'I told him I saw this coming,
That I'd practically packed up my things.
I was glad at the time that I said I was fine
But all honesty knows, I wasn't ready, no…
Oh let him go, bluebird.'
"Bluebird" ~ Sara Bareilles
One more year passes and it's easy, this living thing. It's the easiest thing in the world. There is nothing more effortless than keeping busy and kissing his wife and ticking off boxes, two hundred and forty five days of them, to be exact.
It's Friday morning, and Peter is in a small corner store lineup. Most people are buying coffee or pastries or scratch cards on their way to work.
Peter is not most people.
The store isn't far from an underground entrance and its bustling steps, about half a block away, but it's before seven-thirty and therefore a little less crazy than it will be in an hour.
So Peter is more than a little surprised to feel a tap on his shoulder and, turning, to see someone other than his wife.
"Hughes, what are you doing here?" Peter stares at the man like he's never seen him before. "Sorry, sir. I mean, how are you?"
Hughes smiles with no small amount of warmth, looking old and comfortable in his pullover and sneakers. "I'm not your boss anymore, Peter. Reese is fine—I'm not a 'sir' to anybody these days."
"You'll always be so to me." And Peter means it, without a drop of irony.
Hughes waves him off, smile growing. "Enough of that. I came to see an old friend today, not Peter the agent. Though I must say, your closure rate is still one of the highest in the Bureau, Jones tells me."
"Just doing my job," says Peter. This one doesn't go down so well, ash inside of Peter's mouth, the slimy pockets behind his gums.
The pulsing in his throat gets stronger.
Reese, of course, can see straight through him, though he's quiet for a moment. They shuffle forward with the line. Peter's hand grows clammy around his purchase.
"They still haven't convinced you to work for DC's field office, I see."
Peter shakes his head. "I'm right where I belong, running our taskforce here. It's home."
"Good for you," says Hughes, catching Peter off guard. "I like it when a person knows what they want. Not swayed by every opinion that flits their way."
"I half wondered if you were here as an ambassador to twist my arm," Peter admits. "They do this every few years, offer me the same job under a different guise or with different perks. Last year they offered to buy us a house in Washington! Can you believe that?"
Hughes throws him an appraising look. "Do you really think I'd come out of retirement just to badger you about a job?"
"You're a better man that that, Reese."
"And don't you forget it."
Peter grins.
Reese mirrors it. He doesn't seem interested in the crowds around him or the beautiful, sunny day, preferring to survey his younger friend with a gaze that reminds Peter of his father.
"It's the two year anniversary," he says, calm and clear.
"Yes." Peter looks him right in the eye. "It is. And let me save you the trouble of asking by saying I'm fine, I've grieved. I'm well adjusted to his loss and all that jazz."
Reese lifts one shrewd brow. "I'm not your superior or your wife, Peter. You don't have to convince me."
Peter sighs, just slightly too loud to be passed off. "I have a life, a family, an awarded career, everything I've ever wanted. What's there to be sad about?"
Something inside of Reese's eyes flares for a moment, a bolt of remembrance that takes him completely out of the time and space of this corner shop. Peter recognizes the look so fast because he sees it in the windows of his high rise office sometimes, the reflection of all the things he can't say.
It's Peter's turn at the cash. He hands over a few bills and Reese shakes himself back to the present.
"Bird seed?" is all he asks.
"My Friday morning ritual." Peter thanks the cashier and takes his paper bag full of seeds. "I'm guessing it's how you knew where to find me this early. Elizabeth told you?"
Reese nods. "That, and I think someone at the Bureau confused your address for mine. This arrived on my doorstep last night. I'm assuming it's for Junior? I know his birthday is in a few months."
He pulls a parcel out of his coat pocket, long and thin and wrapped in humble brown paper, decorated with little cartoon animals and trees. Once again, a cardstock tag reads—'For Neal.' No return address or name of any kind.
Peter's mouth goes dry. "Yeah, it is. Thanks. By any chance, was there something beside this on the doorstep?"
"As a matter of fact, yes—a bottle of my favourite German schnapps had a bow on it. If it was intended for your family, I can send it along too."
"No, no." Peter manages a plastic, frail smile. "It's definitely for you. The gift found exactly who it was supposed to."
Reese huffs a laugh. "Two years old. Is he a terror yet?"
"Surprisingly, no. Not yet, anyway. Junior has Elle's personality, thank God. He's only fiery when it counts, otherwise content to go with the flow."
"I'd love to meet him sometime."
