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The setting sun cast a golden glow over the familiar back patio Neal had frequented so often the past two years. A light, cool breeze swept through the air, rustling tender leaves and the hair on his neck. He let his gaze drift over to his partner sitting across the table.
Peter’s eyes were distant as he watched the long shadows silently dancing across the patio walls. A half-smile graced his lips, the smile he got when he thought no one was looking. The smile that appeared when there was an idea prickling in Peter’s brain. The smile he got when he wasn’t distracted by cases, or criminals, or…Neal Caffrey himself.
An ache formed in Neal’s chest, crawling up and tightening a grip on his throat, causing him to break his eyes away from Peter and take a sip of the beer in his hands.
The beer in his hands--not wine, not precious jewels, ancient artifacts, or a priceless painting.
A simple beer, shared with a friend.
My best friend.
Neal’s mind stilled, remembering what was going to happen tomorrow while a wave of nausea rippled through his stomach.
Do I really have to leave this patio tonight?
His heart caved in.
Can I make this moment last forever?
His mind screamed, writhing at the thought of saying goodbye to Peter.
Possibly forever.
He forced his eyes back to Peter, studying him as if he would try and forge him later. The dark brown of his hair, how it moved in the breeze. His lop-sided smile, the warm flickering light behind his caramel eyes. The collar of his dark polo was just slightly opened, indicating the agent’s comfort in his own home. His fingers were gently drumming the table, golden wedding ring glowing in the twilight.
Peter’s hands in themselves were a puzzle to Neal. Before working with Peter, Neal swore Peter’s hands were large, calloused, and rough—perhaps too big for his body, fumbling to keep up with the clever cat that Neal was. But once Neal actually studied them, as an artist, as an obsession, perhaps even in a lustful infatuation, he found that he had never been so wrong.
Peter’s hands were slender, soft and nimble. They were able to wield a gun with uncanny accuracy, yet caress his wife’s face with gentle pathos. Hands capable of cuffing criminals, but also hands that cordially shook Neal's when he was arrested, firm and secure. Peter's hands always surprised Neal in their tenderness, not seeming to fit with the often-grumpy persona Peter held so tightly to. Ever-adhering to rules and regulations, trying several times to put distance between Neal and himself, Peter’s hands found Neal time and time again.
A shoulder squeeze on Neal’s shoulder, “You’re doing great.”
A dorky finger point, “ We’re partners.”
A warm, overflowing, embrace, “ I found you .”
And the few times Peter’s hand had found Neal’s in the darkness, fingers entwining, somehow each filling the space in the other's perfectly, their hearts fused together in a comforting, constant symbol of, “I will never leave you.”
The brushing of fingertips, meeting of eyes, and wordless declarations of, “I love you,” Peter and Neal had said to each other time again without speaking a single word.
Hot tears pricked Neal’s eyes, catching the conman off guard as his walls instantly sprang up, dissipating the emotion as soon as it had appeared.
Damn, Peter.
Oh how his heart throbbed in pain, declaring Neal stay here, in this moment forever.
Let this last forever, he pleaded.
Sighing inwardly, Neal placed all of these things deep in his almost-photographic memory— so Neal could paint Peter later.
Yes, Neal could paint this moment
again
and again
and again
Yes , Neal could come back and crawl inside this memory
again
and again
and again
Yes, Neal could be here with Peter
again
and again
and again
I have to be able to come back to this moment.
“Hey partner,” Peter’s voice dismembered Neal’s thoughts.
Neal blinked, silently hoping his brain had captured what it needed.
“Tomorrow’s a big day,” Peter grinned, raising his beer to toast with Neal.
Neal begrudgingly plastered his best conman’s smile, the smile that even could fool Peter Burke, and raised his bottle, clinking it gently with Peter’s.
“Yeah,” Neal forced a smirk, “You’re a better criminal than I thought.”
Peter winked, “I learn from the best.”
Peter.
Neal’s heart felt heavy as stone. He took another swig of beer and cast his eyes down, noticing the patterns in the patio table for the first time.
“Neal,” Peter pressed gently, “If everything goes as planned tomorrow, you’ll be…free.”
The word free was breathless, airy, as if Peter could barely say it without tears, like he was letting Neal go, releasing his wings to fly gallantly into the skies above.
Neal looked up and met Peter’s eyes, their warmth pouring into him, Peter's traits glittering out to him like shooting stars:
His intellegence
His stubbornness
His strictness
His goofy humor
His nerdy interests
His awful taste in food
His irritating persistence
His…wonderful persistence
His acceptance
His friendship
His love, Peter’s unconditional love that washed over Neal, drowning him in something he’d never felt before.
