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Neal is three blocks away and soaked through before he remembers that Mozzie is probably waiting for him at the loft. He can’t go home like this. It isn’t fair to make Mozzie deal with Neal’s mistakes.
Neal turns in another direction and starts walking. His instincts tell him to keep moving until he can find a safe place to regroup, so when a bus pulls to a stop beside him he gets on it, more as a way to get out of the rain than to go anywhere. The buses are achingly slow in rush hour traffic; no one would use them for a getaway, which ironically makes them safer than the sidewalk.
Neal doesn’t realize he’s picked a bus headed to Brooklyn until they near the bridge. He misses the last stop to change, and half expects his anklet to go red, but the light stays green. The Marshals are used to him going to Peter’s house, and won’t panic as long as he’s en route. Neal doesn’t actually have a better plan, or any plan at all, but he finds himself walking to their door.
Elizabeth answers the bell, frowning when she sees him.
“Neal! You’re soaked through.” Elizabeth tugs him inside. Her hair is wet; she hasn’t been home long. “I thought Peter was taking you home.”
“He was.” Neal’s words stall out; he shouldn’t be here.
Elizabeth waits for a moment, then goes on. “Well. You’re welcome here, I want you to know that. Are you hungry?”
“No, I don’t mean to put you out of your way –“
Elizabeth doesn’t listen to him. She slides his trench coat off his shoulders and hangs up his hat to dry while he’s still struggling to finish his sentence. She runs her hands briskly along the sleeves of his suit coat and sighs. “Oh, dear, I’m not sure that jacket’s going to survive if we don’t let it dry a bit. I think I can find you something to change into while we hang these up, if you don’t mind the indignity of sweatpants.”
Neal steps back toward the door. “Really, Elizabeth, you don’t have to –“
“-- let you get pneumonia in my house? You’re right, I don’t.” Her voice gentles. “Neal. Let me help.”
“I don’t even know why I’m here.”
“You don’t have to have a reason to be here. You can just be here.”
The kindness brings him suddenly to the edge of tears, but Neal doesn’t want to cry on her again, not so soon after Kate's memorial. He ducks his head and moves back. “Sweat pants?”
She lets him get away with it. “Sure. Why don’t you go in the guest room and get out of those while I grab them. There’s a bath robe in the guest closet.”
Neal grabs the robe and sits on the bed without undressing. He remembers the dip in Mozzie’s voice when he saw the bruises Peter left. Neal can’t do that to Elizabeth, but he can't figure out how to get out of here, either. He feels like his thoughts are wrapped in gauze, slow and stupid things he can't quite see clearly.
He’s still sitting on the bed when she knocks on the guest room door. “You decent?”
Neal has to clear his throat twice before he can answer her. “Yes.”
El opens the door, gray fabric in her hand. The friendly grin on her face falters when she sees he’s still in his suit. But she rallies and holds out the sweatshirt so he can read it: ‘Property of Harvard Athletic Department’. “What do you think? Are you ready to be a Harvard grad?”
Neal pastes on his best smile. “I think I can do that.”
“It’ll drive Peter crazy.”
Neal feels his grin slip, and El’s face falls into concerned lines.
She sits next to him on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly with her weight. “Neal. Did you and Peter have an argument?”
“No, of course not,” Neal answers automatically, and it sounds false even to him.
“-- because you can tell me,” El goes on gently. “He can get pretty gruff when the people around him are having emotions, and if you need someone to tell him to back off –“
Neal startles himself with a laugh. If only it were that simple. “It’s not that.”
El rests a hand lightly on his wrist. “Then what is it?”
Neal can’t think of anything to say. After a moment, he just shakes his head.
“Okay.” El takes a deep breath before standing up briskly and tugging on his suit jacket. “Give me this thing. If I have to hold it and the hat hostage until you change into dry clothes, believe me, I will.”
She's trying for normal. She's better at it right now than he is, so he offers her half a smile and shrugs out of the coat. Neal hadn’t realized how much water had soaked through the wool of the jacket; the sleeves of his dress shirt are practically translucent, the deep red marks stand out vividly under the material. Neal supposed he should be grateful that his undershirt hides the rest, but El still makes a distressed noise and catches softly at his wrist.
“Neal.” Her voice is serious; Neal can't make himself meet her eyes. “You can tell me it’s none of my business –“
“It’s okay.” Neal doesn’t jerk his arm away as she unbuttons the cuff and slowly pushes the sleeve up to get a better view of the bruises on his wrist. They've deepened into a blue-purple ring, right next to a bite-mark that broke the skin. Neal wants to touch them again. Remind himself that they're real. “It won’t happen again.”
