White Collar Fic - Lived Unbruised (we are friends) - Sequel to Evocative

Title: Lived Unbruised (we are friends) Rating:  G
Fandom:  White Collar
Characters/Pairings Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke/Elizabeth Burke
Spoilers: Offhand references to episodes in Season 1 and Season 2.  Major spoilers for 2.09
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~8000
Summary: Friendship isn’t about distance and boundaries and keeping safe. It can be messy and painful and difficult.

A/N: I didn’t intend to write a sequel to the Evocative ficlet, partly because I knew that there wasn’t an easy resolution to Neal’s pain, and partly because I don’t like making myself cry. But the story kept haunting me, and I ended up with this, which is over twenty times longer than the original story (which clocked in at less than 400 words).  The title is taken from a line in the song “Sigh No More,” the title track to Mumford & Sons’ debut album.


 

Neal doesn’t precisely hate the smell of cinnamon. Or he really doesn’t want to think it’s hate.

Hate implies commitment, it implies weakness, it implies that something as insignificant as an aroma has power over him. No, Neal just doesn’t like the smell. He’d go out of his way to avoid it, but he’d also put up with it if he has to (except on one memorable occasion where he got an upgrade at the Pierre when he politely complained about the reek of a cheap, commercial air freshener.  It was Christmastime, and there was a bowl of cinnamon and cloves in the room). If asked why such an innocuous odor bothered him, he’d just smile and shrug and say it didn’t bother him, it just made him sneeze. Or his eyes water, or his throat itch, or any of a thousand other reasons, because Neal, being Neal, would never, ever admit to such a weakness.

The first winter that Neal was consulting for the FBI, he wasn’t doing much consulting at all. He was sitting in jail grieving and planning and plotting and waiting and grieving some more. Grieving for Kate, grieving for Peter, waiting for Moz, for someone, for something, or for nothing at all. At least prison didn’t smell remotely like cinnamon.

The second winter was almost as cold and as empty as the first. Since August, all of his time was spent working through every ice cold case that Peter could find; anything that kept Neal chained to his desk and within view. It also meant that Peter didn’t have to talk to Neal; he filed his reports with Jones and any questions that Peter may have had were filtered back through the other agent.

If only three people at the office knew exactly what happened at the museum, everyone knew that Neal was no longer the favored son. He wasn’t surprised by his near total ostracism, but it hurt all the same. The probies took their cues from the junior agents, who looked to the senior agents, who followed Peter’s lead. Which meant the most days were spent in almost complete isolation and Neal dealt with it. It was like prison, except that his cell was bigger and he had some privacy in the men’s room.

When he wasn’t at the office, Neal was restricted to his apartment or Mozzie's hospital room. He was actually quite fine with that. He had nowhere to go, no one to see and nothing to do. Everything was a dead end.

By Christmas, Moz was back on his feet, and the two of them spent the holiday drinking Neal’s wine and playing chess. Between moves, Moz constructed elaborate conspiracy theories about the Council on Foreign Affairs and the Bilderburger Society being responsible for the shortage of whatever was the latest fad toy that year. Neal listened with half an ear and nodded at appropriate moments. They were both drunk as lords when the Burkes showed up bearing food and gifts and good cheer. More precisely, Peter was carrying food and Elizabeth had the gifts and good cheer. Moz, in full inebriation was unpleasant and aggressive with Peter, yet charming with Elizabeth. Neal, as was his wont when he got wine-drunk, was quiet and withdrawn (which wasn't all that different from his normal mood these days). He gravely thanked Elizabeth for the lovely blue cashmere scarf (she told him it matched his eyes), and he nodded at Peter and said he’d see him the next morning. Peter nodded back and didn’t say a word during the entire visit. Elizabeth looked from her husband back to Neal and back to her husband. She understood more than either of them did.

When the Burkes left, Neal pressed the dish of apple pie into Mozzie’s grateful hands, called a car service for him and sent him on his overly merry way.

The third winter, Elizabeth Burke refused to take “no” for an answer, from either her husband or from Neal. Neal was spending Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with them. She was, for the first time in a decade, putting her foot down and refusing to spend the day with her sister and her sister’s noisy, badly behaved brood of rug rats. The three of them would have a lovely evening, catered by one of Burke Premier’s best suppliers. They’d relax in front of a fire and just be themselves.

Just after Thanksgiving, Peter didn’t ask Neal to spend the holiday with them, he simply told Neal that his radius was being set for one hundred feet from 4232 DeKalb Avenue effective 7 pm December 24th through noon on December 26th. Neal was instructed to bring an overnight bag. He politely thanked Peter for the invitation, but declined out of habit. Peter simply advised him that either he was going to be at 4232 DeKalb Avenue or whatever facility the Marshals put him for being out of his radius, and he wasn’t going to interrupt his own holiday to get him out of jail. Neal didn’t argue, he wanted to accept and he hoped maybe this was Peter’s way of telling him that they could be all right again, or at least until he screwed up again.

