging. "I'd have to move some money around, but it's doable. Well, if Neal doesn't want to be paid exorbitantly . . . ." his voice faded and his face darkened as he considered how slim the odds were that Neal wouldn't want to be paid exorbitantly.
"Good," Elizabeth said briskly. "So take him out for lunch. Quit trying to pump him for information. Instead, you do the talking. Tell him you understand that his future is wide-open right now, that he's got a lot of options. Then you explain that you've got one for him."
"That sounds good."
"Yes, but the only thing is . . . you need to be careful." El fixed him with a mild glare. "Talk with him, not at him. And don't push."
He rolled his eyes. "I won't."
"You probably won't mean to," she countered, "but you might anyway. Because you're you."
Peter got that injured who me? look on his face that always made her want to laugh. She tapped him gently on the nose and kissed him. "This calls for a delicate touch, Agent Burke."
"I can do delicate," he assured her, even as he knew it wasn't exactly his strong suit.
El knew that, too, naturally; the look on her face said so, but she was too loyal to say it out loud. "You can. Just . . . focus."
The two of them having lunch together was anything but unusual, so why did this feel different? Peter couldn't shake the feeling that Neal knew something was up. He wasn't sure if it was Neal's sixth sense kicking in, or if he himself was being obvious about it (despite trying not to be).
They went to a little diner two blocks from the FBI building. It was a no-frills kind of place, but Peter had always liked it and Neal, initially somewhat dubious, had been won over by their excellent wraps and salads.
As they perused the menus, Peter could feel Neal sneak the occasional fleeting, careful glance at him. And, admittedly, Peter was probably spending more time on the options than he needed to, given that he'd been here a hundred times and the menu hadn't changed once; the grease spots were proof of that. Truth to tell, he was thinking more about what he'd say more than he was about the lunch choices.
Once they'd placed their orders—Peter a grilled chicken sandwich and Neal a wrap—Neal was staring at him expectantly, again like he knew without being told that there was an ulterior motive to this get-together. Which was no surprise, really.
"So, Neal. I wanted to talk with you." Peter, proud that he'd remembered to not say with and not to, sent a mental thank-you to El.
"Of course," Neal said. "I'm all ears." His lips were pressed together as if he were suppressing a smile. It made Peter feel wary, but he wasn't going to let that stop him.
Peter took a deep breath and started talking. "What I'm saying isn't going to be a surprise to you. But I want to make sure you know about your options . . . ."
He went on from there, being careful and even-handed and most definitely not pushy. Instead of asking questions, he explained that, while he was sure Neal had many possibilities available to him once the anklet came off, the FBI could be one of those. Peter could make that happen—if Neal wanted it, of course. Neal could stay on as a consultant to White Collar and possibly even other divisions if there was mutual interest. He could work with other offices, too, if that appealed to him, and he could have more say in which cases he worked. Neal looked intrigued by that idea, like he hadn't thought of that aspect. Peter kept pausing, waiting for Neal to ask questions, but Neal didn't. While Peter was still going through the talking points he'd rehearsed, the food arrived.
Other than listening and nodding and taking bites of his chicken Caesar wrap, Neal wasn't doing much. Only when Peter had said his piece did Neal observe, "This is . . . not what I expected."
Peter sipped his water, his throat slightly parched from his little soliloquy. "Oh? What did you expect?"
"I don't know," Neal said, frowning a little. "A lecture about staying on the straight and narrow, maybe?"
"Been there, done that," Peter said, which replaced Neal's frown with something brighter—not a smile exactly, but a sort of knowing smirk.
Neal traced a pattern on the condensation that coated his glass of iced tea. "Do you really think that could work?"
"Could it work?" Peter echoed. It seemed like a strange thing to say. "Hasn't it been working for a few years, now?"
Neal looked up at him. Peter felt a jolt at what he saw in Neal's eyes. He couldn't describe it, he just knew that he didn't like it. In that instant, he braced himself for Neal to tell him that he was insane to even propose this, that actually nothing was really working in this arrangement any more, and that Peter had completely missed the fact that Neal couldn't wait to be rid of him. That Peter had been wrong to assume they were in a much better place than they'd been a few months ago. Just then, the server arrived with the check and Peter, grateful for the distraction, glanced down at it.
"I don't know what I'm going to do," Neal blurted out. It was, for him, uncharacteristically blunt and unpolished. Peter looked up in surprise from where he'd been reviewing the bill. Neal looked like he'd even surprised himself.
