The Whistler's Whistle

The way the world ends.

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed/read/favourite/put me on their alerts! You guys really inspire me to keep writing! I'm so glad you're enjoying it and I hope you like this chapter, but I promise, the next one will focus a lot more on Neal.

Warnings: Medical inaccuracies, maybe some spelling mistakes, but I won't apologise for my freaky British spelling ;)

Disclaimer: I own nothing hear except my own plot bunnies. As much as I with Neal Caffrey was my creation, he just isn't.

"This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but a whimper." -TS Elliot

It had physically pained Peter when the receptionist called out Neal's name and he was forced to gently prise the ex-con away from the piano. It had gathered quite a crowd of onlookers, all marvelled, faces a picture of awe at the sight of the deaf pianist and the more Neal played, the brighter the spark of pride inside Peter's chest burned. That was his "pet con." And damn, was Neal wonderful. Neal was more wonderful that he'd ever let on to be.

He didn't miss a note, didn't stumble and the music was just effortless. That's what made it great, the fact Neal could play such beautiful sounds and yet be totally cut off from them himself. But it made it tragic too.

Neal didn't look disappointed to be pulled away and he managed to cut the song to an early end with a one final, perfect note. Peter, out of habit, spoke to his consultant before he realised that there was a chance he'd never be able to just speak to Neal ever again.

"Come on, Neal. Have you got your hat?"

No answer, obviously but Neal had got it already. As they were heading towards the door in the far corner of the room that led to the many offices of each doctor, an old woman with white ringlets that tumbled past her shoulders and grey, almost violet eyes tapped Peter on the shoulder with a long, pale finger.

"He's magnificent." She whispered with a heavy rasp to her voice, blushing at the emotional state she found herself in. "Tell him that, will you? Make sure he knows."

"I will." Peter rested his hand on her arm for a moment, before turning back to Neal who waited by the open door and watched the exchange with an unidentifiable emotion.

They walked down the long, well lit yet rather plain corridor towards the door that had Dr Miles Arnold in black, bold letters imprinted on the glass. Neal found himself walking behind Peter, feeling distinctly like a child being taken to the doctors by a worried parent. Peter was certainly being very protective and Neal could understand that, but that didn't mean he had to like it. He was deaf but he wasn't an invalid. Neal had to think before he thought of himself as 'deaf' because it just didn't seem quite real yet. When pictured himself, he saw many people.

He saw Neal Caffrey, the criminal.

Nicholas Halden, the gambler.

George Donnelly, the treasure hunter.

Gary Rydell, the playboy.

He saw so many other people. But what he didn't see was a deaf man.

His awareness of being treated like a child only heightened when Dr Arnolds greeted Peter first and then shook hands with Neal. The doctor and the agent had a brief conversation before they say down on the four, blue plush chairs away from the desk. It was during this time that Neal got a chance to truly look at the man and he was forced to invent a voice for him, because the real one was just out of reach. He was older than Neal, younger than Peter and wore a pair of thick rimmed glasses over a crooked nose. His hair line was receding, but it kept all of its ink black colour and his eyes, though squinted, were a welcoming shade of hazel. Miles Arnold was a short man, at least as short as Mozzie which was impressive but he carried himself with this air of grace and because of this, he seemed taller than he truly was.

Neal was ushered into a seat beside Peter and an empty chair that wasn't filled by Arnolds. It was then that a woman with strawberry blonde hair let herself into the office wearing a pale green uniform and she carried a laptop. She sat in the spare seat and tilted the screen towards Neal. There were two lines of writing across an otherwise blank word document.

I'm Mandy. I'm going to type up everything Dr Arnolds says so you can keep up and ask any questions, okay?

"Okay." Neal's voice remained quiet because it was less risky than trying to speak at a normal volume.

Don't worry, I'm really fast. Mandy grinned and began to type in time with the doctors lips.

Okay Mr Caffrey, we're going to get right down to business. We'll discuss the operation and how it's going to go, the likely outcomes and anything else you're concerned about with regards to this surgery.

Neal felt like even more of a child.

Peter felt like a parent. He'd long since noticed and ignored the fact that Arnolds began to address him rather than Neal, referring to the ex-con as 'him' rather than 'you'. Thankfully, the agent knew that in the current situation, being mollycoddled wasn't the most important matter at hand and quite frankly, Peter couldn't have cared less about Neal's wounded pride, not if it meant that he would recover. The FBI agent tried to convince him that 'if' wasn't the best word to use.

