Yep, I'm late; RL interruptions derailed me for a long while today. (Well, yesterday.) But this is for #MozzieMania, anyway.

Still Wanted

Cheride

It was dark in the villa, dark in the jungle surrounding it. Moonbeams filtering in through the fronds surrounding the windows gave only the merest hint of light, just enough to cast dancing shadows across the floor. Mozzie thought that was one thing he might never get used to; it was never this dark in New York City. Still, like all the other differences between the island and the city, he'd hoped to have time to adjust.

Adjusting to living on the island without Neal had never been part of the plan. But sometimes plans changed.

Out in the courtyard, a small oasis of soft light in the near total darkness, he could hear Neal and his erstwhile handler still talking over the finer points of bartending, making sure the suit wouldn't serve a highball in a snifter, use rum for a sidecar, or any of the other rookie mistakes that could crash this scam before it even got going.

But beyond the coaching and planning, he could hear them just talking. Laughing about previous cases, catching up on events since Neal had to flee, making plans for the future. And in that conversation, Mozzie heard an undertone of quiet contentment that had been missing from Neal's voice for the past six weeks.

Oh, Mozzie knew the young man had tried, tried to make the best of a situation that he'd never wanted. Neal Caffrey didn't sit around and mope, after all, especially on a tropical island, with unlimited funds, and a pretty girl to pursue. But Mozzie had recognized the sadness just the same.

And he wanted so badly to be angry with Peter Burke, both for causing Neal to have to run when he didn't want to, and for showing up now and giving him a way back. Except that the blame didn't really lie with him. Even Mozzie could recognize that the suit had told Neal to run to save him, and Peter was here now for the same reason.

And, of course, he could still hear Neal's contentment.

Eventually, the conversation dwindled, and the men were quiet for a few minutes. Mozzie had never understood how Neal could be so comfortable in the suit's presence; he understood even less how at least some of that comfort had rubbed off on himself. It hadn't been all that long ago he would've refused to even consider working with any suit, much less the suit that had imprisoned his best friend. But here they were, halfway around the world from the place they called home, working together to give Neal the privilege of being returned to a two-mile prison, willingly shackled to his jailer.

Mozzie shook his head. It wasn't exactly what he'd signed on for, but life with Neal was never boring. He was going to miss that.

It wasn't long afterward that Mozzie heard murmurs from the courtyard again, then heard Peter shuffling off toward bed, calling out an exhausted, "Night, Moz."

Neal limped in to join him in the living area and dropped into a nearby chair, not even reaching for a light. He thought there was probably some kind of symbolism in the way Neal moved so easily between the light and the dark, comfortable in both, but that was too deep to sort out right now.

He gestured with the glass in his hand. "Wine?"

Neal groaned. "I may never drink again. He needed a lot of practice."

Moz grunted in agreement. "I do applaud his efforts, though. I can appreciate he's willing to do the work."

"Peter doesn't do things halfway," Neal told him. "You know that. Especially not when . . ." He seemed to consider, then finally gave a half shrug. "When it's an important case."

"You mean when it's for you."

That got another shrug, though Neal didn't speak. But even in the barest of light, Mozzie could see the grateful satisfaction on his friend's face, though it was overlaid with a hint of wariness. Mozzie sighed.

"That wasn't a complaint, Neal. I'm glad the suit can help you out."

Neal heaved a sigh of his own. Shifting his wounded leg enough that he could lean forward, he faced his friend more directly. "I'm sorry, Moz. I know this isn't what you had in mind when we came here."

"No, it isn't." This time, Moz managed to bite back the sigh. He thought it was one of the many drawbacks of consorting with suits—far too much sighing. "I need to tell you something."

"That sounds ominous," Neal answered slowly. "Am I going to wish I'd taken you up on the alcohol?"

"Of course not." But Mozzie strengthened himself with a bracing gulp of wine for good measure.

"Neal, I'm not going back with you."

The blue eyes that stared back at him went suddenly saucer-like, but beyond that, Neal seemed frozen in place. His Adam's apple bobbed a couple of times before he finally spoke.

"You're not going home? To New York?"

"I'm not. At least not for a while."

Neal was still staring, wide-eyed, and Mozzie knew he was trying to figure the angles, wondering if there was something he should say—something he could say—that would make his friend go home. Ultimately, Neal only breathed out one word, though it was layered in sadness and confusion.

