A/N A WWII White Collar AU, filling prompt #8 for the 12 Days of White Collar Challenge: "All I Want For Christmas" Prison Phonecalls Longing/Grief Realizations
Not sure what's up with my recent foray into AU's but here we are, a WWII AU to watch our Peter and Neal go off to war.
So, in the interest of full transparency I had the basic idea of this fic before the prompt, so it's more a situation of the prompt fitting and adding to an already existent idea, but idk, I think it fits well. This one takes "All I Want For Christmas" "longing/grief" and "realizations" from prompt 8.
I kinda wanted this to be a WWI fic but the FBI was only established a few years before WWI so I kinda decided it was safer to make it WWII.
To be clear, this is not really a Kate/Neal story though it may seem that way on the face of it. Kate is simply a useful device to explore Neal's thoughts more than anything else, which I think I communicated clearly enough but wanted to reiterate anyway. So please don't skip Kate haters, this is a Peter and Neal story.
September 18, 1943
Order to Report for Armed Forces Physical Examination:
Neal G. Caffrey
You are hereby directed to present yourself for Armed Forces Physical Examination. Should you pass you will be drafted into active military duty. Report to your nearest recruitment station on Monday, September 23rd.
Sergeant Peter Burke surveyed the new recruits stoically. His expression gave no indication of his thoughts as he walked up and down the ranks of the young soldiers, sorting through his impressions of each. They all were inexperienced; trained but still woefully green and none had ever seen a real battlefield.
Peter Burke was able to get a good idea of what kind of soldier each man would be, a skill of finely honed instinct trained by years of FBI work. You couldn't turn off an instinct like that just because you'd been drafted into the army, and Sergeant Burke didn't want to.
A second or two was all he needed for an impression of his new men, seeing at a glance a myriad of information from the way each boy stood, from whether or not they met his eyes, and countless other tiny indications.
Good soldier... too cocky... cowardly... respectful... scared but not a coward... good soldier... too eager— damn. Burke's stomach twisted as he met a pair of brilliant blue eyes. Sensitive.
The sensitive ones, in Peter Burke's opinion, were the worst. Not the worst soldiers, and certainly not the worst people, no, they were the worst to send to the frontlines. It was almost unforgivable to send any man out to war, but sending those boys with that extra love for beauty and care for people off to hell— that felt like true cruelty.
There was something about their eyes and Peter could always tell. It was bad enough to watch the eager, excited recruits grow hardened by the torment and suffering all around them - nobody came back unchanged - but it was the sensitive ones that broke the hardest, wounded the deepest, and it never failed to hurt Peter Burke to watch.
Burke's gaze followed down the boy's face and his heart sank even further. The soldier was fit and a perfect specimen physically, already in good shape though certainly on the slender side, but he was pretty and he had sensitive eyes and Burke saw the future - had seen it play out already - where those brilliant blue eyes went hollow and his pretty face was mutilated by shrapnel or contorted in pain. And there was nothing Sergeant Peter Burke would be able to do about it.
"Step forward soldier." He barked. The boy obeyed with a salute, but though he followed the simple order to a T there was some small air of his obedience that seemed to be more playing along than anything else. Burke smothered a grin. Intelligent. There was a winning mischief in his eyes that boded a sort of charming no-good. Peter would have to keep an eye on him.
"What's your name private?"
"Neal Caffrey, sir."
My dearest Kate,
The past weeks have been more like an awful dream than anything else. First the draft notice, the weeks of grueling military training, being shipped overseas— but here I am, across the ocean, and finally it's horribly real.
I'm a soldier.
You'd laugh at my close cropped hair, I look nothing like the man you first met. Nick Halden, with styled hair, expensive suit, too distracted by your beauty to notice the beauty of the masterful painting in front of my face. Fine suits and Italian masterpieces are a thing of the past now; the uniforms I wear are made of more durable material than silk. A man can still dream of art and fine clothing, though, and this man certainly does. But perhaps you would like my uniform— girls like a man in uniform or so they say, but I would never have imagined myself in one nor would you have, I'm sure. But then again you and I were a thing of the time before this war.
I can't say I'm not proud of my uniform, much as I hate it in many ways. The battlefield is the last place I want to go, but there are too many innocents being hurt by the people we will be fighting against for me not to fight for this cause when I'm called to. Perhaps the only real fight Mozzie and I ever had was over my draft. He offered to help me run, assumed I would, in fact. I reported for duty promptly at eight instead.
