A/N: Hello, friends. Good news: I'm not dead! I apologies for my lack of posting and updates on my story the past several months. I've had a lot to deal with in my personal life and haven't spent much time on FF. I wanted to post this as a one last post-Judgement Day fic before the premiere tonight. It is written to the song Vienna by The Fray. I'll hopefully be posting an update of Dominos soon. Thanks for reading!
I do not own White Collar.
One shake of the head. Quick, precise. No words, no other gestures (unless you count Peter's steady eyes drilling into his own blue). That simple shake is enough, plenty enough. The presence of Kramer and his Marshalls just reassure what Neal already knows: he needs to go. Now. Fortunately, Neal's con artist life has prepared him for this—disappearing—because he doesn't completely yet process what's happening. Can't completely see the magnitude of what has just occurred, or what he's about to do. He's used to running; it's second nature. A natural instinct his body had forgotten, but now revived.
The day's last one-way ticket train pulls in
We smile for the casual closure capturing
After jogging nearly three blocks, Neal hails a cab and gives the man June's address. There's no time to cover his tracks. No time to fully collect his bearings and calm himself before continuing. It's now or jail. Maybe worse. Who knew anymore what Kramer had up his sleeve?
He extracts a sleek burner phone (kept for such emergencies) from his inside suit pocket and sends a one-word message to Mozzie: Vienna. It is a long-ago developed code, established in the city it was named for, for instances just like this. A few minutes pass before he receives a response: p35 our hone. He gets the message; JFK airport in one hour. Mozzie wouldn't risk revealing their destination over the phone, not that it'd matter. They'll be wherever for a matter of minutes before catching a flight somewhere else, then somewhere else to lay low for a day or so. Neal has no idea what they will do after that.
The cab ride has ended and Neal flees the vehicle, tipping generously. If what Mozzie said before was true, that half the treasure is still in their possession, overseas, then Neal is rich now. He can afford it. Gathering his few belongings takes merely seconds; satchel bag from its compartment in the bookcase, passports and cash behind the painting, a book off his bed and a couple other important things around the apartment.
On a last parting thought, Neal puts June's house key on the kitchen table and places his favorite fedora on top. He hopes she finds it first, and not some FBI agents of Kramer's pawing around after he's gone. It's the closest to saying goodbye that he can come.
There goes the downpour
There goes my fare thee well
He arrives at the airport exactly on time. Mozzie flags him down, and they enter the flight together. Boston. By now dozens of feds must be scouring the travel outlets for him, headed far, far away from New York City. No one would dream he'd be headed north, only to Boston. He is no longer Neal Caffrey. Neal Caffrey was left behind in that first taxi ride. His passport reads 'Victor Moreau' and the blue-eyed man has countless forms of documentation backing up his new identity. Shedding aliases in place of different names is nothing strange to Victor Moreau, but letting go of Neal Caffrey hurts more than any swap ever has.
As Mozzie—Bob—stands Lolana up on the seat-back tray table, his younger companion fights the urge to rub his now-free left ankle with nostalgia. He hated that anklet—always has. It's not the tracker that he misses; it's the connection that it represented. To New York, his home. To Jones, Diana, June, Sara and Elizabeth, his friends. To Peter. His best friend. His partner. His family. The plane lurches to take off, and Neal closes his eyes. It is in this moment that he truly feels everything, the weight of events and his own actions. He won't be sleeping in his bed tonight. He won't be at work 9 AM Monday morning. He maybe, just maybe, won't see Peter ever again.
There's really no way to reach me
There's really no way to reach me
There's really no way to reach me
'Cause I'm already gone
From Boston the pair travels onto Atlanta, then from Atlanta to the lowest tip of Texas, right above the Mexican border. Mozzie wants to get on one more flight, leave the States while they still can, but Neal convinces him otherwise. What he says is that Kramer and whomever else will be expecting that, waiting with a trap. That's true too, but in actuality Neal agrees with Moz's foresight. For some reason he's not ready to leave the U.S. yet.
Neal can tell Mozzie sees right through his lies, but says nothing. "Bob" gives him some space, finding an airport bar to sit at. Neal watches him go and navigates his way to an empty supply closet. Quiet. Hidden. Unbugged. No longer able to stand it, he borrows back his old identity and calls a familiar number.
