Ten years later…
Peter groaned in pain as he banged his knee on something hard and pointy. It felt like the edge of a table, but he couldn't be sure. He had a purple scarf tied securely over his eyes and he couldn't see a thing. The only sound was the rustle of his breathing, the slow shuffle of his slippered feet along the carpet and El's giggles as she tried to guide him into the living room.
"This way… Sorry, sorry!" she laughed helplessly as Peter whacked into what had to be the banister, bruising his elbow this time. "Sorry, hon, just a little bit further. Step forwards, forwards, forwards, one more… OK, stop. Open your eyes." Impatient to see what all this secrecy was about, Peter ripped off the blindfold. For a moment, he couldn't see anything apart from gliding white spots on his pupils, but then his vision cleared and he took a step back in shock.
His living room was crowded with people, fifty or more, all dressed up for a party. Brightly coloured balloons covered every inch of carpet and strings of fairy lights hung in the curtains, bathing the room in a warm glow. When they saw him smile, everyone cheered and yelled a belated, "SURPRISE!"
"Wow," Peter murmured to Elizabeth, who was beaming beside him. "Wow, hon. Did you… did you do this?"
"Yes. I wanted something special for you." She took hold of his arm and pulled him into the room. "Come on, let's meet everyone. They're dying to see you!" As they progressed into the house, Peter saw El's hand everywhere in the tasteful decorations. Even the beautiful tiered birthday cake with the iced '50' on it seemed to have her stamp of authority. Sometimes it helped to be married to an event organiser.
Everyone they passed clapped Peter on the shoulder, wishing him a happy birthday. He grinned back at them, thanking them for the wonderful surprise. It had been a while since he had smiled so much. His life, though successful and interesting, didn't really give him much to smile about.
"This way, hon, this way… There's someone here I want you to see." El was pulling him by the hand now, her purple dress swaying around her knees. Music was bubbling out of the speakers, bouncy and full of cheer – he felt himself walking in time to the beat. They passed a gaggle of girls from El's spin cycle class, a couple of people from El's work and Jones and Diana standing authoritatively by a bowl of punch. Diana gave Peter a cheeky salute as he skirted past through the people, and Jones called, "Happy birthday, boss!"
Boss was right. Peter had been appointed head of White Collar. The announcement had been made that morning, on the dawn of his fiftieth birthday.
"Thanks," Peter stumbled slightly as he passed the table groaning with food and alcoholic beverages. El was still tugging eagerly on his hand, "Sorry, gotta dash…"
They weaved in and out of people until they finally stopped by the kitchen. The lights were on, casting a soft glow on everything beneath. Colours seemed sharper, contrasted by shadow.
"There he is," said El, giving Peter a gentle push towards the kitchen counter. A man was leaning against it, facing away from them. He had unruly hair the colour of chocolate and looked to be about twenty five. He stood casually, but Peter noticed that he was also on the balls of his feet, ready for action. This was the sort of chap who was always ready for danger. Underneath the man's immaculately tailored shirt, Peter could make out the outlines of corded muscles.
Without even thinking about it, Peter was stepping forwards, his hand reaching out, aiming for the man's shoulder.
"Ne..."
The man turned around, revealing a squat nose set underneath olive green eyes. He wasn't Neal.
"Peter, this is… well, Peter, actually. Peter Jenkins. He's my new personal trainer and the one who offered us that eighty seven percent discount because you caught that embezzler in his gym, you remember, hon?"
"Hey Mr Burke, pleased to meet you. Thanks for sorting out that embezzlement stuff for us, man, we really appreciated it-"
But Peter wasn't listening. He turned away from the handsome face of Peter Jenkins, blinking hard.
"Peter?" he ignored his wife, turning instead for the kitchen doors. He had to get outside. He had to before it was too late. "Sorry, Peter, I just need to go after, ah, my Peter. He's never normally so rude…" As though from a million miles away, Peter heard El break away from Peter Jenkins and follow him out of the house, away from the surprise party. He made it to the swing seat in their newly redecorated garden and plonked down just in time to blow his nose.
"Peter?"
"'M fine, El. 'M fine, go back to the party, really, 'm fine." There was a creak of springs as Elizabeth joined him on the swing seat.
"Peter, hon, you're shaking…" He sat there, shivering, and watched as the understanding dawned on her pretty face, now a bit more lined with age, but beautiful all the same. She clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh, Peter, no. You didn't…"
"Yep," he said, around the lump in his throat.