“Who...? Neal, is this –“ El cuts herself off and takes another deep breath. When she starts again, it's obviously a different sentence. “We should put antibiotic on some of these. Let me get the first aid kit.”
“Elizabeth –“
El turns sad blue eyes on him, and Neal can't refuse her. “It’s no trouble, Neal.”
That isn't what he wanted to protest, but he finds himself staying put as she leaves and comes back. She is so careful sliding the shirt from his shoulders and helping him with the undershirt. She doesn’t make a noise at the scratches on his back, criss-crossed enough to draw blood at the intersections. Neal knows she's holding herself together with the deep, even breathing of someone staying calm in an emergency. Her careful fingers spread the antibiotic across his back in soft strokes, warm against his chilled skin. She tapes down the bandages and, just as carefully, helps him pull the sweatshirt over his head.
The silence is deep enough to drown. Neal can't stand it. “I can take it from here.”
“Neal –“ El's voice trembles.
He takes her hand, folding his fingers around hers for a moment. “Let me.”
“Okay.” She squeezes his hand once before standing up. “Okay. Come downstairs when you’re ready. I’ve got a Santa Sofia '03 I’ve been waiting to break into. If you’re not down in ten minutes, I’ll come check on you.”
El's voice is gentle, but he knows it for a threat, and he nods as reassuringly as he can. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
Despite that, he sits back on the bed when she leaves and listens to the house. It's a different silence than the loft. The storm would be practically on top of him there with the glass wall of the balcony; here, it's a muffled thing. Less dangerous, maybe, at least until Neal hears the echo of Peter's voice in the hallway below.
Neal is suddenly seized again by the panic that drove him from the car. He can't face Peter. But then, he can't face the thought of going home, either. Maybe, if he gets downstairs quickly enough... Neal isn't sure there's a way to salvage the day, but he knows he has to try.
The sweatpants are stretched enough that Neal has to tie them tightly around his waist, and the cuffs on the sweatshirt fall down over the back of his hands. They hide everything, which can only be for the best. Neal opens the door and pads barefoot down the stairs.
Peter and El are huddled together in the kitchen, voices low and intent.
“--obviously hasn't been sleeping, and I don't want to send him back to be alone at June's,” El says.
“He wouldn't be alone,” Peter answers, just as intently. “Mozzie's there.”
“Mozzie?” El blinks at Peter for a moment before she spots Neal sliding into the kitchen. She straightens up abruptly, pasting a bright smile on her face. It makes Neal's heart ache to see her trying so hard for him.
“I don't want to put you out like that,” Neal says, halting in the door to the kitchen. Peter's eyes flicker up and down Neal's outfit, his expression shifting from confusion to determination to guilt, and Neal can't stand it. He pastes on his own smile. “I can take a cab back. Unless you think I'm going to steal your sweats, Peter.”
Peter's face falters back to confusion. “No, I don't.”
“Then I can --”
“-- stay for dinner. Peter brought home plenty.” El's smile is brighter, her tone faintly challenging. She doesn't wait for Neal's response to start setting out the food, dozens of tiny boxes of what smells like Persian heaven. Three plates are already on the table.
With a sinking heart, Neal sees Peter’s expression shift again. Neal has the helpless sense of watching a car crash about to happen and tries to signal no, please God no, but Peter isn’t watching him.
“El. I.” Peter clears his throat. Neal curls his hands over the back of a chair and breathes through the rising panic. “I need to tell you something.”
El pauses in mid-reach for serving spoons before dropping her arm. “I guessed that when I saw you'd brought take-out from Amoo's. I’m going to assume this is something about Neal?”
“It’s my fault.” Neal blurts out the words, then stops, stunned at his own stupidity. He shouldn’t be around people right now, if he’s going to handle them that badly. He tries to rally. “That Peter and I argued, I mean. I was — frustrated by the situation with Fowler, and I’m sorry I took it out on you, Peter.”
He catches Peter's gaze, hoping desperately that the other man will let it go.
“Neal –“
“I said – and did – some things this week that I’m not very proud of,” he goes on, because this only works if Peter lets it, “and I hope you’ll accept my apology as enough, because it won’t happen again. Your friendship is very important to me, I want you to know that –“
“God damn it, Neal!” Peter growls suddenly. He grabs Neal’s arm, hard, and Neal doesn’t flinch.