I am not sure why I am writing this letter— after all you'll never read it. I'm not alone in missing 'my girl' over here, Kate, most men here can sympathize a little bit, but I'm alone in the fact that 'my girl' won't be waiting for her hero back home.
Some might call me crazy to write letters to a dead person, perhaps it is crazy, but Kate I know that I'll see awful things over here and keeping them in my heart will only destroy me. It's better to write them down and write them to someone - even if they're not around to read it - than to write to myself.
So I'll write to you, my love, of things I would never tell you if you were still alive. Perhaps, in some way you might even read them.
—NC
The new recruits joined the season veterans around the fire that evening as Peter stayed near enough to make sure the typical hazing didn't grow too cruel.
It was a relatively unantagonistic night however, the older soldiers perhaps feeling too tired to tease the new ones too much, letting each of them share their backgrounds with a minimum of teasing until it finally all eyes turned to Neal Caffrey.
"Hey pretty boy, you've been rather quiet. What's your name and where're you from?" one of the soldiers questioned. Peter found himself leaning a bit closer, curious as to the young man's answer. The boy had been rather quiet, not participating in much of the talk, but at the question he looked up with a wide grin, startling his audience with his anything-but-shy demeanor.
"Neal Caffrey, and I hail from the lovely city of New York."
"Oh he 'hail's' from the lovely city of New York," one of the men mocked. Caffrey didn't grow defensive but simply laughed comfortably along with the group.
"What'dya do, Blue Eyes?" another soldier questioned. "Who was Neal Caffrey before this rotten war?"
"I like to paint." Neal said with with simple assurance. He must have known how that revelation would go over amongst the war hardened men and eager young recruits but he seemed far from intimidated to admit the fact, his posture easy and his countenance open and good-natured. Peter was fascinated.
"Paint?" one of the vets repeated gleefully, "Didja hear that boys? We've got ourselves a pansy painter to help defend our country. A regular ar-tist." The rest of the soldiers roared with laughter at the mocking words. "How many Germans can you kill with a paintbrush, Blue Eyes?" the soldier taunted. Caffrey just grinned and shrugged.
"More than you'd think. I've had more than one person drop dead of boredom while I was painting them, surely it'll work on the Germans too."
Peter found a grin spreading across his face at the brilliance of the joke. Instead of growing defensive, mocking back, or pushing against the joke, the young soldier had leaned into it, laughed comfortably along, and had effortlessly brought every person around the fire over to his side, including his antagonists.
The soldiers roared with laughter, and Caffrey's main adversary slugged him across the shoulder.
"We'll keep you around, Blue Eyes."
It was only as general attention moved to the next victim Peter realized just how little any of the men knew about Neal Caffrey— and how intentional Peter suspected it was.
My dearest Kate,
I've earned a nickname: "Blue Eyes". Very original, I know, and trust me I didn't choose it. Maybe I can earn another one if I try hard enough.
Creativity is not particularly prevalent amongst these men. You should have seen their reaction when I told them I was an artist. They're not creative men on any account and they're certainly rough around the edges, but they're a solid lot overall and I won't need to worry when I go into battle with them at my back.
That still seems like a stranger talking— the thought that I'll go to war. I've never wanted to hurt people.
I didn't want to pick up a gun, I didn't want to train with it, and I don't want to take a life. The very thought of what I'll see, of what I'll do in but a few weeks turns my stomach, I'm not sure what will happen when I'm forced with the reality. So I push those thoughts away to deal with them when the time comes.
We've bonded in our own way, my fellow soldiers and I. After winning enough card games they demanded I teach them all how to cheat after forcing me to return the money. Ah, well, it was inevitable and the class I held was widely popular. That didn't overly please our superior, Sergeant Burke.
He's an interesting one, Sergeant Burke. I've met a lot of people in my lifetime and none like him. 'Wholesome' is the word that comes to mind, and as funny as it sounds in describing a person, it fits him well. Wholesome, dependable, kind— you may laugh that I form these impressions so quickly but I'll remind you of my years of skill in reading people and stand by my assessment of Sergeant Peter Burke.
I respect him. I don't think I've truly respected anyone before, but I respect him.
