Disclaimer: Nothing recognizable is mine.
This was written for a battle at gameofcards at LiveJournal - the theme was 'winter' and I chose to use it mostly conceptually with grief being the winter of the soul. The title comes from Through the Ghost by Shinedown.
Neal Caffrey had been dead six months when Peter first thought he saw him on the street. He had seen him before, sitting at his desk with the rubber band ball, or in the reflection of his window. He had caught himself turning to say something to Neal during a briefing and stopped himself short only a week before. This was different. The wound was still so fresh and he had expected to see Neal everywhere and it crushed him when his friend was not there.
He did a double take and the man at the corner was gone. Peter shook himself and kept going. His mind had to be playing tricks on him. They always said the first year of grieving was the worst. He kept expecting Neal to be there and he was always bitterly disappointed.
It took him three years to catch Caffrey the first time. It had been hard to put the case to rest the first time, but he had gotten it out of his head long before Neal had escaped. Then Neal had gotten under his skin and become his friend more than a con he had put in jail. Six months after the case had been closed for the last time and he still saw him out of the corner of his eye.
Three months later Jones brought Peter footage of a failed sting with the CI he was working with. The audio was missing – their CI's bug had been found and they were relying on nothing more than a tapped security camera and praying they could get him out alive. They had been about to go in when someone else had appeared on the screen – someone else that had made everyone in the room stop.
Peter could the silhouette in the corner of the screen, the outlines of a suit instead of the street clothes he had been expecting. The man in the suit said something and the other men exchanged glances. One of them pulled a gun and the man's hands went up. Chills ran down his spine.
When Jones and his team burst in ten seconds later the man in the suit stepped out of the sight of the camera and back into the shadows. He vanished. None of the cameras on the street outside caught a glimpse of him. He was a ghost.
It took everything Peter had not to say that it was Neal and send Jones on a wild goose chase. Neal Caffrey was dead. He had seen the body himself. Dead men did not stop stings from going to hell.
The CI was useless – his cover was blown and he had not even seen who it was who had saved his life. It was a blessing and a curse, as cliché as that sounded. It put Peter's heart at ease because it could not be Neal, yet he found himself second guessing himself.
Whoever it was fell off the map again after that. Peter assumed whoever it was had overplayed his hand. It was a safe assumption, at least. It was better than letting his mind play tricks on him and hope that a dead man was still alive.
The next time Peter saw a dark-haired man in a fedora and a familiar well-tailored suit walking away from him in the crowd his heart skipped a beat and he nearly dropped his coffee. It had been eight months since the sting and they had not seen hide nor hair of their mystery man.
He found himself following the man without even realizing he was moving. He did not know why he was doing that – he knew better. The man stopped on a corner, hands in his pockets. The angle of his hat was precisely how Neal used to wear his and it made Peter's heart jump to his throat.
Before he could do anything the man started walking again and he lost him in a crowd of people. Peter swore at himself for being so careless. He should have known better. What was he thinking? For all he knew it could be a trap.
He turned around, shaking his head as he walked. That did not stop him from glancing over his shoulder at the spot where the man in the suit had stood only moments before.
He could not help himself – he missed Neal. He missed having someone to bounce ideas off of and having someone who thought out of the box by his side. He even missed the reckless bravery that Neal displayed more often than not. For all he had been unwilling to see Neal as anything but a criminal in the end, he knew that Neal enjoyed their work. And losing Neal had left a massive gaping hole in the team and Peter's own resolve.
Peter was numb. It had been years and all he had left of Neal was the box he kept in his closet and the sense of desolation that rose when he least expected it. He knew that eventually it would fade – eventually he would accept the fact that this was the new reality and Neal was never coming back.
The empty ache in his chest almost matched the cold winter wind that cut through his coat. The grief was still too fresh.
Another year passed. His son was almost three the next time something popped up. It was a simple thing – they could not find a way to pin the evidence on their suspect. He was ready to pull his hair out when he walked into his office one morning to find all of the evidence they needed sitting on his desk. Not the case agent's desk. His desk.
He went straight for the security feed. There was nothing on the feed for the entire floor but empty desks and silent corridors. It was as if a ghost had put a gift on his desk. A very convenient ghost.
Then it occurred to him to look at the elevator feeds. They were almost clean. They showed the doors closing behind someone but none of the ride up or down. It was on loop. It was almost imperceptible but it was just clumsy enough.