"You didn't think he was… Neal?" Peter coughed and tried to get a grip. Sometimes the emotion sprung up on him at the weirdest times, but this was one of the worst. He had been so… hopeful, when he had seen the handsome back of Peter Jenkins' head. He had been sure that he was Neal. The happiness had swelled, the relief, the anger… All the words that had been left unsaid between them had appeared magically on his tongue. He had felt lighter, as though transported ten years back in time. And to have all that ripped away from him…
"Oh hon," El whispered, placing her head on his shoulder, her voice oddly constricted, "I miss him too. I miss him more than I can ever say. But we have to accept that he is never… he's never coming back."
That, of course, was easier said than done. Even now, ten years after Neal had gone on the run, he still managed to play a massive role in their lives. Every couple of months or so starting from the day he had disappeared, the Burkes would receive a postcard from some far away land. Peter had kept them all, neatly stacked in a small box labelled "Caffrey". There was the pretty one from Hong Kong showing a cityscape lit up at night, and the paint splattered street scene from Bombay. There were the rolling hills of the French vineyards and the iconic silhouettes of Big Ben, the Shard and the Gherkin. El's favourite was the one from New York itself, as she liked the thought of him being close to home. Peter personally liked the card from the Galapagos Islands with its riot of flowers and penguins waddling on sugar white sand. He liked to think that Neal was having fun, even if it was without them.
Each postcard had been written in sweeping, looping longhand, in the language of whatever country it had come from. Neal's sentences and word choice had often been so complex and convoluted that Google Translate would fail in getting the finer points of his letters across. The Burkes had been forced to scour the city in search of someone who spoke the language in question fluently. Each time this happened, they inevitably made friends and learnt that Neal's grasp of whatever language he was writing in was "impeccable." Peter would always beam at that. He would never stop being proud of his son's brain.
The searches for translators had greatly augmented their circle of friends and made their social lives far more interesting. The number of dinner parties they were invited to had skyrocketed. One time, as Peter tucked into a plate of Turkish 'kofte' with his new friend Bilal, he reflected that this was what Neal had probably intended. The youngster had no doubt felt guilty about the massive hole he had left in their lives, and was now trying to make up for it by forcing Peter and El to make new, exciting friends. Peter was, silently but eternally, grateful for it. The new friends made charting Neal's world tour on the household atlas more bearable, and made his absence easier to accept as the years dragged on. Every March he and El would bake a cake on Neal's birthday. This tradition continued as the forger turned 20, 21, 22…
As the years went by, the postcards changed to letters which withstood Peter's every effort to trace them back. They were mostly in energetic English, but sometimes one would come through written in Latin, or Swahili, which would prompt Peter and El to renew their translator acquaintances or find fresh ones. The letters slowly filled with cheeky hints like, "I'm having a whale of a time here in Europe, but speaking of Wales, you might want to check out the infamous Welsh diamond. I have a feeling that it got lost somewhere in my pocket…"
The first time he had received one of these hints, Peter had nearly choked on his coffee. He read it once through and instantly crumpled the letter up, but after a few moments of tentative thinking, he smoothed it out again. Neal had told him about his Welsh diamond theft for a reason. He was giving Peter a lead, giving him permission to chase after him. Once he had figured out that the hint was deliberate, Peter had reopened the Caffrey Investigation at work and focussed his attention on Wales. The FBI had quickly discovered several more of Neal's crimes, and though the kid himself remained elusive, he quickly climbed the charts in his absence. Right now he was number nine on the FBI's Most Wanted List, at the charming age of twenty five.
Neal's criminal status wasn't the only thing that had risen over the years. As Peter continued to use Neal's hints to fuel the Caffrey Investigation, he progressed higher and higher in the office until today, when he had reached the position of Assistant Special Agent in Charge. Peter supposed that, once again, that had been the point. Neal had done his very best to help the Burkes financially by making Peter the best agent White Collar had ever known. Peter knew that his promotion was partly thanks to Neal, (and partly thanks to his own intellect and cunning.) He had to admire the kid's intelligence. He had known that the Burkes would never accept stolen money that he sent them, so he had orchestrated a way to make sure they got money anyway, legally.
He could never decide if he resented the part Neal played in their lives or not. Surely it was selfish of the boy, sending them postcards and letters signed "your loving son," keeping their hopes alive that he might one day return and stopping them from forgetting about him. What with the letters and photographs coming through the door every month, it was impossible for the Burkes to move on and get over their loss. But though Peter hated being unable to put the past behind him, he did love hearing news from Neal. The pictures that occasionally arrived on their doorstep were his favourite.
