A/N Wow. I've worked on this fic so long I can't believe I'm actually posting it. Just FYI it is fully completed and I will be updating it quickly—no abandoned fics here! But encouragement would still be quite lovely (I still haven't figured out how to respond to comments but they warm my heart)!
Let me first say this fic is super close to my heart and I've probably worked harder on it than any other. This is essentially a wish fulfillment—what I wish we could have seen had the show not been cancelled combined with the fic I wanted to read after finishing.
I've read a fairly good amount of reunion fics and several of them I've really really enjoyed, but the problem is that they often stop there. At the reunion. See, I wanted the reunion but I also wanted more. There's too much for both men to experience and process for it to end there—Peter's grief would not be a simple thing to leave behind even if Neal returned and Neal would be faced with the fact that he hurt everyone he loved in one of the worst ways possible.
So, this is a reunion fic and far beyond—exploring the difficulty as well as the joy. Yes, it's angsty at times, but guys it is so, so sweet, so, so caring. I promise, this won't leave a bitter taste in your mouth but hopefully will leave you sighing with contentment and grinning widely. That's my aim anyway.
For once I'm not worried about OOC. No, this is not how we see Peter and Neal all that often in canon but death has a way of tearing down the walls we put up so this feels perfectly in character to me (though yes, i did have to drug Neal at one point to make it realistic).
Enjoy!
Peter Burke had known grief before.
Friends and fellow agents from Quantico had not all taken jobs in divisions as safe as White Collar and more than once over his years in the FBI Peter had buried himself in Elizabeth's arms after attending the funeral of a good man who had died far too soon, David Seigel's death not the least of these.
Peter Burke had grieved before— but never, never like this.
Before Neal died grief had plagued him for a matter of weeks and still slipped in when the person came into his mind, the pain always bitter but mellowing over time.
But this was a different grief entirely. This was a gut wrenching, soul sucking, ever-present anguish. This was a hurt that throbbed and twisted and burned and tortured and left Peter Burke wondering desperately if anyone could survive such agony.
It was a constant pain, so great and whole that it left room for little else.
Neal Caffrey was dead.
Peter remembered little from the week after Neal died. He remembered sobbing into Elizabeth's arms. He remembered his heart shattering each time he came across a thing or a place or a person that Neal had loved. He remembered the moments in which his expression was numb when he looked in the mirror as his mind and heart swirled in such utter agony that it could not be physically expressed. There was little else from those dark days that Peter Burke could bring back in his mind later on and for that he was strangely grateful.
Peter spoke at the funeral, somehow. He spoke about Neal, his mischief and his kindness, his heart and his humor, his hats, his love of beauty, his hatred of deviled ham—Peter spoke until his voice choked off and the words refused to come and he sat numbly through the rest of the service.
At the graveside there were many figures Peter recognized from the FBI and even more that he didn't. People dressed in coats with the collars pulled up and hats with the brims pulled down, hiding their faces as they payed their respects to the greatest of their profession even though the man himself had left it in the end. There were many, so many, who came to remember, and so very few who left with dry eyes.
And the days passed after that. The grief did not abate, but Peter was overwhelmingly thankful for Elizabeth and their coming child, both of whom needed him. He could not abandon them despite the emptiness that swallowed him inside and perhaps it was them alone that kept Peter Burke from coming apart entirely.
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It was the loss that hurt most during the day. The empty hole of everyday life that Neal had previously filled loomed black and void.
I wish Neal could be here on this stakeout...I wish Neal was here to mock my deviled ham...I wish Neal was here to take this cocky curator down a peg or two...I wish Neal was here to help me figure out what to buy for El...I wish Neal was here to help me pick a tie...I wish Neal was here to see my son begin to crawl...
But it was the regrets that hurt the most, plunging deep into the center of Peter's soul and festering there.
If only I'd protected him better...If only I had listened to him that one time...If only I'd given him a hug instead of a lecture...If only I could have gotten past our stupid games of misdirection and avoiding the truth and just told him how much he mattered to me...If only I'd told him how much I cared...
Those were the thoughts that most often kept sleep away—the ones resulted in Elizabeth holding her husband in the dark as tears crept down his cheeks and his body shook with silent sobs.
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When Peter held his son for the first time an exquisite joy joined the utter grief in his heart, the two emotions not battling but coexisting. Though the pain did not diminish, his heart had made room for the joy as well.