"Why?"

Honestly, Moz wasn't sure he could explain, wasn't sure he even understood it himself entirely. He only knew that right now, his place was not with Neal.

"Neal, the life you're going back to . . ." Mozzie paused to consider more carefully. The last thing he needed was to upset Neal to the point the scam would be compromised. He should've remembered the rule about goodbyes.

"It's the life I want," Neal said into the silence, and his voice had gained a steely edge.

"And I want you to have it."

Neal arched an eyebrow, his disbelief plain.

"Really," Mozzie assured him.

"Of course," he continued quickly, "I think it's a waste of talent, and I'm sure that someday you'll see the error of your ways, but you won't know that until you try."

"You don't want to be there to say I told you so?" Neal gave him a faint smile, apology and forgiveness all rolled into one.

"There will be plenty of time for that, mon frère. For now, I will leave you to your deal with the devil."

"The plan might not work tomorrow," Neal said softly. "If not—"

"It'll work," Moz broke in emphatically. "The suit's gone to a lot of trouble to get you back on his leash. We'll make sure it works. And if for some reason it doesn't, I've still got a backup plan involving a fast boat and lepers."

Neal quirked half a smile, but then sat silently for a moment before saying, "It's not either-or, you know."

"What's that? New York or lepers?"

"New York or you," Neal corrected. "Peter or you."

"That's not what this is about."

"No? Then what?"

"I told you—"

"No, you didn't, Moz. You didn't give me a reason. You flew halfway around the world with me, no questions asked. You were willing to run with me again at a moment's notice. Why won't you go home with me?"

Mozzie sucked down more fortifying wine. "Before, when the suit was talking about the grand poobah suit, Kramer . . ."

"Yeah?"

"Well, it made me think about something that we've been conveniently ignoring for months. About blame, I mean."

Neal's voice hardened again. "Don't start, Moz. None of this is Peter's fault."

"No," Moz agreed quietly. "It's mine."

When Neal didn't answer, Mozzie continued.

"I was so sure you were just brainwashed, that if you only had an option, you'd be glad to leave everything behind. I should never have taken the art without talking to you first, shouldn't have used your art and put you in the middle of all this. Peter may have called Kramer, but I'm the reason the call had to be made. This all started with me."

Moz swallowed hard and waited for Neal to respond. But when his friend still didn't speak, he grew even more worried. He'd expected this conversation to be difficult, but he'd assumed it would at least be a conversation. This might be worse than he'd imagined.

He sighed and continued with the final part of his explanation. "Regardless of the deal that's been worked out, there will surely be some fallout when you return. The suit—Peter—is the best one to help get you through that, and I'm going to stay out of the way and let him do it."

Mozzie raised his glass back to his lips, finding little comfort in the wine, but glad to have something to focus on as he peered through the darkness at his silent friend.

For several long minutes, the only sound was the wind through the trees and the high-pitched chatter of the shearwaters making their nightly rounds. Finally, Neal spoke.

"Using my art was cold, Moz, and it was careless. And I wish you would've asked me before you'd done any of it."

Mozzie's grasp tightened around the stem of his glass as he sucked in a sharp breath and his eyes grew wide, though they no longer looked at his friend. Somehow, Neal's softly spoken words seemed to pierce through him more harshly than any of the anger or accusation he'd imagined might come. He swallowed again and tried to offer some sort of apology.

But before he could figure out what to say, Neal added the words that made Mozzie's heart skip a beat. Or three.

"Because I would've told you to do it, and you wouldn't be sitting here still blaming yourself months later."

Mozzie's head jerked up and he let his eyes find Neal's through the shadows. "Neal?" His shaky voice betrayed an uncertainty he rarely felt and never showed. He'd thought often about unburdening his guilt to his best friend, trying to make him understand how horribly sorry he was to have started the chain of events that led to Neal lonely and unhappy in paradise, and he'd imagined a lot of different responses from Neal, but none of them was an absolution.

"Mozzie." Neal leaned forward in his chair, bringing them closer together. "Moz, listen to me. If you'd told me your plans, I probably would've gone along. I mean, I might've been more careful about which of my pieces you used for the stand-ins, but, Mozzie, I don't think I would've stopped you. You were right: it was the score we'd always dreamed of." He pulled in a quiet breath.

