Title: Stars that Fell (1/?)
Author: Ima Pseudonym
Rating: PG (eventual NC17)
Summary: When the unthinkable happens, Peter Burke finds he's capable of responding in kind.
Pairings: Neater (in varying flavors of mutual, unreciprocated, coerced, and wishful.)
Warnings: This will be a very dark fic, including major character death, kidnapping, dub-con, non-con, betrayal, law-breaking, and dark humor. Seriously, I've been calling this my "Peter goes crazy" fic. It may be triggery, may be upsetting. May rock your socks. Ya'll done been warned.
There will be spoilers up to S3E10.
Notes: I started writing this story (and another fic that goes a whole different direction) directly after 'Countdown' aired. (The episode ends with Peter and Neal discovering Elizabeth was kidnapped by Matthew Keller.)
This takes place an unspecified amount of time after the kidnapping: Likely somewhere between a few days, to a week.
So strap in kiddies, because here we go.
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Neal had thought for one terror-stricken instant that Peter might go for his gun when news came of her death.
A bullet for Neal?
It was my fault. My fault. This is my doing.
A bullet for Peter, himself? Neal's self-interest forgot to kick in when the latter thought scared him more.
But Hughes had stepped in and calmly, slowly invaded his agents' personal space, removing the piece. Only then did he offer his condolences; the sound a metaphorical gunshot in the silenced office. Words stuck in Neal's throat. Not because he didn't care -Christ, the only person who cared more was the widower who had been happily married Peter Burke- but because he was afraid of what would happen if those blank eyes turned to him, and saw the full assumption of guilt.
They didn't turn. Agent Jones pulled Neal in one direction, and Hughes guided Peter the other.
Jones had tears on his cheeks, and Neal wondered if they were for Elizabeth or Peter.
They were in the hallway before one hiccough released Neal's own violent sobs. Jones ushered him past curious agents and onto the elevator, hitting the button to stop it between floors; give the conman time to collect himself.
He didn't. Neal rubbed at his eyes with the finely-woven sleeve of his expensive jacket, until they were red and raw; didn't notice when his nose was mashed into the agent's shoulder, staining it with snot and spit and saline.
But after several minutes, he was able to stand without the physical support: Was able to sniffle noisily, and wipe the sheen of sweat from his forehead.
"I'm taking him to his apartment. I'll keep watch." Jones murmured into his phone, quiet like his volume would set Neal off again.
Neal didn't bother asking if his being watched was protection from Keller, himself, or Peter.
He didn't offer Jones a drink, but the agent helped himself to a bottle of seldom touched gin.
The first words he spoke since the worst moment of his life were in anger. "Get out!" he'd screamed at Mozzie as the eccentric man made to enter the room with grief and apology written on his face. And then, "Get the fuck off me!" to Jones who had stopped Neal mid-lunge at his oldest, truest friend.
Mozzie didn't argue. Didn't say a word. Only turned, slowly, and left.
It had been Neal's say so, but Mozzie's plan; the daring and ingenious operation to retain the treasure, free Elizabeth, and keep themselves out of prison.
Neal knew it was his own fault, but he couldn't scream at himself to get out. Couldn't tangibly hate himself.
He did, anyway, but Mozzie was an easier outlet.
Neal didn't speak to Peter for months, after that day. The agent had been pulled off duty for grieving and grief counseling and anything else that involved both grief and time. No person in the White Collar division was in contact with him, but Peter's continued silence wounded and worried his CI.
Keller remained elusive. The team was obliged to bring Neal back in as their best source of information.
He'd been under house arrest; the generous two-mile radius reduced to June's spacious home. Somehow, he felt cooling his heels back in prison would have been better. Penance was hard to come by when you had a million dollar view, and Italian roast beverages. June kept her home very well-stocked.
Back to work, the world shifted with alarming ease back to business as usual. Only Agent Burke's absence and the intimately personal nature of the case belayed normality. It became another new routine, for Neal. For weeks he slid quietly into an agent's waiting car, kept his head low, and didn't raise it until he was back in his loft where the walls added his failures to a rich history that couldn't be recounted.
And then one evening, as his chin made that long-awaited upward tilt, he was no longer alone with the ghosts of criminals past.
Peter was clean-shaven, but his eyes were red and his clothing wrinkled. He stood slowly, from his perch on the edge of Neal's bed, eyes not leaving the conman. As always, though far more acutely than usual, Neal was conscious of the height difference between them: The difference in sheer strength. They hadn't been alone together since before Elizabeth was kidnapped; let alone since she…
He could admit to being afraid. But he stood his ground, ignoring every instinct that screamed 'run'.
"I need in, Neal. I need to take him down." Peter said, exhaling shakily as though the effort to speak cost him greatly.
Neal opened his mouth to respond, but words caught on a hitched breath. There were no ready words, anyway: Nothing that could be conveyed around the lump in his throat, except for one terse nod.
Neal didn't cry. Peter did. The consultant stood awkwardly by, unable to breach the distance between the corporeal and emotional, as his mind ached to place a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder, and recoiled at the thought of closeness to anyone.
"I'll- I'll figure it out." The younger man promised in the horrible silence that fell after the choked sobs had finally tapered off.
It turned out to be fairly easy.
"Peter's in, or I'm out." Neal threatened at one of the endless conferences.
They ranted and railed and threatened, throwing around phrases and words like 'implicated', 'withholding evidence', and '-throw away the key' but nothing shook his determination.
Peter came back from his leave as a consultant on the case, until he could demonstrate professional impartiality; or at least that he could tolerate Keller's name spoken aloud without going postal.
The only trouble was he demonstrated too well. The agent threw himself into the case with a focus so chillingly calm that he seemed monstrously aloof.
Hughes had his misgivings (and he wasn't alone in them), but full control over the case was given to Peter with the understanding that he would let another agent lead in potential arrest situations, and that he wasn't allowed anywhere near Keller when they caught him.
The reinstated agent kept Neal close at all times in the office, and only guilt stayed the conman's protests. It was torture seeing what had become of Peter Burke. Everyone else kept their distance.
Burke-Caffrey, formerly the golden, sitcom-worthy, duo became the sad pariah of the New York branch: The cold, tireless machine, and his cringing but faithful pet convict.
Mozzie was abroad following in the desperate, sometimes bloody wake of Keller's flight. The FBI received the anonymous tips almost daily, and devoured the information. Keller was getting sloppy, getting slow, when it all went to Hell.
The FBI trapped Keller as close to home as Chicago. They were finally ready to move in for the kill, in contact with the Chicago PD, when a frail-looking man came into the building. He stopped in the bull pen, and remained unnervingly silent until every eye was trained on him.
"My name's Alan Davis," he stated, " and I would like to confess to the abduction and murder of Elizabeth Burke."
TBC
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A/N: 'TeH hEllll?' you say? Stay tuned! I've got a large chunk of the story finished, and a few alternate endings rolling around, upstairs (from sad, to hopeful, to nonsensical). This chapter was mostly the setup and reasons behind character behaviors for the rest of the story. The next chapter will get darker (which should be saying something considering the story opened with a major death.)
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