Holding the newborn, the child that was part him and part the woman he loved most in the world, Peter made a startling realization. The fear he felt at the thought of this child in danger or harmed felt... familiar —oh so familiar. And the grief that struck his soul at the thought of his son being stolen by death brought the same grief that had characterized every moment since Neal had died. And then it made sense with one thought,
This baby is my first child by blood— but my second son. The thought was clear and Peter held no doubt that it was true.
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It was Elizabeth who first brought up their son's name as she held the baby for the first time.
"Neal."
"What about him?"
"Let's name him Neal." They hadn't talked about a name though neither could quite say why, perhaps both were waiting for the other to suggest the name that they both thought would be so right. Elizabeth had found the courage first.
Peter couldn't speak over the lump that swallowed his throat but he nodded, grasping her hand tightly and drawing strength from the way she squeezed back, not bothering to wipe away the tears that trailed down his cheek.
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The grief didn't lessen, it never did, but as the young child grew over the months Peter began to wonder if perhaps there was more to a name than Shakespeare had granted. The glint of mischief in the baby's eyes never failed to remind the agent of the mischief in his namesake's eyes and his penchant for trouble could only be inherited from the name rather than his law-abiding parents.
As Peter rocked him to sleep, holding the little body with protective care his thoughts would fly back to his first child, the one he'd never gotten to see grow but who he'd watched mature. The boy he'd never taught to ride a bike or throw a baseball but had taught the difference between right and wrong. Peter hugged his son a little tighter at the thoughts, wishing there was still time to do the same to the one he'd never been able to quite express his feelings to until it was far too late.
The baby never minded the tears that wet his hair each night as he lay against his father's chest, tears for the brother—uncle—namesake— family —he would never know.
And so that fateful year passed, the worst year of Peter Burke's life. A year of ugly, pitch black beyond the one beam of golden light from his young son.
Until a bottle on the doorstep, a key, a storage container, a recent newspaper— and the world burst suddenly into color.
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Neal didn't wallow in the pain and loneliness of leaving New York—Neal Caffrey was never one to brood. But the pain was around every corner in the beautiful city of Paris anyway. Neal found himself looking around the city he'd dreamed of for years and seeing New York in every window, hearing New York in every car horn.
He felt empty, as if he had taken a small piece of Neal Caffrey with him—just enough to survive—but had left most of himself behind with nothing to fill the hole but emptiness. Outwardly Daniel Moroue lived a happy life, but inside Neal Caffrey struggled.
And so a bottle of wine became his frequent companion every night, his one indulgence and acknowledgement of the gaping hole in his heart. He was partaking just a little too deeply most nights, not growing horribly drunk but just drunk enough, accustomed to waking up with a headache and a churning stomach before going about his day with a shiny smile on his face.
Until one day he stared with horror at the blood mixed with vomit in the toilet. Clutching a hand around the pain in his belly he stumbled to the phone, calling a private physician—knowing he wouldn't make it to the hospital alone and having no one who would take him.
"Ulcer," said the doctor, prodding his abdomen, "the alcohol certainly didn't help though likely stress had something to do with it." Neal nodded, unable to tell the doctor that it was a stress he simply wasn't able to cut out, but able to dispose entirely of his wine collection and put himself on a strictly disciplined diet. Neal grew healthier, eating well, exercising, his skin taking on a healthy tan that he hadn't gotten in the White Collar offices. But the pain went unacknowledged now beyond the tears that streamed down his face in the utter darkness of night and even as his body strengthened his soul felt stretched, frayed, and fragmented.
And then came the news that he had been desperately hoping for, a full year after he'd left:
"The Last of the Infamous Pink Panther Gang Sentenced To Life in Prison."
It was safe now. He could go home. He made the preparations he had planned long before—his New York contact properly furnishing the storage unit complete with the newspaper. Only now he felt unsure.
He'd planned on allowing Peter to discover the storage unit to ease him into the knowledge (better than showing up on the Burke's doorstep and watching them die of a heart attack) and return soon after. But...he'd been gone for a year. A year was a long time, really, long enough for them to grieve and move on. Long enough that perhaps it was too late to come back.
So the plan changed slightly. Neal would wait, wait to see if the Burkes had moved on, if Peter would be content to live happily with the knowledge that Neal wasn't dead while going on with his life, or if, just maybe, he might come looking for his old partner.
The more Neal thought about it, the less convinced he was that they would really want him back. After all, the Burkes had a son now, a full family with just them. They didn't need a troublesome ex-conman walking back in as if they owed him anything at all.
