Peter was on the plane to Paris before the anger hit him.
Don't get him wrong, he was thrilled beyond belief Neal was alive. Even when the anger hit, his relief and happiness were stronger. But still, the anger was inevitable. Neal always cared about people, and his cons, though they drove Peter insane, were inevitably either for the challenge or to help someone in the best way he knew how. Peter had no doubt Neal had somehow become convinced that faking his death was the best way to do…something, and it would only take one shouting match between them at worst to reconcile and forgive each other once they met in Paris.
But.
Neal had faked his death. For a year, Peter (everyone, even Mozzie, the one who was always in on Neal's schemes) had believed Neal was dead. Peter had put together Neal's funeral. He'd given a eulogy. He'd borne his coffin to his grave (and who exactly had been in that coffin? If he found out he'd strained his back carrying a coffin full of rocks he would have words with Neal).
Peter's world had been empty for a year. He'd blamed himself for a year. Tried to think his way out of Neal's death, found any way he could have prevented it…
For a year, his best friend had been gone. Peter had barely borne up under the grief while Neal was…what, swanning around in Paris, drinking wine, enjoying the art, and sleeping with foreign women? Not that Peter wanted Neal to be unhappy. No, he wanted him to be happy and healthy and whole—and most importantly, back in New York. With Peter. Where he belonged.
Of course, Peter's mind went into overdrive, spinning and trying to parse out why Neal would run, fake his death when he had everything he wanted at his fingertips. If the freedom deal still had fallen through, he still could have run without faking his death, and Peter wouldn't have even blamed him. Wasn't even sure he would have brought him back, to be honest.
(He would have. He knew he would have. He always would. But he liked to pretend to himself, just for a moment, that, if Neal truly wanted to be free of Peter, he would be strong enough to let him go.)
When Peter had asked El why Neal would fake his death, while packing in their bedroom for the trip, she had said, "Well, I presume it's to keep us safe from the Panthers. I noticed you got that bottle only after they were all sentenced. He must have been afraid they'd hurt us in retaliation for putting them behind bars."
"But he could have gone into witness protection!" Peter had protested, and known as soon as the words left his mouth why Neal hadn't chosen to rely on WitSec to protect them. Not with how he had grown up, not with El's baby coming, not with the constant identity crisis Neal struggled with, and not with how many times Peter and Neal had been screwed over by their criminal opponents acquiring moles in high places. No, Neal wouldn't trust anyone but himself to ensure their safety.
The part of Peter that had been trying to talk out the Neal-dying scene until he survived pounced on the new ways Peter had failed. He should have made sure Neal had been set free after the whole Rebecca incident, should have kept Kramer away so Neal's first commutation had gone through, should have prevented Neal from getting kidnapped, should have talked him out of the whole Pink Panthers sting, should have realized Neal's fears, should have guessed he was planning another con, should have known Neal's death was fake, should have…
But should have wouldn't change what had happened. Neal had faked his death, Peter had believed it, and he'd grieved for a year, a year that, even if Peter found Neal alive and well in Paris, would forever be the worst year of his life bar none. He had been over the moon when little Neal had been born, but in many ways, the birth of his son had made him realize that Jones was right all along and Peter had been Neal Caffrey's father from the beginning. Peter had two sons, and he had lost one of them that fateful day the Pink Panthers were arrested and Keller died.
Peter had lost his son, and he wasn't sure he would ever be able to forgive himself.
Except Neal Caffrey wasn't dead, and Peter was flying to Paris to find him again.
So. The anger. It swirled along with relief and happiness and overwhelming joy that his best friend/son/partner was alive and somehow, everything was going to be okay, but Peter had still failed him, still failed the conman he had accidentally adopted, who had become family without him realizing it, who he had never appreciated enough until it was too late.
Peter probably shouldn't have told Hughes that Neal was alive. But Hughes had connections, and, though he was retired, he would know how, if there was any way at all, Peter could bring Neal home a free man, like he deserved. As soon as Peter landed in the Paris airport, he got a call from Hughes telling him that for the man who brought down the Pink Panthers, much could be forgiven. In fact, Neal could come back home and not have to worry about any of his past crimes, if only he came back (and the government would be much happier about the whole thing if he promised to sign a contract becoming a consultant with the Bureau for immunity because holy h-, that closure rate and arrest record was one they were not happy was lost over the past year).
Still, while Peter dumped his bags at his hotel room and made his way to the Louvre to start on Neal's trail, "Neal wasn't killed after all so the sky is blue and birds are singing again," and "Neal wasn't killed and I'm going to kill him," kept cycling through Peter's mind.
