AN: Sometime this summer I stumbled across a prompt list for an AU-gust Writing Challenge. It sounded kind of interesting, but I'm a really slow writer and rarely diverge from canon too much, so the idea of writing thirty-one different AU fics in one month sounded like a new circle of hell to me. But, sometimes new things are fun and I thought it might be fun to try maybe just one or two of the prompts. So here I am, just barely dipping my pinky toe into the AU waters with the day 5 prompt, science fiction. Honestly, this is almost canon compliant . . . except for one little thing.
Something Like Hope
Cheride
"Mozzie." Elizabeth's voice trembled slightly and her eyes were wide as she stared across the table. "Tell me you're joking."
"I'm not joking," the little man assured her, not backing down from her intense gaze. "I might not have decided yet, but I absolutely am not joking."
"Why would you do that?" she demanded. "And why now?"
"Is there a better time?"
"That's not what I meant. But it's been almost six months. I thought you were . . ."
Moz hiked an eyebrow at her. "It's been five months, one week, and two days. And you thought I was what? Over it?"
"Adjusting," she answered firmly. "Believe me, I understand there's no getting over it; I live with Peter, remember?"
An uncharacteristic shadow of guilt flashed across his face. "I'm sorry I haven't been around more," he told her.
She looked away then, blinking her eyes rapidly, pretending to be focused on the food on her plate. "I've missed you," she breathed. "It's been . . . hard, losing you both. Harder than I ever would've imagined. Peter's been trying, he really has, but . . ." She jerked her eyes upward suddenly.
"Promise me you'll talk to him before you do anything."
"Eli—"
"Promise me."
He held her gaze for a long moment, obstinance written across his face. But then his expression softened, and he nodded once. "I'll talk to him," he promised.
00000
Peter hesitated in the small vestibule at the top of the stairs. He'd stood in this very spot hundreds of times before, maybe thousands, sometimes waiting to be invited in, sometimes not. But it had been months since he'd been here, and he'd never planned on coming back again. But against his better judgment, he'd agreed, and now he couldn't bring himself to take the next step. After several minutes, lost in his indecision and his memories, he'd almost decided to call it off when the door suddenly swung open.
"Suit! I've been waiting for you."
Peter glared down at the other man, still considering the option of just turning and walking away, but Mozzie seemed to recognize his intent and stepped back, leaving the doorway open.
"I've been waiting for you," Moz repeated sternly.
When Mozzie had stepped backward, Peter made the mistake of letting his eyes follow him inside, and now the familiar space drew him forward, almost against his will. He stepped into the apartment slowly, trance-like, stopping just a few feet inside.
He let his eyes roam the loft, searching, knowing there was nothing to be found but ghosts. He felt his chest tighten and his pulse increase as the familiar ache of grief began to claw its way out of the dark recesses of his soul where he'd tried to bury it, much as he'd buried his friend all those months ago.
"I would have met you literally anywhere else, Mozzie," Peter finally rasped out. "Why did it have to be here?"
In answer, Peter felt the weight of cold glass pressed into his hand as Moz said, "Here, have this and sit down."
He didn't argue any more, just took a long swig of the beer and then followed Mozzie to the dining table where he carefully sat with his back to the glass wall. Surely there were fewer memories staring at a small kitchenette than at the sweeping vista that had so captivated the room's last occupant.
The men sat in silence for a bit while Peter chugged his beer and Mozzie sipped wine. It could almost have been any other day, just like old times. But, of course, it would never be like old times again, so Peter downed the first bottle and then moved on to the second Mozzie already had waiting for him.
"Elizabeth wouldn't tell me what you wanted," Peter finally began. He cast a grim gaze across the table. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"
"Like I'd call you if I was," Moz snapped. But when Peter's eyebrows raised in silent disbelief, he added, "Well, I might call you. For old times' sake, you understand. But, no; there's no trouble."
Mozzie raised his glass to his lips again then and looked around the room himself. After a moment, he said, "I still come here a lot." Peter thought it sounded like a confession.
"I'm not really sure why," Moz went on. "At first, I told myself it was for June. But she's like you; she doesn't like to be up here, barely even uses the terrace anymore." He shook his head. "She's traveling now; left right after El's baby shower. Told Cindy to pack a bag, and they hopped on a cruise ship. You guys try to forget; I need to remember."