"Burke." He sounds tired. Neal Caffrey's only been missing a matter of hours, and those hours have no doubt been hell for his handler.
"Peter," Neal says with obvious relief. He's not sure why—this conversation won't resolve anything, except perhaps Neal's homesickness, for a short while. The fugitive part of him knows he's taking a big risk with this phone call (to Peter's cell no less) but the sentimental side doesn't care. He needs this. "Peter, it's me." He hears the agent suck in a breath, then the quick sounds of finding a private place to talk.
"Neal, you're okay?"
"Fine, I'm...out of the area. How are you?"
"Kramer can't prove anything against me. I'll be okay." Neal allows himself a small smile. If nothing else, Peter's career is preserved. His reputation not totally intact, maybe, but not in jail either.
"Thank you, Peter, for the second chance. I know I wasn't always easy to deal with." It sounds too final, really, but he needs to say it.
Only so many words that we can say
Spoken upon long-distance melody
"Listen, Neal, I'm going to fix this," Peter insists, and Neal almost laughs woefully, because there's no hope. "Kramer wants to use your past crimes to tether you with him in DC, permanently. I don't know why he has it out for you, but I'm going to fix everything."
"I know you will, Peter." It's a lie. A complete and utter lie. He never lies to Peter, but desperate times call for desperate measures. He does have faith in his friend, and he knows Peter will try his hardest, but this is irreparable.
"Just hang in there, Neal, lay low. If something...happens, you know how to get a hold of me." Neal notices that the agent doesn't ask for a way to contact him. Plausible deniability? Peter's an immense fan of that.
"Please give everyone my best, Peter. And..." Neal hesitates. Never say you're sorry unless you're pulling a con.
This is my hello
This is my goodness
Suddenly there is noise outside the closet, like a janitor checking for his keys.
"Neal?"
"I gotta go." He doesn't want to tell him goodbye, doesn't want to make it real. Neal squeezes his eyes shut and allows himself another half second, just briefly, to take in the moment. Peter's still there. He can hear him breathing. The door swings open. Victor Moreau hangs up the phone and gives the open-mouthed custodian a shrug as he makes a quick exit. The burner phone goes in the nearest trash can, having served its purpose. He retrieves Mozzie from the bar, slightly tipsy, and hops on a plane to Dresden. Neal doesn't say a word the whole way, fully aware that that very well might be the last time he ever talks to Peter Burke.
There's really no way to reach me
There's really no way to reach me
There's really no way to reach me
'Cause I'm already gone
The agent promised he would "fix everything" but Neal is all too familiar with making promises you can't keep. Peter has no idea what will happen. Circumstances change. Neal doesn't want his friend to lose any more for him. Perhaps someday, someday they could go back to their version of normal. Neal's not very optimistic, but maybe.
Maybe in five or ten yours and mine will meet again
Straighten this whole thing out
Somewhere over the Atlantic, Neal remembers the vow he'd made to Peter. Had it really only been a day ago? Continents had moved since then. When this is over, I'll tell you everything. He'd meant it. Wholeheartedly. Peter deserved that and more. So, so long, the man known to New York as Neal Caffrey had carried secrets. Secrets upon lies, lies upon cons, cons upon truths. It was all very confusing. Mozzie knew some of Neal's mysteries. Sara knew others. No one knew everything. Neal wanted Peter to be the first. Someday. If they ever saw each other again.
Maybe then honesty need not be feared as a friend or an enemy
But this is the distance
And this is my gameface
There's really no way to reach me
There's really no way to reach me
Is there really no way to reach me?
Am I already gone?
Victor Moreau couldn't count the number of names he'd ever had. He lost track long ago. Each had a back-story, connections, and baggage. Usually he was glad to rid himself of an alias, move onto another. A clean slate. Sure, sometimes he had regrets. Maybe wished he could hold onto that name a little longer. Letting go of a few, like Nick Haldan, even hurt. But none so much as Neal Caffrey. Never so much as Neal Caffrey.
So this is your maverick
And this is Vienna