Peter presented the museum director of the Louvre (he was called something else in French, but Peter didn't know or care whether it was the same thing or not) with the picture of Peter and Neal in tuxes and told him, "I'm looking for my friend. Have you seen him?"
"Friend?" The museum director frowned, as if the English word was one he was unfamiliar with. "I was unaware Monsieur Brooks had friends. Perhaps, ah…you will introduce him to breakfast?"
"I'm sorry?" Peter asked.
"He does not appear to have heard of it before," the director said.
"He's naturally skinny," Peter said. "Where can I find him?"
The director held up a finger. "I will call him and ask if he is willing to give his address to you. He is a private man and does not like company."
Doesn't like company? Neal was naturally friendly and connected with pretty much anyone he met. Why would the director be under the impression Neal had no friends?
Peter waited on tenterhooks while the director disappeared behind his office door. Finally, the man emerged with an address written on a piece of paper.
"Monsieur Brooks will be waiting for you at his…uh, appartement."
"Thank you."
Peter's heart raced as the taxi driver took him to the apartment building. Peter found it far more average than he was expecting. In New York, Neal hadn't made it one night without landing himself cappuccino in the clouds. Somehow, he had expected the same here, but Neal's apartment was…mundane.
Peter only had to knock once before the door swung open. And there, on the other side, was Neal Caffrey.
Alive.
The sight shocked Peter into silence for longer than he'd ever admit. Neal was alive and standing in front of him. He was pale, so pale that if he was starring in a period drama, Peter would assume he was fated to die of consumption. Dark circles had taken up residence under Neal's eyes and his face was hollow, as if he was half-starved. Even standing there for a few seconds, Neal swayed imperceptibly and reached out for the doorway to steady himself.
Peter broke himself from his stunned silence and enveloped Neal in a hug. Neal collapsed boneless into his arms, pressing his face into Peter's shoulder, and though happy tears pooled in Peter's eyes, Neal was the one who broke into heaving sobs.
And Neal was the one who whispered, "I thought I'd never see you again."
"What does this make me now? 4 and 0?" Peter asked.
Neal's arms tightened around Peter. "You sure took long enough to figure it out."
"Are you okay?" Peter asked. "You look sick."
Neal straightened up and said, "I'm not sick." He led Peter into the apartment and closed the door behind him.
Peter suddenly understood why the museum director had told him he should introduce Neal to breakfast. Neal looked as if he hadn't eaten much of anything in months.
"Are you sure you're not sick?" Peter asked.
"Why do you keep asking that?" Neal snapped. He shook his head. "Sorry. Didn't sleep well. Why don't you sit down?" He gestured to a leather couch that looked as if it had been fished out of a dumpster.
Peter sat down on the couch. "I keep asking it because you look sick."
Neal shrugged. "Just tired." He dove into the fridge and emerged with a bottle of beer.
Peter didn't know what to say to this Neal that seemed a pale shadow of his old self, a Neal that Peter had believed dead for a year. "How has Paris been treating you?"
"It's not as nice a city as I remember." Neal sat next to Peter and handed him the beer. "Cheap and crappy, just the way you like it."
"Thank you." Peter sipped from the beer for a few seconds before the words that had been swirling inside of him ever since he walked into that container erupted. "You were dead, Neal. You were dead and I mourned you."
"Better me than you," Neal said.
"What?" Peter said. "Is that what you think? That your life is worth less than mine? What… Why did you do this, Neal? Why did you fake your death? You were about to get your freedom. You could have…"
"The Panthers," Neal said. "I was talking with Keller about what we would do afterwards. He didn't think I could go straight and settle down like I wanted to. Then he said that he'd like to, you know, be a high liver, get his own island and settle down with money and women and wine, but he'd have to be always on the move after the Panthers went down, we both would, because if I just tried to settle down, the Panthers would retaliate for my part in arresting them. They'd kill everyone I loved one by one until I wished I was dead and only then would they kill me. This seemed like the best option. The safest option." He shrugged. "I assume it worked? No one's dead, are they?"
He turned to Peter then, his eyes more haunted than Peter had ever seen. Nothing, not talking about his childhood, not going to a supermax prison, not even losing Kate had put that haunted look in Neal's eyes like it was there now. Somehow, Peter knew this was the reason Neal hadn't slept well last night, probably hadn't slept well in a long time, if the dark circles were any indication. With that look, most of the anger seething in Peter since he discovered the container drained.
"No, Neal," Peter said softly, wrapping his arm around Neal's shoulders. "No one's dead. Everyone's fine, thanks to you."
Neal leaned into Peter as if he was too tired to hold himself upright. "That's good," he whispered.