The cameras in the lobby failed right as the night security guard rose and started towards something off-camera. It came back online just as the glass door at the front of the Bureau closed. He could make out his phantom in the city lights. The silhouette is grainy, but there is no mistaking the shine of leather and the gloves that heralded a thief. There were no other conmen brazen enough to walk into the FBI and right back out.
The cameras outside were no help – it was snowing and the snowflakes obscured the view just enough that the man melted into the crowds still wandering the streets.
It took everything Peter had to squash the hope blooming in his chest. Neal Caffrey was dead. He had to keep telling himself that. That was his reality, even if he could hardly stand to face it, much less accept it. He had seen his friend's body in the mortuary bag. Dead men did not walk out of the morgue. There was no proof, no fingerprints – there was nothing that could concretely place Neal in Peter's office, much less the building. He was nothing but a ghost.
He decided to leave it. The evidence was marked as an anonymous tip and the case was closed by the time he walked out of the office. He dared not breathe a word to El.
Two weeks later she called him in tears. It took almost five minutes before he could calm her down enough to get what was wrong out of her. "Peter, they took him. They took Neal."
Peter's blood ran cold. "Who took him?"
"I don't know." El's voice became very soft, almost broken. "I took the dog out and when I came back he was gone."
"We'll find him," Peter promised. It was an automatic response, but he hoped that they could.
He was home with Jones on his tail within the half hour. Diana was in from DC only a few hours later. His head was spinning. It was impossible to avoid the comparisons between now and when Keller took El. Except this time he did not have Caffrey to help. He did not have Mozzie either.
The rest of the day was a blur. The night was sleepless. Peter spent the next day in the van with Jones, his fingers cold despite the vehicle's heater. He could not sit at home and do nothing but stare at the snow-covered street and spending the day in his office would only drive him insane. The demands came in before lunch. His son was safe – but they had a day to release one of the Pink Panthers. They had a day to release one of the men responsible for his best friend's death – Keller might have pulled the trigger but if it was not for them Neal would still be alive. The thought made Peter's stomach knot.
He felt like he was sitting on his hands. This was over his pay grade. Even if he filed the papers it would never happen – not in time.
His only consolation was the video feed they gave him. There were little things that he could only hope would help them find his son. They had found kidnapped children before. He tried not to remember the last time something like this happened.
Jones had the area narrowed down based on the little they could see out of the corner of a window as the sun was going down. They did not let him put on his vest or coordinate with the team. He was in charge of the White Collar division and he was stuck in the damn van. Something about being "too close to the situation" Jones had said. He was certainly not wrong.
The team was about to go in when a dark figure slipped into the room. Peter's heart stopped until the man on the feed glanced over his shoulder and it was impossible not to recognize him. Neal Caffrey bent to pick Peter's son up and froze, glancing over his shoulder again. When he looked back at little Neal he pressed one finger to his own lips, then retreated to a shadowed alcove with the boy in his arms just as someone else entered the room. The other man looked around, then bolted back out the door.
Neal peaked out of the alcove and let out a sigh of relief. He slid out of the shadows and peered out the door. Peter's stomach knotted as he watched. He could not believe his eyes. "Damnit, Neal!" The next thing he knew the headphones he had been holding loosely in his hand clatter against the floor at the edge of their reach. He wanted to punch something. Trust Neal Caffrey to waltz in alive and well and not bother telling the FBI – or Peter.
The next ten minutes are torture. Peter could not bring himself to move from his chair in the van. He kept staring at the screen, praying that everything would be alright. If he was honest he was not sure if he could handle mourning his son or Caffrey again.
Then someone opened the back of the van. Peter flinched. His eyes met Diana's and he could see the anger in them. "You'll never guess who we found," she said.
"Neal." It came out barely above a whisper. Which Neal he was referring to was completely up for debate – in that moment, he was not sure who he was more relieved to see: his son or the man he loved like a brother. He pushed himself out of his seat and staggered out of the van, stopping when he caught sight of Caffrey holding the boy.
A part of him was at war. He closed the distance between himself and his former CI and plucked his son out of the other man's arms. He held the boy tightly, tears threatening to slip down his face. His son was safe.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Neal try to slip away. "Don't even think about it, Caffrey."
Neal froze. His eyes were as wide as a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, Peter thought. That served him right.
His son fell asleep in his arms almost immediately. It was incredibly convenient, but he could not blame little Neal for that. To say that it had been a long day was an understatement. Peter almost wished he could do the same.