And that definitely sounded like an accusation.
"I don't want to forget, Mozzie. Couldn't even if I did. But this? Being here? What good does it do to wallow in what's lost?"
"What if it's not lost?"
Peter froze, hand suspended in mid-air, bottle halfway to his lips. He thought he'd dealt with this already; thought he'd forced Mozzie away from the conspiracy theories that day in the morgue. That awful day.
He lowered the bottle slowly to the tabletop, watching Mozzie intently. "Mozzie," he started carefully, gently, "we've talked about this. Neal is—"
But Mozzie waved a hand abruptly, cutting him off. "I know he's dead, Suit, but what if he didn't have to stay dead?"
Peter's jaw clenched as he stared across the table. This might be worse than he'd thought. "I don't think I want to know what kind of magical incantation you think can fix that, and I'm pretty sure Neal would not want to be some kind of zombie." He hoped to God Neal wouldn't want to be a zombie, and that Moz didn't actually have any kind of magical incantation, just in case.
"I'm not talking about reanimation, Suit!"
"Oh, thank Go—"
"I'm talking about cloning!"
Peter snapped his mouth shut, biting down on the far too premature relief. He knew now why Elizabeth hadn't wanted to tell him about Mozzie's idea, but he'd still have to have a word with her about keeping this particular secret. He would've liked to prepare for this conversation. But now he folded his hands in front of him on the table and put on his best Special Agent face.
"You are not cloning Neal."
"Why not?" Mozzie demanded.
"Why not? Because it's, it's—"
"It's what, Suit? You can't even fall back on your favorite excuse that it's illegal, much less immoral, when your very own government overlords grow armies of them!"
Peter didn't really have an argument for that. Personally, he thought clones were a little creepy, but Moz was right. Ever since the technology had been perfected a couple of decades ago, people had lined up to allow themselves to be cloned, only for the new doppelgangers to be sent into war zones or disaster areas or any other highly life-threatening situation that still required a living body. There'd even been some talk of transitioning all of law enforcement to cloned persons, but Peter had already decided if it ever came to that, that's when he'd turn in his papers.
Beyond that, once they'd refined the science so that all of the original's memories could reliably be transferred, some of the smartest and most creative minds—the once in a generation type of minds—had also chosen to be cloned before their deaths, so that a newer version of themselves would still be around to carry on their work. These people had arranged wills and trusts and all manner of legal documentation so that each successive generation of clone would, in turn, beget the next, complete with not just the newly acquired knowledge but also the lifetime before.
And, of course, there were a few people who had more money than brains and simply had a clone of themselves created because they thought it would be entertaining. It didn't matter what science came up with, some jackass would make a mockery of it.
Naturally, there were ethical questions and arguments that continued to this day, and Peter honestly didn't see a way those questions could ever be answered as long as cloning was allowed to continue.
The clones—or ringers, as they were usually called—were living, breathing, sentient beings, but they came into the world as property, with no rights of citizenry and barely any rights as a human. Killing one would still get you slapped with a murder charge, and they were protected from intentional abuse, but beyond that, they were little more than slaves. This was especially apparent when the original cell donor—the prime—was still living and keeping their own ringer for whatever purpose.
Fortunately, because the creation facilities were tightly regulated (and costly), and the clones registered and closely monitored, the number of clones in private hands stayed pretty small, but government entities big and small had found good use for them. Proponents argued they were almost universally well treated and their existence served the common good, but Peter would gladly admit he wasn't a fan.
But one of the most troublesome uses for the ringers was exactly what Mozzie was suggesting now: creating a clone to replace a lost loved one. It hadn't happened frequently—probably less than a hundred cases total in the past twenty years (though the practice was increasing), and about half of them still ended up in court, as families didn't always agree on trying to circumvent nature. For at least the past decade, there had been a concentrated effort to encourage people to put advanced directives in place, including their choice on cloning, so that grieving families would never have to grapple with that particular question, never have to decide what they'd be willing to sacrifice to erase the grief like it had never happened.
Peter suddenly understood the difficulty of that decision more than he'd ever thought would be possible when he felt a tiny flicker of something like hope mingling with his grief. But he forced it down and answered Mozzie firmly.