Shortly before 7 pm on December 24th, Neal hesitantly presented himself at the Burkes, bearing wine, gifts and if not precisely good cheer, then an aggressively determined good mood. Elizabeth, elegant in a silver and burgundy velvet gown, greeted him with a kiss. Satchmo did the same, except that he didn’t smell like lilacs and lemongrass.

“Peter will be down soon. I wasn’t letting him wear the reindeer sweater his mother gave him. It was appalling when it was new, twenty years ago.”

“Hey, I heard that.”  Peter jogged down the stairs, wearing dark wool pants and an El-approved (and purchased) forest green turtleneck. It could have been silk, it could have been cashmere, or it could have been polyester. Peter didn’t care, except that it made him look good and that made El’s eyes burn a little hotter. “There’s nothing wrong with that sweater. It’s warm, it’s festive, it’s …”

“Ugly, ill-fitting and belongs in a toxic waste disposal plant.”  El planted a kiss on his cheek to take the sting out of her words. She turned to Neal, “He wears that sweater – or tries to – only Christmas Eve. It’s okay for my sister and the mayhem at her house, but for here and not tonight.

Neal settled into a chair in front of the fire and enjoyed watching the banter between husband and wife. Elizabeth was one of his favorite people. From the very first, she treated him like an equal and she gave as good as she got. Her capacity for love and forgiveness seemed infinite and Neal sometimes wondered what were her annoying quirks and character flaws, because no one was that perfect.

Peter, well – that was a different story. Nothing was ever right again after he screwed up with Alex and the music box and Fowler. Not after he wrecked it all with his single minded quest for vengeance. At least Peter finally released him from mortgage fraud hell and started using him as an asset again. There were days when they had back the old thrust-and-parry rhythm of two sharp minds, but the trust was gone and there was nothing that Neal could do that would ever bring that back. He was simply the division’s embedded CI, not Peter’s partner and no longer his friend. After all, friends didn’t do what he did to Peter and remain friends.

It was his own damn fault. It always was. He had this amazing ability to hurt or damage everyone he ever got close to. Sometimes Neal looked in the mirror and was surprised that the words “fuck up” weren’t tattooed on his forehead.

“What’s your poison?”

Peter interrupted the train wreck of his thoughts. Neal gave him an absent smile and just said “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

Elizabeth disappeared into the kitchen, and the two men were left in an increasingly awkward silence.

“June in the Caribbean again with the family?” 

“No, this time they all went to Tenerife.” 

“Nice. How’s Moz?”

“Fine. He’s doing something at a soup kitchen tonight.”

“Good, good man. When El and I were first married, we did some volunteer work on Christmas Eve.”

“Hmmm, that’s nice.”  Neal tried to sound interested, but suddenly he couldn’t take it anymore. He needed to get out of here, to get back to his apartment and shut out the world. At least until the day after tomorrow, when all the fake cheer and forced good could be put away until next year.

“Look, Peter. This isn’t going to be fun for any of us. You don’t want me here; I don’t want to be here. Just reset my radius back to normal and let me go home. I’ll tell Elizabeth that Moz needs me, or something.”

“Caffrey, you’ll do no such thing. My wife’s been planning this evening for weeks, and I’ll be damned if I let you disappoint her.”  Peter’s voice was low and his tone vicious.

Neal knew that the corollary to that statement was just like I disappoint you.

Both men plastered false smiles on their faces as Elizabeth came out of the kitchen carrying a tray with three mugs and a steaming pitcher. If she noticed the tension between Peter and Neal, she did an excellent job of ignoring it. Peter took one of the mugs and poured the hot liquid. He handed it to El, and repeated the process for Neal and then for himself.

Neal stared at the cup in his hand and felt a wave of nausea overtake him. He swallowed hard. “What is this?”

Elizabeth answered. “Hot apple cider, the adult version. I’ve added some rum, plus there are cloves and lots of good cinnamon.”

Neal looked from Elizabeth’s smiling face to the cup and then to Peter, who was giving him the stare of doom, and then back to the cup. He took a sip and tried not to gag at the smell of the spices, the cinnamon. “Good, it’s good.”

Elizabeth retrieved a tray of hors d’oeurves from the kitchen and sat on the couch next to Peter. She plowed through the awkwardness and kept the conversation going. It worked for a while, until she noticed that Neal wasn’t drinking.

“You don’t like mulled cider?”

Neal, desperate not to disappoint, took a large swallow and smiled. He took another and another, and held out his mug for a refill. He started talking, about Paris, about Barcelona, about Rome. He drained the mug and poured himself another refill. He knew was babbling and putting on a show, but the rum was going to head in a way that wine never did, and talking was the only way to keep from shaming himself. He must have been amusing because Peter had relaxed and Elizabeth was smiling. He went to pour a fourth … or was that a fifth mug of the disgusting drink when Peter’s hand came down on his wrist. It felt like a handcuff, only harder and impossibly hot.