"I can't blame you for not knowing I didn't want to leave," Neal continued sincerely, "when I didn't even really know it myself until I was forced to choose."

"Neal—"

"No, Moz, I'm serious. None of this is your fault. I should thank you for finally making me see I already had what I wanted."

Mozzie was quiet for a moment, trying to absorb everything he'd heard. Sometimes he thought he really didn't deserve Neal. On the other hand, sometimes Neal didn't deserve him, either, and there'd probably been enough soul baring before a big con. Emotions were distractions.

"You wanted to be tethered to an inferior gumshoe who threatens you every time you so much as think about something nefarious? Like maybe jaywalking?"

Neal laughed as he leaned back again. "It's always impressive the way you can home in on the very best aspects of things."

"It's a gift," Moz said, lifting his glass in a half-hearted salute.

"Well, I appreciate your generosity in sharing." Then Neal sobered. "So you'll come back, right?"

Mozzie shifted uncomfortably and was suddenly very interested in the liquid swirling in his glass.

All the remaining good humor drained from Neal's face. "I don't understand. I honestly don't blame you, Moz."

"And I believe that, mon frère."

"Then why?"

"Listen, Neal. I know it's the life you want. And I really do think the suit will help you with the transition back. But . . ."

"But you've already gotten used to island living." Neal filled in the blanks. "And . . . it's never been the life you wanted."

"'Two roads diverged in a wood,'" Mozzie intoned philosophically.

Neal nodded. "I get it." He looked at his mentor intently. "But Frost didn't think he'd ever make it back to that other road."

Moz could fill in his own blanks, and he didn't like the sadness in the blue eyes that looked back at him, apparently unwilling to actually ask the question. He quickly offered some reassurance.

"Well, Frost always was more of a naturalist, but you know me—I like the city." He smiled gently. "Inasmuch as I would lay claim to any home, New York is it. I will walk that road again someday, Neal."

That seemed to be all Neal needed to hear as the sadness disappeared and a smile spread across his face. "Okay."

The friends settled in then, comfortable in the silence, and Mozzie was thankful his belated apology—and the reason for it—hadn't damaged this. As long as Neal wanted to walk their roads together, things would be fine.

Mozzie quietly enjoyed his wine, and Neal seemed content simply to be there. But after a while, Neal chuckled.

"What's so funny?"

"I'm just thinking about Frost."

"O-kay?"

"It's just that as our paths temporarily diverge, I assume you're claiming to be the one following the road less traveled?"

"Of course." Moz sniffed haughtily. "As if I would take the uninspired route."

"No, of course not." Neal grinned at him. "So that must mean you agree my deal with the suits isn't so strange after all."

Mozzie froze with his glass halfway to his lips. "No. I'm sure I didn't say that." He thought for a moment, and then was very satisfied when he said, "Clearly, the road from our island has three branches."

Neal laughed. "Clearly."

They lapsed into silence again, but when Neal scooted himself around to find room to stretch his legs more fully and leaned his head back to look up at the ceiling, Mozzie decided it was time for him to be the responsible one.

"It's late, Neal. We've got a big day tomorrow, and you've got to get through it with a hole in your leg. We should get some rest."

Neal hummed an agreement but didn't move. Then, after a moment, his eyes drifted closed.

Mozzie thought about telling him again to go to bed, but this would be their last night together for a while. Maybe a long while, though Moz didn't want to consider that too much. Even knowing he'd end up almost as shackled to the suits as Neal was, he'd meant it when he said he'd return to New York eventually.

But Frost wasn't wrong about way leading to way; sometimes eventually took longer than planned.

So Mozzie would sit here in the darkness with his friend for just a while longer, soaking up the memories of the silence and the darkness, until his road once again took him home.

~END~

Thanks for reading, and I hope you got a chance to check out the other #MozzieMania pieces, too. RIP Willie Garson.

I'm not sure about the rest of the world, but I think most people in the US get exposed to Frost by the time they're out of high school. But, for those unfamiliar (or those who'd just like to read it again, because it's definitely worth it), here you go. (BTW, it's in the public domain here in the US, so I'm not breaking any copyright laws.) Please forgive the random periods; it's the only way I could make the site separate the stanzas!

The Road Not Taken

Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

.

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

.

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.