Instead, he passed his son to Diana and turned to face Neal. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Neal put his hands up. "I was trying to help."
"You were dead! It's been three years!" He took a step forward and Neal took a step back.
"Peter, calm down. I was protecting you."
That was the last straw. Peter took another step forward and slugged Neal. The resulting yelp and the thud as Neal hit the ground was incredibly satisfying. "You don't get to make that decision for me," he growled.
The other man rubbed his face where Peter had punched him, slipping on the ice beneath their feet when he pushed himself up. "Okay, I deserved that," he admitted. "I was just trying to make sure you and El were safe, Peter."
Peter ran a hand over his face. "I grieved for you," he spat. "We all did. You lied to us. You lied to me and Mozzie in the morgue. You knew exactly what was going on."
Neal pushed himself to his feet and looked Peter straight in the eye. "Yes. I did. It was the only way I could think of to protect you."
"So you faked your death and lied to everyone. You ran. Again." He wanted to hit Neal again, to knock some sense into him. He turned away, shaking his head.
"Yes. I did," Neal repeated. "I'm sorry. It was safer for everyone if I was dead."
Peter turned back to Neal. "We grieved for you. Did you even think about that when you did this? Did you even begin to grasp the consequences of your actions or was this another one of your harebrained schemes?"
Neal pursed his lips. "I was going to come back."
"Really? When were you going to grace us with your presence again, Neal? When something bad happened? Oh wait. That's exactly what happened."
Neal's expression shifted between resignation and something Peter could not quite put his finger on. "Listen, you have every right to be angry. Yes, I lied to you. But I never lied to you before, Peter."
Bitter laughter spilled from Peter's mouth. He put his hands on his belt and shook his head. "And you think that matters right now?"
The resignation on Neal's face became irritation. "Peter—"
Peter held up his hand. "No, that's enough. Jones, take him to holding," he said. He turned away from Neal so that he could try to settle his nerves.
He could hear the tell-tale clatter of handcuffs and the wince when Jones closed them a little too tightly on Neal's wrists. He also heard Neal sigh when Jones led him past Peter. "Really? This is how it's going to be? I can get out of these in twenty seconds tops and we both know that." It was directed more at Peter than it was at Jones, who rolled his eyes.
"Try it and we'll add resisting arrest to the list of charges."
Neal's eyebrows shot up. "What exactly are you charging me with?"
"Oh, I don't know, breaking and entering, falsifying your own death, conspiracy, running who knows where – I'm sure I can find something that will stick."
The expression on Neal's face hardened. There was anger in his eyes as Jones led him away.
Peter retrieved his son from Diana's arms and made his way back to his car. He settled Neal into the car seat and climbed into the driver's seat, then stopped. He did not know how long he sat there before he finally turned the key and started the engine.
The drive home was a blur. By the time he got out of the car El was racing down the steps. There were tears streaming down her face when he opened the car door and she could see Neal. She kissed Peter before she fumbled with the straps holding their son in his seat and pulled him close.
"How?" The word came out strangled.
Peter hesitated. He had to tell her – but telling El would mean it was real. He could not just shove Neal back out of their lives like he desperately wanted to. "Caffrey."
El stared at him. "Neal? He's dead, Peter."
"No, he's not," he told her. "He's in a holding cell at the Bureau. Or should be if he doesn't escape."
El did not say anything more, instead reaching for his hand and leading him inside. They ended up falling asleep in their bed with their clothes still on and Neal curled between them.
Peter woke first, a faint smile settling on his face until he realized what was waiting for him at the office. He slipped out of bed, showered and got ready for work. El slumbered on, their son cuddled close to her.
By the time he arrived at the Bureau Jones was already there. He was standing by the coffee pot, giving the machine a discontented look as it continued to splutter away. He took a sip just as Peter caught his eye.
"Do you believe this guy?" Jones asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the briefing room.
Peter looked up to see Neal was sitting quietly at the table. That was not suspicious at all. The only time Peter had known Neal Caffrey to be quiet was when he was plotting something or trying not to get caught. It was too late for the second, so Neal could only be up to something.
Peter let out an irate sigh, pouring himself a cup of coffee before he headed up the stairs. He headed to his office first, checked his e-mail, and put it off as long as he could stand it.
The first thing he noticed when he walked into the briefing room was that Neal looked tired. That was something of a surprise. Neal never allowed himself to appear tired. His clothes were significantly rumpled, save for the jacket, which hung over the back of his chair. There was a pair of handcuffs sitting undone on the table. That was no surprise – Neal had always hated handcuffs.