“Leave some room for dinner. This stuff sneaks up on you quickly.” Elizabeth warned him.

Neal took a deep breath through his nose, to settle his stomach. The room started to tilt a bit and he knew he had to get out of there. “Mind if I use the bathroom?”

They waved him off and he barely made it to the second floor bathroom. Neal emptied his stomach, heaving until his ribs hurt. But when he was done, he could stand upright without the room spinning. There were two bottles of mouthwash on the sink, he helped himself to the green one and made himself presentable again.

As he went back downstairs, Peter joked, “I thought was going to have to send the Marshals after you, that you escaped out the window.”

Neal gamely joked back. “No, not tonight, I wouldn't want to be mistaken for one of Santa’s Helpers when I was climbing over the fences.” Santa’s Helpers was an old euphemism for burglars who worked on Christmas Eve. “Can I give Elizabeth a hand in the kitchen?”

“Your timing’s perfect...as always.” The kitchen door swung opened and Elizabeth came out carrying a tray with a perfectly cooked crown roast, new potatoes and grilled asparagus. When Neal opened his mouth, she said “Don’t compliment me, darling. It’s catered.”

Peter actually offered him the carving set, but Neal declined the honors. The food was probably delicious, but it tasted like cardboard to him; his tongue was coated with a multitude of unpleasant flavors. He toyed with his food, ate the minimum necessary to be polite and had three glasses of wine.

He let Elizabeth and Peter do most of the talking over the meal, and he started to feel a bit better. The Burkes had a lovely rhythm to their lives, he ignored the deep pinch of jealousy and was content to watch them talk and laugh. Old married couple, indeed. Neal’s eyelids fell to half mast. He was more than a little buzzed.

“You falling asleep there?” There was no criticism in Peter’s voice.

“Ummm, no. Just enjoying listening to the two of you. You’re like two halves of a perfect whole.” He turned to Elizabeth, completely unguarded. “Do you know how lucky you are?”

She smiled at him, sweet and lovely. “Yes, I think I do.”

Neal opened his mouth to say something else, and closed it against the tears that filled the back of his throat. Desperate for some distance, before he truly disgraced himself, Neal got up, put on his coat and snapped the leash onto Satchmo’s collar. “I need some fresh air. How much of a radius do I really have, Peter?”

“Down to the corner and back. Don’t be too long. I think there’s pie for dessert.”

“Pie?” Neal hoped it wasn’t …

“Apple pie, the one thing El cooked. Hot apple pie, with ice cream.”

Neal’s stomach clenched, but he smiled and said he’d be back in ten.

It was quiet and like most Christmas Eves in New York, it wasn’t white, but it was getting very cold very quickly. The condensation on the sidewalk was freezing, and Neal’s dress shoes gave him little traction, but he didn’t want to turn back so quickly. Several sets of church bells began to chime, and Neal closed his eyes. If he tried hard enough, he could imagine himself in Paris, on some street in Montmartre, and the chiming bells were from Sacre Coure, echoing the rest of the bells ringing throughout the city, and it wasn’t Satchmo next to him, but Kate and they were making impossible, improbably wishes with each toll.

He must have been standing there for a while, like the village idiot, because he didn’t see Peter approach, and he didn’t hear Peter call his name. The bells of his memory were too loud.

“Neal? Neal?”

He shook himself back to Brooklyn, back to the present. Peter was frowning, he could have been worried, he could have been annoyed. Neal figured annoyed. Fucking up again.

“Sorry - I was enjoying the bells.”

Satchmo wound himself around Neal to get to his master. Peter gently extricated the leash from Neal’s unresisting fingers.

“Yeah, the bells are nice. Do you want to go to Mass? You’ve got your pick of denominations.” Peter’s voice was gentle, even concerned.

Neal looked at Peter, startled as much by the tenor of Peter’s voice as by the question itself. “No, no thank you.”

It was a short walk back to the house. Neal managed not to fall on the growing tide of black ice, but his feet were freezing by the time they got back inside.

The whole house now smelled of cinnamon.

Breathing through his mouth, Neal hung up his coat and took a towel to rub down Satchmo’s paws and warm him up. The dog looked at him like he was a little crazy, and went to lie down in front of the fire. Neal smiled brightly at Elizabeth and apologized for worrying her.

“No worries, sweetie.”

Peter turned on the television and Neal sighed. “Don’t tell me there’s a game on now.”

Peter chuckled “I forgot that you aren’t a native New Yorker, Caffrey.”

Elizabeth handed Neal a plate with apple pie and ice cream, and another one to Peter, and dimmed the room lights.

Peter flicked through the channels until he stopped at something that looked like a log burning in a fireplace, with Christmas carols were playing in the background. “Ahhh, some traditions are still worth following.” Peter sunk down onto the couch and Elizabeth curled up next to him. Neal stood there, watching as the two of them shared a plate of dessert and hummed along to the old standards.

