Not a Fan of the Bittersweet

Chapter 6

Never Strong Enough

"You are never strong enough that you don't need help."
― César Chávez

It had been a hectic day at Burke Premier Events—running down last-minute details for the night's reception at the Hardison Gallery, finalizing a bid for an upcoming MS fundraiser, reassuring Tricia DeHavilland, possibly the most nervous and needy bride Elizabeth had ever dealt with, that, yes, without question, her centerpieces were going to be among the most stunning ones any New York wedding guest had ever seen. And considering the price, they damn well better be, Elizabeth thought with a sigh.

So, yes, a busy day, but the kind Elizabeth loved, frankly. As her business had grown, she'd realized how much she preferred working on multiple projects at once, juggling and prioritizing. She liked knowing that something was always ongoing, that even as one event finished, there was no letdown because the next big job was already on the horizon.

In the midst of the craziness, she'd set aside a few minutes to call Peter and finalize their own plans. She'd only gotten back into town that morning, having taken a cab from the airport straight to the office. She hadn't even seen him yet.

When they'd spoken last night, Peter had mentioned that he anticipated making an arrest the next day—nothing exciting, he'd assured her, which was his typical, low-key way of telling her not to worry. Yvonne was running point on the Hardison event, but Elizabeth had decided to stay in town to help, thinking an extra person on-site couldn't hurt. So she and Peter had agreed to meet for a quick, early dinner beforehand, but they hadn't set a time or place. And a reservation might be a good idea . . .

She didn't think anything of it when Peter's phone rang twice and went to voicemail. Peter, devoted husband that he was, was conscientious about answering her calls during the workday—calls she tried to keep to a minimum—but it wasn't always possible for him, of course. He was at work and in the middle of something—nothing unusual there. She left him a bare-bones message and returned to Yvonne to double-check the latest printout of the night's guest list against the seating arrangement.

A half hour later, the seating arrangements were finalized and Peter hadn't returned her call. She thought about texting him, but something made her try his number again. She hadn't seen her husband in almost a week. Elizabeth just wanted to hear his voice—and yes, make a dinner reservation—and felt a rush of happiness when he picked up this time.

"Hi, hon." His voice sounded just slightly off, but she didn't stop to wonder why, just rushed on. Later, when Elizabeth thought about the conversation and all that followed on that day, she realized that she should have known immediately that something terrible had happened. She should have recognized Peter's distress right away. Peter's voice was expressive, and years of marriage had taught her to be sensitive to every nuance. He had trouble hiding his emotions from her—when he even tried, which wasn't often.

But at the time, in that moment, she only thought about the fact that she was busy and so was Peter, no doubt. He was distracted. For heaven's sake, he'd told her he was arresting someone today. The faster she talked, the sooner he could get back to catching the bad guy—or whatever else he'd been in the middle of when she'd interrupted him.

"Hi, hon. So sorry to bug you; don't know if you got my message. I promise I'll keep this brief, but I just wanted to talk real quick about tonight." As she spoke, she picked up the list of items for the guests' gift bags and walked it over to Yvonne's desk.

"Yeah, I know we talked about an early dinner before your event, but that's off now." His sigh was audible, and the pause before he resumed was just a little too long. "El, I have some bad news."

The glow of happiness she'd felt upon hearing his voice faded instantly, as if it had never been. There was no mistaking the low, rough timbre of his voice now—it reminded her of the time Peter had called to tell her about his sister's car accident.

And what frightened her most was his choice of words. Her husband wasn't one for melodrama. Or hyperbole. He was prosaic and understated. His "bad" was probably most people's "devastating" or "terrible." Her grip on the phone tightened unconsciously as a frisson of fear run through her.

"Peter, are you all right? What happened?" She heard the panicked tone of her own voice, remembered his reassuring tone from the night before when he talked about the arrest he was going to make. Nothing exciting, he'd said.