—NC
Peter's impressions from the first day proved accurate as they usually did and he found himself relying on the soldiers he had expected to and shaking his head over the ones he'd thought he would.
Caffrey in particular, was Peter's secret fascination. The sergeant found himself always looking for the pair of brilliant blue eyes looking out from under one of the sea of helmets, dreading the day that he'd have to put this boy in particular in the heat of battle as they grew closer to the frontlines. He knew Elizabeth was laughing to herself at the protective instinct that had always influenced him, as he wrote in his letters, speaking of the sensitive blue-eye soldier instead of the the ruined countryside around him.
He'd been right about the mischief too though, as he discovered when he found Caffrey teaching a group of at least twenty soldiers the best tactics for cheating at cards. He'd suspected the kid was cheating based on the amount of times he'd won as well as his utter familiarity of cards in general, but despite the bawling out he gave the young soldier, he suspected that the tendency was out of a wish to make the game more interesting for himself and had nothing to do with the money. He still made Caffrey return what he'd swindled.
The funny thing was, beyond the odd fondness Peter felt for the boy, he respected him too.
Caffrey was resilient through the hunger and cold, uncomplaining as few of the soldiers were, though more than once Peter suspected Caffrey was worse off than the loudest whiners.
It was only when Neal stumbled as they marched and winced sharply as he tried to get up before falling back to his knees that Peter realized just how far the young soldier would push himself before asking for help.
"Caffrey! What's the matter?"
"Nothing, sir." The young man tried to stand but was unable to hold back a tight grimace of pain.
"Don't lie to me, boy." Peter said gruffly and bent down, easing off the young man's boot and pulling down his sock. His jaw tightened as he saw the running sores that the ill-fitting boot had worn into the boy's feet. "You were given the wrong size boots. Why didn't you say anything, private?"
"I didn't want to complain, sir, I'm all right." Peter rubbed a hand over his forehead,
"Caffrey, there's a lot of men who I've had to tell to cowboy up, I've never had to force a man to admit they were hurt. You'll still need to walk unfortunately, but we can see to those sores and get you a better pair of boots."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
"Next time save yourself the pain, Caffrey, and tell someone when you get the wrong boots."
"Yes, sir," Neal said respectfully but Peter distinctly saw the ghost of a grin.
My dearest Kate,
You know what's funny? It took a war to find someone who cares about me.
I suppose that's a bit unfair. You cared, Moz too, but there's something different about the way Sergeant Burke cares. Not that it's unusual for a superior to care about his men, I suppose, but I've never been someone that most people care about. I see him watching me, more often, I think, than he does some of the others and wonder if he might understand some things.
It's hard for me Kate. I'll admit that only to you and I wouldn't admit it to you if you were alive. Out of everything I used to live for, everything that gave me joy, it seems that everything here is the opposite of that. Sometimes it feels suffocating.
Sometimes I feel cut off from all the other men. After all, most of them signed up for this, eager to go kill some Nazi's. I was drafted— and I don't want to kill. I think, somehow Sergeant Burke understands that. He looks as though he does.
As much as I would have necessarily avoided his type in my former life, he's exactly the type of man you would want to lead you in battle.
To be honest, he's a man I would like by my side in any respect.
It's a good thing these are the circumstances under which we meet, Sergeant Burke and I, because, Kate— he's a good man. A really good man, not simply one who seems it. I might have made friends with him despite the danger of associating the law abiding half of society— though I'm not sure an upstanding citizen like him would care to rub shoulders with a con artist like me. In that respect, too, it is good we meet under these circumstances. He'll never have to know my past.
Maybe he'll even respect me.
—NC
Peter found Caffrey being violently ill near the edge of the woods the evening after they'd settled in on the front lines. A few minutes after the trucks full of mutilated bodies had passed.
Normally Peter would have room for little sympathy for the men who became ill at the sight— they'd see a lot worse when the time came, they might as well get used to it. But he knew it wasn't just disgust that turned Caffrey's stomach, or at least not simply disgust at the sight of the blood and mangled bodies. It was disgust and horror at the action just as much as the gruesome image. So Peter quietly stood next to him until his shoulders stopped shaking with choked heaves and Caffrey stood, still breathing hard.
"I'm sorry, sir." He stood at attention.
Peter resisted the urge to rest a hand on his shoulder,
"You don't have to be sorry Private. War turns my stomach too."