Peter leaned his head back and looked at Neal. “Are you going to stand there all night? Take a seat and relax.”

“What is this?”

Elizabeth chuckled. “It’s the Yule Log, honey.”

“It’s an old movie of a burning log in a fireplace with a bad monaural audio track. And you’ve got a real log burning in a real fireplace and an audio system that plays music in stereo.”

“It’s a classic. We both grew up watching the Yule Log on Channel 11 on Christmas Eve. It wouldn’t be a proper holiday without it.”

Neal sat down and toyed with the plate of pie, finally leaving mostly uneaten on the coffee table. He sat there, watching the Burkes watch an approximately six-minute long loop of film. At some point, Peter snagged the plate Neal abandoned, and he and Elizabeth polished that off too. Neal felt himself start to fall asleep, lulled by the warm crackling of the real fire, the flickering of the retro television fire and the low murmur of music and voices, and the familiar smell of cinnamon.

“My Neal. You are such a good boy.”

He thought he felt her fingers in his hair and Neal looked up. “Mama?”

“You are my wonderful boy, you know that?”

“Where are you, Mama?”

“I’m right here, Neal.”

“You went away. You left me behind.”

“I’m so sorry, Neal. So very sorry. I had to go. I didn’t want to. I love you forever, Neal.”

“Mama, no – don’t go.”

Neal woke up in a rush. The room was mostly dark, the television off and the fire banked. Peter was standing over him, and there was just enough light to see the strange, sad expression on his face.

---

In the weeks leading up to Christmas, Peter kept second-guessing his decision to invite Neal for the holiday. Not that Elizabeth would brook any change in her plans. She wanted Peter to heal the breach with Neal, and thought that a low key evening would be a good start. Hell, he wanted to heal the breach too, but he didn’t have the slightest clue on where to start.

It was well over a year since Neal played both ends against the middle and engineered the confrontation with Fowler; well over a year since he burned Peter and Diana and everyone who tried to help him. Peter had come so close to sending Neal back to prison, only the thought that Neal would be facing a life sentence for the weapons charge and his subsequent assault on Fowler kept him from filing an arrest report. Or so he kept telling himself.

In the months afterward, he had kept Neal all but chained to a desk and confined to his apartment, except for a few hours a day when he let Neal see Mozzie in the hospital and then in rehab. They barely talked, or at least Peter barely talked. For days and weeks Neal tried to explain, tried to apologize, but Peter didn’t want to listen and wasn’t interested in forgiving him. Then Neal simply went silent. He showed up in the office every day and put in the same long hours that everyone else did, he did his work, was perfectly brilliant as needed and went home. Neal was kept out of field ops unless absolutely necessary. There was no friendly banter, no long lunches filled with speculation and problem-solving, no drinks or dinners when El was out of town on business.

Peter felt the void, the loss, and he figured that this was what a missing limb felt like. It wasn’t like this when Neal was re-incarcerated after the plane exploded. Most of those three months were spent fighting for his job and Neal’s release. No – this was different and far worse than he ever imagined. He would look out onto the bullpen and see Neal working with his head down. Never smiling, no joking or playful banter. Neal wasn’t precisely ostracized, but the office was taking its cue from him and there was a definite coldness in the way everyone treated Neal now. He once overheard two of his more senior agents joke that the great Burke and Caffrey romance must have burned itself out and divorce papers had been served.

Peter started easing up on Neal after that, bringing him back into the fold, but he couldn’t seem to mend the personal breach between them. He’d ask Neal to join him for lunch, but unless there was someone else with them, Neal would always politely decline. He once showed up at Neal’s apartment, a bottle wine and a six-pack in hand. Neal wouldn’t even let him in the door. Peter never went back.

Neal never seemed angry – and seemed was the operative word, because Peter couldn’t tell what was going on in his head. Instead, Neal was simply a blank canvas, or better yet, an automaton programmed to smile and laugh and be witty on command, but was otherwise without any noticeable personality. His eyes were empty, and they never met Peter’s – they’d skitter off to someplace over his shoulder or on his tie. There was also a passiveness to Neal that drove Peter crazy. He once thought he’d relish the day when he’d say “jump” and Neal would ask “how high?” For the last sixteen months, Neal was a model citizen; and what was first pleasing was now troubling. Peter tried several times to meet with Moz – to talk about Neal, but the little guy never showed up.

So, when he “delivered” his invitation to Neal, he couched it in a way that the other man couldn’t turn it down. But if Neal did make an issue and insisted on declining the invitation, he certainly wouldn’t have set the Marshals on him. Peter hoped that Neal understood that he wasn’t that mean, and in a way, he almost wished that Neal would test the limits, either show up late or not at all – if just to prove that he knew Peter was joking.

