Chapter Text
Something they don't tell you about grief.
It's most certainly not a wound that time heals. But it's not one that rots, either. It stays. Unmoving, in stasis. And slowly, ever so slowly, you learn to move around it, let it become part of you.
Every once in a while, it creeps up on you like a dark shadow clinging on to your shoes and your clothes, and it leaves you crumpled on the ground, and then it goes as fast as it came, as if nothing ever was.
For most people, it's a smell, or a sound, or a faint touch against numb fingers.
Peter Burke is not most people. No, his shadow wears fedoras, and three-piece suits. His shadow lugs around a tracking anklet and sits on the chair opposite his desk, feet propped up as it watches him go through the motions every day.
His shadow is a man whose life was taken from him all too violently, all too soon.
And yet what Peter remembers the most from that day isn't the gunshot echoing beneath his feet, heart slamming against his chest because, dammit, he knows it's over when Keller surfaces with that bag slung over his shoulder, and it isn't when the gun clicks, and for a moment nothing happens-
"I swear to you, I will stop at nothing to keep him safe."
- and Peter shoots to kill, as Keller had. He runs until his legs scream at him, pulse in tune with his feet, tearing a warpath through Wall Street.
His grief-addled brain disregards the many, too many but not nearly enough, wound dressings soaking up his friend's blood, and the sheen of sweat covering his pale face. And yet, easily conjured in his mind's eye is the contrasting resignation to Peter's panicked reassurances, stop it, Neal, mingling with fondness in deep oases of bright blues, and a soft smile as Neal Caffrey's walls crumble for one final time.
And those four damned words.
"You're my best friend."
It finally dawns on him, then, that this is truly the end.
He's too taken aback by the confession to respond, and by the time he snaps back into his surroundings, the ambulance is gone.
He doesn't bother following.
It's Mozzie who finds him, first. He doesn't say anything at first, only stands behind him, fists clenching and unclenching. But he must stand still for too long, a ghost of a shoulder under his touch, because Moz walks up next to him and says, "Come on."
It's only when Diana rings him on their way to the hospital - Mozzie is driving, face grim and jaw clenched so tightly it might snap, but his hands aren't shaking - that he realizes he's forgotten to brief her or Jones. He swallows thickly before answering.
"Boss, NYPD says Keller was-"
"I killed him," He doesn't recognize his voice, cold and unaffected, betrayed only by the quiet tremor in his hands. There's a pause, not even the snap of sharp breathing or a stutter. "He shot Neal."
"Oh God, how bad is it?" She sounds like she has a hand held over her mouth, voice lilting upwards before it flattens completely when she senses his failure to reply. "Peter? Is he gonna be okay?"
No. "I don't know."
He hangs up.
The hospital is an ill-fitting place for a person like Neal. It's all beiges and greys, almost nauseatingly so, and the art hung up for pretenses is pale and washed out.
The doctor walks away from him, no doubt moving on to his next patient. Meaningless platitudes shared, nothing but a dull murmur in the back of his mind. His vision blurs, but he steels himself, if only barely.
Neal Caffrey is dead.
He blinks, and the blurring fades, if only for a moment. It comes back with a vengeance.
Diana and Jones rush into the morgue where he waits, panting and frazzled. Mozzie doesn't so much as acknowledge them, only continues on his pursuit to burn a hole through the floors with his pacing.
Diana has clear tear tracks marring her face, eyes glittering, but she pulls from the reserves of her strength and prays it'll be enough. Clinton doesn't meet his eyes, brows furrowed deeply as he gazes downwards.
After a quick conversation that he doesn't remember later, they leave. It's no longer than a few minutes before he finds himself before a sight so entirely unbecoming, his breath stolen from him as he clenches his jaw and grips the slab holding the body of his dead friend. He looks away, and, for a moment, he can pretend to listen to Mozzie's ramblings, except Mozzie is breaking, so he can't. "He's gone. Look at him," he pleads, "You have to look, Mozzie. He's dead."
Mozzie sobs violently, and, with a final, haunted look back, Peter whispers goodbye, Neal and exits the room. He doesn't think he can spend another minute in there without abandoning his defenses and breaking down, himself.
He spends the next fifteen minutes doing exactly that, anyway.
He drags himself out of the hospital and into the car, belatedly realizing that it's almost dark, now. He calls upon any training he's had, telling him to compartmentalize, and he thinks it's a load of bull, but he does it, because there's nothing else to do.
He tries to think of how he's going to tell June, and, oh God, El.
He slams the breaks and briefly contemplates not returning home. But when he goes to turn the key in the lock, heart in his throat, he doesn't think he can spend a second longer without her. She appears in a rush, worry dancing in her eyes, clearly having been waiting for news.
"Hey, hon-" She breaks off, gasping as she fully takes him in. Hands trace the sides of his face. "Peter, what happened?"
He shudders, blinking furiously.
He'd been trained to break news to victims' families, knew exactly how to purse his lips and furrow his brows in a show of solemnity and respect. He hadn't expected to break the news to his own.
Then again, he hadn't expected for his entire worldview to shatter in the span of a few hours.
He looks away, to the backdoor, fully expecting to see Neal traipsing in, smiling brightly.
It was dark outside. The sun had gone out.
"Neal's dead."
Her warm hands leave his face, flying to her mouth as she looks at him, eyes begging him to be lying, but there's nothing more he can say as she weeps into his chest and he buries his tears in her hair, not entirely sure who's holding up the other.