My dearest Kate,
Remember that night when we conned our way into that fancy hotel and ordered hundreds of dollars worth of food? Do you remember the bridge we saw from our window, the way the sun hit it and the way we loved it?
We're getting closer to the frontlines now. I can hear gunfire at times. Tonight that memory of you and I looking out at that bridge is what I choose to remember because if I think of anything else I'll break apart.
—NC
Peter was good at containing his emotions as he counted off the remainder of his men, but inside his heart sank lower as each one looked up at him, eyes a different shade from the brilliant blue he was looking for. He'd counted off all the men who returned from the ill-fated battle, the first one his newer recruits had seen, and his heart had sunk to his boots like a stone, his throat closing up until he could barely get out the necessary words. He forced them out anyway. Duty had to be preformed, regardless of who he'd lost that day.
A few minutes later the men near the back stirred and Peter glared at them, angry at the disruption until he heard one of them call with excitement,
"It's Blue Eyes! It's Caffrey and he's got Jones!" The men parted as Peter strode through them, almost not daring to hope but sure enough, the kid stood at the edge of the camp, wavering with exhaustion as he almost fully supported the much larger man who slumped into his support, an arm slung over Neal's shoulder.
"Caffrey," Peter whispered, the word choking off before he forced it out louder, "Caffrey!"
"Sir," the young soldier responded weakly before collapsing to the ground almost in slow motion. A bevy of soldiers ran up to help the two, but Peter brushed aside those who offered Caffrey a hand—
"Bring Jones to the medics."
—and offered his own, feeling the exhaustion that weighed the man down in Neal's lax grip on his hand. Neal looked up at him slowly and Peter's heart sank again, only seconds after it had leapt with joy. Yes, Caffrey was alive but in the depths of those startlingly blue eyes was the haunted look that Peter had dreaded from the beginning and had always know would come. The looked dulled the eyes of the other men, but it sharpened Caffrey's with the severity of the pain. For a brief moment Caffrey's gaze met Peter's and in it was a cry for help.
It was midnight when Peter was startled by the silhouette of a soldier, kneeling a little ways from the camp by the stream. It wasn't so unusual but gut instinct prompted Peter to come close until he recognized the familiar shape of Neal Caffrey.
"Are you all right, soldier?" he asked quietly. He received no answer. Drawing closer curiously he knelt next to the younger man and found him washing his hands in the stream. "Caffrey?" Again there was no answer.
Peter reached over and grasped the soldier's shoulder, gently turning him and realized suddenly that the man was not fully conscious. Asleep or perhaps daydreaming, he looked through Peter, the haunted look prominent in his eyes. Peter closed his eyes for a brief moment, intense grief overcoming him. He reached down and scooped up a handful of water, dashing it into the younger man's face.
Caffrey came to with a gasp, sputtering and choking slightly on the water.
"You with me, Caffrey?" Peter asked gently.
"Yes, sir." Neal was breathing hard, eyes darting around in confusion and distress, hands still wet, looking incredibly young, heart wrenchingly broken.
Peter could take no more of this. Throwing convention to the wind he wrapped an arm around the slim shoulders of the young soldier in front of him and pulled him close. Neal flowed with the movement, the lack of reluctance for the embrace saying something about his mental state as he leaned against his superior. His shoulders began to heave.
Peter was never sure later how long they sat there; the only sound beyond the distant gunfire was the sound of Neal's sobbing breaths. He only knew that they sat there long enough.
Neal Caffrey had broken, exactly as Peter had predicted he would. Only, not in the same way as Peter had expected.
Peter pulled away, finally, as the heaving breaths slowed, reluctant to see the emptiness in the clear blue eyes that had been filled before with so much sensitivity, intelligence, and life. He met them anyway and was shocked at what he found.
Many went into battle full of life and came out hallow and empty, devoid of it entirely even if they technically were still living. Neal Caffrey had lost himself, as all the others did, but had found something else, someone else on that battlefield. Gone was the boy who'd gone into the battle, what was left was a man.
A man that Peter instantly and deeply respected.
My dearest Kate,
I've killed people now.
I've killed more people than Matthew Keller ever did before his well-deserved end.
Shakespeare wasn't far off as he wrote Lady Macbeth, her midnight dreams of blood dripping down her hands. I feel it too.