But no, he didn’t. The doorbell rang at exactly 7 pm, and he listened as Neal and El exchanged greetings. The evening was awkward, particularly at first, while it was just the two of them sitting in the living room. When Neal told him he wanted to go home, Peter felt sick and sad and angry and he lashed out, instantly regretting it. Playing the “don’t you dare disappoint my wife” trump card was unfair, but at least it got a response out of Neal. Neal drank his way into a relatively cheerful bonhomie, entertaining them with tales of his hypothetical exploits in Europe.

Dinner was slightly more successful. Neal didn’t eat much, preferring to consume his calories in his wine, but if anything, the end of the meal gave him some heart. As drunk as Neal was, there was finally some real emotion to his words, something for him to pin his hopes on. And yet as quickly as it came, it disappeared.

Neal did too, and if he hadn’t taken the dog, Peter thought that he may have simply gotten on a subway back to Manhattan. He found him a half a block from the house, standing stock still, eyes closed as all the local church bells were ringing, and it wasn’t hard to figure out what Neal was thinking about. It was Kate and happier times. Neal always got that wistful expression on his face when he thought of his dead love. Peter clamped on his aggravation; despite all the evidence that Kate had conspired with the man who was responsible for her own death, Neal was still mooning after her. And that would never change.

So he just brought Neal back to the house and gentle tried to integrate him into their holiday rituals. Even when they spent Christmas Eve with El’s sister, watching the Yule Log was a tradition. This year, it was wonderful to be able to lie back and relax on his couch, with his lovely wife and enjoy the kitchiness of the old footage and the cheery holiday music. And to see Neal drop his guard enough to be puzzled by the whole thing was just as good.

It didn’t take much for all of them to doze off. Peter woke shortly after midnight, chilled by the dying fire and a missing wife. El must have tucked a blanket around him before going up, but that had slipped off. Peter got up to go upstairs and was surprised that Neal was still there and not in bed, either. He debated waking Neal and ended up watching him sleep, instead. It was strange that he saw more emotion on his face now than he had in the last year; joy and sadness and fear crossed his face in rapid succession. At the very last, Neal opened his eyes and the words his whispered with such utter heartbreak were unmistakable.

It always shamed him that as much as he knew about Neal Caffrey, the master criminal, he knew little of nothing about his childhood. During his original investigation, he had pulled up Neal’s passport application file and wasn’t surprised that the whole thing was a fabrication, including his birth certificate. Since his childhood wasn’t relevant to his criminal activities, Peter never drilled down into Neal’s past.

And since they started working together, Peter never, ever pried, never asked; he just treasured the little bits of information Neal dropped along the way. He could guess at certain things, though; Neal’s need to please, his constant self-reinvention, his single-minded attachment to an ideal, and his unshakable loyalty all pointed to an emotionally impoverished childhood. Or at least that was what the psychology textbooks and profiles would say. But hearing Neal’s whimper broke Peter in a way he never expected

Neal went from sleep to consciousness in an instant and Peter struggled to school his face against the emotion roiling within him. Neal did the same; that mask against such naked, unguarded pain was instinctual.

“What time is it?”

“A little after midnight.” Peter held a hand out to Neal, to help him out of the armchair. The palm that slid into his was a bit cold and sweaty. “Merry Christmas.”

Neal look like he wasn’t going to say anything, but then he quietly returned the greeting.

“Do you want anything? A glass of water, maybe?”

Neal declined, picked up his bag and headed upstairs. Peter followed closely behind. “First door on the left?”

“No, first door on the right. I don’t think my wife would be too happy with a visitor tonight.” Neal froze and Peter cursed himself. But he didn’t apologize or retract anything.

“Sleep well, Neal.”

“You too.”

Peter stood in the hallway and waited for Neal to go into the guest room and close the door before he went into his own bedroom. El wasn’t asleep; she was sitting up, waiting for him. He sat down on the edge of the bed, next to her.

“That went … well.” Her voice was bland but the pause was freighted with meaning.

“You think?” Peter struggled to keep his voice down. “He has to get drunk before he’s able to relax enough around me to even fake a smile? I don’t know how to fix this, I don’t know how to fix what’s broken between us. He’s so … “

“Stubborn?”

Peter shook his head. “No. Damaged.”

El wrapped her arms around him, resting her head against his back. “He’s still grieving, honey – and everything with Kate is so complex.”

“It’s not just Kate. It’s everything – his whole life. And I’m afraid I can’t fix that.”

“Maybe just being his friend will help?”

He scrubbed at his eyes, feeling old, feeling tired. “I thought I was, but I don’t think that is enough.”

“Maybe you need to be a better friend?” El’s voice was soft, hesitant.

Peter turned around to look at her. “What do you mean?”

“Maybe you need to do more that just let him be. When he was given back his parole last year, did you ever talk about what happened? Or did you just give him distractions from his grief? Keep him busy so he wouldn’t dwell and brood?”