Neal sent the bottle of wine on a very expensive one-day shipping plan—the final piece of the puzzle, and decided to give it a month. One month he would wait until he knew that it was time to move on with his life and let his fam—let the Burkes and New York move on with theirs.
It was four days later when he heard an achingly familiar voice call out his name across the Louvre gallery.
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"Bring that boy home." El whispered in Peter's his ear as she hugged him early the next morning at the airport drop off. The day before had been a whirlwind of emotion, trying to process the unbelievable, joyous news, telling those who deserved to know, and frantically buying a plane ticket. As he boarded the plane, for the first time since he'd gotten the mysterious bottle of wine, Peter Burke had a moment to think.
It was then, on the plane, that Peter felt it— a brief moment as he sat in a cramped seat between two strangers, flying over the ocean to find his partner— intense, searing anger, bordering near bitter hatred.
The last year had been hell. There was no other way to put it.
There was no pain on earth beyond the death of his son or his wife that rivaled the pain of the last year. The death of family was the worst thing that could ever happen to Peter and Neal— his partner, his best friend, the man who had become a son to him—had put him through that.
Neal had put him through hell.
For one bitter, horrible moment, Peter felt a wretched fury toward the man who had caused the grief that had characterized every waking moment of the past three hundred and seventy-three days.
The next moment, the anger was gone.
It had vanished. Completely. Almost as if Peter had been given the gift of experiencing every bit of hurt anger toward Neal in one awful moment and then letting it go.
There were no angry words that he might throw in Neal's face and regret the rest of his life, no time wasted with enmity. Peter had grown angry and he had forgiven, and now he could focus on what truly mattered.
Neal was alive.
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"Please, may I speak to the head of security? It's important!" The guard looked slightly bored.
"Monsieur Laurent est trés occupé."
"What? I'm sorry, I don't speak French." The guard looked slightly disdainful,
"Monsieur Laurent is a very busy man. You cannot simply go and see him." Peter pulled out his badge, hoping the guard wouldn't call him out on his lack of jurisdiction,
"I am an agent of the FBI, I need to speak with Monsieur Laurent." The guard examined the badge and then shrugged.
"Follow me."
He lead Peter to an office with the name André Laurent engraved on the door. Within a few minutes Peter was seated across from a desk in the nice office, waiting. After a few minutes the door opened and a man stepped into the room.
"Monsieur? André Laurent, I only have a minute or so, how can I help you?" Laurent was an intimidating man who looked quite capable of managing the high-profile security job. Peter shook the outstretched hand,
"Peter Burke, I am hoping that you can give me some information on the private contractor that you have hired to consult on your recent security upgrade?" Laurent's face grew somewhat closed off,
"I'm sorry I cannot give you that information, particularly with no explanation." Peter drew out his FBI badge,
"Monsieur Laurent, I do not have jurisdiction here and my intent in showing you this is not to strongarm you but rather to assure you that I do not have bad intentions in seeking this information." Laurent inspected the badge and he frowned slightly, finally looking up.
"I believe you Monsieur Burke but unfortunately our contractor values his privacy significantly and I am not at liberty to share it without his permission." Peter felt his heart plunging.
"Please." He found himself begging and a brief expression of surprise made its way across Laurent's face at the unexpected emotion in the plea. He gazed at Peter for a very long time before seeming to decide something.
"Monsieur Burke, you have arrived on a very lucky day. Our contractor happens to be making a routine security check, one of the many reasons I had but a few minutes to talk with you. I cannot provide you with his information but you may follow me as I rejoin our friend and you may gain any information you need asking the man himself." Peter's breath caught at the news. Could it be so easy?
"Thank you! Thank you, yes, that would be wonderful!" Laurent nodded,
"Very well, follow me. He should be in the Antiquités égyptiennes gallery across the building."
It was a long walk. Laurent made no effort to converse and neither did Peter. The agent felt his stomach churning with butterflies as they made their way across the polished marble flooring, surrounded by the world's greatest artworks that Peter hardly glanced at—if Neal really was alive, if this was all not some horrible horrible joke, he would be seeing, talking to, touching his precious, living friend within a few minutes.
Surely it could not be possible. Surely it could not be true.
Peter could only pray desperately that it was.
