A/N: For the Operation More White Collar holiday grab bag prompt: Movies. I went with the concept of home movies. Set during and after the final season, with spoilers for the finale.

Chapter title: Joyeux Noel, Joyeux Neal

When Sara moved to London, Neal told himself that he should leave her alone. She deserved a chance to move on, to find someone new, someone better.

Around the time he dreamed up the idea to take on the Pink Panthers as a means to barter for his freedom, Neal bought a burner phone. He kept it in a locker at the edge of his two-mile perimeter, so that it wouldn't be tracked to his loft address. He texted Sara to see if she was willing to talk, and then he called her.

He asked how she was doing, and even chuckled at some of her stories.

Then she asked about him.

He almost brushed it off. It would have been easy to do the polite thing and say he was fine and then end the call. Instead he said, "I'm toxic." And he nearly gasped at the shock of saying it out loud. He'd thought the words so many times — after Siegel's death, after Peter's arrest — but he'd never voiced it.

"You're in a toxic situation," Sara corrected immediately. "Once I moved away and got some distance, I realized how messed up it is. I just don't see how you can get out of it."

"I'm literally in a job where the only ways out are to go to prison or to die," Neal agreed.

"What would you do if you could quit?" Sara asked.

It had seemed an impossibility for so long that Neal didn't have an answer. "I'm not sure."

"You wouldn't go back to the island?" she asked, referring to the place he and Mozzie had run to when they'd tried to escape.

"That was Mozzie's choice. To me it felt more like a long-term vacation than a home. I missed so much about being here. The bustle of New York, the food, the fashion, the art. I craved it when I was away."

"Where else makes you feel like you do in New York?"

"Paris," Neal said, not even needing to think about it. But he did need to think about her next question. He wasn't entirely sure what he would do there, if he were truly free to choose.

"Tell me the next time you call," Sara suggested.

He sighed a breath of relief at hearing that he was welcome to talk to her again.

While Sara waited for Neal's next call, she had to admit she was still in love with him. That "fake" proposal at the Empire State Building had squeezed her heart and made her reluctant to get seriously involved with anyone else.

But as she'd said, he was in a toxic situation and being part of that wasn't healthy for either of them.

Was there another option?

He waited nearly two weeks to call again. This time Neal explained he'd made a deal with the FBI. It was dangerous, but if he succeeded and survived, he'd finally win his freedom.

That if shook Sara, but she told herself she'd worry about it later. "Still thinking about Paris?" she asked.

"It would be a good place to make a fresh start," he said.

"And what would that fresh start look like?" She held her breath, wondering if he'd describe a heist or a crime spree.

To her delight, he talked about possibly working in an art gallery, helping new artists gain exposure. Then he mentioned working as a guard at the Louvre. He said, "Just imagine, being surrounded by all of that magnificent art while I'm working. And I could give the security team a few pointers."

"You wouldn't want to… to take any of that art?"

"No. If I could really start over, I'd want to try making my own works. Not forgeries, but actually exploring my style." He paused. "I just… I haven't been inspired to do anything original in so long. I don't even know if I have it in me anymore to be an artist."

And that's when she mentioned something that had been on her mind for a while. "Have you considered that you might be depressed?"

He huffed out a laugh that didn't sound amused.

"Yes, I get that you're in a depressing situation. But I remember what you told me about your mom, and I wonder if things didn't have to be so bad for her, you know, if she'd gotten help earlier. And I couldn't begin to say if you're temporarily depressed due to everything going on in your life recently, or if we're talking about clinical depression, but… Well, maybe if you got some help — therapy, meds, whatever — maybe you could get back to your art. I mean, I've been reading about Vincent Van Gogh. He did some of his best and most prolific work when he sought help."

Neal said he would consider it.