He'd promised, damn it. Or had that just been a platitude designed to comfort her?

His tone now was anything but comforting; his next words shook her.

"No, no, I'm fine. It's Neal. He's . . . he's been shot."

Oh, no. Not Neal. She felt her heart leap into her throat, heard herself gasp. The world faded away somehow as Peter's words echoed in her ears. The whir of the printer, the sound of Yvonne saying her name, the trill of the office phone—all the surrounding noise died away, though she wasn't really aware of that until later.

She froze where she was, a few feet away from Yvonne's desk, seeing the look of concern on her face. "Oh, my God. Is he all right?"

The question was automatic, even though she already knew the answer from the tone of Peter's voice.

"I don't know anything yet. But he—I—I've heard . . ." he paused and there was something in his voice, almost a quaver, that sent a chill down her spine. It sounded horribly wrong; it was so . . . not Peter. "It's—he's not good, El. I'm on my way to the hospital now."

"You—you weren't with him?"

But you're always with him. The words were on the tip of her tongue; thank God she didn't say them.

Emotions coursed through her, lighting-fast: automatic relief that Peter had been far removed from danger, quickly followed by shame at her own selfishness. But both were overwhelmed by terror for Neal—charming, nonviolent Neal, who hated guns and who somehow had been shot when Peter wasn't there to protect him.

She knew Peter considered that a key, if unspoken, portion of his job description. He watched out for Neal. Always.

And this time, when Neal had needed him most . . . .

"No. I wasn't there." Elizabeth marked the note of guilt in his voice and in the midst of her fear had the fleeting thought that she'd have to address that later. "Sara was with him." His disgust turned into something like satisfaction as he added, "She shot the bastard—killed him."

"Oh, thank God," she said. The bizarre irony of it struck her and she said, a little blankly, without thinking, "She—she was going to shoot Neal the other day."

Peter let out a bitter little laugh; there was no humor in the sound. "No, she wasn't aiming at Neal this time."

"Is she—is she okay?"

"Sara wasn't hurt. She saved Neal's life." He sighed. "She was really shaken up, El. And worried . . . worried sick about Neal."

His tone plainly said, So am I.

Elizabeth started moving again, recovering enough to turn and walk back to her desk. It was obvious what she needed to do; she had to stop standing around and start doing it. Opening the bottom drawer, she reached for her handbag. "Honey, I'm coming over there."

"No, no, El, it's okay. You don't have to. I promise I'll call as soon as I know anything."

Elizabeth felt herself flushing, welcoming the little flash of anger that pushed out the fear, if only for a moment. She loved that Peter was protective and selfless. But at times like this, when he took it too far, she wanted to shake him.

"Of course I have to come. This is Neal, honey. You think I'm just going to sit around waiting for a phone call?"

"You're working," Peter said, but he was already hesitating. Not that it mattered; his protests were immaterial to her at this point.

"Actually, Yvonne is in charge of the event tonight, and Rory will be there to help, too," Elizabeth said, her eyes meeting Yvonne's with a questioning look. Yvonne nodded quickly, twice, and made a we'll be fine, just go gesture as she watched Elizabeth with alarm.

"She doesn't need me there," Elizabeth said firmly. "She'll be just fine. But if you're going to be at the hospital, so am I. Now, where are they taking him?"

She heard Peter asking someone for the name of the hospital, which he repeated for her benefit. She wondered, then, who was with him and silently thanked God that her husband wasn't alone. She also hoped he wasn't driving; she doubted that he was, because he usually used the speakerphone in that case.

Just then, a thought struck her. "Peter, did you call June?"

"No, I didn't call June. I don't know anything yet." His frustration was palpable.

"Sweetie, I know, but someone should tell her. Do you have time to just give her a quick call now? Or—are you too busy? If you are, I'd be happy to do it."

"No. You're right, she should know. And I'm just sitting here. I can—I can call her," he said, after a pause.