"Because it's not what Neal would've wanted."
"You don't know that," Moz replied stubbornly.
"He wanted to be free, Mozzie, and ringers are the furthest thing from free."
At that, Mozzie lapsed into silence for several moments, and Peter was content to let him be, hoping maybe the discussion was over. But then Moz blew out a long, breathy sigh before finally raising his eyes to meet Peter's gaze directly.
"What he wanted was the freedom to stay with you."
Peter felt his breath catch in his throat, but Mozzie was continuing without regard for the way he'd just thrown the agent's world into a spin.
"You can't be surprised by that, Suit. If his heart had truly been in it, we would've headed to Cape Verde long before that devil spawn, Kramer, came around, and you never would've found us. Honestly, if he'd wanted to leave, he would've been on that plane with Kate and we would've lost him years ago. You have to see that. Here is where he wanted to be, no matter how much I tried to convince him otherwise."
"What are you saying, Mozzie? That you'd want me just to take him back as my CI again? I can't believe that's what Neal would've wanted, and I know it's not what you would want for him."
"Not exactly as your CI, as a paid consultant. You got the Panthers, and he earned his freedom. You already took care of updating the official records with the contract that proved it, right?"
"I did," Peter answered with a slight nod. But he didn't want Moz to provide logical arguments when he was trying to be strong enough to deny something that felt like a sudden lifeline to a drowning man. "But the Bureau has only authorized very specific jobs for clones; I'm pretty sure criminal consultant isn't on the list."
"Are you telling me you couldn't make it work? You're in charge of White Collar now, and I know they still want you in DC. You have the influence, if you're willing to use it."
"Mozzie . . ." Peter slouched in the chair, letting his head loll back as he brought his hands up to cover his face. Clones had been a fact of life for most of his adult years, and in that time, he'd never wavered in his belief that there was something fundamentally wrong with creating copies of people, especially when those copies were destined to be treated almost as an afterthought. Not that he would treat Neal's ringer badly, of course, but it still felt wrong, no matter how much his heart was already trying to tell him it would be worth setting aside any qualm just to have the young man at his side again—or even a reasonable facsimile of the young man. The idea that it was even possible . . .
Peter sat up abruptly as he realized he'd overlooked the most basic of questions.
"Mozzie." His tone was stern again. "How would it even be possible? He's been gone almost six months. There's are no living cells to harvest." Peter winced at the final word; the idea of harvesting from his best friend was almost sickening.
"Five months, one week, four days. And you know Neal always had a plan for everything," Mozzie huffed at him.
"A plan to be cloned after he was dead?" Peter barked. "I don't think so. What aren't you telling me?"
"I have everything necessary for Neal 2.0," Moz answered. "That's really all you need to know."
Peter glared for another moment, watching the little guy's shiftiness when he was hit with another realization that should've been obvious. "Dammit, Mozzie!" He pushed himself to his feet and stalked the few feet to the picture window, just needing to move, but then whirled back around immediately to glare again at the perennial thorn in his side.
"You had a plan to help him escape! The two of you were going to jet off to God knows where and leave me with a ringer, none the wiser! That's it, isn't it?" He crossed back to press his palms on the table, leaning across to scowl directly into the other man's face. "Tell me I'm wrong, Mozzie. Tell me I'm wrong!"
But Mozzie didn't shirk from the anger. "There are two things you should know about any alleged plans, Suit. First, the necessary steps were taken almost a year before the Pink Panthers came on the scene. I was only waiting for Neal to give the word—and, as you may have gathered, it's a word that never came."
It was another blow to Peter's heart, but he didn't let himself give anything away. "And second?"
Finally, Mozzie's eyes drifted downward as a wave of unidentifiable emotion swept across his face. "You might not've been the one who ended up with the ringer," he said softly.
"Oh." Peter puffed out the single word, physically deflating as his anger evaporated, and then flopped back into his chair. He dragged a palm across his weary features. God, were they really considering creating a replacement Neal Caffrey only to put him right back into a tug-of-war between them?
"We can't do this, Mozzie," he murmured. "There's no version of Neal that would want the life he had forever. And there's no way for a dead man to suddenly pop back up in his life without being identified as a clone. If you do this—and I don't think you should—you can't stay here. You can't come back here, ever. Neal Caffrey has to stay dead, or he really will end up all but imprisoned for the rest of his life."