The man you knew has been dying for months I think, but the battlefield truly finished him. I killed yesterday and I didn't even feel sick after doing it. Just numb. It was this that later made me sick. I can't stop thinking about the targets of each bullet I fired. I hit most of them.
You always dreamed of France, my love, we dreamed of it together. I'm glad you're not around to see France now. This hellscape is worlds from country we imagined, though through the ruined countryside one can still see faint traces of the beautiful country it was before. It only makes the destruction and violation of this country worse.
There's something else the battlefield has taken from me— or maybe given.
I never thought I'd leave 'the life', I spent too much time enjoying my trade as a forger and con artist, but there's one thing I know now.
If, by chance, I survive this war I can only live to add more beauty to the world. I desperately need to add more warmth and kindness and good to this life and no amount of conning or forging will ever do that. There's no room for the con on the battlefield, no want for it when it's just thirty or fifty or ten men going through hell together.
I hurt people Kate, I realize that now as I look back. I suppose it took the horror of the battlefield to make me truly face what I knew all along and never faced directly. I never wanted to, but my crimes were selfish things, however I cowardly justified them. They hurt people, and I've had my fill of hurting people for a thousand lifetimes.
—NC
P.S. For some reason I feel Sergeant Burke would approve of this letter. Though why I feel that or even consider his approval in the first place I've truly no idea.
Peter always looked at Elizabeth's picture the night before embarking on a military mission of any sort. There was never any guarantee that things would go well. He looked at it many other times too but on nights like these he made a special effort to slip away. To simply spend a few quiet moments with his most precious thoughts.
"She's thinking about you every moment, sir."
Peter started, feeling a flash of anger at the interruption of the private moment, and spun around, shoving the picture back in his pocket and ready to give the soldier the full measure of wrath from a very pissed-off Sergeant Peter Burke. But he stopped short as he encountered a pair of sympathy-filled blue eyes.
"Caffrey."
Any other solider would have been a very unwelcome intrusion but somehow Peter felt less upset at Caffrey's. They'd been near the frontlines, sent back and forth for a while now and a quiet companionship had formed between the two of them. A friendship of small jokes, protective care, and understanding. "How do you know her mind?" Peter asked a bit wryly.
"Is that your wife, sir?"
Peter nodded, then slowly, not entirely sure why he was doing it, pulled the small photo back out of his pocket and handed it to the young soldier. Caffrey took it gently and studied the picture of the lovely, dark-haired woman with a kindhearted smile.
"That's her." The pride was evident in the sergeant's voice, "Elizabeth Burke. Most beautiful woman in the world."
The young soldier smiled and handed the photo back.
"Maybe one day when this is all over I could meet her."
Peter smiled at the thought. "She'd like you. She's an art person too."
"A woman with taste. You chose well."
"That I did." Peter let out a wistful sigh, "I don't deserve her."
"I'm not sure that's true."
"I told her I'd be home for Christmas. That was two years ago."
Deep sympathy crossed the young man's face and he lowered his head.
"That's not your fault."
"No. But I didn't spend as much time with her as I should have when I was home. Too much time focused on work, not enough on the things that were much more important. She always had the patience of a saint though." The sergeant sighed again before turning on the young man who stood next to him.
"Who's waiting back at home for Neal Caffrey?" he asked curiously. "Surely there's some lovely girl waiting for her soldier-boy back home." Caffrey threw a wide grin back at him.
"Dozens of 'em, sir." Peter huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes.
"I believe it." But he had noticed a curious hardening of the young soldier's face at the question, as if the vulnerability of the moment they'd shared had been suddenly replaced by an invisible yet impenetrable mask, disguised with a good-natured comment. Caffrey turned away as if to leave.
"You never answered my question, soldier." Peter said to Caffrey's back. The young man turned around.
"What question was that?"
"How do you know what my wife is thinking?" Caffrey smiled again, but this time there was a hint of something vulnerable in his eyes.
"Because someone she loves is in danger. There's only one thing anyone will think about under those circumstances."
My dearest Elizabeth,
El, I always think of you when I get orders to advance, but I'm writing now because this time feels different. I'm not sending this letter, just writing it and leaving it behind for someone else to send if the worst happens. There's just a few things I want to tell you.
I love you honey. That's the most important thing. Remember that first and foremost if you ever see this letter. I love you and I'm so sorry.