"Speaking of Paris, we have a new client there." Sara described an eccentric who had inherited an airy loft apartment with an amazing view of the city, and which contained an art collection he'd asked Sterling-Bosch to insure. "I've seen the photos, and it looks like a dream, honestly. And he doesn't even live there! He lives on an estate in the countryside and he hates going into the city. We've been trying to convince him to hire a caretaker to look after the apartment. As it is, someone could rob him and we might not hear about it for months. Frankly, I think we would have refused to insure the contents of the apartment if not for the fact that insuring the contents of his estate is so lucrative."

"Why does he resist hiring a caretaker?" Neal asked.

"Honestly? He's an art snob, and he doesn't believe we can find anyone who would truly appreciate his collection."

"I'd like to meet him," Neal said, and there was a hint of a smile in his voice for the first time during this call.

"I wish you could. Neal —" her voice broke a little on his name. "Be careful. With this deal you've made, and the Pink Panthers… I know we had disagreements about the things you stole, but if there's one thing I would condone you stealing, it's your life. I want you to be free to live it however you choose. I want you to be happy and fulfilled."

"I don't even remember what that's like," he said. "I'm not sure I've ever…" He didn't finish the thought. He didn't have to.

I miss you, Sara thought. I want your life intertwined with mine again. But she couldn't tell him that, not yet. She couldn't tie him down — not even with the ties of love — until he finally understood what it meant to be free.

She didn't answer her phone when Peter called. She let it go to voicemail, because she was pretty sure what the message was and she didn't want him to hear her reaction.

That reaction was a mix of laughter and tears. Not wanting to believe Neal was dead, well, no one could blame her for that. Denial was a stage of grief. But a part of her held on to the hope that Neal had pulled off that final theft and stolen back his life.

And a few days later, when the eccentric French client called saying that a Mr. Daniel Ruisseau had listed her as a reference, she hid the hitch in her breath as she confirmed that Mr. Ruisseau was indeed an excellent candidate for the position of caretaker for the man's apartment and the art housed there.

So now she knew Neal was still alive and where he lived. She wanted to fly to Paris and see him.

But she made herself wait. He still needed to experience freedom.

The remnants of the drugs Neal used to fake his death needed time to clear out of his system, and he was tired and weak. He rested during his first ten days in Paris. Then he sought out the jobs he'd described to Sara. First was a part-time day job in a gallery. Then he added a night job at the Louvre. He needed to keep busy, to silence the doubts that plagued his mind.

He wanted to call Sara, and he knew he couldn't. The whole point of this scheme was to remain hidden. The recent arrests in the ranks of the Pink Panthers did not mean that he and his friends were safe from retaliation.

Instead of calling, he made a habit of recording the things he wanted to tell her.

He started with little things, like a description of the apartment and his favorite patisserie. Soon he was confessing his deepest fears.

"I overheard Peter once," he said, "telling Jones that he regretted being my handler and how it had impacted his career. I kind of hinted at it later, but I don't think he ever realized that I knew what he'd said. It makes me wonder how he's taking my death. I think… I think his innate kindness means he'll feel some guilt about what happened. But I also think he'll be glad to be done with the problems and complications I caused. He has a lot going on his life. Did he tell you that El is expecting? I'm sure they'll forget me soon and move on."

Another time he said, "I haven't stolen anything here in Paris. I thought you'd want to know that. If there's anything I could tell Peter, I think it would be that being a thief and a criminal is something I could do — even something I had to do in my circumstances — but it wasn't who I am. I want… Well it's stretching it to say I want Peter to be proud of me, but at least I don't want him to be disappointed. And yeah, I wouldn't mind rubbing it in the Bureau's faces that constantly reminding me of my crimes was doing a number on my self-esteem and mental health."

Later he added, "I've started talking to a therapist. I have to be cautious about what I tell her, but it still seems to be helping. I was… Let's say I was less than enthused when you mentioned my mom and her depression, but I needed to hear it. So, thank you."

