AN: Is this my second #WCElevators story? Yes, it is. Is it days late? Also yes. Sorry.

The first segment of this story references events from my first elevator fic, The Proof in the Pudding. It's not really necessary to have read that to understand this, but you'd have a little more context if you have.

Lastly, as the summary says, these scenes take place during the events of "Au Revoir." If you haven't finished the series yet, I'd recommend not reading any further.


The Twilight of Evening

Cheride

The darkness of death is like the evening twilight; it makes all objects appear more lovely to the dying. ~ Jean Paul


"Hey!"

Neal jolted when Peter knocked on the corner of his desk, and the agent's eyes immediately narrowed, watching intently as Neal pasted a trusty smile on his face.

"Hey, yourself."

"What's got you so deep in thought?" Peter asked, and Neal probably would've preferred the old suspicion to the obvious concern in the tone.

Inwardly, Neal cursed himself for giving in to the emotions of the day; he couldn't slip up when everything was so close to over. He needed to get himself together.

He couldn't admit that he'd gotten lost in thought trying to figure out any practical way to take his Socrates bust with him tonight, or maybe his rubber band ball—really, anything to symbolize the three years he'd spent in this office—and since he didn't intend to start lying to Peter now, he did what Neal Caffrey did best.

"We've got a big day tomorrow. Lots to think about."

The non-answer seemed to satisfy Peter, and the man nodded an agreement. "Yeah. But go ahead and pack it up for tonight."

"What?" Peter couldn't suspect, surely.

"It's quitting time," Peter answered.

Now Neal could hear the very beginning of suspicion. He laughed. "Oh, yeah. I must've really lost track of time." He logged out of the computer and resisted the impulse to clear his desk as he stood, but he couldn't stop himself from dragging his fingers across Socrates as he followed Peter out of the bullpen and into the elevator.

Peter pushed the button that would take them below the regular parking area and into the highly secure lower level that would let them leave the garage in a much more discreet location and walk to a non-government-issue vehicle. They weren't taking any chances at this stage of the operation; no one even remotely connected with the Pink Panthers would accidentally see them exiting a federal building.

"Got any plans tonight?" Peter asked as the car carried them downward.

What he wanted to say was, Trying to say goodbye to the life I don't want to leave. Because, as always, Neal thought Peter could change his mind, if only he knew it needed changing. But he couldn't say any of that.

"Not really. Wine with Moz. You know."

"So the same as every night, then?"

Neal grinned. "Don't fix what isn't broken."

"You want to come for dinner? We've got something we want to tell you."

"That's not ominous. What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

Neal fixed him with a steady gaze, his turn to study.

"Really," Peter insisted with a chuckle, "it's nothing bad."

"Then tell me."

"Tonight. Dinner?"

Since he'd been planning on dropping by anyway, it was an easy invitation to accept.

"Of course. I'll bring the wine."

Neal leaned against the wall, eyes roaming around the car, then watched the numbers counting down, a small, wistful smile on his face.

"We'll be done with all the cloak and dagger soon," Peter told him.

"Yeah." He looked back over at his partner. "Remember the first time we were in an elevator together?"

Peter laughed. "Yeah. Not the first time you got away from me—"

"Or the last," Neal interjected.

"Or the last. But it was the closest I ever got without catching you."

"Well, you were shot. And I'm not sure how much effort you would've put into the catching that day, anyway. Might have to grade on a curve for that one."

"Maybe. But there was another first that day, too—first time you saved my life." Peter smiled fondly. "But not the last."

"No, not the last," Neal agreed softly.

"Is your impending freedom making you nostalgic?"

"Maybe. We do have a lot of history to be nostalgic about."

"We do. But it's not over, you know. It's just that you'll be able to make all your own decisions about our future history."

"Future history?" Neal repeated with a grin. "Is that a thing?"

"If it's not," Peter said as the elevator slid to a stop, "it should be."