He looked everywhere but at his wife. She knew how much he hated dealing with strong emotions. He always felt so lost, so helpless, and she was right. It was easier to let Mozzie deal with Neal’s pain.

“He’s not a child, you know.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He’s an adult, not a kid, not a small child that needs to be sidetracked from the pain of a skinned knee with a shiny new toy.”

“No, of course he’s not.”

“But that’s how you treated Neal. You need to talk to him, Peter. Really talk to him. Don’t take any bullshit and don’t be afraid. You need to let him know he matters to you, that he’s more than a tool in your belt, that he’s important to you. I think, despite everything, you’re still the only one he trusts.”

He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “You’re right. And I hope he still trusts me.”

“He does, I know he does.” Elizabeth kissed him softly. “Merry Christmas, honey.”

“Yeah, Merry Christmas.”

El turned off her light and slid deep under the covers. Peter went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and get ready for bed. His timing was perfect. Neal was downstairs, bag at his feet and putting his coat on.

There was no point in getting angry.

“Give me a second to put my shoes on, and I’ll drive you back to June’s if you really want to leave.”

Neal looked back up the stairs, startled.

“If you go home now, you’ll miss El’s awesome cinnamon and apple pancakes, though. I think she even puts a little bit of cider in the batter.” It could have been the dimmed light in the foyer, or it could have been real, but Peter thought he saw an expression of utter disgust cross Neal’s face. “What, you don’t like pancakes? Everyone likes pancakes.” He tried to keep his tone light, almost playful.

Neal’s reply was blunt and unexpected. “I don’t care for the smell of cinnamon. I don’t like the taste of cider.”

Peter walked down the stairs slowly, as if he was trying not to scare off a wild creature. “You could have fooled me – I think you drank four cups of the stuff tonight.”

“I was trying to be polite. I didn’t want to disappoint Elizabeth. I didn’t want to ruin your evening.”

“Neal – you could have said something. You wouldn’t have hurt El’s feelings if you refused.”

Neal just shook his head. “Look, please tell Elizabeth this was a lovely evening. I’m just not feeling well and would rather go home.”

Peter suddenly understood – the whole house smelled like cinnamon and cloves and apples, a fragrance that he thought embodied the holiday season. If Neal didn’t like cinnamon, it was probably making him sick to his stomach. He didn’t want to think Neal’s desire to leave was due to anything deeper. “Give me a sec, I’ll get my shoes and wallet, and I’ll drive you home.”

“Peter, please. That’s not necessary. I’m sure I can catch a cab, and it’s not that far a walk to the subway.”

“Neal – it’s after midnight, Christmas morning. You won’t be able to hail a cab in this neighborhood and it could be an hour or longer until the next train back to the city. Please, let me do this.” He rested his hand briefly on Neal’s shoulder and felt the tension in his body radiating through his coat.

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

Peter smiled and Neal returned it briefly. It felt like a Christmas present.

It didn’t take long to get to the bridge and back into the City, and neither man make small talk, but as Peter turned onto the West Side Highway, Neal asked a question that almost broke him.

“Why didn’t you send me back, Peter?”

Stalling for an answer, Peter pretended to misunderstand. “Send you back where?”

“Back to prison. I broke every rule of my parole. I put you in a nearly untenable position, again. Why didn’t you send me back?”

How he didn’t want to answer this question. “If I did, you would have been back for life, Neal.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Didn’t I deserve it?”

Peter didn’t know how to answer that question.

“I guess from your silence, you agree.”

Peter whipped his head around and looked at Neal, his profile marble white and then wreathed in shadow as they passed under the reflected light of the street lamps. “No, Neal. I don’t agree. You’re too important, too valuable.”

“Yeah, I’m a real asset.” Peter wasn’t surprised at the bitterness in Neal’s voice.

Peter thought about what El told him earlier, and he thought about what it meant to be a friend. Friendship wasn’t about portioning out affection with an eyedropper in between huge shovelfuls of moral lessons, then being disappointed and walking away. Friendship wasn’t about distance and boundaries and keeping safe. And whatever he’s been to Neal, it hasn’t been a friend because every step he’s taken with Neal has been about maintaining distance, setting boundaries and keeping himself safe.

“Neal, I …”

“You don’t have to say it Peter. There’s nothing to be sorry about.” Peter winced at the forced lightness in Neal’s voice.

The trip was over too soon, and Neal didn’t linger. He was out of the car almost before it stopped. He barely heard the Neal wish him a Merry Christmas as he shut the car door. He watched as Neal ran into the house, as if he were escaping…or was just set free.

Peter sat in the car with the engine turned off so long that his breath formed frost on the inside of the windows. He watched the lights on the fourth floor turn on, then off, and then back on again.

Great job, Burke. Could you have actually made things any worse if you tried?

He had to fix this. He – they – couldn’t go on this way. Peter got out of the car and fished out the key June gave him, praying that he remembered the alarm codes.