How could Neal capture these things? How could Neal bottle up the pieces of Peter that were not visible in a painting replica or a photograph? How could Neal remember the feeling in his heart Peter was giving to him right now ?
Peter was in perfect focus, Neal could reach out and touch his face, embrace him, feel his heart beating against his own right now if he wanted; but he willed his hands (and heart) to stay put. Neal had to mentally restrain his hands from grasping at Peter, from clinging to him, from taking Peter’s face in his hands and begging Peter to ask him to stay here in New York. Because Peter was the only one who could make Neal stay.
He’d always been the only one.
I want to stay! Neal’s heart cried, but his mind jeered:
But will you be free if you stayed?
Would they be safe if you stayed?
In the blink of an eye, the moment was gone. The patio dissipated into thin air, Peter’s features becoming muddled and blurred like a watercolor painting, the sound of his laughter just an echo, the warmth of his eyes fading, the feel of his hand on Neal’s shoulder just a memory.
Neal was in Paris, sitting at an easel, desperately trying to recreate the moment he’d imprinted in his mind. Of the hundreds of portraits Neal had painted since fleeing New York, none of them brought back the warmth and security he’d felt on that patio months before. His apartment was filled with paintings of Peter, but somehow Neal just couldn’t get it right. It was a frenzy, really. Every night for hours on end, painting until his fingertips were permanently dyed the brown of Peter’s eyes.
Neal yeared for that all consuming wave of affection to somehow erupt from each painting and fill his heart again. No, there was no magical painting that could replace the real, living, breathing Peter Burke that resided 3,625 miles away.
Neal was free.
But he also was utterly
Alone.
Frustrated, Neal stood from the easel, cheeks flushed from too much fine French wine, hand tightly clasping his paintbrush.
The face of Peter Burke stared back at him in a plethora of colors, textures, and shadows. That lop-sided grin, the light bouncing off of his nose…everything was perfect—an exact replica of the man Neal’s heart belonged to, except those damn surprising hands.
(And the fact that the painting, in fact, was not actually Peter.)
Neal studied the hands he’d painted on picture-Peter. If only he'd looked at them one more time, held them, felt their indentions, the peaks of his knuckles, the tender skin of his palm...
“No, no, this isn’t right,” Neal murmured, bending over to curve a line more delicately.
He stepped back and observed, brows together, fury rising like a dragon within him.
“AGH!” Neal roared, pushing the painting over with a crash, tears stinging his eyes.
He threw the paintbrush to the ground, paint splattering onto the old wooden floors. His floors were littered with paint stains—something pre-death Neal Caffrey would never have done.
Neal heaved breathes, forcing tears back into his eyes, emotion back into his heart. This entire year he hadn’t broken down, not yet, not now. Surely Peter received the bottle of Bordeaux? Surely Peter would come find him?
But it had been seven days and no knock on the door had found Neal’s ears.
Neal knelt down to pick up the canvas he’d tossed, now cracked and smudged.
“God, Peter…” Neal whispered, “I wish you were here.”
Knock.
Neal’s ears pricked. He set the broken canvas down.
Knock knock.
Silent as a mouse, Neal stood, time standing still. He walked quietly to the door, heart thumping in his ears, eyes brimming with tears, everything within him trying to hold back the pain that wanted to flow so freely out of his heart. He gripped the doorknob, unable to turn it though his mind willed the action forcefully.
He heard the shuffling of feet and a quivering sigh from the other side of the door.
A choked whisper, “Neal? Are you in there?” a pause, then even quieter, “Please be here.”
Neal would know that voice anywhere, in any time, any galaxy, any universe.
Peter.
Peter was on the other side of the door.
Open the door!!
Slowly, he turned the knob. His breathing hitching as the door creaked open to reveal Peter Burke. He wore no suit, no silver handcuffs dangling from his hand. No, Peter was clad in jeans and that same damn sea green polo he’d worn when he’d flown halfway around the world to Cape Verde to find Neal.
"The classics never go out of style."
Peter.
There he was, real, not a painting; his eyes wet and warm and welcoming.
“Neal!” Peter breathed, instantly wrapping his arms around Neal, firm and strong.
His hands, those beautiful hands Neal longed to feel, curled into Neal’s unruly hair, as Peter’s tears wet his neck.
“You’re alive, you’re alive…” Peter cried, squeezing Neal, unable to let go and Neal didn’t want him to.
Neal’s heart jumped to his throat, that joy of living finally beginning to flow through his veins again for the first time in a year.