Another day he added, "The security team at the Louvre have been showering me with praise for my suggestions. They've even hinted at a significant bonus. Can you imagine if I'd gotten that kind of support at the FBI… But no, I'm not going to go back to dwelling on what it was like there. I like how you put it, about stealing back my own life. I hadn't realized that I was surviving, instead of living. Now I'm finally at a point where I feel like painting again. I actually purchased some supplies and I've been setting up a space in the apartment where the light is perfect."

He described practice pieces that were, well, not great. But exercising his artistic muscles felt good, and soon he was pouring himself into the paintings, allowing himself to express a lifetime of pain and trauma, and even moments of whimsy.

He sold a few pieces, thanks to the art gallery where he worked and the eccentric landlord who had taken an interest. To celebrate, he painted something small and easy to ship to London — a rendition of the Empire State Building where five massive versions of the ring he'd used in his fake proposal encircled the building. And in early December he sent it to Sara, along with the recordings of the "conversations" where he'd been imagining talking to her. He'd split them into eleven parts — each on a separate mini-cassette tape — wrapped them in bright, holiday wrapping paper and bows, and included a card saying these were to celebrate the twelve days of Christmas.

Mini-cassette tapes? Who used mini-cassette tapes anymore?

But Sara was smiling as she tore through London stores during the hectic holiday shopping season to find a mini-cassette player. Then she rewarded herself with a hot cup of tea in her cozy apartment while she listened to the tape labeled "Day One."

She knew that the twelve days of Christmas technically started on Christmas, rather than leading up to the holiday, but there was no way on earth she was going to ignore those tapes for the next two weeks.

Each evening after work she listened to another tape. She could hear a progression in Neal's outlook that made her happy for him.

Day Five was the only gift that wasn't a tape. It was a small painting titled "Five Gold Rings," and it sent her digging into her jewelry box to find the ring Neal had given her during that fake proposal. The painting portrayed it perfectly, down to the last detail, which just went to show he'd put a lot of thought and heart into both the proposal and the painting.

Neal declined several invitations for Christmas. How many years had he spent as a con artist — or as a CI — being constantly on stage, as it were, feeling pressure to be the life of the party? For once he deserved rest and a quiet celebration where he didn't have to "perform happiness" — a term he'd learned from his therapist.

She helped him admit that he was experiencing depression, and that he didn't have to hide it or deny it. He could allow himself to be sad, and to seek help. And he could allow himself to feel moments of happiness. He could enjoy a walk along the river, and the smell of a bakery, and be satisfied by these small pleasures.

After everything that happened with his father, and then after it began to look like Neal would be indentured to the FBI forever, he'd started to believe that he wasn't supposed to have happiness. He'd thought anything that brought him joy had to be illicit — stolen and hidden from view.

But now he was in a healthier frame of mind, and he was starting to question the way he'd cut off all ties with the people he loved. Only Sara knew he was alive, and he'd kept her at a distance. The Christmas gift was a nice start, but in the new year he should actually call her and talk in person again.

His rambling walk eventually brought him back to his apartment, and he noticed a small package leaning against his door. It bore no markings of a delivery service, which made Neal a trifle nervous. He was not expecting anything. He kneeled down to get a better look at the box, and he noticed the words "Joyeux Noel, mon ami" in one of Mozzie's many styles of handwriting.

Neal carried the box inside and opened it to find a DVD.

He smiled at the opening images as he began playing the DVD. There were photos of a heavily pregnant El, followed by one of Peter awkwardly cradling a baby. As the pictures progressed, Peter looked more confident.

There was a background of holiday music, even as the photos were replaced by video segments, and Neal found himself frowning. He wanted to hear their voices.

He paused the video to process what he was feeling. His bitterness toward Peter had faded. Yes, being Neal's handler had probably been painful at times — nearly as painful as Neal's role had been. But despite it all, they had built a real friendship. He truly wished Peter, El, and their baby the best.

And that probably meant staying out of their lives.

He un-paused the recording, and finally, finally, the music stopped and he heard voices.

Neal was hit with a wave of emotion. He missed them so much.