---

Neal couldn’t believe he actually asked Peter that question. What did he expect would be the answer? No, I care about you. You’re important to me. What type of fantasy land are you living in? You’ve screwed Peter over how many times, and you expect hugs and kisses and a pat on the head?

No, you’re an asset. You do a good job, keep your nose clean and you can stay for a while. But don’t forget what a fuck-up you really are. Don’t ever forget that.

A part of him - the part that claimed to be a successful adult, the one that could plan and dodge and always come out on top, no matter what, knew he was indulging in a spiral of despair. The other part, the lost and lonely child wanted to sweep everything off the table and cry.

Neal washed up; scrubbing until he was sure he got the stink of cinnamon out of his skin. He changed into his sleep pants and a t-shirt and dumped the clothes he was wearing into a plastic bag, tightly knotted shut. They’d go to the cleaners and hopefully come back smelling of chemicals, if they smelled of anything at all. He shut off the lights and went to bed, but sleep wouldn’t come; the questions and the self-hating answers just swirled around his brain. Disgusted with himself, Neal got out of bed and went into the living room.  On a whim he turned on the television looking for that silly fireplace with the Christmas music, but the program must have ended. There was an infomercial for a spray-on baldness cure, and he turned the TV off.

Neal wandered around the apartment, trying to find something to ease his mind, to distract him from the bitter self-pity and the destructive thoughts. He started to sketch. His pencil drifted across the page, drawing two people; Elizabeth and Peter, lying on their couch with Satchmo stretched out in front of the fireplace. There were a few brief moments; during dinner and then afterward, before he dozed off, when he felt good, like he was part of something, when it didn’t matter that tomorrow or the next day he could mess everything up.

He drew them from his memory, two people profoundly in love, happy and safe in each other’s arms. This was what he was supposed to have, him and Kate, murderous, beautiful, clever Kate. Neal wanted to rip the page from the pad and tear it to shreds, but obliterating the drawing seemed like a sacrilege.

Neal thought about getting back into bed, and he tossed the pencil down. There was still a faint taste of cinnamon and vomit in the back of his throat so he brushed his teeth again, and just as he was about to turn off the lights, someone knocked on his door.

He froze – it wasn’t June. She was in the Canary Islands. The staff was on vacation as well. The only other person he knew who had a key to the house was Peter.

“Neal?” It was Peter.

He supposed he could just ignore him, except that it was nearly 2 am and Peter could need help. He opened the door just as Peter started to knock again.

“Is something wrong? Car trouble?”

“No. Look, can I come in?”

Neal stepped out of the doorway and Peter followed him into the living room.

“What’s the matter?” Neal couldn’t understand why Peter wasn’t home, in bed and asleep next to Elizabeth, rather than standing in the middle of his apartment, hands in his coat pockets.

“Earlier – when you asked me why I didn’t sent you back to prison, I don’t think I really told you the truth.”

“What do you mean?”

“I said you were too important, too valuable...”

“Yeah – like I said, an asset.” He smiled at Peter, to let him know that he understood that being an asset was a good thing.

“That’s not what I meant when I said that.”

Neal was puzzled.

Peter licked his lips. “I meant that you were too important, to valuable to me.”

Neal shook his head and kept the smile in place. “Like I said, an asset.”

“No – like a friend. You are my friend and I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.” The words came out in a rush, as if the couldn’t be contained any longer.

Neal’s mind when blank. He didn’t know how to respond to this. “Don’t, Peter. You don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?”

Maybe it was the hour, the stress of the holiday, the earlier tension and bout of self-pity, but Neal was tired and suddenly, viciously angry. “Pretend. Pretend that you care.”

“Neal – I’m not pretending. I may not have been a good friend to you. Hell – I’ve been a lousy friend – but I do care about you. I’m trying to fix what I broke.”

“What you broke? What do you mean? You’re not the one who engineered a robbery, stole a gun, broke into a museum and nearly murdered a man in cold blood. Your not the one whose trust was abused, squandered for the sake of an illusion.” Neal wanted to shut up, but he couldn’t. The anger, the pain, punctured his self control. “You gave me every chance, and I fucked up, fucked you over and you let me just get away with it. When are you going to see that I’m just not worth it.”

He walked to the door and opened it. “Go, Peter. Just go. You have a life – a good one. Don’t screw it up over me.”

Peter put his hand on the door and shut it. “I’m not leaving.”

Neal tried to pull the door opened, but Peter leaned into it, holding it fast against the frame. He begged Peter, “Please, leave.” Then in a whisper. “Everyone does.”

Peter refused to go, and he pushed Neal back into the apartment, onto the couch. “You don’t get to play the martyr here. You’re not the only one who’s messed up.”

“You didn’t mess up, I did. I did.” Neal buried his head in his hands, utterly defeated.

“You didn’t do it on your own.” Peter’s voice was grave as he sat down next to Neal. “I made some big mistakes, too.”