"I knew . . . before," Neal went on. He looked away. "I mean, I thought I did."
Peter wondered if he meant before the abduction. Or, no, maybe he meant before everything that had happened since. Maybe, Peter thought, it didn't really matter which one it was.
"But now . . . ." Neal left the thought hanging, incomplete, and gave a slight, one-shouldered shrug. His expression was one of frustration., an emotion Neal rarely showed.
"I don't think that's so unusual." Peter studied him for a few seconds. "To not be sure, I mean. But . . . oh. it bothers you. Doesn't it?"
One long moment later and Neal met his gaze, the mask back in place, complete with a cocksure grin. "Why would you say that?"
Peter dealt him a come on now look. "Because I know you."
"Then you know," Neal remarked, grin even wider, "that I'm ridiculously impulsive. That I thrive on spontaneity. That I—"
"Actually, what I know," Peter cut in, his tone casual, "is that you'd like people to think those things about you; hell, you'd like to think them about yourself. It fits the image nicely. But you are a lot more of a planner than you'd ever care to admit."
Neal opened his mouth, looking very much like he wanted to deny this, but instead he closed it again without speaking and then made another small shrug. Peter tried not to let his satisfaction at being right show on his face. Instead he said, "So I'm guessing that having no plan at all right now is making you, at the very least, uncomfortable and at worst, freaking you out."
"I do not freak out," Neal shot back, that familiar edge in his voice anytime his competency was questioned.
"Okay," Peter allowed. "Uncomfortable, then."
A small silence ensued before Neal finally spoke. "It's weird," Neal admitted. "And kind of embarrassing."
"Why?" But even as Peter asked the question, he already knew the answer. It was there in his own incredulous comment to El, now echoing in his head—how can he not know?
"I've had, literally, years to figure this out, but somehow I haven't." Neal let out a sardonic half-laugh and paused for a moment. "The only thing I know, right now, is that I'd like to travel. For starters. That much, I know."
"Makes sense." Peter kept his voice carefully neutral.
"Yeah, it'll be good to, you know, stretch the legs a bit." Neal's face grew thoughtful. "But I haven't really . . . gotten beyond that yet."
"Well, there's no rush," Peter said, catching sight of a stray sesame seed on his lapel and flicking it away. "And you shouldn't be too hard on yourself. About not having a plan, I mean."
Neal gave him a wry look. "Peter Burke is telling me to go with the flow?"
"Something like that." Suddenly another thought occurred to him. "You know how they tell people after they have a major change, like losing a spouse, not to make any big decisions right after? Don't sell the house right away, don't move, that kind of thing."
A little line appeared between Neal's brows as he considered it. "Are you saying I'm married to my anklet?"
Peter rolled his eyes. "No. Listen to me. I'm just saying that your sentence being up is a big deal, a big change in your life, and it makes sense not to rush into anything. Whatever you want to do, you don't have to do it all right away. The world's not going anywhere—that is," he paused, the unwelcome image of Neal in an orange jumpsuit flashing through his brain, "unless you . . . well, you know."
"Yeah," Neal sighed, as if the same unpleasant image had flitted through his mind. "I get it."
Peter had had plenty of time to get used to the idea of Neal leaving New York behind, and certainly he had no right to object. It was natural, after all, that someone in Neal's position would want to travel after being restricted to New York for so long. It would probably be weird if he didn't want to go somewhere else.
And yet . . . despite all the time he'd had to adjust to it—the thought of Neal leaving still made something in Peter's gut twist. But he didn't want to admit that, even to himself—and certainly not to Neal. So he'd only nodded agreeably upon hearing the details a few weeks after their lunchtime conversation—well, the few that Neal had to share.
Neal's smile as he sat at his desk was blinding; Peter, passing by on his way back from the men's room, had had to ask.
Neal rattled off his flight information willingly enough, waving his just-printed itinerary in the air. He was leaving the day after his sentence ended, on a one-way ticket. Peter refrained from commenting on the fact that his CI had been booking personal travel on FBI time. As transgressions went, it was a pretty minor one. (He guessed he should count himself lucky Neal hadn't found a way to put it on Peter's credit card—just for fun.)
He should also probably check his credit card statement before making any assumptions.
"Paris, huh?" Peter commented, leaning on the edge of a neighboring desk which was temporarily unoccupied. "They say it's lovely this time of year."
"Any time of year," Neal said, a faraway look in his eyes that turned into a sparkle of delight. "You know, I used to think that visiting the Louvre was almost clichéd—there are so many other wonderful museums in Paris—but suddenly I'm really missing the Louvre."
