Disclaimer:I don't own the wonderful creation that is White Collar. If I did season two would already be showing in the UK.
Authors Note: I have been absent from the world of for a couple of year and I finally realised how much I've missed writing fanfic. While re-watching my White Collar DVD this fandom seemed a brilliant place to start. As I live in the UK we haven't had season two aired here yet so this fic takes place after the season one finale. Bear with me if there are is anything that goes against the season two canon.
Hope you enjoy my little one shot, please feel free to hit that little review button at the bottom to let me know what you think.
Behind Blue Eyes
No one knows what it's like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes.
An empty bottle and an empty promise.
That was all that Neal Caffrey, convicted felon and alleged art thief, had left. He sat on the cold floor unaware of the cool New York air sending shivers through his thin frame. His mind drifting to the last time he had been sitting on the floor, turning the empty bottle of '82 Bordeaux in his hands. Last time he had missed her by two days. Two days and nothing left but the damn empty bottle. But even though he had been devastated by the idea of losing her, his mind had spun a thousand cons and schemes to find her again. Now, months later, he didn't even have that hope.
No one knows what it's like
To be hated
To be fated
To telling only lies.
He had always thought of Kate as his balance. His partner-in-crime, his other half, (and when he was at his most romantic) his soul mate. They had been the perfect team, running con after con. So in-sync that it was like they could read each other's minds. She had been there for him when it got too difficult to wear the con-mans mask. She gave him confidence when he experienced self-doubt. And she had been there, like clockwork, every week while he was stuck in prison, promising him a future. Neal knew other partnerships he had met while running jobs, who swore loyalty and love but they would sell each other out in a heartbeat. He had thought that his partnership with Kate was stronger than that. Stronger even, than Life and Death.
But my dreams
They aren't as empty
As my conscience seems to be
I have hours, only lonely
My love in vengeance
That's never free.
Then it was all snatched away from him. She had been waiting for him on the plane with a smile on her face, and for the first time in four long years Neal saw a chance to finally fulfil the promise of a real life. No more cons. No more running and hiding behind fake names. When Kate smiled at him from the doorway of the plane he had seen their whole life flash through his mind. He had seen a house and a dog, kids playing in the yard. A time where he could paint and draw and sculpt whatever he felt like, whenever he felt like. When he and Kate would be happy and together.
And then Peter had arrived. Peter who was always trying to save him, who knew him better then he knew himself. 'And understood him' a voice at the back of his head whispered, 'better then Kate ever had'.
No one knows what it's like
To feel these feelings
Like I do
And I blame you.
Peter, who had held him back from the heat and the flames. Who held him back as he screamed his throat raw and fought to get to the plane. To Kate. Finally his legs had collapsed underneath him but Peter still held on, keeping him grounded.
After that things had become a blur as Peter had called in a report of the explosion, had bundled him into the car and raced through the sped limits. Back at Peters home he had been taken to the guest room while Elizabeth fussed and Peter paced. Neal had lain in the bed shaking with a cold that wouldn't go away; his fingers curled into Satchmo's fur, and stared at nothing. Reliving Kate's last smile and the explosion that took her life.
No one bites back as hard
On their anger
None of my pain and woe
Can show through
When the fog cleared two days later and Neal had ventured down stairs, the first question out of his mouth was 'who?' Who had set the bomb on the plane, who had set it up that he and Kate should die? Peter's gaze had been full of sympathy as he told Neal he couldn't answer that question. In all his years as a conman, Neal had avoided guns and violence, but now the only thing on his mind was that someone had to pay for Kate's death. Someone needed to pay for taking away the last chance for his happily ever after.
But my dreams
They aren't as empty
As my conscience seems to be
I have hours, only lonely
My love is vengeance
That's never free.
No one could give him answers. Not even Moz, with all his contacts had been able to find out who had set the bomb on the plane. Neal had gone back to Junes, to the familiar apartment that had become his home. June sat with him at breakfast as they drank coffee and read the paper in comfortable silence. She insisted that he joined her for dinner where they drank wine by candlelight. And they talked. He told her about how he met Kate and some of the cons they had run together, and she recounted poker games and dances with Byron. June understood his loss better than anyone after watching her husband fade before her eyes to an invisible enemy.
When my fist clenches, crack it open
Before I use it and lose my cool
When I smile, tell me some bad news
Before I laugh and act like a fool.
It wasn't until the night fell and he lay in bed, blue eyes watching the ceiling but seeing nothing but a smile that was eaten by the fire, that the memories became too much. He paced the apartment, an anger building inside of him that he had never felt before. He smashed glasses. He punched the wall. He watched with a cold detachment that scared him more than anything else as blood trickled through his fingers.
But that had been hours ago. Now the smashed glass littered the apartment floor, all but forgotten as Neal had staggered out onto the balcony and slumped against the wall. He had smiled bitterly when he saw that the only glass to survive his rampage had been the empty bottle of '82 Bordeaux. For one brief, wild moment he had considered letting it drop over the edge of the rooftop, to watch it shatter into pieces on the side walk. Like his heart was shattered. He snorted at the bad poetry and instead rolled the bottle back and forth in his hands.
He had found a forgotten bottle of Jack Daniels under the sink, unsure where it had come from and not really caring. The alcohol burned down his throat as he savoured each mouthful. It was the first time in days that he had felt warm again. When the bottle was empty he had smashed it angrily on the floor. Without that slow burn to warm him the cold started to seep back into his bones.
If I swallow anything evil
Put your fingers down my throat
If I shiver, please give me a blanket
Keep me warm, let me wear your coat.
He didn't hear the banging on the door or his name hollered in time with each pound. He missed the softly spoken curse as Peter forced his way into the apartment and surveyed the carnage inside. It wasn't until he felt the gentle fingers rest in his hair and his head was gently tipped up that Neal noticed that anyone else was there.
Peter was little more than a blur to his alcohol fuddled brain but he focused on the concerned brown eyes as a sob escaped his throat. Peter said nothing, just pulled the convict close, wrapping his coat round the shivering form and watched the sun rise over the Manhattan skyline.
No one knows what it's like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes.