The next morning, Peter strolled into Central Park with his head held high. He had been invited for coffee with Hughes, Fowler and one other OPR representative – which sounded like a recipe for disaster. Peter drew his coat tighter around his chest, trying to combat the icy wind that sent leaves prancing and trees swaying. The park was stunning at this time in the morning – with a December mist rolling across the grass and hoarfrost lacing the cobwebs, he was reminded of a winter wonderland. This frozen world was the type of place where magic happened in fairytales: where wicked witches sucked blood in the shadows and squat trolls lurked under bridges.
Peter started walking faster through the park as he neared the small café. Speaking of squat trolls…
"Peter!" Hughes called, thrusting a hand into the air, "Over here." Peter walked over to where Hughes, Fowler and Rupert, the other OPR representative, were squashed around a rather tiny coffee table.
"Glad you could join us," said Fowler, beckoning the waitress over. "Coffee, Burke?"
"Please." Peter smiled up at the waitress and ordered an espresso. The girl nodded brusquely and hurried off, leaving Peter alone with his bosses. He sat up straighter, suddenly nervous. If he was going to get an apology for the way Hughes and OPR had acted, now was the time. Hughes especially owed him a 'sorry, Burke': he had blamed Peter for Neal's disappearance and had wrongly put him on leave a few days ago. "So what's this about?"
"Well, you see, Peter." Hughes started, sharing an uncomfortable look with Fowler, "OPR has been paying the White Collar Division a lot of attention lately. We've come to a decision regarding your relationship with Neal Caffrey." Peter's stomach plummeted. This couldn't be good. And where the hell was his apology?
"What about my relationship?" He asked instead.
"The kid got abducted." Fowler scratched his pointed chin. "We don't believe that that reflects well on you as an agent. It makes you look, oh, what's the word?"
"Sloppy." Inserted Rupert the OPR representative.
"Indeed," said Fowler. "Keller kidnapping the boy makes you, Peter Burke, look like a horribly inept agent."
"What?" Peter demanded. His fingers gripped the cold metal edge of the table so tightly his knuckles flashed pearly white. "Neal didn't run away, Fowler. He didn't escape. His disappearance was in no way my fault."
"Peter-" Hughes tried to interrupt, but for once, Peter wasn't going to let his boss get in the way of an argument. A bitter wind ruffled his hair as he turned his back on Hughes and glared at the OPR man.
"Fowler – you must be off your god-damned rocker. I came here expecting an apology for the way you treated Neal. When Neal went missing, you immediately assumed he had escaped without first reviewing the evidence. You-" He shot a furious look at Hughes – "put me on leave. But I was willing to look past that. Why? Because I foolishly entertained the notion that when it transpired Neal was innocent you would apologise to him and to me. But no!"
"Burke – calm down…"
"No." Peter shook his head savagely at Hughes. "No. You treated my foster son and I like rubbish. And now? Now you're saying that Neal being kidnapped – which is utterly out of my control – is somehow my fault and you're calling me a bad agent." He leaned back in his wicker chair, emotionally deflated, and simmered in the silence. Hughes, Fowler and Rupert the OPR representative exchanged looks.
"I'm sorry you feel that way." Fowler said, after a few tense seconds had traipsed by. "But, as it happens, I'm afraid OPR doesn't give a damn about your… feelings. The boy left your custody for forty eight hours, which goes directly against the terms of the foster programme. He cut his tracking anklet-"
"He was kidnapped!" Peter hissed, enraged. He was aware that the four of them were getting some strange looks from the other people in the café.
"Nevertheless, the kid left your custody," snapped Fowler. "And for that reason-"
"Your coffee?" He stopped mid-sentence and curled his lip impressively as the waitress returned with four, steaming mugs. She slowly set the drinks down on the sugar dotted surface of the table, sloshing some of the burning liquid onto a napkin. The four of them stared at her in silence until, unburden by drinks, the waitress left.
"You're fired." Said Hughes, eyeing Peter testily from behind his coffee cup.
"What?"
"Or, more accurately, you will be fired. Unless this absurd foster programme succeeds, you'll be sacked at the end of the 6 months. And Caffrey will go to prison." Fowler threw his head back and chuckled coldly. Peter had to force himself not to strangle the pockmarked man. Fowler mistook his self-control for befuddlement.
"In simpler terms, Burke, unless Caffrey gives you the microchip he stole, you will be fired. You have six months to get the chip back. If we don't have the chip by then… well. I daresay it'll be bye bye Burkey!"
