Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey
Spoilers: Out of the Box
Warnings/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~2300
Summary: Dealing With Unexpected Consequences of Year Old Damage
Neal
The heat of the fireball. The sight of the small plane disintegrating. The stink of burning jet fuel, metal, plastic, flesh. Kate. The iron bands of Peter’s arms keeping him from running into the fire. Maybe the sound of sirens, but that could have been his imagination or the ringing in his ears. The shockwave from the blast damages him – a concussion, his eardrums, broken ribs.
Peter
Watching Neal walk away, then turn back. Saying his name like a prayer, like a curse. Then the jet exploding, the heat and roar of the fireball, the stench of burning jet fuel and metal and plastic and human flesh. Neal’s screams, the agonized twisting and pulling of his body as he held him back. The sirens of fire trucks and police cars, the explosion ringing in his ears, the pounding of his heart.
From Minutes and Hours
The human heart heals in extraordinary ways. Three months after Neal's dreams of a new life and Peter's faith in his oaths turned to so much ash, healing came with a tentative and delicate understanding. Two months later, there was no tentativeness and little delicacy amongst the three sweaty bodies coupling on the floor of the Burke's Brooklyn townhouse. A month after that, a fuller understanding came after harsh and unthinkingly hurtful words.
But love, as precious a commodity as it is, cannot heal the wounds that you don't know you even have.
It may have been exactly a year - or not. Neal works hard at not remembering precise dates and times. Peter knows, though - down to the hour and the minute. But he says nothing to Neal as they sit and wait for the boarding announcement. At first, the international assignment seems like a gift from the gods - an all expense paid trip to Venice, at the behest of the Italian Government (plus a blanket amnesty for Neal for any crimes he may have committed in that country, regardless of alias). But as the date of departure draws close, Neal's enthusiasm wanes - Venice was a Kate city. They had lived and fucked and cooked and laughed in their room with a view like nothing bad would or could ever happen. Neal is reluctant to return to a place of so many memories. Then he looks at Peter, and remembers that Venice is not just a Kate city, it is a Peter city, too.
Peter is not thrilled about the Venice trip. But he keeps his mouth shut. Initially, the assignment had the U.S. Marshals guarding Neal, but Peter refuses to allow Neal to go anywhere without him, and Hughes agrees. The Marshals get to stay home and Peter gets what amounts to an Italian vacation, but Peter has no particular love for Venice. It's hot and difficult and crowded with tourists almost year-round. Peter is a New Yorker, accustomed to streets that run north-south and east-west. He likes order, he expects his environment to follow a certain pattern. Venice has no pattern. It's full of twists and turns and streets that end without rhyme or reason and where people jump off bridges and land on top of passing boats like they're extras in a James Bond movie.
They wait in the first class lounge. The Italian Government was very generous and provided business class tickets. Neal has several cups of extremely decent espresso and Peter finds he likes Peroni almost as much as his down market Heisler Gold. Both men are looking forward to some fine Northern Italian cuisine. Neither of them expect what happens next.
"Alitalia Flight 4214 New York to Venice non-stop now boarding at Gate 21."
"Peter, come on. That's our flight." Neal's enthusiasm isn't the least bit infectious, maybe because it is forced.
"There's no rush." Peter lingers over the last of the Peroni. It really is quite good.
Neal gives him a sour smile. "You linger over your beer, I'll just get another espresso. I'll linger, you get another beer and we go back and forth and the next thing you know, we'll have missed the fight."
"Would that be a bad thing?" Peter cocks an eyebrow at Neal. It isn't as if he doesn't know that Neal has issues about Venice.
"Come on. Don't make it worse than it's going to be." Neal stands over Peter, both impatient and reluctant.
Peter swallows the last of the beer and finally gets to his feet. As they walk towards the gate, Peter hands Neal his passport and printed e-ticket. Neal looks at the passport and grimaces - it's the same picture that the FBI used for his credentials. In other words, his mugshot. He hates that picture - his vanity cringes at the long, greasy hair, bushy eyebrows and slightly bloated look around his cheeks and chin. It's also a concrete reminder of his failures, and the start of the long road that lead to airport hanger on the Hudson River.
They shoulder their way through the mass of waiting passengers and are checked through the gate reserved for business and first class. Peter holds out his hand and Neal slaps the passport into it. He's annoyed - after everything and all they are to each other, Peter can't give him this small moment of trust.
"It's protocol." Peter - who knows him too well. "I trust you with my life, my wife and even my dog. But I've got to play by the rules. Capice?"
Neal shrugs. He understands, but still, it hurts.
Peter lets the moment go. Neal hip checks him, and he bumps Neal back. He really would like to stroke his palm down the clean, strong line of his lover's back, but he settles for a gentlemanly hand at the base of Neal's spine as they walk up the spiral ramp towards the jetway.
The threshold between the fixed ramp and the movable jetway is an undistinguished baffle of gray vinyl and Peter and Neal cross it easily.
Ten steps later, Neal stops. The stink of the jet fuel clogs up his nose and seals his throat.