The scene had moved to the interior of June's mansion, which was lavishly decorated for the holidays. Peter, El, and their baby were there. So were Jones, Diana, and little Theo. Mozzie was clearly behind the camera — heard but not seen as he gave directions to the others.

Mozzie: This is our first Yuletide since we lost Neal, and I've gathered you here for a belated remembrance ceremony.

Jones: Have you forgotten the wake?

Mozzie: (snorts) That depressing affair was not worthy of our friend's spirit.

Diana: I have to agree. Neal would have been appalled. There wasn't even wine.

June: Speaking of which… (hands out wine glasses) Neal's favorite vintage. Or one of them, anyway. This is what he requested when I convinced him to share holiday meals with me.

El: Did he spend many holidays with you? I thought you usually visited your daughters.

June: The first year he lived here, one of my daughters and her family came home for Thanksgiving, and they were all here for that Christmas. Neal was… out of his element. It was the rare occasion when he was obviously leaning on his con artist skills to pretend to fit in. I like to think he became more comfortable being around my family over time, but it was clear that big family gatherings weren't what he was used to.

Peter: This is the first year El and I decided not to travel to either her parents or mine for Christmas, so I was never around to see what Neal got up to during the holidays. I just assumed he stayed here.

Diana: (hugs Theo) Traveling with a baby is a level of complication I try to avoid, too. Anyway, one time Neal spent Christmas with me. It was right after Christie and I split up.

El: Really?

Diana: It was nice. He gave me space to be sad, and then — after some very excellent wine that he brought — we started telling stories that got more and more raucous and just plain blatantly untrue by the end, and I didn't care because it was so hilarious and laughing with him felt so good. (sips wine) Yeah, this was the wine. I need to write down what this is so I can find it again. Anyway, Neal was like the annoying little brother I never wanted. I couldn't help liking him.

Jones: He spent a Christmas with me, too.

Peter: I would have paid good money to witness that.

Jones: (chuckles) Usually I spend the holidays with my brother and his wife, but last year they and their kids got the flu and I was on my own. It occurred to me that Caffrey was probably alone, too. So we hung out at my place. Watched some movies, drank some top-tier Scotch, and had a heart-to-heart about work.

Diana: Okay, I would have paid good money to witness that. Did you — Clinton I-live-for-my-job Jones — actually complain about work?

Jones: Seeing what he went through sometimes, it made me realize there's a lot of… (shrugs) I'm not saying Caffrey was perfect, but the way people like Kramer treated him wasn't right. I've thought about it a lot since the funeral, and I think if everyone had just gotten over his past and really treated him like an equal team member, things could have been a lot better.

Diana: (nods) A lot healthier, for sure.

Jones: When I imagine what that could have been like, then what he really experienced with us seems even more tragic. Like, working with us was supposed to be good for him, right? Set him on a new path, and all of that. But looking back, it seems like we — the Bureau — were always putting obstacles in his way. And then we nagged at him, like the obstacles were his fault.

Peter: (takes a ragged breath) I went into it with such a naive outlook. Everything was black-and-white in my world. The FBI was good, and criminals were bad. And then Neal's very presence shed a light on what I didn't want to see. Agents like Fowler. Even Kimberly Rice with the way she treated Neal like a tool instead of a person. It shook me to realize that FBI agents could be worse than the criminals we went after.

El: Neal broke the rules, but he wasn't cruel.

Peter: Exactly. He was a good person, a good friend. He made unwise choices — ones that made me want to shake him sometimes. But we didn't make it easy for him.

Mozzie: If you could talk to Neal one more time, what would you say?

Diana: We miss you. The bullpen isn't the same without you. The world's a darker place without that roguish smile.

Jones: I wish I hadn't kept you at arms-length for so long. You were more than a felon and a CI. I missed out, taking so long to get to know you as a person.

June: You kept this house from feeling lonely. It felt like Byron sent you to keep me from becoming morose, and you left us too damn soon!