"I meant it when I said you don't look good," Peter said. "How have you really been? And don't lie to me, Neal. Don't give me one of those half truths that misdirects me from what's actually going on. Have you been sleeping?"
Neal shook his head.
"Eating?"
Neal shrugged. "Nothing's appetizing anymore."
"Painting?"
"Not really," Neal said. "I tried, but I kept painting New York into everything, so I stopped."
"Thieving, robbing, and forging your way across the museums of Paris?" Peter asked, making sure to keep his voice light as if it was solely a joke.
"I want to go straight, Peter," Neal said. "I meant it when I told you before. Besides, it's no challenge to break into something when you control the security."
"Have you been making friends? Drinking wine? Hobnobbing with high society? Flirting with beautiful women?" Peter asked.
"No, no, no, and no," Neal said. His head drooped, dipping towards Peter's shoulder before jerking upright. It was as if he had used up all his energy waiting for Peter to arrive and was on the verge of complete collapse now.
Peter's stomach twisted. No drinking, no painting, no fine dining, no flirting, no friends… It was as if Peter was holding a shell of a person that used to be Neal Caffrey, a shadow of the man who had become his adopted son. "So what have you been doing this past year?"
"Going to work. Getting rid of my paintings. Taking walks around Paris," Neal said. "So what happens now?"
"Now I'm going to take you to lunch because you look like a half-starved Victorian orphan," Peter said. He stood up, trying to tug Neal with him, but couldn't, as Neal imitated a limp fish and flopped on the couch.
"'M not hungry," Neal mumbled. He curled up on the couch cushions. "You can just leave me here while you go to lunch."
"Not going to happen. You're coming with me and you don't have a choice." Peter scanned the apartment for a good minute before he finally located Neal's hat. He settled the hat firmly on Neal's head. "Up and at 'em, slugger. You need food."
Neal rolled his eyes but stood up and let Peter tug him out the door. "You realize I'm not actually your child, right? I can take care of myself."
"You are my child whether you like it or not, and no, you clearly can't take care of yourself. Look where it's gotten you," Peter said. "If I take you home to El like this, she'll kill me herself."
Neal pretended to sulk, but Peter could tell he was walking straighter and with a bit of a bounce to his step. "If you say so, Dad."
"I do say so. Now, you've got to know of some good restaurant around here. Lead the way. I'm even willing to endure some of your frilly little fancy places," Peter said.
Neal tilted his hat, threw back his shoulders, and, for once, did as he was told.
Neal didn't say anything throughout the whole first course of lunch (and yes, Peter couldn't believe he had actually consented to eating a meal with courses). When Neal did speak, the only thing he said was "I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what, Neal?" Peter asked, half-hoping that it was a "Sorry I faked my death" and not whatever bombshell his gut was dreading.
"Making you come all this way," Neal said. "I'm sure you'd rather be home with El and the baby than chasing me across the ocean again."
"Why would you think that?" Peter asked. "Neal, I've been mourning you for the past year. I've been going through every scenario that could have saved you for months. It's…more than I could have ever hoped for to be sitting across from you, see you alive again. You said you were my best friend. Did you really think I wouldn't want to come?"
"Just because you're my best friend doesn't mean I'm yours," Neal said so matter-of-factly it broke Peter's heart. Neal Caffrey didn't do vulnerable or weak, yet he said these heartbreaking words as if they were a simple, obvious fact, like "the sky is blue" or "Mozzie is bald." Neal Caffrey cared about people, but people didn't care about him.
Except it wasn't true.
"Neal, you're like family to me. No, d- it, you are family."
Neal gave Peter his "I hear what you're saying but I think you're being ridiculous" look.
"I mean it, Neal! What, did you think that when you died, I would just shrug and go 'Oh well, guess I'll have to get my own coffee now' and just go about my life?" Peter asked. This was unbelievable. He was finally getting to see Neal without any false front and he was flabbergasted at what he had missed.
The quick way Neal looked away told Peter that something not too dissimilar had crossed his mind. And that explained the last bit of why Neal could do something so cruel as to fake his death in a way that everyone would actually believe it and mourn him. Why would he hold back from faking his death when he thought everyone would be secretly glad to have him gone?
"Neal," Peter said with the new superpower he'd unlocked after little Neal's birth where he could pack a lecture's worth of disapproval into just a name.
"You went to prison because of me, Peter!" Neal said. "You told Jones that you regretted taking my deal. What was I supposed to think?"
The words punched Peter in the gut. He'd forgotten about those words, said when he'd still been trying to bury the destruction to his black-and-white view of justice by distancing himself from Neal and pretending Peter was something he wasn't. "Neal, I never meant that. I…I wasn't myself for a while after being framed and I took a lot of that out on you, and I shouldn't have, and I'm sorry. You're just as important to me as my other son and don't ever think that you aren't."