Well, hopefully the Louvre won't be missing anything after you leave, was on the tip of Peter's tongue but he didn't say it. Ever since Diana had called his attention to it, he'd seen, plain as day, that the familiar little jibes about Neal's criminal proclivities didn't make him smile like they used to. Just as Diana had said, Neal still took shameless pride in any mention of his past felonious exploits, but remarks about current or future tendencies didn't elicit the same reaction. Which Peter now found surprisingly reassuring. He'd had to concentrate on not making those comments, though; the habit was far too ingrained. Instead he said, "Mozzie going with you?"
Neal's gaze sharpened, eyes focusing intently on Peter as he gave a small shake of his head. "No."
Also reassuring in its own way . . . though Peter wasn't sure he was too excited about the idea of Neal wandering Paris alone. Then he gave himself a mental shake. Neal was an adult. There was nothing wrong with him being on his own, if he wanted to be.
And who says he's going to be alone, anyway? Peter was pretty sure Neal had spent quite a bit of time in Paris back in the day. He probably had friends there; Neal was the type of guy who probably had friends everywhere.
Thinking about the kinds of friends Neal might have, however, made Peter reconsider whether Neal being on his own was really such a bad thing . . . .
When he brought his eyes back to meet Neal's, he saw a glint there that made him pretty sure Neal knew exactly what he'd been thinking. "Mozzie is—he's got something else going on in the next little while."
Peter knew better than to ask what that might be. "And after Paris?"
Neal leaned back in the chair, spread his arms wide in an expansive gesture. "To be determined."
Peter nodded.
"But," Neal continued, "you know what Oscar Wilde said about Paris."
"What's that?"
"That it's where good Americans get to go when they die."
"Yeah, well, let's not test that theory," Peter told him sternly.
"Shouldn't be a problem."
Peter narrowed his eyes. "Because . . . ?"
"Good Americans, Peter." Neal smiled as he put a delicate but definite emphasis on the first word. "That would seem to exclude me. You know, being a convicted felon and all."
"Which doesn't make you a bad person," Peter said.
Neal raised his eyebrows. "You probably should be careful about saying that kind of thing to a criminal."
The look Peter gave him was long and searching, his face solemn, but finally Peter's lips quirked into a smile. "A reformed criminal."
Neal smiled back, then ducked his head in an approximation of shyness that actually looked real. He cleared his throat. "Anyway," he continued, "I might stay there a while. Or not. It depends . . . ."
There was no need for Peter to ask, on what? Because he knew that what Neal would do depended on nothing predictable, or quantifiable or definable. It would depend on how Neal felt when he woke up on any given Paris morning.
That was the whole point.
"Oh, really? Paris!" El said appreciatively (not to mention wistfully) that evening over a quiet dinner out. "Good for him."
Peter didn't say anything. Elizabeth wasn't wrong, of course, but in his heart of hearts, he wished Neal would have foregone the adventuring.
Or, at least, talked about coming back. That, he knew, was probably a more realistic goal at this point.
He brought his mind back to the conversation. His wife had fixed him with an appraising stare. "—did you?"
"Did I what?" Lost in a reverie, he'd missed something.
"You didn't make him feel guilty, did you?"
"I was appropriately happy," he assured her. Though, as he thought back on it, he hadn't exactly expressed happiness. "Or . . . at least, I didn't say anything negative."
Elizabeth sighed. "This is an exciting thing for him, honey. You should be happy for him. As a friend."
She was right, as El usually was. He should be happy for Neal. And he was. Kind of. The problem was, it was hard to separate that from his own personal feelings of knowing that Neal was leaving and maybe never coming back.
Thinking about that made Peter feel anything but happy. And yet he knew he should be encouraged that Neal was even considering staying in New York. Because not so long ago, that would have been a foregone conclusion. He thought back to that day when he'd had to tell Neal that the anklet was staying on, that the DOJ was opposed to the early release. Peter had honestly thought that Neal, angry and upset, still dealing with the aftermath of Rebecca's treachery and his own decision to go to DC, might actually just run. Later that day, of course, Peter had decided he was staying in New York after all.
It was the day Neal had disappeared.
A dark day, for so many reasons. But a lot had happened since then.
TBC
A/N: The upcoming chapters will fill in some of the events that occurred between the end of Season 5 (Diamond Exchange) and the beginning of this story.
Thank you for reading. Comments, as always, are greatly appreciated!