Good, she thought, relieved. He's not driving. A small thing, but somehow it gave her a tiny measure of comfort.

"Thanks, hon. I know she'll appreciate it." She hesitated and then said, "Does—does Mozzie know?"

"No, not yet," he said, and her heart twisted at how exhausted he sounded, suddenly. "Yeah, I have to call him."

"I can do it," she replied quickly. It was one thing she could do to help—and maybe Mozzie would take the news better if it came from her.

"No," he said. "I'll do it. It's—I should do it."

"Okay," she said, knowing that would be a difficult call to make, worrying already about how Mozzie would react. And loving Peter for that innate sense of duty that compelled him to be the one to make those phone calls.

"Okay. I'll see you—" Peter started.

"You will, but before that, you'll be calling me—when you have any news," she told him, mock-sternly.

"Right," he sighed. "I'll call you as soon as I know anything."

"That's what I want to hear," she told him. "Honey, I love you and I'll see you soon."

"Yeah. Love you too," Peter said, voice unusually emotional for him.

He hung up and, a moment later, she disconnected too.

Only then did she realize that she hadn't told him that Neal would be all right.

Peter had departed in a rush, with the red-haired cop leading the way to drive him to the hospital. Doing the job that, by rights, he or Diana, as members of Peter's team, should have been doing, Jones thought bitterly. Except that Peter hadn't given them any choice. He'd insisted Jones and Diana stay and work the scene.

From an operational standpoint, of course, Peter was right. It was the right call.

From an emotional standpoint, though, it was all wrong. Wrong in every way.

Jones was still reeling inwardly from the shock of it. One minute, we're taking down Halbridge, patting ourselves on the back; the next minute, we find out Neal's been shot and Peter's out there on his own, waiting to find out if Caffrey's alive or dead.

In an instant, everything had changed.

Jones just hoped it hadn't changed forever. Because if Neal Caffrey died, he knew that nothing in their world would ever be the same.

Peter would never be the same.

Jones didn't want to think about that.

Diana was talking to Sara and the NYPD detective. Jones walked for the first time into the room where Black's body still lay; the techs were finishing the measurements and photography, preparing to move the corpse. As he looked beyond, he saw the ugly, dark stain, standing out starkly on the polished hardwood. He stood there for a long moment, just staring.

Christ.

Suddenly he flashed back to the other day, in the van, after they'd sent Neal to meet with Halbridge. Neal, after lifting the driver's weapon with his usual ease, had handed it to Peter and suggested that he could plant a bug just as easily.

To say Peter was not on board with that plan would be putting it mildly. The agent had turned so Neal could see how deeply he was frowning, and when he spoke, Peter's tone left no room for debate. You're playing with guns, Peter had retorted. I'm not letting you back in there.

Neal was always unarmed, so, naturally, Peter didn't want him near targets who were carrying, if he could help it. This time, the danger was obvious, and, of course, Peter had recognized it.

And it hadn't mattered one goddamned bit.

Jones spun around, suddenly needing to find Diana, but she was right behind him. Her gaze, too, was fixed on the bloodstain. When she finally looked at him, he said, "You called the office, right?"

Diana nodded. "Backup's on the way."

"Who's with Peter?"

She stared at him, dark eyes luminous with worry. "I—I didn't really ask for that specifically . . . ."

"We need to," Jones said, and the urgency in his voice was as close to panic as she'd ever heard from him.

Involuntarily, her gaze flicked down to the blood on the floor, then back up to his face. "Yeah," she said, conscious of just the slightest unsteadiness in the word. "Yeah, you're right, we're going to be stuck here a while. I'll—"

Jones shook his head. "It's okay." He took out his phone. "Already got someone in mind."

Diana threw him a quizzical look.

He tried the name on her. Her brows drew together as she thought for a moment; then her face cleared. "Yeah," she said. "That's—that'll be good."

Not waiting for her to finish, Jones was already dialing.