Neal looked up at him when he entered, choosing that moment to lean back in his chair like he always used to. He had a bruise blooming over one cheekbone from where Peter had hit him the night before. "Hello, Peter."
"Don't hello me, Caffrey. You're going to tell me what the hell is going on here. Right now."
Neal hesitated. "It was the only way."
"You faked your own death! You conned us! Again. What else was a con? Did you ever mean to go straight or were you going to go right back to conning people?"
Neal regarded him warily. "That's not fair, Peter."
"You want to talk about fair? It's been three years."
"You don't think I know that? It's been three years for me, too."
"This is just like you, making everything about yourself! Do you have any idea what you put us through? Did you think about Mozzie at all? Or Diana or Jones? Or Sara? Did you think about me and El?"
"Of course I did! I did it for you! If I hadn't then the Pink Panthers would have killed you. Or worse. At least with my death they had a target and it wasn't you or El or your son. They would have found you, Peter. They would have killed all of you."
Peter leaned over, palms pressed onto the table. "There were ways that did not involve everyone who cared about you thinking you were dead. We mourned, Neal. And where were you? Gallivanting across Europe under another assumed name?"
The change in Neal's expression was sudden. His mouth pressed into a thin line and his eyes became shards of ice. "I handed you the Pink Panthers on a silver platter. I made your career. That was the deal – the Panthers for my freedom. I held up my end of the bargain."
"This is not about the bargain!"
"Then what is it about, Peter? I've done nothing wrong."
"Nothing we can prove."
Neal let out a bitter laugh. "So that's what it's about. You still think I'm a criminal."
Peter stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. He opened his mouth to speak but Neal put his hand up.
"No. You haven't trusted me since you took the fall for what my father did. You haven't forgiven me for making you a free man. You didn't believe I could change. You still thought I was a criminal when I had tried so hard to change. You said it yourself. I'm just a criminal." He got to his feet, looking Peter straight in the eye. "I had a life here. I was happy. I had a family! I wasn't going to leave once I was free. I was going to stay here – not that it matters anymore."
Peter straightened, unable to find words while Neal's gaze bored into him.
"I gave it up, Peter. I gave up everything I had for you. If you want to talk about things being fair, let's talk about how you shut me out and stopped believing in me. You stopped believing I could change. I gave up my life for you. To protect you and El and your son. Don't tell me what's fair and what's not."
The fire in Neal's expression surprised Peter. He was used to the conman, the one who always had a smile for everyone around him. He was used to the act that Neal had always put on – the shield he never let down. But he was not used to this.
They stood in tense silence, neither willing to move before the other. Finally, Neal sighed. "I am sorry for the pain you went through. Truly. But do not stand there like you are the victim and you've done nothing wrong. Don't blame me for making sure the FBI would not go back on their word and let me go. I earned my freedom."
Peter searched his face for a moment, trying to find the right words. "Was your freedom worth dying for?"
The echo made a smile touched Neal's lips. "It might be." He paused for a moment before continuing. "Am I free to leave?"
Peter's breath caught in his throat. "Yes."
Neal headed for the door to the briefing room without another word. He was down the stairs and heading for the glass doors that separated them from the elevators before Peter was even at the balcony.
"Neal!"
Neal turned to look at him, a flash of surprise in his expression. "Yes, Peter?"
"Keep in touch, would you? Stop by and see the boy sometime. El would like it. She misses you, too."
The tension evaporated suddenly and Neal's face lit with one of his infuriatingly cocky and charming smiles. "Of course. Goodbye, Peter." He turned and kept going, a jaunty spring in his step.
"Goodbye, Neal." Peter's voice was soft as he watched Neal go. His heart sank when the elevator doors opened and Neal disappeared from sight. It took him a moment to realize that he was gripping the railing tight enough to turn his knuckles white. He let go and retreated to his office.
He could see Diana and Jones exchanging glances on the floor and speaking softly. He could see the concern in their expressions, but he tried to ignore them.
It took him ten minutes to find his ability to focus. He opened the top drawer of his desk and froze. Nestled next to the rubber band ball he had kept when they cleaned out Neal's desk was a burner phone with one of Peter's own sticky notes attached to it. The writing was Neal's gently sloping handwriting.
Should you ever need me. –NC
Peter flipped the phone open and pressed the contacts to see one number programmed in. He could not help the smile that crept onto his face.