There's something I'd like to ask of you, El. You've heard a lot about Neal at this point, hopefully you aren't tired of hearing about him my letters— I want to ask you a favor concerning him. If, by some chance, I do die and Caffrey survives, will you try to find him?
You always said I should get my 'gut instinct' patented. Well here's a gut instinct for you. My gut tells me he has no one to meet him should he come home from this war. No man should come home from the battlefield with no one to greet him and this boy needs someone more than most.
He'll take care of you too, El, and that's a thought that comforts me. To be perfectly clear, I'm not sending him as a replacement for me - I can see you laughing at that thought already - but rather as perhaps a replacement for a son we might have had. If I don't come back from this war, you would both need each other equally.
I wish I could see you one last time before we do this, honey. You're probably eating dinner alone, not much different from when I was there, unfortunately. I mean that jokingly but this is serious: forgive me, El, for not taking the time when I could have. What I would give now to just eat dinner with you. No case should have ever been important enough to take me away from those precious moments.
But here's one promise I will make. I've been away for two years. If I survive tomorrow I'll do everything within my power to come home to you this Christmas. I told you I'd be home two years ago, but this time I mean it, if God allows. In that case, and I sincerely hope this is the case, you'll never see this letter, or know it existed. But if you do read this letter, know this:
I love you, honey.
Your husband,
P. Burke
They set out at 0600, the heavy fog providing both shelter and obstacle. Disaster struck at 0846.
Artillery fire screamed overhead as bullets whistled past. One moment Peter was charging forward, bending low to decrease his ability to be a target, and the next the world consisted only of blinding, agonizing pain.
My legs, was his last thought as he drifted into darkness, I'll never walk again.
"Sir...sir, wake up...Sergeant Burke...Sergeant...sir... Peter!" Peter's eyes flew open as he woke up into a sea of pain and horror, his gaze meeting a pair of brilliant blue eyes filled with fear that tempered with some relief as Peter mumbled,
"Who are you, calling your superior by my first name, boy?"
"Sergeant, I can't carry you without help but we need to get back, we're behind enemy lines now." Peter bit back a harsh cry of pain as Caffrey awkwardly pulled him up with one hand then knelt down and turned his back, pulling Peter on. Peter saw suddenly why Caffrey had used only one hand as he threw his arms around the boy's neck, and found an arm on one side and a useless, mutilated limb on another.
"Caffrey you're—"
"I can walk, sir. Just hold on for me."
Peter wasn't sure how many minutes or hours of pure hell he endured on Caffrey's back, distracted only by the thought that Caffrey must be in just as much pain or more from the exhaustion of walking and carrying Peter.
Some unnamed amount of time later he felt himself being lowered to a hard packed dirt floor, and looked around to find a small cave with Caffrey all but collapsed nearby.
For several hours they slept.
Peter finally woke to the sound of a groan, looking over sharply to see the young soldier's face contorted in pain.
"Caffrey?" The soldier's face changed so suddenly that one might have dropped a mask on it.
"You're awake, sir."
"And you're hurt."
"I'm all right, sir." Peter didn't bother to contradict the obvious lie. It would bring no help for either of them. Instead he reached a shaking hand inside his coat and withdrew the picture that gave him hope in his darkest moments, his face twisting as he saw the blood that ruined it. His throat ached with grief at the way the blood spattered over Elizabeth's beautiful face, seeming to symbolize everything horrifying about war.
"Christmas is in five weeks, sir." Caffrey murmured almost thoughtfully.
"What's that, Caffrey?"
"Christmas." The young soldier smiled through a wince. "I have something for you, sir."
"For me?" Peter's eyebrows raised in surprised. "For Christmas?" Caffrey didn't answer, just reached his good hand into his pocket and pulled out a shockingly unharmed piece of folded paper and held it out.
"Merry Christmas, a little early considering I might not ever get a chance to give this to you if I wait until the day. And, I have a feeling you'll be glad of it now. So, Merry Christmas Peter." Peter huffed a laugh at the impudent use of his first name, and shook his head as he took the paper.
"You're really something else, Caffrey." The young man just grinned before his eyes flicked almost anxiously to the piece of paper in Peter's hand. Peter unfolded it carefully and his breath choked slightly in his throat.