Neal blinked quickly a few times, then actually dug into the dish he'd ordered that Peter couldn't pronounce. Not that Peter could pronounce his own dish, either. All he knew was that Neal had assured him he would like it and that he'd promised it wasn't snails.
"So what happens now?" Neal asked. "With us?"
"I talked with Hughes, and he has some connections and managed to pull something together for you because of our success with the Pink Panthers," Peter said. "You have full immunity. For everything, I believe. Mostly because the upper brass isn't happy to have lost you and wants the man who makes our closure rates so high back working for the bureau. If you want to, you can come home and work for the Bureau as a consultant again, except this time, there's no anklet and no prison."
Neal's eyes grew shiny. "You're…you're serious? This isn't some sort of joke?"
Peter shook his head. "No joke. You'll probably have to wait a bit for the paperwork to go through, but as soon as it does, you can come home."
Neal sagged, a smile tugging at his lips for the first time since Peter had come to Paris. He didn't say anything, maybe couldn't say anything while still keeping his thin veneer of false confidence intact. But he looked as if a weight had been taken off his shoulders.
Peter's phone buzzed. He jumped and bit back a curse. "I need to call El!" He pulled out the phone. Of course it was her. "Hey, hon."
"Did you find him?" El asked. "He's alive, right? Please tell me he's alive."
"He's alive," Peter said, a relieved laugh sneaking into his voice. "Neal's alive. He's sitting right across from me. Looks like he hasn't eaten since he left."
Neal shot him a dirty look.
"Don't look at me like that, you know it's true," Peter shot back.
"Oh, hon, can you please put Neal on the line? I need to hear his voice again," El said.
"Of course." Peter held out the phone. "She wants to talk to you."
Neal grabbed the phone. Peter couldn't hear what El said to him, but he did know that Neal winced a lot, and for a while, the only thing he said in response to El was "I'm sorry," and "I know, I'm sorry." Eventually, he got to "It seemed like the best idea at the time," and "I am not as important as you and the baby! I couldn't risk anything happening, you should know that by now!"
Peter fought a smile as he tucked into his food (Neal had been right, Peter did like it even though he couldn't pronounce its name). The hurt that had curled in his chest ever since he heard that gunshot was finally easing as he slid back into what he had been doing for years now, what he should have been doing for the past year and couldn't: taking care of Neal Caffrey.
"I know, I'm sorry," Neal said.
Silence.
"I didn't think anyone would miss me that much," Neal said. "I'm just the criminal who ruined your husband's life."
El's voice raised loud enough that Peter could hear her, though not quite make out the words.
"You told me to…" (Silence.) "When he was hit by that car and the murder charges…" (Silence.) "I always thought you blamed me and you had every right to…" (Silence.) "I didn't think you'd…" (Silence.) "I'm sorry, El, I didn't realize. I know." (Silence.) "…I know" (Silence.) "…I will." (Silence.) "I…I don't think she'd want to hear from me…" (Silence.) "You're sure? She said that?"
A long pause.
"You're not trying to con me, are you?" Neal asked.
…
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry! I'll call her. But she lives in London, she won't…Oh, she doesn't? Why not? …She'll kill me, El! …All right, if you say so… No, no heists. I'm all free of interesting new stories…Missed you too. Bye." Neal held out the phone to Peter.
Peter took it back. "Hey, El. You didn't hurt him too bad, did you?"
El laughed. "Of course not. Just had to make sure he had his head on straight. You bring our boy home, all right, hon?"
"I will. I love you."
"Love you too. Talk to you later. Bye," El said.
"Bye," Peter echoed. He pocketed the phone again.
"She…she was…passionate," Neal said.
"She missed you," Peter said. "She was devastated when you died. We all were."
Neal winced. Talking so bluntly about what he had done was perhaps mean of Peter, but he didn't know how else to talk about the subject. Neal had faked his death, but they had all thought it was real. The grief was real. Those memories were real.
"I'm sorry," Neal said. "I didn't… I'm sorry."
Peter couldn't say "It's all right," what he usually said when someone said "I'm sorry," because it wasn't all right. It wouldn't ever be all right. But he did say "I forgive you." And with those words, the rest of Peter's anger disappeared. Neal had done his best in the only way he knew how to protect the people he loved. And through that, he had utterly broken himself.
He probably hadn't even realized that what he was doing would so break himself and everyone around him. He was just going for what he thought he always wanted and ended up alone and broken.
"I'm glad you're here," Neal said. "I'll…I'll come home."
And, despite the heartbreak of the past year, everything was all right again.