"He won't be imprisoned," Mozzie countered, "unless you imprison him. Are you planning to do that?"
"Of course not! I wouldn't—" Peter straightened suddenly and narrowed his eyes toward Neal's other best friend.
"What do you mean, unless I imprison him? What are you talking about?"
Peter's voice was quiet but threatening, and Mozzie's eyes widened behind his glasses. "Of course, he'd be yours, Suit."
"Mine? Have you lost your mind? I don't want you to do this at all and you want me to take him?"
"Have you seen the personal information they collect before authorizing a clone?" Moz countered. "I'm not sure even one of my identities would hold up to that."
Peter clenched his fists and reminded himself it would be bad form to punch an unarmed civilian, no matter how infuriating. "You aren't hearing what I'm telling you, Mozzie. This is a bad idea all the way around, but especially if you expect me to keep him."
"What's the problem? You used to love reminding him that you owned him, right? Now you really can."
"I don't want to own a person, Mozzie!" Peter shouted. "Especially Neal Caffrey!" He forced himself to keep his seat, leaving his eyes fixed on the blue pair across the table. So different from the blue eyes he'd looked into so many times before, but the same kind of intelligence still drew him in. He shook his head roughly.
After a second, Peter sighed deeply. "Just spell it out, Mozzie, all of it. What is your plan?"
Moz huffed out a sigh of his own. "I think you've heard it all at this point, Suit. I have the biological material necessary to create a Caffrey clone, and I would like to have it done, but the official ownership would need to fall to you. I would like—he would like—if you'd allow him to continue working with the FBI. We both know he was good at it, and we both know you enjoyed it as much as he did. I don't see a downside."
"Except that it wouldn't really be Neal," Peter insisted. "How can you not see that?"
"A difference which makes no difference is no difference at all," Mozzie intoned.
"William James," Peter mumbled almost reflexively. He'd definitely spent too much time around this guy.
He took a breath and tried to marshal his arguments. "There are some differences, no matter what you might choose to believe. First and foremost, clones are supposed to be 'kept.' There's no Neal alive—or even not yet alive—who'd want that."
"You could let him stay here. Sure, most ringers stay with their families or hosts, but the law only says that they can't live unsupervised; June and the staff here would meet the technical requirements."
"You've given this a lot of thought."
"I have," Mozzie agreed with a sharp nod. "I'm telling you; it could be just like it was, except a microchip in place of a tracking anklet."
He spoke so surely, so sincerely, with no trace at all of his normal snark, and Peter could feel his resolve weakening. He pinched at the bridge of his nose and collected his thoughts before putting forth the one argument he was sure would break Mozzie's determination.
"He'd have to go straight—fully, one hundred percent straight." He squared his shoulders and let their eyes meet again. "You know what happens to ringers who commit crimes, Mozzie. They'll take him from us, and they'll blank him, and then after he's been reeducated," Peter almost sneered the word, "they'll stick him in a basement sweeping floors, or something." He didn't let his voice waver, even though the thought of anyone's very essence being snuffed out like they'd never existed was horrifying. But the idea of it happening to Neal was almost enough to make him physically ill. And when he saw Mozzie swallowing almost convulsively as the color drained from his face, Peter thought he'd finally gotten through. But he wanted to be sure, so he didn't let up.
"If that happened, Mozzie, after we'd brought him back, it would be our fault. We'd lose him all over again and have no one to blame but ourselves. Is that something you could live with?"
"No, it isn't," Moz rasped out, just before rising from his chair and making his way to the kitchenette to pour another glass of wine. He took several gulps and then refilled the glass again before he turned back to face the agent. But he kept his distance, leaning back against the counter. "That's another reason he has to be yours, Suit; it will keep him safer."
Peter wouldn't have thought it possible to be surprised into silence so many times in a single conversation, but Mozzie just kept doing it. He supposed it shouldn't be surprising to realize the other man would make almost any sacrifice for the opportunity to have more time with their mutual friend, but the idea of Mozzie actually facilitating Neal's reformation was staggering. And if Moz was willing to do that, even though it was antithetical to almost everything he believed in, could Peter refuse a perfectly legal opportunity just because of a few ethical qualms?