It was a simple sketch, drawn with incredible skill, bringing to life a sweet scene. A man and a woman wrapped in each other's arms, enveloped in each other's gazes, the love between them almost visibly drawn. Only it wasn't just any man and woman, it was Peter...and a lovely, perfect image of Elizabeth.
The young soldier stayed quiet, dropping his gaze to the hard-packed dirt floor of the cave as a glistening tear trailed down the chiseled features of the older man.
"El." The word was murmured so softly the younger soldier heard the pain of it more than the word itself.
They sat in silence as the minutes passed, Peter staring at the drawing, soaking it in as the little light that was left faded and left it too dim to see more than shadows. Finally Peter pulled in a somewhat shaky breath.
"Thank you...Neal." The significance of the use of his name wasn't lost on either man, but Neal simply gave a small nod. "I'm sorry, I don't have anything for you."
"That's all right, sir, it's a bit early anyway." Neal paused for a moment, "If you don't mind me asking, Sergeant Burke, who were you before the war?"
"Special Agent Peter Burke, FBI. New York White Collar crime division." Peter felt a hard lump in his throat as he spoke the words, so familiar and yet so foreign at the same time, like something from the far distant past.
Neal huffed a sound of disbelief that mixed with pain.
"You all right, Caffrey?" Peter demanded.
"Just surprised, sir." Neal sounded a bit breathless and Peter knew a lie when he heard one but let it go. "FBI. I guess I should have guessed."
"What?"
"We might have met under very different circumstances without the war."
"And what circumstances would those be?"
Neal paused for a long moment before speaking and when he did speak there was a brittleness to his tone that was badly disguised by nonchalance.
"I'm an artist. You specialize in White Collar crime— art, bond, money forgery? I'll leave you to figure out how we may have met." Peter huffed a laugh of disbelief.
"You're a criminal? A forger?"
"I didn't say that, sir." The young soldier's tone was distinctly mischievous but the brittle note hadn't left. Peter huffed a laugh.
"No. You very purposefully didn't." He shook his head though he knew Caffrey wouldn't see much more than a shadow. "Why did you tell me this? I wouldn't have known otherwise. I'm not sure it's the smartest move to tell a federal agent you're a criminal."
Neal had always shied away from addressing situations with the grittily realistic 'we're going to die' attitude, but his answering silence to this question held that same implication. Somehow this sort of acceptance from the optimistic young soldier soured in Peter's mouth.
"You could work with me, you know. Consult for the FBI when this is all over." They may well die, but Peter refused to let Caffrey lose hope too. He heard the boy huff a laugh that sounded half relieved and half disbelieving with just a touch of amusement.
"Let's plan on that, sir—" he cut off with a heart wrenching gasp that brought Peter's heart to his throat.
"Hang in there, Caffrey." He unsuccessfully bit back his own moan of pain as he pulled himself close to the younger man and reached out a hand to touch Neal's cheek, feeling the heat of infection-induced fever seeping from dirt-streaked skin. "Damn."
"Sergeant," Neal said quietly, "we should go."
"Go? You're too ill—"
"It'll only grow worse. We should leave now while we both have some strength left."
"It's suicide to leave, Caffrey."
"It's suicide to stay." Neal didn't wait for a response, but stood, breathing hard as he pulled the sergeant onto his back.
Time seemed to turn to water after that, flowing past in little eddies and unidentifiable amounts, first fast, than lazily, the only constant being the pain in Peter's leg, the burning fever from his friend's skin, the painful, painting sounds of Neal's breath.
And then, at some point, there was only darkness.
Peter blinked his eyes open and looked around.
It was light in the room, wherever he was, and quiet. No sounds of gunfire or artillery, or men screaming in tormented pain, no wretched fog or smoke or rubble. Heaven? his mind briefly wondered. He rubbed at the sleep in his eyes, growing aware enough to see the telltale signs of a military hospital, a nurse leaned over as she noticed he was awake.
"Sergeant Burke?"
In a rush everything came back, the failed maneuver, the incredible pain in his legs, the bright blue eyes that had offered hope as Caffrey pulled him to his back, the cave and everything they had talked about, the hours of agony made only bearable by a friend's presence, and Neal's injury—
"Caffrey!" Peter struggled to sit up, "Where's Caffrey? The man who was carrying me—"
"Calm down Sergeant Burke," the nurse said gently, trying to push him down, "I need to make sure you're alright after surgery. We've had to amputate your right leg—"
"Damn my leg," Peter bellowed, "where is Neal Caffrey?"