Suddenly, he's ice cold and sweating, and he can't breath for the bile rising into the back of his mouth. He wants to scream and run into the fireball - Kate. She's in that plane and it's burning and there are shards of metal and glass flying by and he's on the ground and he feels the pain of broken ribs as the shock wave hits him and he falls to his knees. He can run though - he can get up and turn and run into that burning wreckage and save Kate. There are no strong arms holding him back this time.
Just a hand on his shoulder squeezing hard enough to leave a bruise. Baffled, confused at the dichotomy of memory and reality - Peter's arms are supposed to be around him, but the only contact between the two of them now is a single gripping hand.
Neal turns and looks at Peter, the mass of twisted metal still burns in the corner of his eyes - Kate is a column of fire, screaming for Neal and he can't go to her. That column of fire is replaced by Peter, standing frozen on the jet way. Neal can hear Kate’s screams, he can feel the ache from the blast and his torn and bleeding knees and he sees the fire from the exploding plane reflected in Peter’s eyes. They are jostled by the passengers walking down the ramp, parting around them like the waters of the Red Sea. The have to move, they have to go towards that plane, they have to …
And they can’t. Peter is frozen - and Neal remembers that he had turned back - that it was Peter facing the plane, seeing Kate dissolve into flame and ash.
The mass of bodies pressing around Neal, pushing up against him is another kind of hell and he can’t think, he wants to scream at everyone to get the hell out, to run, but they keep moving forward, into the flames. A door opens and the toxic odor of the fuel is reinforced and Neal stands there, helpless and torn between Peter and certain death. He puts his hand on Peter’s arm, lightly stroking - more to let himself know that this is what is real.
“Peter.” Neal breathes that one word, tries to break the spell. In his head he is repeating everything he didn’t say a year ago, in front of this airplane. “I can’t do this, I can’t go on without you. I need you. Peter looks at him, hope and grief and something undefinable cloud his eyes, but he cannot move.
“Scusate, signori. Posso aiutarla?” A cabin attendant, tall and blond and as unlike Kate as an attractive man could be, breaks into Neal’s consciousness. The man sees blue eyes, a beautiful face and Neal can tell, in that instant, that he can use him.
He calls up a memory, an identity he hasn’t used in years - of a swish and sophisticated young man who enjoyed exploring the playgrounds of Europe with older men. It is an effort to block out Kate’s screams and the fire flickering around him, but he flutters his eyelashes and softens his body language. He reads the name tag, Antonio. How perfect. He responds in Italian.
’Tonio - my friend here, my very strong friend is afraid of flying. Can you help me get him onto the airplane?
Of course, it works. No less susceptible than any other warm-blooded human being to Neal Caffrey at his most charming. Antonio takes Peter’s right arm and gently tries to guide him down the jetway and onto the airplane. Peter balks, startled at the touch of a stranger.
Neal swallows against his nausea and still ignores Kate as she screams at him through the flames. “Peter, dearest...we need to get on that plane. You promised that we’d have espresso and biscotti in the Piazza San Marco. You promised me a new suit and some lovely cuff links. You promised me a moonlight walk and kisses on the Bridge of Sighs.” Neal keep up the silly and seductive patter, simultaneously leaning onto and guiding Peter’s stiff and reluctant body down the now empty corridor and finally onto the plane. Neal shudders as they walk through the wall of fire.
He digs through Peter’s jacket pocket and hands Antonio a boarding pass. The man is all solicitousness as he guides them towards their seats. Thankfully, the have the two port-side seats and the row across is empty. He tucks Peter into the window seat and fishes out his wallet, generously tipping the helpful steward. The man stays and tries to flirt a bit, and he’s oblivious that Neal is shaking and sweating. He gets the message, or recalls he has other duties - and Neal couldn’t care less. He sits and listens...the screams are gone and the fires seem to be out. He breathes and all he can smell is leather and carpet and stale air. When another cabin attendant comes by, Neal takes her up on the offer of two glasses of Prosecco and shoves one into Peter’s hand.
“Drink.” Whether it was Neal’s voice or the change in environmentals or the unfamiliar glass in his hand, Peter obeys. He takes a sip, and another and drains the glass. Neal hands him the other and watches as Peter breathes deep, inhaling the sharp and slightly yeasty fumes of the wine.
Peter turns to him, his face wrecked, his breathing jagged, like a child who is coming out of a temper tantrum. He fixes on Neal’s face and barely blinks - as if he is afraid Neal will disappear between one second and the next.
Announcements flow out of the speaker system, first in Italian, then in English. The cabin crew scurry to take care of last minute departure tasks. The doors shut and the plane pulls out, heading for the runway. A video with safety announcements plays, alternating instructions in both languages. Finally, the cabin lights dim and the engines whine in acceleration. Peter and Neal shudder at the sound - and for a moment, they are both back at that point when goodbyes have finally been said and there doesn’t seem to be anyway to go back or move forward.
In the darkness, as the jet picks up speed and finally takes to the air, Neal brushes his thumb against Peter’s lips and leans over the arm separating the seats and kisses him. Softly and without passion. It is a benediction, an atonement.
A blessing. Peter reaches for Neal’s hand and brushes his thumb against the soft skin, the firm muscles, the hard bones. He takes comfort. Neal is here, beside him.
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