He finally blew out a noisy breath. "I can't decide this now, Mozzie. There's a lot to consider, and I need to talk to Elizabeth."
Mozzie looked relieved, and a glimmer of the old liveliness returned to his eyes. "You'll honestly think about it?"
"I will." Peter pushed himself to his feet. "But you need to give me some time. I'll call you."
Moz raised his eyebrows dangerously.
"Fine," Peter huffed as he moved toward the door. "I'll have Elizabeth call you."
"I'll be waiting, Suit."
00000
Peter hesitated outside the door. It had taken a month, but Mozzie (with a little help from El eventually) had finally worn him down until he could no longer remember why he wouldn't want to bring his sometimes annoying but always endearing CI back to them. Then it had taken close to another three months to process the paperwork, get the necessary approvals, and—though he hated to think of it this way—grow the new Neal.
He hadn't been back here since the night Mozzie proposed this outlandish idea, and he was as uncertain today as he was then. It had taken Peter's honest identity to get the clone approved, but the scrutiny wasn't nearly so deep that he couldn't authorize someone else to pick up his new ringer on his behalf, so he'd dispatched Dante Haversham, Esquire, to the replication center, because Peter knew he'd never be able to go through with this if he had to see his young friend essentially coming off an assembly line.
That had been Friday afternoon, and they'd decided he'd wait until Monday morning to see Neal. Neal had always been sharp, and even a cloned Caffrey with perfectly recreated memories wasn't going to take long to realize he'd been manufactured, but they'd all agreed Mozzie was the best person to make that knowledge official. Peter still wasn't sure how Mozzie had managed to see Neal at the center and still maintain his excitement about the newly created version, but then, Moz had always been better at compartmentalizing various aspects of reality. As much as he understood why the ringer officially had to belong to him, he still thought it was a job much better suited to Mozzie's temperament.
But now that he was here, knowing his old nemesis turned best friend was just on the other side of the door, he was a quivering mess. His gut clenched and churned as anticipation warred with dread, joy with fear. How had he allowed himself to be talked into this?
Much as the last time he'd been here, he wanted to turn right around and descend the steps again, pretend he'd never been here, take it all back, but he knew it was far too late for that now. He'd asked for this, and now Neal was his responsibility. Again.
But there was no room for error this time—not his own, not Mozzie's, and definitely not Neal's. It was terrifying in a way it had never been back when the highest stakes had been Neal's freedom and his own career. Because Peter was certain it would be easier to live with the idea Neal Caffrey was dead than to know his memories had been erased, his burning intelligence diminished, his vibrant personality blunted. He'd never be able to live with himself if he failed Neal. Again.
He squared his shoulders, trying to balance what felt like the weight of the world, reached tentatively for the doorknob, but still couldn't make himself go further.
"What are you waiting for, Suit?" a voice hissed from the stairs behind him.
Peter jumped and whirled around, gritting his teeth to bite back the frightened yelp that tried to escape. Somehow, he didn't think scaring Neal to death would be the best way to start a reunion.
"Mozzie!" Peter whispered harshly. "Don't do that!"
For his part, Mozzie stayed on the top step, leaning casually against the banister, staring back unrepentantly. "It's too late to back out now, you know," he said calmly, and Peter wondered if the guy might've actually been reading his mind.
"I don't know how I let you talk me into this," Peter grumbled. "I'm not sure I even know how to do this."
"You do," Moz contradicted, still not moving from his spot. "You've always known what you should do with him, Suit, even if you made a mess of it from time to time."
"That's not really as encouraging as you seem to think it is, Haversham." But he took a deep breath and forced himself to remain calm. He glanced toward the apartment. "You got him up to speed?"
"He's been told," Moz assured him, and Peter was grateful the little man didn't point out that he'd already answered that question at least half a dozen times in the past forty-eight hours.
Instead, Mozzie continued his reassurance. "He wants to see you. He trusts that you'll be able to make it all seem real." His pale blue eyes locked with Peter's conflicted brown ones as he spoke his next words calmly, deliberately.
"I trust you to do that, too. I trust you with him, Peter."