"Private Caffrey is in the main ward." The nurse seemed to realize she would get nowhere before answering Peter's question. "Now Sergeant Burke—"
"I want to see him," Peter demanded. "Is he all right?"
"I'm afraid that's not advisable, Sergeant, you're still in the early stages of recovery—"
"Is he all right?" Peter demanded with more urgency. The nurse sighed.
"We've had to amputate the Private's left arm and unfortunately he's not responding to the surgery as well as we hoped. He was in bad shape when he was brought here."
Peter fell back to his pillows, for the first time feeling the injuries that laid him out. Black spots danced in front of his vision as the room swayed.
"Damn kid," he whispered. "I'll never forgive you, Caffrey if you die on me now."
Peter's authority as an officer was stretched to the max over the next few days.
"Bring him to my room."
"Sir, only officers get private rooms, he'll be fine in the main ward—"
"I don't care, bring him to my room. It's quieter here, he'll need quiet." Neal's bed was brought into Peter's room, the man himself laying on it, looking more like a boy in his young teens than a man.
Neal was restless, both from the fever and the horrors he had witness. Peter demanded that their beds be place side by side with hardly a few inches of space between them and when Neal whimpered with pain or moaned from the dreams, Peter reached over to grab the one good hand and hold it tightly.
It brought comfort to both of them.
Neal recovered far more slowly than Peter. He was far weaker, had expended all his strength to pull himself and his friend to safety.
By the time Peter was experimenting with crutches, Neal was hardly sitting up, his face white and drawn. But he was smiling as he watched Peter hobble around the room on one leg.
"Now you wouldn't be able to chase me down as an FBI agent even if you wanted to," he grinned.
"You underestimate my abilities, Caffrey," Peter glared playfully. He stumped over to sit on the edge of the younger man's bed, looking more earnest. "I'd like to ask you something if you don't mind."
"You could order me to answer it, sir," Neal cheeked.
"But I'm not." Neal grew more serious and nodded after a moment or so. Peter continued. "I asked you this once before, Caffrey, but I have a feeling you didn't tell the truth that time. Do you have anyone waiting for you back home?" Neal's hand brushed over the sheet on his hospital bed, drawing invisible patterns with his fingertips as he answered quietly.
"No, sir."
"Come home with me." Neal looked up with confusion.
"Sir—"
"Come back to New York with me, Neal. Work with me at the FBI. I know you can. I can still solve White Collar crime without a leg. I'll be home for Christmas this year, I want you to come too. Come meet Elizabeth. Come home with me." Neal looked down and was silent for a very long time before, slowly, he nodded.
"All right."
He looked back up, his eyes shiny, and smiled.
My dearest Kate,
This is the last letter I will ever write to you. I'm not sure why I am even writing this one, beyond, perhaps, a personal need for closure. These letters have served their purpose. For a time they helped me process hell, but I don't need them anymore. I'm still processing hell, I always will, but why write to someone who will never read when I can speak to someone who will listen and understand?
I'm going home with Peter Burke. Back to New York, to work with him as a CI. Mozzie will certainly not approve but this isn't something he'll be able to talk me out of. The job is simply an excuse to stay near each other and both of us know it.
It feels very right, though perhaps many would find it strange that a private and sergeant grew so close. It is, I suppose, but somehow it seems as though it makes perfect sense, as if we were meant to end up with us friends in some way. Maybe I'm making too much of the strange coincidence of our intertwining opposite former careers.
He's a very kind person, Peter Burke. Kind and protective and caring but more than all that, he's a good man. I've met more good men than I ever thought existed on the battle fields of France but of all of them Peter Burke is the best. He's a man worth dying for and I almost proved that. Kate, he knows my past, I know I swore that would never happen but it did— and he cares about me anyway.
So I have a family now. Something I never had before. This war took too much from me Kate, but it also gave me something that I couldn't have imagined and for that I'm utterly grateful.
There's one final thing I want to tell you.
I've gone through hell and back, my love. I've seen the evil that men can inflict and it's inflicted on me wounds that will never heal. The man you knew and loved is gone and won't ever return. I'll never be the same.
But please, don't worry about me, Kate. I have Peter now, so I'll be all right.
—NC