Caffrey – Epilogue
"Choices are sacrifices."
Jones to Neal in As You Were
Sara Ellis, you are a workaholic, she tells herself. She grabs a manilla file folder from the carton on the table in front of her and flips it open. She reaches for the cup of coffee next to her as she reads. The rising sun behind her lights the fiery colors in her auburn hair. She would love to blame Sterling Bosch for the reams of case files in front of her but is willing to acknowledge that she brought this on herself. She needs to keep her mind occupied, at least for now.
Her phone vibrates noisily on the hard surface of the table. She quickly grabs for it to silence it, sneaking a quick glance through the French doors into the room beyond. Seeing no movement, she checks the phone. It's a text, quickly read and answered.
How is he?
Doing better. Sleeping now.
Thank you, Sara.
You're welcome, Peter.
Sara smiles at her phone as she places it back on the table. It's progress, she thinks. Slow, but it is progress. Peter cares; soon he'll be able to show it again. She grabs another file and her mug.
The sun is an hour higher in the sky when movement from the other room draws her concentration from her laptop. She snaps the device shut and heads through the French doors. Neal is standing at the kitchen table, lightly holding one of the chairs for balance. Or for support, Sara isn't sure which. She stops a few feet away, far enough away not to be hovering but close enough to reach out a steadying hand, just in case.
"How're you doing?" The question is casual, unconcerned.
"I'm fine." Neal is obviously tired of the question.
"You were a little shaky when you came home last night."
"I'm fine," he repeats tightly.
"Okay." Sara pauses to rethink her approach. Neal obviously is not fine. White medical tape tightly binds his torso, not quite covering the purple bruises. His handsome face is bruised as well; one eye is partially swollen shut. An elastic bandage supports his right wrist. Neal Caffrey is not a fighter, she thinks. But as a lover . . . Okay, not the time to go there right now.
It's probably best not to aggravate the wounded warrior. This isn't a normal morning, but she can pretend it is if it makes him feel better.
"Want some coffee? June brought up a fresh pot a little while ago." Sara mutely holds up the coffee pot, smiling idiotically like a model from some 1950's commercial for Folgers Coffee. Neal nods his head in affirmation and slowly makes his way out onto the terrace, carefully sitting at the table covered in Sara's work. She pours his coffee and brings it outside. She sets it down and returns to her files, diligently ignoring him.
"Sara, why are you doing this?"
Why is she doing this? Because three days ago – three days ago she thought he was dead, and that belief nearly destroyed her. Her mind replays the scene with vivid clarity: Jones and Blake restraining a cuffed and bleeding Keller, Diana on her radio calling for backup, Peter and Elizabeth in an embrace so fierce they appear as one. And Mozzie crouching over the bloody, motionless form of Neal Caffrey. Then Mozzie's eyes meeting hers in mute supplication: take care of him!
Why is she doing this? She can't tell him it's because Mozzie asked her to. It's more than that. Because Neal called her? Because he said he needed her? That is closer to the truth, but now isn't the time. She isn't ready to look there yet.
"I figure in your weakened condition I've got a chance at getting the location of the Raphael out of you."
Neal's eyes flare with irritation. He sits up straighter. "Really?" he asks.
Sara looks blandly back at him, saying nothing. The irritation fades, to be replaced with amusement. A smile quirks the corners of his lips.
"Really, Repo?" The smile broadens, lighting his battered face.
That smile. It's been a while since she's seen that smile. She welcomes it back. "You're a conman – you smile for a living." It seems a lifetime ago she said that to him. So much has happened since then; so much has changed. She's changed, and he's changed. Not much, maybe not enough, but it's a start.
"You had a concussion … and other things." Sara's eyes travel along his battered body. "You shouldn't be alone yet."
Neal's smile fades as quickly as it appeared. "What happened, did you draw the short straw? Are there Marshals outside?" His voice is bitter now, but underneath she can hear regret, and a little fear. She wonders if he thinks he's lost them all.
"I want to be here." She makes her voice strong and reassuring. She does want to be here, after all. For now. For him. What comes later? They'd work that out later.
"Peter checks in pretty frequently. He wants to know how you're doing." Sara hopes she can relieve some of the emotional ache she knows Neal feels, at least a little. "Elizabeth called late last night." Neal had been in a drug induced sleep at the time.
"How did she seem? Is she okay?" His guilt rears up again.
"She sounded good. She was worried about you." She did sound good, Sara thinks. "That is one tough woman," she says admiringly.
Neal slowly sips his coffee. He needs to eat, Sara thinks maternally, but he hasn't shown much interest. Now he slowly struggles to his feet and makes his way to the wall, looking out over the cityscape. She's seen him just this way so many times. And Mozzie.
"I think Mozzie checked on you last night."
Neal turns around so fast he lets out an involuntary gasp of pain. "Mozzie? You think it was Mozzie?"
Sara moves abruptly, ready to steady him, then casually sits back at the table again. She knows Neal needs to stand alone right now. She sees both desperation and hope in his blue eyes.
"You think?" he repeats.
"Well, it is Mozzie we're talking about. I had an unsigned, untraceable email last night, asking if you are okay and asking how Mrs. Suit is."
"That sounds like Mozzie," is all he says, but relief and a hint of amusement color his features.
"Neal, it may take a long time, but I think we're all going to get past this." That's all she can offer him right now, but Sara believes what she says.
"Yeah." Neal sounds doubtful, but hopeful. That's all he can do.
"Do you want some breakfast?" She hopes he does.
"Are you going to cook?" he challenges teasingly.
"I can cook, you know, Caffrey."
"Okay." He turns back to the city as Sara heads to the kitchen.
A week from now, she wonders, where will any of them be? But right this minute, everyone is where they should be. That will have to do.
Finis