He shifted toward the doors, and Neal didn't miss the way he stood right in the center, ready for them to open, probably not even aware of the way he put himself between Neal and anything that might be waiting for them. It didn't matter that the risk was almost infinitesimal in this building, protecting was second nature for Peter Burke, and protecting Neal Caffrey had been keeping the man busy for years.

It was a small but powerful reminder of what he was giving up, but also a reminder of why. Peter had other responsibilities now, and even more to come; Neal couldn't expect the man to keep standing in front of danger for him.

If their operation was a success and the FBI honored their contract—which was certainly not guaranteed, as far as Neal was concerned—the Panthers would become a real threat.

And if the Bureau didn't honor their contract, Neal had no doubt Peter would stand in the line of political fire as calmly as he faced every other risk, and it would be career suicide.

He couldn't allow any of that just because he was getting sentimental all of a sudden. He had to stick to the plan.

The doors parted, and Neal watched Peter quickly scan the area before leading them into the shadowy basement garage, then outside into the late afternoon sunshine, and Neal Caffrey left the building for the last time.


"Are you crazy?" Neal grabbed Keller's arm to lead him away from the grubby, street-level entrance. "We bought these suits to blend in, not draw attention to the well-dressed guys casually dropping into the basement. We'll take the service elevator down."

They entered the bank lobby with the regular crowd of Wall Street types, and Neal led them confidently away from the masses and around a corner.

Waiting for the elevator, Keller flashed one of his annoying smirks. "Don't look so glum, Caffrey. We're about to be very rich men."

Neal looked around quickly. "Keep your voice down. Anyway, we had a plan, Keller; this wasn't it. Don't expect me to be thrilled with the risks you take. This could screw up everything."

"The risks I take? You're the one living the double life these past few years, running a game on the feds right under their noses. If that's not risky, I don't know what is."

The elevator opened in front of them and they stepped inside, pushing the button to take them two levels down to the sub-basement.

Neal shook his head. "It wasn't a game," he answered, not looking at Keller. "I don't expect you to understand." Then he deliberately ignored the other man, tuning out the typical condescending heckling that managed to carry some vague threat, as always.

Neal thought that had probably been one of the more truthful things he'd ever said to Keller. Half the time, he didn't understand his connection to the FBI himself; he sure as hell didn't expect someone like Matthew Keller to get it. And since he would prefer not to think about that connection now—the connection he was about to sever totally and permanently—he supposed he should be grateful to his old nemesis. Keller's goading at least gave him an outlet for the uncharacteristic emotion that threatened to cloud his judgment, clamoring for him to back down, to find another way. It let him ignore the idea that this was a conversation between ghosts, even if only one of them knew it yet.

Of course, he could be wrong about that. For such a carefully constructed plan, it was really out of Neal's hands. But as far as variables went, counting on Peter Burke to do the honorable thing and Matthew Keller to not seemed like a pretty safe bet.

The elevator dinged open and Neal stepped out into the dingy basement with Keller following close behind—one ghost leading another.


Peter had lost people before—family, friends, co-workers. Not even a year ago, he'd lost David Siegel, an agent directly under his command.

But nothing had prepared him for this. Nothing had prepared him to lose Neal.

After the ambulance had pulled away, it had taken him a few minutes to follow, and by the time he reached the hospital, they told him Neal had already been taken to surgery, so he'd followed the receptionist's directions up to the fifth floor, where he'd been told to wait.

Not long after, Mozzie had joined him, and as odd as it was, Peter had found some comfort in having the little man there to wait with him.

Now, not even fifteen minutes later, a stoic man in scrubs came to apologize for the misunderstanding, explaining that Neal had not even survived long enough to make it to the table. Their friend was gone.

Peter felt his world crumbling, but Mozzie scoffed at the idea, assured Peter it was a hoax, that this was nothing more than Neal finally slipping free of his leash once and for all. Never mind that he didn't have an answer for why Neal would run now, when his freedom was almost upon him, or why this time he would take off alone, leaving his oldest friend behind.