Neal would get better.

He had too.

"Now, as you're aware, the damage to Neal's ears was significant. To be quite honest, Mr Burke, it was one of the worst cases I've seen from a sudden, loud noise, but that doesn't mean there isn't hope." Arnolds pulled out some files from a plastic wallet and gave them a quick glance over. "He didn't respond at all to the audiogram or any of the other tests, suggesting that the damage to his inner ear is….grave."

Peter saw Neal visibly pale in his seat and the woman stopped writing briefly at the young man's rather sickly looking expression.

"Neal?" Peter put himself in the others line of vision and he blinked rapidly, shaking himself out of the trance.

"What now?" Neal forced the question out of his mouth, grateful that at least he couldn't hear the wretched quality of his voice. Peter looked back towards the doctor as Arnolds hadn't noticed his patients discomfort and he gestured for the man to continue and get it over with.

"Now, we go ahead with the surgery. It's done under general anaesthetic, so he may be clumsy or disoriented for the first 24 hours after the operation. He may have to stay in hospital overnight and he'll need to stay with someone for a few days. It involves grafting a piece of skin underneath both damaged ear drums. However, the aim of this operation isn't to restore Neal's hearing; however there's a chance it will have an effect, but don't expect it. The result will be known as soon as he wakes up. If he's going to regain any hearing naturally because of this surgery, then we'll know straight away." Arnolds pushed his glasses further upwards.

"What are the risks?" Peter was purposefully avoiding one particular question.

"Well, there's infection, but that's extremely low. Reaction to the anaesthetic, again, minimal. No allergies, Mr Caffrey?"

Neal gave a slight shake of his head.

"Well, in that case, the only real risk involved in that during the procedure, a small nerve that runs behind the ear drum could be damaged and Neal could experience a loss of taste or numbness on the side of his tongue, but it would improve eventually. But again, that's minimal-"

Neal didn't care about interrupting the man at that moment. Manners pushed aside, he leaned forward, blue eyes unwavering. "What if it I still can't hear? What then?"

There was an uncomfortable silence, which Neal didn't react too and yet every other hearing person in the room looked away, unable to even look at Neal because their faces would have betrayed their pity.

Miles Arnolds turned to face Neal directly. "If that's the case, there are other options Neal. You could learn sign language, or lip reading-"

"No."

Neal stopped the man as soon as the word appeared on the screen. Peter rubbed at his face with clammy palms.

"Well…." Arnolds stood up, walked towards his draws and began to shuffle through them. He returned a few moments later with two copies of a leaflet in hand, he passed one of each of the men. "There's always this, but we're getting ahead of ourselves here."

"Cochlea implants?" Peter's confusion mixed with interest wasn't mirrored on Neal's rather stony, cold expression, one which again was so alien on Caffrey's symmetrical face.

"Yes, but we'll discuss that at a later date if needs be. For now, let's just get through this operation. Neal, you're scheduled for half twelve on Wednesday afternoon."

"So soon?" Peter asked, tentatively.

"The sooner the better."

Arnolds gave Neal a few forms to sign, which he did without saying anything before they all stood up and the doctor handed Peter a list of do's and don'ts. Neal didn't say thank you or even goodbye as they left the office and Peter couldn't blame him. He thought about putting an arm around his friend's shoulders, just to convince the young man that despite what he thought, he wasn't alone in this.

But Peter didn't. He did however glance over the leaflet before folding it carefully and placing it in his pocket. He pretended not to notice the way Neal screwed up his copy in a clenched, white knuckle fist and shoved it in the first trash can he saw.

He hadn't read a single word.

After seeing Dr Arnolds, Peter had driven them to a little coffee place near the office where they sold the most delicious muffins Neal had ever had the luxury of tasting. He found his appetite had been vacant since…..it happened and the soft, warm brown cake that he used to eye ball every time he passed now looked sickly and repulsive. Peter didn't comment on the way Neal kept his eyes fixed on the rim of his coffee cup, watching the steaming liquid as it darkened and turned cold like everything else.

Neal hadn't reacted very much to the agent's attempts at getting him to talk. What was there to talk about anyway? At that point, all Neal wanted to do was forget but that wasn't going to happen. How could he forget it when it was everywhere, cutting off everything else that could possibly distract him?