"You can't do that." Whispered Peter. "That goes against everything the White Collar Division stands for: respect, justice, loyalty… fairness!"
"Whatever, Burke." Fowler leaned back on his chair, sipping delicately at his latte. "Speaking frankly and personally, I can't wait for you to fail. Can you imagine what will happen if, in six months' time, you still don't have the microchip? You'll be out of the job, and the kid will be behind bars. Then again, he'll be behind bars regardless of whether you get the chip. Like his biological father before him, scum like that deserves to be locked away."
Peter couldn't take it any longer. He could just about handle it when they insulted him. He could force himself to stay calm when they threatened his job. But when they dragged Neal into this mess? When they insulted his foster son? That's when Fowler and Rupert the OPR representative had crossed a line. With an almost inarticulate howl of rage, he lunged across the table at Fowler, grabbing the older, uglier man by his coat lapels. Chaos erupted in the café.
"GEROFFME!" Fowler howled.
"GEROFFHIM!" Rupert the OPR representative tried to yank Peter off his boss, spilling his coffee as he leapt to his feet. More voices joined the commotion.
"Burke! What the hell do you think you're doing-"
"Agent Fowler, Agent Fowler, are you alright?"
"BURKE!"
Neal lay on Peter's sofa, nose buried in Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. Though it was a riveting read about friendship and bravery, he couldn't keep his focus on Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Peter and Elizabeth were shouting at each other in the kitchen and he was finding it very hard not to eavesdrop.
"You did WHAT?" El's voice, amplified by anger, rang through the walls of the house.
"I… I, uh, lunged at Fowler, and uh, maybe ruffled his coat a bit." Peter mumbled forlornly, and Neal had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. Peter attacking an OPR representative? This was too crazy to be true.
"So Hughes put you on leave again did he?" El demanded. Neal could almost picture her standing by the oven, face stony, eyes flinty. He shuddered at the formidable image. "I don't blame him! If one of my employees attacked my boss in a coffee shop then I would damn well put them on leave!"
"Hon, it was suspension, not leave. I'm suspended from work for a week and of course this will go on my permanent record. Thank God for Hughes – he persuaded the board that I slipped and grasped Fowler for support… If he hadn't done that I wouldn't have a job right now. And I didn't attack Fowler, I simply lunged in his direction-"
"Shut it, Burke." El's voice seemed to drop ten decibels and Neal pricked his ears, straining to hear. "You put this family at risk. Yes, it was completely out of order, what Fowler did-"
"You mean threatening to fire me? Yes, come to think of it, that was a smidge out of order, now wasn't it?" said Peter, sarcasm dripping from every snarky syllable. Neal heard the muffled sound of El doffing her husband over the head with the padded oven gloves.
"Ow!"
"It was out of line, what Fowler did." El continued rigidly, as if nothing had happened. "But you had no right to lunge at him."
"He insulted Neal!" said Peter defensively. "I know what I did was wrong, and I know I deserve suspension, but Fowler had no right to drag Neal into this." There was a moment of frigid silence. Neal lay very still, not daring to breathe.
"What do you mean, drag Neal into this?" El hissed, voice barely above a whisper. She was obviously aware that Neal was in the next room and didn't want him to overhear. Unfortunately for the Burkes, Neal had ears like a cat and in the dead stillness of the house he could pick out every word. What he heard next chilled the very blood in his veins. "Neal is at the very centre of this mess. He caused the mess!"
"El-"
"No, Peter. I love Neal as much as you do. He is part of this family now, for better or for worse. But if it wasn't for him stealing that microchip, you wouldn't be standing here right now facing the prospect of being fired in six months' time. And do you know what makes it worse? Neal could give up the chip at any point. He could hand it over right now. But he doesn't. And we're going to suffer as a result."
The only sound was the whirring of the dishwasher. Neal swallowed painfully as a wave of guilt and self-disgust crashed over him, submerging his soul. Elizabeth was right! Peter had saved his life – the least he could do was give him the microchip in return. At least that way Peter would keep his job and the Burke's would keep their house. The only thing stopping him was –
"If Neal gives up the chip he'll go to prison." Peter said in an undertone, voicing Neal's worries aloud. "Can you really blame him for keeping the chip's location to himself?"
"Yes!" Exploded El. "What you don't seem to understand, Peter, is that Neal is a criminal. He'll go to prison regardless of whether or not he gives you the chip. That's written in stone. What's not written in stone is our financial position, hon. The way I see it, one of two things could happen. One: Neal gives you the chip, you keep your job and Neal spends years behind bars, or two: Neal doesn't give you the chip, you lose your job and Neal still spends years behind bars!"