But Elizabeth does.
“Peter!” She shoves him back away from Neal, standing between them, furious. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you tonight! You can’t just --”
Her voice cuts off suddenly. Her back is to Neal, but he can see the tension in her, see the guilt and pain on Peter’s face, and he knows there’s a good chance nothing further needs to be said here.
Peter breaks first. “I’m sorry, El.”
She slaps Peter, the sharp sound ringing through the kitchen. Satchmo barks once from the living room, and El snatches her hand back, covering her mouth. The red mark on Peter’s face is livid, and Peter does nothing to soothe it.
“Oh, my God.” El turns, pushing past Neal to flee the room.
Neal takes a step to follow her, and Peter catches his arm. He drops it immediately as if the touch burned him, but it’s enough to freeze Neal in place.
“Let her go.” Peter’s voice is so tired, all the fight and fire gone from it. “She’ll come back when she calms down enough to be in the same room with me.”
Neal sees Satchmo padding upstairs, and wishes he could follow. “But Peter, it’s my fault.”
“It’s my marriage.”
That stops Neal's thoughts. He’s on the outside; the outsider, the interloper. He knows, distantly, that his guilt is rising again, but he can't feel it. Elizabeth had always been kind to him, she’d never been anything but kind to him, and he goes and seduces her husband.
Peter starts dully opening the food containers and dishing it out onto plates. Saffron rice, tandoori kebabs, naan in soft, steaming paper bags. It smells like ashes.
“Neal, sit down,” Peter says in that same tired voice. “You should eat.”
Neal doesn't sit down. It's the first time he hasn't followed Peter's orders since Kate died, and it burns hotly all over his skin. But he doesn't deserve this kindness. “I should go.”
“No. Not that.” Peter's fingers grip the back of the other chair. “Please.”
Neal slides into a chair, and Peter drops into the one opposite him. El’s plate glares accusingly at them both. Neal can’t hear her upstairs. He would think she was gone, except he hasn’t heard the door.
Peter starts to eat methodically, pausing when Neal doesn't start. Peter looks pointedly at Neal’s untouched plate. “This is going to be hard enough without your blood sugar dropping out.”
Neal blinks at him, and Peter's mouth quirks up a little.
“It’s something you learn when you’ve been married long enough. Never fight when you’re tired, never fight when you’re hungry.”
“Elizabeth isn’t eating.”
Peter nods. “If she hasn't come back by the time we’re done, I’ll bring her plate upstairs and leave it by the door.”
They eat in silence, the rain outside pelting softly against the windows as the light fades.
El comes back, pillows and blankets piled high in her arms. She drops them in the living room before she stalks back to the kitchen. Her eyes are red from tears. “You’re sleeping on the couch. I’m giving Neal the guest room.” It's an ultimatum.
Peter watches her carefully, weariness etched into his face. “Okay.”
“And there will be no sex – for anyone – in this house tonight,” she goes on implacably.
“Okay,” Peter says again, and El deflates slightly.
“Okay.” She drops into her chair and starts eating. Peter picks up his fork again and gestures for Neal to do the same. Neal isn't hungry, hasn't been hungry this whole time. But he eats.
“I’m very angry right now,” El says without lifting her eyes from her plate. “And hurt, but mostly angry. A lot of it’s muddled. But, Peter. Neal’s my friend, and I trusted him to you when he was vulnerable, and you hurt him. I guess I’m guilty too; I didn’t protect him. But you betrayed my trust. How could you?”
Neal swallows around the lump in his throat. “Elizabeth, it wasn’t his fault.”
Her eyes dart up to his, quick and angry. “Did you drug him? Threaten him in some way?” She waits a moment, and when he doesn't say anything, her gaze drops slowly back to her food. “I’m pretty sure that’s a rhetorical question, but right now I’m not sure enough of anything, so could you please answer it.”
“No. But that –“
“No, he didn’t,” Peter says at the same time. “I was responsible –“
“Damn right, you were.” El's tone is vicious in a way Neal has never heard before.
Neal finds himself on his feet, the sound of the chair scraping on the floor loud in his ears. “I can’t – sit here and watch this.”
El stretches out a hand to him, face suddenly pleading. “Neal, wait –“
“Neal.” Peter's voice stops him. “Neal, please. I know this is hard –“
Neal scratches out a laugh. “This is horrible.”