There was still no word from Mozzie.

Neal wasn't worried; it was Mozzie, after all. In a certain sense, he was glad. Glad that he wouldn't have to face the man, admit that everything was over, that he'd made a mistake.

Admit that the FBI had ruined his life, just like Mozzie had said it would.

Neal hated being wrong.

He hated a lot of things.

He also had grown to hate Peter's chicken scratch handwriting too as yet another note was shoved under his nose.

Hugh has given me a few days leave, to help you out.

Neal, surrounded by far too many people for his liking, though at first he barely noticed them as they just faded into the muted background, decided to keep his lips sown shut, so he wrote back to Peter without ever looking up.

I don't need a babysitter, thank you very much.

Peter bit down on his tongue to try and curb his irritation. He understood that it was hell for Neal, but the young man wasn't making it any easier with his snide comments.

Of course you don't, but you do need some help, whether you want to admit it or not.

Neal rolled his eyes and didn't pick up the pen again.

And that was the end of that conversation.

When Peter stopped outside June's, he watched as Neal unlocked the door and gave a limp, careless wave in his direction before walking up the steps without his usual fanfare of megawatt smiles and thumbs up. He simply pulled out his key, opened the door and went inside.

Agent Burke sighed and let himself fall forward, his forehead resting against the steering wheel, his hands gripping it tightly. He was half tempted to slam his hand on the horn, just to make some sort of point but it was then, as he lifted up his head and glanced down the street, that he saw a familiar, stout figure approach the car.

Very little hair. Glasses. Checked shirt.

It was Mozzie.

Neal's best, most loyal friend, opened the passenger side door of the Taurus and let himself in, sinking in the seat without sparing so much as a glance at the FBI agent.

But Peter could see it in Mozzie's eyes.

He knew.

He knew what had happened to Neal.

He knew that Peter had failed him.

"Drive, Suit."

Mozzie's voice was low and conveyed nothing except cold, callousness.

Peter put the car in gear and pulled immediately away from the curb.

He knew that however this 'conversation' ended, it was not going to end well.

Peter drove in no particular direction, only making turns when the traffic was particularly heavy and the tense atmosphere in the car only made him drive faster so he could focus on something, anything other than Mozzie's grinding teeth.

The agent knew what Mozzie was going to say. He knew because he felt it himself. He had repeated those same things over and over in his own head, desperate to make sense of it all, of what had happened to that lying, loving art forger who had somehow wormed his way into Peter's heart. Peter had a big heart, a gold one and Neal, being as he was, could get anyone to believe that they cared about him.

But Peter genuinely did.

So did Mozzie and that was apparently where the problem lay.

They drove for no more than ten minutes and without the background hum of the radio, Peter was getting extremely uncomfortable but he'd purposely kept it off when Neal was around in case it bothered him. Burke had had enough, so without a warning, he took a sharp turning into the first empty car lot he saw and parked diagonally, before switching off the engine.

Mozzie unbuckled his belt and got out, slamming the door behind him.

Peter followed after a few seconds when he had fully composed himself.

Mozzie was facing away from the other, hands in his pockets, his shoulders stiff as he gazed out across the lot towards the row of plain, brick houses. There was a fast food joint and one of the street lights was flickering as the afternoon made way for dusk and darkness began to descend on New York.

"I know, Suit. I talked to June."

Mozzie was distant at first, struggling and failing to keep his wayward emotions in check. He wasn't an angry person or a violent one, it's why he and Neal were such good friends. Two cons who didn't enjoy the satisfaction of hurting one of their victims, physically at least.

But if Mozzie had ever been that angry and seriously considering throwing his fists, it was at that moment. He scrunched up his knuckles, clasping one inside the other to stop it from moving impulsively towards the target.

Agent Peter Burke had done it this time.

Neal had been hurt before and that was precisely it. Those times were nothing more than bruises, scrapes, something Neal could walk easily away from.

But not this time.

"Mozzie."

That wasn't all Peter wanted to say, but Mozzie, in his stupor and slightly drunken rage, wanted nothing less than to listen to the Fed list his excuses.

There were none as far as Mozzie could see.

"Don't 'Mozzie' me." The shorter man turned swiftly around as he spat, his words like daggers in game of medieval knights. "You do know what you've done to him, don't you? You've ruined his life! He's deaf and it's not going to get better and you're going to have him sent back to prison by the beginning of next week because let's face it, he ain't gonna be much help to the FBI anymore!"