Diana: Amen. And you made me like fedoras. I actually bought one. I can't bring myself to wear it work, but sometimes I'll wear it when I'm running errands and (whistles). Even when I'm carrying Theo, the looks I get — it makes me feel like one hot mama.

El: You are a hot mama. If I were into women I'd definitely ask you out.

Peter: Okay, maybe that's enough wine for you.

El: But Neal, I want you to know that I genuinely liked and trusted you. Sometimes Peter worked late because of you and that annoyed me, but you were such a pleasure to be around that I had to forgive you. Like Diana said, you were the brother I didn't want at first, and then I couldn't resist your charm. Usually there are my friends or Peter's friends, and you were the rare person we both liked hanging out with. And I really wanted to see you as a babysitter — not just because I want to experience a baby-free date night again, but because it would have been so fun to watch you contend with someone with even less impulse control than you have.

Mozzie: Peter? What do you want to say to Neal?

Peter: (blinks back tears) We named the baby after you. Because at your core you were a good person, a true friend, and you deserved all of the chances and advantages that this little guy is gonna get. You deserved to be free and happy. We loved you, Neal. We all did.

Neal was blinking back tears, too. He'd let himself forget this — the camaraderie, the fact that these people really liked him. He'd had more than work colleagues. He had friends. They'd been like a family to him.

Maybe he'd needed to forget that, in order to leave the way he did. And now this stupid home movie made him regret leaving.

They'd named the baby after him! How was he supposed to keep his distance from everyone, knowing that?

He watched it twice more, and then he sent a text message.

Sara spent Christmas morning with friends in London, and then she'd returned to her flat with leftovers and a desperate need for a nap.

She replayed one of the mini-cassettes while she drowsed, taking pleasure in hearing Neal's voice. She gazed sleepily at the painting she'd hung beside the chaise, and she plotted how she'd reach out to him. She had his address but not a phone number. A thank you card didn't seem sufficient, and showing up unannounced on his doorstep seemed either desperate or overconfident.

A text-tone woke her, and she had to rub the sleep out of her eyes before reading the message.

Joyeux Noel from an American in Paris

She texted back: Merry Christmas!

Then she added: Loved the painting! And the tapes!

Was that too many exclamation points?

She added: I miss you. Can you talk?

He called. They talked for a long time, with a lot of exclamation points.

A year later, Christmas Day dawned with Neal and Sara snuggled together in his Paris apartment.

She had transferred to the Paris branch of Sterling-Bosch. Neal spent his days painting and giving art lessons. He'd found an unexpected joy in teaching others.

But nothing could compare to the joy he felt right now. Last night, on Christmas Eve, he and Sara got married. Peter had been the best man. Diana refused the title maid of honor. "I'm the best gal pal," she'd announced. And she wore a fedora, which really suited her.

Neal's namesake had the role of ring bearer, with a lot of assistance from El. Theo was the flower child, flinging petals at everyone throughout the ceremony.

The wedding video was going to be amazing. Neal hoped that watching it would become a Christmas tradition — their own holiday movie with a blissfully happy ending.

Mozzie was in charge of the video. Surprisingly, Jones had insisted on officiating the ceremony, saying that he was the most serious member of the group and he was going to make absolutely certain this marriage was legal.

June offered to walk Sara down the aisle. Sara had been a vision in a couture gown and a sprinkling of white roses in her red hair.

And Neal was happy.

It's not like his depression had magically disappeared. But between therapy and changes in his life since moving to Paris, it was under control.

Sara stirred, and he smiled at her. "Joyeux Noel," he said.

"Joyeux Neal?" she asked.

"Oui. Tres joyeux Neal."

A/N: I'm back! Now that FanFiction notifications are working again, I'm posting the stories I've written over the last few months. This one is first, in honor of Christmas.

Many thanks to Silbrith for again going above and beyond as my beta reader.

Wishing all readers happy holidays. And if you suffer from depression, I hope you can seek and find the help you need. I'm rooting for you to succeed and to find happiness!