Peter shakes his hand. "You're welcome for supper whenever you want."
They exit the store, breathing in crisp air around Manhattan's smoke. Hughes looks out over the sea of people, the cabs and their blaring horns, the forest of tall buildings, this city he helped defend for over forty years.
"Peter," he says, eyes earnest now. "Sometimes what we want isn't what we need. Sometimes they aren't the same thing. You follow me?"
Peter doesn't, or maybe he does more than he wants to, but either way he nods. It's obedient, rote habit out of being asked a question by that trusted voice.
It's Reese's turn to sigh, a little tired sounding. "Peter, I don't know all the details of what happened that day, how he died. But don't play pretend. That was Caffrey's flaw, never truly baring himself to the world…except maybe to you. If it's messy, if it's infuriating, if it's embarrassing, I don't care—but make peace with those memories."
Peter secretly bristles. "Are you telling me, armchair psychologist style, to let myself 'feel what I'm going to feel?' Really?"
"No," says Reese, a touch firm. "I'm telling you that self punishment will never work, no matter how alluring it is to men like us who value honour."
Peter tucks his wallet away for an excuse not to look at Hughes.
"There's no heroism in immolation," Reese whispers and Peter nearly loses it then. Sensation drains from the knees down.
After a few heartbeats it passes, but the internal shaking remains, that mouldy sandwich feeling inside of Peter's lungs. He's decaying from the inside out, he realizes with a fascinated brand of awe. Sticky spores are growing inside of his cells, the arteries and the cartilage that grinds far enough down to be aching.
They say a hasty but heartfelt goodbye.
When Peter presents the gift to Neal after supper that night, those beautiful, hand drawn animals making his son gasp in wonder, what lies underneath them is—this time—exactly what he expects.
Peter knew what it was before Hughes even placed it in his hand.
"Paint!" Junior squeals. "C'n we, Daddy?"
So of course Peter digs out some recycled printer paper and clears an area on the kitchen table. Neal is a lanky but small toddler, so he barely reaches the surface, even on his knees. Peter retrieves a couch cushion and it helps raise him higher.
"You too, Daddy."
"Okay, okay." Peter picks up a marker, not using it right away. The paints are a long row of high brand, glossy water colours. They even come with a lithe brush, but Neal seems to enjoy using his fingers more. "What are you drawing, love?"
Neal dips his fingers in the water, then in the pad of purple. "A…a goose."
"Oh yeah." Peter chuckles. "Like that Canadian one we saw chasing away a squirrel in our back yard."
"Yeah!"
"He was a meanie, wasn't he?"
"Meaniest," Neal agrees with a nod.
He loops his index around to make the bird's neck and belly, leaving a little triangle at the top for the beak. Peter looks down at his own page. Blank on this side. Sprayed a bit by Neal's reckless artistic expression.
Peter stares at the speckles for a long time. They're little dots or spheres, like bird seed. Like blood. Like rain on a night that should never have happened. Like spilled wine that stains in place of tears.
"Daddy?"
"Yeah, buddy. I'm here." Peter sits up straighter with a sudden inhale, rummaging around for a smile and finding one deep in the pocket inside his heart with his son's name on it. "I haven't painted for a long time."
Neal has heard lots of stories, is a glib child with little fear. So he gazes straight up at his father and asks, "Bubba Neal?"
Peter and Elizabeth considered calling Junior's namesake "Uncle Neal" in all the stories they tell and exaggerate about the man. But Peter, physically, cannot do it. It's not right, a picture out of focus.
'Uncle' isn't even remotely right.
So they refer to him as "Bubba," both because it's neutral, easier to say, and because, well…it sounds an awful lot like another word that never came to be. One that Peter longs for like he longed for this little boy sitting before him.
It hits him all over again, looking at these brown eyes instead of blue. How much he never noticed he was planning on, a big bucket list of a hoped for future, until it got scorched out.
"Bubba Neal," says Peter, hoarse. "That's right. He tried to teach me how to paint, once. Didn't go very well and we used a different type of paint."
Junior just nods, though he doesn't understand this. Just like Peter nodded at Hughes that very morning.
They paint until long after Neal's bed time and Mom rounds them up for goodnight kisses. Peter, when they've gone down the hall, takes the wrapping paper and carefully folds it. He puts it inside the shoe box hidden in his closet, along with the tag and the ribbon from last year. After one long, empty look at it, he tucks the box back where it belongs.
Living, painting, eating, hugging—it's the easiest thing in the world.
Dying is much harder.