"Send him-"Peter gasped at that one. "I wouldn't do that Mozzie! He's deaf, but he's still Neal! His contract isn't what's important here, but it still stands, no matter what."

"Oh really?" Mozzie's voice dropped to a whisper, again. "June told me what happened. She told me that you sent him in there, alone, while you sat eating devilled ham in your surveillance van and all the while-"

"Neal chose to go in there! He knew what he was getting himself into!" Peter found that his voice had raised into a shout and he hated that. He hated not being able to control himself but for all he had, Peter couldn't work out why he was even defending himself.

Everything Mozzie believed was true.

"This is Neal we're talking about!" Mozzie threw open his arms in the most dramatic fashion but his hands were shaking, the vein on the right side of his head pulsed beneath his suddenly pale skin. "He doesn't think about these things, not properly! He just waltzes into danger with that damn Caffrey smile and you just let him!"

"There was nothing I could do, Mozzie…."At the other man's distress, Peter softened his tone but this only infuriated Mozzie more.

"That's what you always say, every single time. It what you pigs do. You think that guys like me and Neal, we don't matter. Just maim one, deafen another, I mean, who cares, right?" Mozzie rubbed at his bald head in exasperation, his tone laced with sarcasm. "You kill one, just go grab the next convict! We're just criminals. Dispensable!"

"Don't be so insane, Mozzie!" Peter hissed, jabbing a finger. "I care about Neal just as much as you do!"

"Oh really?" Mozzie actually laughed. Sniggered at that, his hands on his knees, his lips turned up in this distraught smirk. "Then why did you do this to him?"

"I didn't."

"Okay, why did you let this happen to him?"

"I tried to stop it Mozzie, I did….." Peter trailed, closing his eyes and he turned away to face the empty car lot, grateful for the momentary freedom from Mozzie's burning gaze. Peter had never seen the man so livid, but he knew he was capable of it. Mozzie cared for Neal more than anyone else, his best and perhaps his only, true friend. "I ran towards him, the second that man appeared….but it was too late. And then….Neal was screaming and crying….and I couldn't do anything, Mozzie. There was nothing I could do or could have done."

Mozzie pretended not to hear the soft, choked sob that interrupted Peter's words.

"You should have protected him."

"Don't you think I know that?" Snarled the taller man, running a hand through his hair in frustration and he whipped around again, only to find Mozzie directly in front of him, closer than ever.

They stood, nose to nose, both hurting, both grieving for their mutual friend.

Mozzie growled like an animal with this rage, so raw and real and Peter recognised it because he shared it. He knew that Neal did too.

Of course, deep down, Mozzie knew that it wasn't entirely Peters fault. Neal was a grown man, he knew what he was getting himself into but Peter was supposed to protect him. If not from the real bad guys, then from himself.

"This is your fault, Suit."

That nickname, 'Suit', there was a time when it was nothing more than a harmless jest at the FBI's expense but it was different in that desolate, darkening car lot where they stood.

It meant so much more.

"I know."

Peter didn't have the energy to fight it anymore.

"I blame you."

"So do I, Mozzie."

"You did this." Mozzie backed away a few steps, the hollow street light turning his skin a violent orange, his eyes two black, bottom less pits in a wrathful face. "You did it."

Peter exhaled shakily, unable to look the man in the eye because he was right and they both knew it.

The agent watched as the other man turned and walked away, blending in with the long shadows that stretched across the pavement. He waited until the retreating back was gone before he allowed himself to break and kick the rim of his car tire with his foot.

With a cry of pain and tears of hopelessness, Peter Burke sat down on the curb and thought back to Neal.

If Neal Caffrey did blame him, then one day, he might forgive the man who caught him twice.

But Peter Burke would never forgive himself.

"When we were children, we used to think that when we grew up we would no longer be vulnerable. But to grow up is to accept vulnerability, to be alive is to be vulnerable."- Madeleine L'Engle

A/N: Please review! I love to hear your guys opinions and please hang me out to dry on any mistakes! No flames please, however.

Before I go, I just wanted to say how proud I am to be a fan of Matt Bomer! I know this was a while ago, but I only just found out he came out as gay and I think it was a really brave thing to do and it just makes him even more awesome :D

Beware of the gushing fan girl guys….if I love him so much, then why on Earth do I torture Neal Caffrey like this?