Neal Caffrey wasn’t only resurrected to Peter Burke that day, he was made alive again to himself, too. He collapsed into Peter’s embrace, sobs crawling up his throat, all his pent up fears and longings finally releasing and spilling all over Peter.
“You found me,” Neal whimpered, clutching Peter’s shirt, feeling his strong chest and a true, beating heart thundering against Neal’s own.
After what felt like both hours and one second, Peter pulled back, hands on Neal’s shoulders. Peter's eyes were red rimmed, studying Neal with affection. He scanned Neal’s unkempt hair, drunken rosy cheeks, the faint hint of stubble on his chin. Not an ounce of judgment from the FBI Agent to the former CI, Neal only felt love, pure and simple love outpouring from Peter’s heart to his. Peter’s gaze softened as he lifted his hands (those soft, lovely hands) to cup Neal’s face.
He wiped a tear from Neal’s cheek with his thumb and said simply, “I always find you.”
This broke Neal yet again. He curled back into Peter’s embrace, clinging to him, willing him never to go.
“Took you a week though,” Neal sniffed ruefully, “You’re getting slow.”
Peter laughed wetly and ruffled Neal’s hair, rocking him back and forth in the doorway of Neal’s Paris apartment. Neal closed his eyes and took a breath, smelling Peter’s cheap shampoo and the laundry detergent Elizabeth bought at a local organic shop in Manhattan.
"You've always been my greatest challenge," he paused, and then said quietly, "but also one of my greatest joys."
New tears began to flow as Neal’s shoulders shook from gentle sobs, the weight of the entire year lifted from his shoulders. No painting could ever replicate the love of a friend.
“Neal?” Peter said quietly as Neal tightened his grip on Peter’s waist. Neal felt Peter smile softly, “I’m not going anywhere. I’m here now.”
Neal wanted to tell Peter the epitaph he’d rehearsed for months, how sorry he was, how lonely he’d been, how he was done running and New York was his home. Peter was his home.
But none of the words came out.
The artist simply held his inspiration, his muse, his idolization. Hands tracing the curves of Peter’s neck, eyes taking in every line and imperfection, memorizing every breath, holding each falling tear deep in his heart.
Alas, the intense study was not to forge him or replicate him later. The only way to make this moment, this feeling, this friendship last forever was to
Live it.
All Neal could utter was a barely-audible, half-sobbed, “I love you, Peter.”
No more "me, too" or "you're my best friend." Life was too short for minced words.
Guilt pressed heavily on his chest as Neal continued, choking out a broken, "I-I'm so sorry..."
"Shhhh," Peter’s arms held him closer as he kissed the top of Neal’s head softly. “None of that matters now. Damn it, Neal, you're alive."
Peter gently unraveled Neal from him so they were eye to eye once more. He smiled, unable to keep his eyes from scanning Neal's face, taking in every part of his once-dead friend.
"Not gonna lie, El wants to punch you," Peter said frankly.
Neal guffawed, so glad to stop crying, "As she should."
"And I can't wait for you to meet our son," Peter said, eyes welling again.
"I hope he looks like Elizabeth," Neal chided, that humorous sparkle returning to his eyes.
Peter chuckled, then his face softened.
"We named--" Peter's voice broke, "We named him Neal."
Neal's chest tightened, almost unable to take the undulation of emotions that kept tossing his heart around like a sailboat in a typhoon.
"Peter..." Neal whispered, shaking his head in disbelief, his paint-stained hands finding his face and covering it, hiding from the love that shone so brightly upon him, fresh tears streaming down his cheeks.
"Neal,” Peter breathed, placing his hands on Neal’s wrists and resting his forehead to Neal’s, “I love you, too, even if I didn’t always show it in the best way and I’m—“ Peter’s voice cracked, “I’m so sorry for all you’ve gone through.”
Peter gently peeled Neal's hands from his face and held them in his own, running those gentle thumbs over his knuckles, their warmth filling Neal's soul with other-worldly light. Here was Peter, somehow comforting Neal although Neal had put Peter through hell and back with grief for the past year. Grief that Neal never would comprehend, that Peter would never show. The sheer absurdity of it all was too much for Neal to bear.
"Let me bring you home,” Peter finally said, smiling through tear-glistening eyes.
All Neal could do was nod, face crumbling as the world grew still around them, Peter pulling him into an embrace yet again as Neal cried over and over:
"Yes, please, take me home. Take me home...take me home..."
The moment, the feeling he’d been trying to emulate through his hundreds of paintings was finally crystal-clear, living and breathing. His touch-starved body clung to the moment, his love-deprived heart binding itself to Peter’s words of home.
Let this last forever.