"Peter won't like it, you know," she pointed out.

"Like I give a shit," Jones snorted.

In the backseat of the cab, Elizabeth closed her eyes and thought about Neal, about how quickly he'd become part of their lives.

It was strange—Peter and Neal hadn't been working together that long, but their partnership had become routine, second-nature to both of them. Despite the ever-present trust issues on both sides, Peter and Neal had bonded quickly—more quickly, in fact, than Elizabeth could remember with any of the agents Peter had partnered with over the years.

There was something unique in the way Peter and Neal challenged and brought the best out in each other, even as they constantly sized each other up. Peter was very good at his job, but Neal brought aspects that made him even better. He was Peter's intellectual equal—those were Peter's words—and he engaged Peter in ways that no criminal—and precious few agents—ever had. Neal forced Peter to think in unorthodox ways and kept him on his toes. For two people who'd been on opposite sides for so long, they fit together unbelievably well.

And Neal fit with the rest of the team, too. Peter had worried quite a bit about how Neal would impact the chemistry among the other agents in White Collar; in fact, it was one of the things he'd struggled with the most before agreeing to the work-release. "Anyone new changes the dynamic, and not always for the better," Peter had fretted. "How the hell is a felon going to fit in?" He'd envisioned himself, perhaps, refereeing endless disputes between a recalcitrant Neal and a roomful of hostile FBI agents.

As it turned out, he needn't have worried. Due, she was sure, to a combination of Peter's leadership and Neal's stellar ability to ingratiate himself with seemingly everyone he met, Neal had blended seamlessly with the team from the beginning. Peter treated Neal with respect and Peter's agents followed his lead. The bumps in the road, when they occurred, tended to be with agents from other divisions who harbored suspicions about the arrangement and didn't work with Neal on a day-to-day basis. They were stereotypical FBI agents who lacked Peter's open-mindedness, who had a mental picture of what a criminal was and couldn't easily alter that perception.

Practically speaking, the biggest opponent to the arrangement had been Peter's boss, Reese Hughes, and, while he was still not exactly a fan of Neal's, Hughes had eventually been won over by the undeniable results of Neal's participation. Peter's clearance rate had always been good, but with Neal, it shot up to ridiculously good.

Beyond her consuming fear for Neal, she worried about Peter too, about what this would do to him. Peter's voice had told her all she needed to know about the seriousness of Neal's condition. It was bad enough that Neal had been shot. But, for Peter's mental state, it would make it a hundred times worse that he hadn't been there. She knew Peter, and she knew that he would obsess—quietly—over what he could have done, how things might have been different if only he'd been there.

Peter had grown uneasy over the past few months about the dangers Neal faced in his consulting role. He had envisioned Neal's CI role in the traditional way, as someone who provided valuable intelligence and background about specific techniques, sometimes the names of contacts who could assist in investigations, perhaps making introductions to those contacts. He had seen Neal as a resource who might lack extensive formal education but who more than made up for it with street smarts. In truth, he'd probably underestimated a bit just how intelligent Neal was. Peter, never lacking confidence in his own abilities, knew that anyone who could stay a step ahead of him as long as Neal had done had to be smart. But he'd admitted to El that he hadn't really expected Neal to be as well-read as he was, as knowledgeable about a wide variety of subjects that went far behind the expected criminal enterprises.

The idea of Neal at the office, working on files, lending his expertise without really being hands-on in the field, had probably been a pipe dream from the beginning. Neal was so proficient at undercover work, it was hard for Peter not to use him that way. Essentially, he'd been employing the same skills for years, as a felon, and he'd honed them to a sharp, perfect edge. Certainly Neal just expected that was what Peter had in mind for him, and he didn't enjoy paper-pushing, anyway. Peter had told her how Neal turned into a whining five-year-old when an operation called for him to do something mundane like surveillance or stakeouts. Neal slid so easily into undercover roles that it was easy to forget that he had no formal training whatsoever. But it made Peter nervous; it always had.

