Two days later.
Peter spent the last 48 hours in a limbo between awareness and bewilderment, while he tried to comprehend something that is beyond his comprehension. Everything feels so... surreal.
Three days ago Neal sat with him at his dining table and, for the umpteenth time, stole the toy out of his cereal box. Now Peter is sitting at that very table, editing the eulogy he wrote for Neal's funeral.
He sighs and rubs his hands across his tired face. Sleeping is impossible these days. Not that being awake is much better. The images haunt him, whether his eyes are closed or not. Blood, cold black eyes, Neal's pale face twisted in agony, a cruel smirk, and blood, blood, blood everywhere.
"Are you all set, honey? Clinton will be here in a few minutes," El reminds him. She sounds as weary as he feels. Peter lifts his head and meets her gaze.
"I am."
They don't talk any more. Not while they wait and not during the car ride. Silence always helps Peter to keep himself together.
The funeral is a curious gathering. Other than Elizabeth and Peter, June and what looks like her entire family sit in the front row. The elder lady snivels silently into her tissue. Behind her Peter discovers Sara next to Diana, Jones, Hughes and a lot of other agents. He even spots Lauren Cruz.
Beside Neal's friends from the Bureau quite a lot of... old acquaintances decided to pay their last respects to him. Most of them Peter has never seen before (except maybe on wanted posters), but a few faces are familiar. Like Alex Hunter or Gordon Taylor. For once Peter does not care about their shady business dealings. They are Neal's friends and they grieve, just like everybody else.
And then there's Mozzie, whose hateful glare sends chills down Peter's spine. He's somewhat surprised the con man showed up at all, he half expected him to disappear into thin air. Without Neal, there is no reason for him to stay.
The casket is closed, for which Peter is incredibly thankful. He couldn't bear to see Neal's pallid and lifeless face again. Once was more than enough.
As Neal's handler and official next of kin, he had to officially confirm that the dead man was indeed Neal Caffrey.
The sight of Neal's corpse will probably haunt him for the rest of his life, but at least the authorities can be positive that Neal's death certificate is legitimate this time around. That's the main thing, isn't it? Peter thinks sardonically.
Peter steps forward, the speech tightly clutched into his fist. He clears his throat and the whispering crowd falls silent. El gives him an encouraging nod. He takes a deep breath.
"I'm not very good with words. At least not as good as Neal. But then again, who is?" he starts, his voice shaky. "And what is there to say anyway?
"Neal was a mystery, full of ambiguity and secrets and contradictions. He had a remarkable sense of justice for someone who constantly broke the law. He was sophisticated, yet immature. Deliberate, yet impulsive. Dishonest, yet sincere...
I think it's safe to assume that none of us knew the whole story, but that's okay. It was part of Neal's charm.
"Today I want to tell you a little about the Neal I knew, who probably was different than the one you knew. He may not even have been Neal Caffrey, when you met him. Maybe he was Nick Halden or Steve Tabernackle or George Devore... or whatever name he used at the time." Peter lets a small smile play on his lips. "I remember my first encounter with Neal like it was yesterday. I was investigating a case of forged bonds in Midtown, when a young man with unruly hair and a sly smile approached me. At first, I thought nothing of it, when he inquired about my profession. But after he thanked me for my work and gave me a green sucker, all the while a twinkle of mischief in his eyes, I began to wonder. By that time Neal had, of course, already disappeared into the crowd," Peter clears his throat. "Little did I know, that this meeting would be the beginning of an unlikely friendship. Throughout the following years Neal sent me countless postcards, called me in the middle of the night from international numbers and sent champagne to our surveillance van." Some people chuckle. "When I finally caught him, after three years of chasing him across two continents, it was because I used his greatest weakness: his big heart. When Neal loves...," Peter pauses for a moment, "loved someone or something, his devotion knew no limits.
"How life goes, his greatest weakness was also his greatest strength. It made him the best partner, the best friend one could have." Peter pauses again, longer this time. It takes all his strength to keep his voice even. "Neal was a great man.
"We can consider ourselves lucky that we had the chance to know him."
Peter glances at the shiny black coffin and his eyes water. "We'll miss you, buddy."
He returns to his seat with shaky legs.
"That was beautiful, honey." El whispers to him. Her eyes are red and puffy from all the crying. Peter acknowledges her praise with a weak smile. He doesn't trust his voice.
He manages to keep it together until the minister is done with his sermon. When they lower the casket into the ground, Peter finally loses his cool. He openly sobs into Elizabeth's shoulder, who sobs along with him. This is it. The end. Neal is not coming back.