"It's not that simple-"
"It is, Peter! Neal is being selfish." Elizabeth's voice dropped so low that Neal missed her next sentence, but then she surged in volume once more. "He's putting himself before us! He doesn't care about you, he only cares about himself." Neal blanched. He couldn't listen to the heated discussion for another instant. With an expression like curdled milk mixed with poison, he gingerly rolled off the sofa and hobbled out the room. His head throbbed – an after effect from the kidnapping – and he felt horribly dizzy, but he was still a professional thief. He didn't make a sound as he left the lounge and glided past the kitchen. Peter and Elizabeth were too engrossed in their discussion to notice him, even when he stumbled and nearly knocked over a stack of magazines. After straightening the wonky pile, Neal limped soundlessly up the stairs and collapsed onto his bed, feeling like the worst human being in the world.
That night, Neal woke up in a cold sweat. His hands shook uncontrollably. What was happening to him? He blinked, trying to clear his head and ease the nausea that was clawing up his throat. Doctor Watson had warned him about this. The elderly neighbourhood medic had checked him over after the kidnapping and Keller's arrest. He had mentioned that a possible side effect of the concussion Neal had concurred when Peter had blown the door off its hinges was vomiting…
As soon as he had put a name to the queasy feeling, Neal knew he had to get out and fast. Yanking his legs free from the snarl of tangled blankets he fumbled at the door handle and ran to the bathroom. He made it just in time. With a gut wrenching heave, he threw up in the toilet.
Peter became dimly aware of the sound of running water and a low groaning noise. Someone was mewling like a puppy. Cautiously, he sat up in bed.
"El?" He whispered. "El?"
"Mmmmm-what?" she mumbled, half asleep. Peter sighed. He was still feeling sore about their earlier argument so, rather petulantly, he opted not to wake her. Instead, he swung out of bed and hurried out onto the landing. The darkness of the house seemed to wrap around him like a cloak, the shadows lengthening as he tightened the knot on his dressing gown and peered at the various doors. Neal's stood open. Peter's heart pounded double time, frolicking nervously in his chest. Not again! Neal couldn't have gone missing again… He forced himself to keep a level head – this was exactly what had gotten him into trouble the last time. He shouldn't jump to conclusions; there was nothing to suggest that Neal had done another runner. But if the kid had overheard his conversation earlier… If he knew that El resented him for putting Peter's job at risk and not giving up the microchip… Well. That was a totally different story. Peter stood there for a few, painful moments, palms clammy and brow furrowed. He was just about to pluck up the courage to enter Neal's bedroom and see the empty bed with his own eyes when he noticed that the bathroom light was on.
Relief washed over him, bringing with it a sensation similar to sinking into a steaming hot bath. Neal was in the bathroom! Peter was once again frozen by indecision, but when he heard the sound of retching he made a snap decision and opened the door.
"Neal?" He asked hesitantly. "You ok, bud?" The bathroom was aglow in a buttery yellow light and the windows sparkled with frost. The iridescent white smudges looked like doilies pressed up against the glass. Neal was hunched over the toilet, a feverish glint in his eyes, hair ruffled, face deathly pale.
"P-peter, go a-a-away!" He stammered, before his words were lost as another wave of sickness hit him. Peter hurried over despite the protests and rubbed Neal's back in calming circles. Neal went completely rigid, but after a few minutes he seemed to understand that Peter wasn't going to leave any time soon. Very slowly, he relaxed his shoulders.
Five minutes later, the bout of nausea seemed to have stopped. Peter flushed the toilet and guided the trembling Neal to the sink, where he wordlessly handed him his toothbrush.
"Thanks, dad." Neal slurred. They both froze.
"What did you call me?" Peter asked, quick as a whippet. Neal shoved the scraggly toothbrush in his mouth and scrubbed at his molars, avoiding Peter's eyes. His face had gone an interesting shade of mauve.
"I called you Peter."
"No…" Peter was still trying to wrap his head around what had just happened. "You called me dad."
"Didn't." Neal was shivering violently. He braced himself against the sink and splashed water over his face. "Called you Peter." But with his mouth full of toothpaste foam and his hair all matted, he wasn't very convincing. Peter hid a smile. Despite everything that had happened today: the argument with Hughes and Fowler, the startling threat of being sacked if Neal refused to cooperate, his falling out with El… for some unknown reason, what Neal had just said made him feel happier than he had in a long time.
Hey guys, hope you enjoyed this slightly shorter than normal chapter! As always, I would love to hear your comments :D