Neal had an uncanny knack for making people trust him, but he also had a tendency to take risks that an agent shouldn't take. He was supremely confident in his own abilities—too confident for Peter's comfort. No one was untouchable. Things went wrong. She knew Peter had long feared that someday, the situation would arise that Neal couldn't smooth-talk his way out of.

She recalled a conversation with Peter, a few months after he'd gotten Neal out of prison. In light of today's events, the memory was chilling.

"He's really helping, isn't he?" she had said over breakfast one day, Peter had just finished relating the particulars of Neal's latest undercover "adventure."

Peter shook his head, a little smile playing around his lips. "I would never say this to him—the last thing he needs is encouragement—but he is such a natural, El. He can become whatever he needs to be, and he's got maybe the lowest panic threshold of anybody I've ever sent undercover. He makes it look effortless. And all of that without any training . . ."

She favored him with a knowing look, and he amended, grinning sardonically, "No formal training, but you're right, he's had years of experience."

"But there's a downside to that, too," he'd added; the smile had become a frown. "Neal's quick on his feet, but he's not quick enough to outrun a bullet."

He sighed. "You remember that case from a few weeks ago—the operation in the park?"

Of course she remembered it. The one where Peter had to meet a kidnapper and make an exchange of a dress for a hostage. The one where she'd given him back his old, familiar watch and then spent hours praying that Peter would be okay. She'd never forget the feeling when she finally got the call reassuring her that he was fine. The rush of relief had actually made her dizzy; she'd had to sit down, close her eyes, and take some deep breaths while she drank in the sound of his voice.

"I'm not likely to forget that one," she replied. In fact, she could quote their entire conversation from that day verbatim. "But, if I remember correctly, Neal helped save your life. Both your lives."

"He sure did," Peter agreed instantly. "Jamming the phone was clever. But does Neal stop there? No. Instead of staying in the van like he should have, he jumped out and chased the perp." Peter shook his head. "We have a park full of agents ready to move, yet Neal takes it on himself to run the guy down. I mean, he's not armed, El. He's not even wearing a vest, for Christ's sake. What did he think he was going to do, charm his way out a bullet? Another second and Ghovat would have shot him—if Lauren hadn't gotten there when she did."

Peter took a deep breath. "Then our next case—the one with the Bible—he should have been shot. I knew it could happen, and I sent him out anyway. It's pure luck that she didn't hit him."

"You think he's reckless."

"In the park? Absolutely, he was. And the first case he worked on—the Dutchman? Waltzing into a warehouse full of men with guns? It doesn't get more reckless than that. But on the Bible case, maybe . . . maybe I was the one who was reckless."

It was the first time he'd openly expressed concern over Neal's safety and the risks he took working for the Bureau. And the first time Peter had questioned his own role. But not the last time—as the months passed, Peter had focused on it more and more.

It was incredible, really, to think about how quickly Neal had eased his way into Peter's life—into both their lives really. How important Neal had become. Neal, whom, everyone knew, Peter didn't completely trust—except with Peter's life, and Peter's wife, and the truly irreplaceable things.

What frightened Elizabeth now was that, somewhere along the way, Neal had become irreplaceable, too.

If he didn't make it . . . no. She couldn't think about losing Neal, about the gaping hole in their lives his absence would create. Or about what it would do to Peter. Peter was strong, the strongest person she'd ever known, but the sense of loss—and responsibility—he'd feel for Neal's death would be overwhelming.

She wouldn't think about any of that right now.

Because she couldn't bear it.

TBC….

I'm so honored by the response to this story. It's exciting to know that readers are enjoying (even my off-the-wall POV choices). I'm also so sorry that I've gotten a bit behind on responding to the many wonderful comments-I will work on that. Thanks to everyone for reading, following, and reviewing—it means so much. More on the way soon.