Neal looked up, surprised at Peter’s admission. “What do you mean?”

“Hard to know where to start. I let you go on as if nothing happened. We had exactly one conversation about Kate’s death and I stood by, watching you disintegrate. I thought if you had good work, interesting work, you’d be able to cope.”

Neal chuckled drily. “Your Calvinist heritage is showing.”

“But that’s not the way to deal with grief - not the way to treat a friend who’s just lost everything.”

“What did you think you should have done? Patted me on the shoulder and said ‘there, there, let it all out.‘ Don’t be ridiculous. You hate women crying - I don’t think a man crying is really your thing.”

“Maybe not, but a friend in pain deserves a little more than ‘cowboy up’ and a punch on the shoulder.”

Neal wasn’t sure what to say, so he said nothing.

“Maybe if I talked to you - let you talk to me, instead of lecturing or giving heavy handed object lessons, maybe if I trusted you, you would have been able to trust me. I should never have kept the music box from you. I should have told you about Fowler. We could have …


“Could have what? Peter - I was hell-bent on revenge. I don’t think you could have stopped me.”

“But maybe if we talked - you wouldn’t have been so desperate. I knew you had the cockpit voice recording. I knew you were at the FAA hanger - it wasn’t in your radius, but you were still on monitoring-only that afternoon. I did nothing. I didn’t want to get caught up in your grief. I failed you. I am as much to blame as you are - maybe even more. Can you forgive me?”

Neal tried to speak, tried to get a sound around the tears clogging his throat. He never … he didn’t … he couldn’t blame Peter. That was unthinkable. He felt the heavy weight of Peter’s arm around his shoulder and in a moment of utter need, he turned into the other man, seeking comfort, shelter, safety.

There was no hesitancy in the motion of Peter’s other arm as it came up and around him, and Neal realized that the last time anyone held him close was two years ago. At the airport, when Peter pulled him back, stopped him, held him close as all his dreams went up in a ball of fire and greasy smoke.

He didn’t cry. Despite the comfort, the security of Peter’s arms, Neal didn’t trust himself, he didn’t dare let go. If he did, he didn’t know what disastrous place it would lead. There was so much turmoil inside him, too many memories boiling too close to the surface. Things felt but not seen, half-memories/half-dreams, all wrapped up in the stink of cinnamon that still clung to the inside of his nostrils, the back of his throat, like the smell of burning jet fuel. And as good as the warm, human contact felt, as much as he wanted to crawl inside this other human being, this friend and live there, he couldn’t. In his life, everything that he had ever stolen could be given back; if he took this, it would be destroyed. For a short moment, he allowed himself to dream that this comfort did not have to be stolen, this safety would always be given freely.

He shuddered once, twice and as Peter’s arms wrapped tighter around him, Neal pulled back. The air in the apartment was chilly and made colder by the loss of simple human contact. He finally allowed himself to look at Peter’s face, to look him in the eyes in a way that he hadn't in years. What he saw there surprised him. He had expected wariness, maybe even some embarrassment. He didn’t expect the sadness, the loneliness.

“Can we be better?” Peter’s voice was hoarse, as if he had been crying.

“Yes.” There wasn’t any reason to say anything more.

“Come back home with me, please. I don’t want to leave you here.”

“Peter, that’s not necessary.”

“Yes, Neal. It is.”

Neal wanted to argue, but couldn’t. The thought of waking up to the noise of a busy household, even to the smell of cinnamon, was too appealing. To be part of a family, if just for a short while, was a secret present.  To have a few memories he could treasure, he could take out when the future stretched in front of him, dark and unknown.

---

As he waited for Neal to get dressed, Peter thanked whatever angel of mercy that watched over fools and their friends. Then he thanked Elizabeth, who gave him the strength to find a way back, or maybe just the way forward.

The open sketchbook on the dining table caught his eye, and then his breath. The execution was quick, precise, but never hesitant, and there was emotion in every line. He and El, on the couch, Satchmo on the floor in front of the fire, but their backs were turned from Neal. They were all so completely self involved, and Peter could feel the artist’s - Neal’s - aloneness, the essential separation from his subjects. Not aloofness, but longing.

“I’ll destroy it, if you want.”

Peter didn’t hear Neal approach.

“I was feeling a little …”

“Alone?”

“Yeah.” Neal ducked his head, embarrassed.

“I’d like to have this, if you don’t want it.”

“Really?”

There was such startled pleasure in Neal’s voice. Peter forgot how he always brushed off his own work. “Yeah - I’d like to give it to El. Maybe for the bedroom.”

“I can have it matted and framed if you want.”

Peter smiled, “Thank you.” He gestured towards the door. “Let’s go, before El gets worried.”

Neal picked up his bag, the one he dropped by the door when he came in a little more than an hour ago. “How do you feel about blueberries?”

“Tasty little things. Full of antioxidants. They go very nicely in pancakes. I think we have a box of them in the fridge.”

FIN