And when Moz challenged the doctor to show them the "body," he didn't seem deterred by the immediate acquiescence. The doctor told them Neal had already been taken downstairs, and as soon as he'd been cleaned up, they could see him. The morgue was on level B2, if they'd like to wait down there.

The unlikely duo moved slowly down the hall toward the elevator, silent, each coping—or not coping—with this unexpected loss in their own way.

Inside the elevator, Peter stared at the button panel, unseeing, suddenly frozen.

"He said B2," Mozzie told him quietly. But Peter still didn't move, so Moz reached around him and pressed the button.

That finally registered with Peter and he took a half step backward, rubbing at his eyes, trying to ignore the burning feeling of a gathering breakdown. He looked over at Mozzie.

"If you want, I can talk to them alone." See Neal's body alone is what he meant, but neither of them was ready for those words yet.

"No. I want to be there to see their story fall apart, watch them sweat a little."

The words were Mozzie through and through, but Peter could already hear the certainty fading, see Moz pulling back, trying to wrap himself in the comfort of conspiracy even in the face of growing evidence to the contrary. Trying, but not fully succeeding.

He wondered briefly when he'd learned to read the little con man even that much, then recoiled at the thought, not wanting to dwell on a history that only existed between them because of Neal.

"Have you seen him here at all?" Mozzie asked suddenly.

Peter shook his head. "Not since they took him in the ambulance."

"And how was he then?"

"He was . . ."

Dying, Peter thought, swallowing down a sob threatening to erupt. He was saying goodbye.

But there had to be a balance with Mozzie, somewhere between vague platitudes that would cause him to hold even tighter to his denial, and a brutal truth that would quite possibly break him.

"He was conscious," is what Peter finally settled for. "But, Mozzie, he wasn't good. Keller had—he was hurt, Moz. Really hurt."

"That's a classic misdirect, Suit! You saw what he wanted you to see. When you're not looking anymore, that's when he makes his move."

"Mozzie . . ."

Peter sighed. The problem was, of all Mozzie's conspiracy theories, this one was probably the least crazy. If anyone could successfully fake his death, it would be Neal Caffrey. In fact, it was plausible enough that Peter almost wanted to believe it himself. But hiding from the truth had never been his way.

Still, he quit arguing. He wouldn't take away Moz's last few minutes of hope before they came face to face with the horrible reality.

Except Mozzie was looking at him expectantly, like not arguing wasn't enough, like he wanted some sort of validation, some kind of assurance Neal wasn't gone.

But Peter couldn't do that. He wanted to believe it too much to risk lying about it, lest he end up as lost in denial as Moz. But when the doors opened, he got as close as he could, for Mozzie's sake.

"I hope you're right."

And as they followed the corridor to the area they'd been told to wait for the coroner, Peter realized just how true those words were.

Please, Mozzie, just this once. Be right.


"We're going the wrong direction," Jones complained as they waited for the elevator to empty all the lucky people getting to go home.

"Got that right," Diana agreed as they finally stepped inside, the only ones going up this time of day. She hit the 21 on the panel, then moved to a back corner, letting the walls support her. "It's been a long day."

"Yeah." Jones leaned against his own wall, but he smiled. "A good one, though. Got some bad people off the streets. Just too bad they come with so much paperwork."

Diana agreed with that, too, just as her phone rang. "It's Peter," she told her partner as she straightened her stance subconsciously before answering.

"Hey, boss," she greeted. "We've got things under control here, so—what? Keller what? Are you okay?"

Jones straightened up and paid more attention to the conversation. "What's going on?" he whispered.

"But what about—oh my God, is he all right?"

Diana only listened for another few seconds before she stumbled back against the wall. "Peter, no . . . I'm so sorry. What can we do for you?"

Jones moved immediately to stand beside her, growing more concerned as she listened again briefly before saying, "Okay, I'll talk to you soon. And, Peter, give my love to Mozzie."

Diana ended the call and stared at her phone for a moment.