Peter's eyes widened, and he swallowed hard before managing a shaky smile for the man that would have to qualify as his strangest friend ever. They had first bonded years earlier over helping Neal through his grief, then found an uneasy alliance as they continued to work together whenever necessary to keep Neal safe. Their own shared grief at losing the man who'd brought them together had only strengthened that bond over the past nine months, and Peter knew that the journey they'd undertaken now would bind them together forever. He suddenly realized he was surprisingly okay with that.
In fact, with Mozzie here delivering such a solemn blessing, Peter suddenly thought he might be surprisingly okay with all of it. He smiled again, more naturally this time, more relaxed.
"You coming in?"
But Mozzie shook his head. "I've been with him all weekend; today is for you. Take care of him, Suit." And then Moz turned smartly on his heel and headed downstairs.
With one more fortifying breath, Peter turned back and rapped on the door.
"It's open!"
The voice from inside—the one he'd thought he'd never hear again—almost erased his resolve, but he turned the knob and stepped into the loft.
And then lurched to a halt, unable to take another step.
There he was, standing at the French doors, looking out at that ten-million-dollar view. Even if this weren't the young man's home, Peter would know him anywhere—that relaxed but confident pose, hands in pockets, the dark head tilted just slightly as if examining everything the world had to offer. The man hadn't turned yet, but Peter knew exactly which smile would be on the perfect face, just how much twinkle would be in those blue eyes. And when the lean body finally twisted around gracefully, capturing Peter with his gaze, the agent could see just how right he'd been.
But then Neal spoke.
"Peter."
The voice was as smooth as ever, but Peter heard the unusual undercurrent of doubt, saw the hint of uncertainty in the smile, the glint of fear in the eyes. He wondered suddenly what all Mozzie had told him. They'd determined that Neal had refreshed his memory dump just a few days before the Panthers arrived on the scene, and that meant this Neal had no memory of the FBI's betrayal, his kidnapping, Rebecca Lowe's death, the frightful weeks working with Matthew Keller, of all people, to bring down the long-sought clandestine criminal enterprise.
But more important, Neal also had no memory of the way he and Peter had managed to find their way back to an even keel in their relationship before Neal's death. And, of course, no memory of that last fateful day, his deadly confrontation with Keller, and those final words he'd shared with Peter. Naturally, they couldn't know exactly what was in the memory packet that was installed into the cloned Caffrey, but Peter had hoped it would at least leave the idea that he and Neal were friends.
But looking at Neal now, still frozen by the windows, seeming so far away from where he himself was similarly frozen in place, Peter was even more uncertain than he'd been before entering the apartment. He didn't think he could make this work if Neal didn't believe in him.
But as he was trying to put his thoughts into something resembling coherent speech, Neal spoke again, quietly, almost fearfully.
"It's still me, Peter. I know you've spent almost a year without me, but for me, it's like I saw you yesterday. I'm sure it's kind of weird, and I know how you feel about ringers in general, but I really want to make this work." He raked a hand through his hair—a classic Caffrey move—and repeated himself. "It's still me. Please tell me you're okay with this."
The controlled, not-quite-desperate plea finally got through, and Peter felt like he'd just come out of a stupor. He crossed the small distance that separated them in three swift strides and, before he could second guess himself, pulled the other man into a fierce embrace. He felt the lean arms return the hug immediately, locking around his shoulders like they'd never let go.
"Neal, I . . ." Peter tightened his grip as he clenched his eyes closed against the tears beginning to fall. All he could think was he'd had months to prepare for this moment and he'd wanted to be eloquent and composed, but the rush of emotions overpowered most of his cognitive function, reducing him to the most essential of thoughts.
"I've missed you," he said thickly, "so damn much."
And then all the things he'd been thinking for months came pouring out through his tears, giving no thought at all to the idea that this was not the same man he'd last seen almost a year ago. It was almost scary how easy it was to push that thought aside and just accept this man as the person he appeared to be—the person Peter wanted him to be.
"God, Neal, I thought I'd never see you again, and I'm so sorry I wasn't there when you needed me most, sorry if I ever made you believe you had to take such crazy risks on your own, if I made you think you had to prove something to me, or risk everything just to escape from me. I never meant for any of that to happen."