There was one of Neal, aged eighteen or nineteen. He was sporting a scruffy beard and standing on the top of Mount Everest, punching the air and grinning the goofiest grin Peter had ever seen. Another showed a slightly younger Neal striking an underwater pose with the Great Barrier Reef as a backdrop. There was twenty two year old Neal haughtily riding a camel and a sunburnt Neal partying with celebrities in Ibiza. El personally liked the one of Neal leaning over a stone slab covered in ancient hieroglyphics. He was studying the carving with an intensity unlike the Burkes had ever seen, his brow furrowed, his nice shirt stained with dots of ink. The picture had been taken just last year.
Peter had often thought about turning the photos in to the FBI. Seeing what Neal looked like now would be a great help to their investigation. But he just couldn't bring himself to share them. He kept them instead in the small box with all the postcards - apart from the one with the hieroglyphics, which they kept on the fridge. He supposed that it didn't really matter. After all, he was the one who was leading the investigation, he was the man in charge of hunting Neal down. If anybody needed to know what Neal looked like aged twenty five, he did, and thanks to his semi-legal correspondence with the young fugitive, that knowledge was in his hands.
With every letter that came through, the Burkes would scramble to pen a reply. Regardless of the ink smudging everywhere, Peter would stuff their scribbled note into the postman's sack and beg him to return it to whatever address Neal's letter had come from. They were never sure if Neal got their letters or not. It was highly likely that he didn't, but that didn't stop them from trying. Peter would often catch himself outlining future letters to Neal in his head, his imaginary hand tracing across paper, when he was bored at work. "Dear Neal, I hope you remembered to put sun cream on when you were watching the World Cup in Brazil. El and I saw you on TV, just for a second, with your face painted green and yellow, beaming at the camera and waving your flag. I wish you hadn't left us, I wish everything were different, but I'm glad you're having fun. You deserve to stretch your wings while you can. Stay safe and write soon…"
He hadn't realised that El was crying until he felt her tears against his shoulder.
"Hon, it's OK," he whispered, smoothing her hair which was starting to grey at the temples, "Neal wouldn't want us to be sad. He wouldn't want us to miss him."
"I don't care what he wants," said El, taking a ragged breath, "I just, oh I'm being so silly!" She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "Has my makeup run?"
"No," he assured her, "You look as stunning as the day I met you."
"I just… I know he should be free while he still can. He should enjoy his youth. I just want him back home!" She didn't say what they were both thinking: that it was only a matter of time before Neal slipped up and the FBI got him in their clutches. Sooner or later, Peter and the department would figure out how to trace his letters back, or Neal would get too close to home and be caught by someone who recognised his wanted poster. He needed to make the most of his freedom whilst he still had it. But judging by his letters, it looked like he already was.
El took a deep breath and patted her hair. "Shall we go back inside?"
"Yes," he kissed her cheek. "Let's forget about Neal, just for tonight. It's about time we had a good party." The memory of when Neal had thrown a party at his old house flashed up, but Peter pushed it gently away. Tonight was his night. He was the head of White Collar and it was his fiftieth birthday – he deserved a little celebration.
The next morning, he sorely regretted his night of abandon. His head was throbbing with a killer hangover and he felt himself wincing at small noises. All the same, he was called into work at an ungodly hour by Jones, who sounded extremely excited over the phone.
"Boss, you have to come check this out. We have a hit on James Bonds!" That was it. Those two, wondrous sentences were all Peter had to entice him into the office, but they were enough. He dragged himself out of bed with a groan and lurched into the shower. Before his promotion to ASAC, he had been Agent in Charge of two investigations: the Caffrey Investigation which tried to track Neal's whereabouts and bring him to justice, and the James Bonds case.
The James Bonds hunt was the sort of case Peter had dreamt about when he was at Quantico. The young bond forger who they had nicknamed (rather wittily, in Peter's opinion), James Bonds was one of the best forgers they had come across. His fake bonds were immaculate and even now, nearly a year into the investigation, they had nothing on him apart from a rough guess at his age (mid-twenties.) No DNA, no fingerprints, no sketches, nothing. Whoever this bond forger was, he was good.
But apparently good wasn't good enough. Jones had said that they had found him.
"So, who's that?" Peter asked, once he had braved the subway and arrived at the office. He, Jones and Diana, along with twenty other agents, were sitting in the conference room in White Collar. The interactive whiteboard was up and running, showing a picture of a pretty, dark haired woman that had been taken with a long distance lens.
"That," said Jones with relish, "is Kate Moreau. She's our way in. She'll lead us right to Mr Bonds."
"Dare I ask how?" said Peter, grinning around at his team. This was the biggest advance they had made in the James Bonds case since coming up with the nickname. He was looking forward to nailing this guy.