"Diana, what's wrong?"

When she didn't answer, Jones laid a gentle hand on her arm. "Di?"

She looked up, eyes swimming. "Clinton . . . it's Neal."

By the time they reached their floor, she'd told him what little she knew. And when the doors opened, they walked slowly from the elevator into the office they knew would never be the same.


Dark. He awoke to total, unidentifiable darkness.

Only long ingrained habits allowed him to remain still, keep his breathing regulated, not betray his fear while he tried to figure out where he was and what was happening.

He took stock quickly.

He was on his back, and he could feel something on him, something that felt like plastic—smooth, not heavy, not really restraining, but he felt it all around, enclosing him. Unexpectedly, he could feel the covering against every part of him. He wasn't wearing any clothes, and that raised a host of other questions he was too disoriented to focus on at the moment.

Then suddenly, he was moving. Wherever he was lying was mobile, and though he didn't know where he was now, something deep inside told him he didn't want to go somewhere else.

His thoughts raced as he tried to figure out what he should do. Naked and alone, without tools or any idea what was going on, his options were pretty limited, but maybe wherever he was going would be outside his radius, if he wasn't already, and—

That stopped him. Another quick examination revealed that he wasn't just nude; he was completely bare, including his left ankle.

The realization came to him just as he heard a familiar chime and then felt the ka-thunk ka-thunk of being wheeled across the threshold into an elevator.

For a split second, the immediate panic almost caused him to give himself away, but he pressed his lips together and tried to keep his swirling thoughts on task.

An elevator. Okay. At least that was something. If he was in a building with an elevator, maybe he was still in the city, maybe even someplace close. He hoped so, because if he wasn't close and his tracker had been cut, it might take a long time for Peter to find him and—

Peter.

With that one word, everything came rushing back to him.

The Pink Panthers; the contract that might or might not finally give him his freedom; the scam that twisted and turned in so many directions, and conned everyone he knew one last time; making sure Mozzie was set for life; the "fight" with Keller; saying goodbye to Peter . . .

Peter.

It was harder to hold back the cry this time. He clenched his jaw tight and fisted his hands closed, letting his nails dig so deeply into his palms he thought they might draw blood. But he couldn't screw this up now. Could not.

He had paid the coroner well to handle the viewing and then get him to a secure location. Since they were on the move, he assumed the first part had already taken place. But he didn't know who else might be in the elevator—it was quiet, but he guessed most people wouldn't make idle conversation with someone wheeling around a dead body—so he had to hold himself together.

He wasn't even supposed to be awake yet, wasn't supposed to experience this confusion in this hellish blackness, but the toxin dosage information hadn't exactly been precise. But thank God he hadn't woken up any earlier. He didn't want to imagine his friends in that room, seeing his lifeless body, but he sure didn't want to imagine their anger and pain if they'd realized he was planning to cut and run.

With his thoughts continuing to clear, Neal almost wished they wouldn't, or at least not until he was back in the light again, where it would be easier to face his new reality. His plan had been meticulous, and it seemed it had worked perfectly, but . . .

No. No buts.

Every choice he'd made, all of it, was for a reason. A lot of reasons. His freedom, his friends' safety, giving Peter back a life of his own. And okay, if he was honest, maybe even thumbing his nose at the FBI just a little. But none of that could be guaranteed unless Neal Caffrey was dead, shuffled off into that eternal blackness where he couldn't cause any more problems for anyone he cared about.

Neal didn't regret his decisions; he didn't. But as he heard the doors slide open and felt the gurney rolling again, taking him somewhere he could safely depart for his new life, he had to fight to keep himself still while tears slid quietly across his face.

Neal didn't regret his decisions.

He just hadn't realized how dark it would be.

~END~


Well, that was a little more depressing than I usually put out, but what're you gonna do? Not sure about you all, but I've still got plenty of feelings about the finale, and they're not particularly uplifting. LOL.

But thanks for reading; I really do appreciate you!