Neal's hands were digging into his back and Peter could feel the unsteady rhythm of the younger man's breath when he choked out an answer. "I don't know everything that happened toward the end, Peter, and I asked Mozzie not to go into a lot of detail because it doesn't matter to me. The only thing that matters is that I'm here and you're here and we're going to make it work this time. Caffrey and Burke are ready to ride again."
Peter huffed out a broken laugh, which he was sure had been Neal's intention. "Burke and Caffrey," he corrected with a smile.
He felt Neal's answering chuckle roll through his body, and then he felt the vise that had been gripping his heart for so long slowly loosen as a familiar comfort settled over him.
The men stood that way for several long minutes, clinging tightly to each other, lost in thoughts of both past and future, but Neal finally relaxed his grip so Peter let him pull away.
But once they were separated, Peter felt his uncertainty stealing over him again as he stared at his newly regenerated partner. And clearly, he was broadcasting that uncertainty like a beacon, because Neal hiked an eyebrow and gave him a small, knowing smile.
"Still me," Neal reminded him softly.
"I get that," Peter answered slowly, "I do. It's just . . ."
Neal shrugged. "I can imagine. I know it would've felt odd to me if someone had told me there was a way to bring Kate back, or Ellen. To tell you the truth, I'm surprised Moz could talk you into this."
"Me, too," Peter said honestly, and Neal chuckled again. Then the agent took a breath and gave voice to his fears.
"Neal, this isn't just about me. Are you sure you're okay with this?"
"A little late to worry about it now, don't you think?" Neal teased. But Peter kept him pinned with a steady gaze, waiting for an honest answer, and Neal finally relented.
"It was a little weird at first," he admitted softly, "to think I'm not exactly the man I believe myself to be, to know that everyone I know has lived months of time that's forever lost to me. But, really, it's not a whole lot different than being any other alias; it's still me, just slightly different. Besides, I had prepared myself for the possibility when Mozzie and I—" Neal broke off abruptly, seeming suddenly unsure of himself.
"When you and Mozzie were planning your escape," Peter filled in after a few seconds, no accusation, just facts. But when Neal remained silent, Peter huffed out a frustrated sigh. "Neal. There can't be secrets, not this time. It's too dangerous for you. And I . . ."
Peter tried a different tack. "You know replicas can't be held responsible for any actions committed by the prime, and even if someone wanted to try to make exceptions because of your history, Neal Caffrey earned his freedom. So you really do have a clean slate here. Nothing you did before matters now, but you can't start running up the tally again. Things have to be different now."
"Is this your way of telling me I can either be a clone or a man?" Neal quipped, though it was clear his heart wasn't in it.
"That's not funny," Peter snapped. "Besides, that's not what I'm saying at all. What I'm saying is that now you don't really have a choice." He pulled in a deep breath and let his eyes meet the still troubled blue pair in front of him. "I can't lose you again, Neal, not like that. You know the law; you know what would happen. It has to be different this time. Promise me."
Neal's eyebrows shot up into his hairline as he stared back at his friend in wide-eyed surprise. "Promise you? I told you I'm still me, remember? Would you really consider a promise from me sufficient collateral?"
The question caught him off guard, but Peter didn't hesitate. "I would. And I always would have." He shrugged fractionally. "But if you have to wonder about that, maybe I could talk you into giving me a clean slate, too? Things can be different for both of us."
Neal's surprised expression gave way to a soft smile that spread across his face. "I'd like that."
Peter blew out a quiet breath of relief, releasing nerves he hadn't even fully realized he was holding. He thought he'd remember this moment for the rest of his life—the way Neal's uncharacteristic uncertainty had vanished under that sincere smile, his face open and expressive in a way Peter had rarely seen. He'd remember it as the moment he quit thinking of this man as a replacement for Neal Caffrey and just started thinking of him as Neal.
He gave his friend a warm smile and gestured toward the door. "You ready to get this show on the road?"
"The Burke and Caffrey show?" Neal answered with a grin. "I wouldn't miss it."
"It's a big day," Peter said, marveling at the simple joy of clapping his young friend on the shoulder like he'd done a hundred times before. "So maybe today we'll try Caffrey and Burke."
~END~
Thanks for coming along as I cautiously tested out this new path; I'd love to hear your thoughts!