"Girlfriend," said Diana triumphantly. "She's going out with our dear James, or at least, she used to. They had a messy break up and she's trying to avoid him, but it's not easy avoiding a criminal. He seems desperate to find her again. Perhaps there's something he wants to say?" Peter nodded, thoughts instantly going back to Neal, as they often did. He himself was facing a similar situation. There were some things he would like to say to his son who, like Kate Moreau, was studiously avoiding him. He was starting to sympathise with this James Bonds.
"Anyway," Diana was saying, "We've managed to set up a meeting between Kate and James. She did most of the work – without knowing that we're involved, of course. Apparently she changed her mind and wants to meet up with him. All we did was use our street contacts to spread the word and hopefully, James will be there."
"And so will we." Peter slammed his manila folder closed. James Bonds seemed to have it better off than he did. At least he got to meet with the person who was avoiding him and got the chance to say the things he wanted. On the other hand, he didn't have too long in which to say them. Peter would make sure that the bond forger wasn't going to escape. "When's the meet?" he asked Diana. She pulled out her phone and started tapping out orders to the SWAT team on standby.
"Two hours."
"We better get moving."
Two hours later, Peter and the gang were squashed in the back of a Municipals Utility van, parked in front of the warehouse where James and Kate would be meeting. Peter wasn't sure when he had started calling the criminal 'James' in his head, but he was finding it hard to stop. He felt a strange affinity with the lad that he couldn't quite explain.
"We have the target at the meet," said Diana rapidly into her radio. All around him, the SWAT team were shuffling their equipment, getting ready for action.
"What?" Peter hissed at Diana, "He's already inside?"
"Yeah, a hooded figure came from our blind spot and made a dash for the door. He was in our sights for a second before he went in."
"Are you serious?" Peter growled rhetorically. He had to start paying more attention. He had just missed the first brief sighting of James. Though there would be plenty of time to meet him later, of course, when he was safely in custody.
"Should we move in, boss?" Diana asked. She and the SWAT team were watching him intently, waiting for his order. Peter glanced at his watch.
"Not yet. We'll give them exactly five minutes."
"Um, why?"
"I think that we should give them a chance to talk before we crash the party, don't you?" There were a few grumbles from the SWAT team, but understanding smiles from Jones and Diana.
"Are you sure, sir?" the leader of the SWAT team, a burly man with a shaved head, asked from the back.
"Are you questioning my judgement, lieutenant?" said Peter, doing his best to hold his ground. "All the exits are covered. There is no way that anyone can get in and out of that warehouse without us seeing them, unless you think our James Bonds can walk through walls?" He waited menacingly for an answer. "Didn't think so. We'll wait five minutes before moving in."
The minutes passed in awkward silence. Peter abstractedly wondered if everything was alright in the warehouse. Were James and Kate getting back together? Was James saying all the things he wanted to say? Even though they were about to swarm in and arrest him, Peter felt a surge of envy. At least James was getting to say all the unsaid things before they hauled him away. He, on the other hand, may never get the chance to say all that he wanted to Neal.
"OK. Time's up," he found himself saying after a suitable pause, "Let's do this." There were a few mutters of 'finally' from the SWAT team, and then everyone was piling out of the van, weapons drawn. They jogged silently across the street, crouching outside the door James had entered by.
"On three. One, two, three…" The door blew off its hinges and the SWAT team swarmed into the warehouse, guns pointing everywhere.
"FBI, FREEZE!" Peter marched into the warehouse right behind the armour wearing officers. His eyes swept the room and settled on a young man. Mid-twenties, like they had predicted. He had a shock of coffee coloured hair and was facing away from them, kissing a dark-haired woman who had to be Kate Moreau.
"PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!" The leader yelled behind him. Peter watched as James ignored the shout for a second longer, before finally breaking away from Kate.
"It's alright," he murmured reassuringly in her ear, slowly raising his hands. He still hadn't turned around. Peter wanted this over and done with as quickly as possible. He hated seeing the fear in Kate's eyes, the sadness in James' voice. He took a step forward.
"You're under arrest."
James turned around. He wasn't James at all.
"Neal?"
"Peter. I got your letters."
The End.
I've had so much fun writing this story, and I just want to say a massive thank you to everyone who helped me do it. That's every reviewer, every favourite, every follower. Thank you for motivating me to actually finish a long story instead of just abandoning it halfway through! I'd like to say an even bigger thank you to all my lovely consistent reviewers who have been there every step of the way, encouraging me with your comments at the end of every chapter. You know who you are!
I hope you all enjoyed this story as much as I did. I feel a bit sad to have finished it. My next fanfiction venture will be into the world of Harry Potter, so feel free to check out my story 'The Squib' if you're in the mood for a bit of Marauders HP! Thanks for reading and if you want to drop me one last review, that would, of course, be absolutely marvellous! ;)