A sign on his left announced the Antiquités Égyptiennes gallery and Peter's legs grew suddenly weak. He wasn't sure his feet would carry him in far enough to face the moment of truth and yet somehow, without his permission they did. He took a few steps into the large, open space, his eyes sweeping the room searching for—searching for—
It was the voice caught his attention first, the man's voice comfortably speaking French, yet the warm tone oh, so very familiar.
Peter turned sharply toward it and a figure caught his eye, perhaps fifteen feet away. The man was turned away from him, a fitted suit, confident posture, but most heartstoppingly— dark hair partially hidden under a fedora.
It had to be.
It couldn't be.
Peter had seen that figure in reflections, in dreams, and out of the corner of his eye for too long, but he was never real, he couldn't be real. And yet...
For an eternity of a moment Peter couldn't speak a word, couldn't move, couldn't breathe, could barely think. Finally,
"Neal."
Peter tried to call out but a hoarse, cracked, near-whisper was all that emerged from his throat as his feet stayed rooted to the ground against his will. There was no way the figure could have heard it, but somehow, over the hum of conversation in the large room, the broken word carried and the figure turned toward Peter, the face painted with a curious expression.
Peter knew that face. He knew it better than his own.
Still boyishly handsome, looking exactly like Peter remembered, only the last time he had seen that face it was deathly pale in the most literal sense of the word. Now the blue eyes were beautifully, vibrantly alive, the skin heathy and glowing with life.
Neal.
The clear blue eyes met Peter's and their gazes locked as Neal's expression morphed into a study of emotion—shock and disbelief and most of all joy all mixing together.
"Peter." Neal's voice also cracked and he seemed unable to shout the name yet Peter heard it anyway and tried to step toward him but his legs began shaking and refused to take him a step further, growing weak and lowering him to the floor. "Peter!" Neal's shout was stronger now and he was next to Peter in an instant, his arm supporting the agent until both were kneeling together on the marble floor.
Peter clutched at him, clung to him, not for support but out of desperation to touch and feel his warm, breathing, living body. Peter wasn't sure when he had started crying but he certainly was crying now, as he wrapped his arms around the younger man, pressing him as close as physically possible, one hand rubbing down Neal's back, the other cradling the back of his head, his fingers running through the dark hair, the fedora long since having fallen to the floor.
"Neal, Neal, Neal..." the name was almost a mantra he repeated as tears streamed down his face and his shoulders shook heavily with sobs. Neal was making no effort to extract himself from the crushing embrace, if anything pressing himself into it as his arms wrapped tightly around Peter. Peter could feel the younger man's shoulders hitching against him. He soaked in the warmth of his friend's life, his eyes closed as he held Neal close.
Finally, finally Peter pulled back, needing to see Neal's face again, his hand coming forward to cup the chin and the other rubbing at Neal's temple then tracing across his features with a calloused thumb. Neal just knelt, a watery smile warming his face, his eyes and nose reddened, letting Peter stare at him, touch him, feel him living.
"You're alive." Peter whispered.
"Yeah." Neal's breath was still shuddering slightly and for once his gift with words seemed unnecessary. "I'm alive."
"You're alive." Peter repeated almost brokenly before pulling Neal's head back against his shoulder and pressing a kiss to the younger man's temple, his hand going back to rubbing up and down the young man's back.
He was silent for a moment before pulling in a shuddering breath, "I love you Neal." Peter could feel Neal go still against him at the words but continued, "You're my best friend too, you're like a son to me." He pulled back, gripping Neal's shoulders, staring into his eyes, "Do you know how many times I've wished I'd told you that? How many nights I've lain awake thinking you died without knowing how much you mean to me? Neal—" At this point Peter broke back down altogether, fully sobbing, falling forward onto Neal's shoulder. This time the younger man held the older one and Peter could feel Neal's hand rubbing back and forth across his shoulders.
"I'm sorry Peter." Neal whispered, "I'm so sorry." Peter lifted his head, shaking it vehemently,
"No, no, shhhh, Neal please, you're alive," his voice cracked slightly on the word, "that's all I need from you right now." His hands were cupping the sides of Neal's face, fingers brushing the hair back shakily, wiping at the tears that streaked down the younger man's face. Peter's tears had slowed slightly and he was simply gazing at his friend's face, his own warm with a joyful smile. Neal let him look, meeting his eyes and smiling back with a watery grin, giving a choked laugh. After a few moments Peter's hand cradled the back of Neal's head, pulling him close enough to press his lips to the younger man's forehead before pulling him into another embrace.
"I love you Neal." He whispered.
"I love you too Peter."