“Yes, it is,” El says softly, letting her hand sink slowly to the table. “And you’re right, you don’t have to be here for this. I’m being selfish. I want you here, but you shouldn’t have to...”
Neal catches at the only words that matter. “You want me here?”
El looks up at him, her eyes huge. “Yes, I do. I want to make it right.”
Neal can't take the strain on El's face; it's too much. “But it’s my fault. Peter didn’t want to; he said no, and I just wouldn’t listen to him –“
“Neal, no –“ Peter cuts in.
“You did,” Neal insists. “And I didn’t listen.”
Peter shakes his head slowly. “You didn’t try to talk me into it. You didn’t hold me down. There is no way in hell that I couldn’t have stopped you and walked out of there –“
It's like the sky opens up and the truth falls out: Neal knows how to end this. “You couldn’t have stopped.“
“-- If I wanted to.“
“You couldn’t have stopped,” Neal repeats, and for the first time, his voice is steady. The tiny smile he tries on feels sharp enough to cut. “Peter, I play on people’s emotions professionally. I played on yours. You wanted to help me, and I made you think this was the only way –“
“You made me think I had a chance!” Peter stops speaking abruptly. In the silence, his eyes flick to Elizabeth, and Neal can feel the absence of their weight on his skin. It's like floating. “I wanted to. I’ve wanted to for a while. I didn’t think I’d ever do anything about it –“
Elizabeth's mouth flattens in a hard line. “So when he was hurting and vulnerable and not himself, you said 'hey! I guess I can fuck him after all!'”
Peter flinches. “It wasn’t like that, either –“
El's face softens. “I didn’t think it was. I don’t think you’re actually capable of that.”
“Hon –“ It's a plea, but El ignores it to turn back to Neal.
“Do you want me to blame you for all of this?”
“I deserve it,” he says evenly. He feels so beautifully light. Cut loose.
El gets to her feet slowly. All three of them are standing now, the table between them like a wall. “How much do you deserve it?”
Neal blinks. “Excuse me?”
El tilts her head mockingly. “How long have you been planning on seducing my husband?”
Peter flinches again. “El --”
“Peter's an attractive man,” El continues implacably. “You must have noticed that.”
“I have.” Neal takes a moment to make sure his expression is perfect. Hard, slightly mocking, but with a veneer of pleasantry too bland to be anything but insulting. And then he lies.
“I've known for weeks that if our 'friendship' didn't bring me the leniency I needed, I could push for something more... intimate.” He rolls the word slightly, and El blanches. Neal doesn't let it stop him. “Peter's not the type to have casual affairs. It wouldn't just be sex to him. There'd be very little he wouldn't do for me at that point.”
“And if he wouldn't break the rules for you?” El's voice is calm, but her fists have gripped the back of her chair, the knuckles white.
Neal would hate what he's doing, if he didn't feel so weightless. “There's always blackmail.”
“Christ,” Peter grits out. He scrubs a hand across his face. “This is horrible.”
El nods slowly, thoughtfully. “You're a bit off-script, aren't you? Telling me this?”
Neal lets his smile widen. “Everyone thinks they're too smart to fall for the obvious con.”
“So the intelligent thing to do is to throw you out of our lives and refuse to speak with you again? Have Peter send you back to prison?”
Neal doesn't even blink. “You have to protect your family.”
“Yes, I do.” El releases the chair back to wrap her arms around herself. “The thing that's driving me crazy is that you're part of my family, and I've done a really bad job of protecting you.”
The world comes crashing back in all at once, pressing into Neal's shoulders and making it hard to breathe. Kate and Mozzie were as close as he's ever gotten to family in years, and then everything fell apart with Kate, and then – everything fell apart. Neal can't choke back a sob, and then the tears just take him.
For a moment, everything is frozen in place. And then there are arms around him, El's fiercely and Peter's hesitantly and Neal doesn't understand how they can possibly hold him after everything he said. But he can't stop them, either, can't let go. He finds himself clinging to them, both of them. He can feel the tremors in Elizabeth's shoulders and knows that she's crying, too. He has the crazy idea that he should swear never to hurt her again, in even the smallest of ways. But it would go wrong so quickly.
“Stop that,” Peter whispers, and Neal makes himself relax.
“I mean it.” Peter turns Neal to face him. “You think you're going to get her hurt, the way you think you got Kate killed.”
Neal shakes his head, the tears coming too hard to speak.
El lifts her head from his shoulder. “Peter, how could you let him think that?”
“I didn’t know.” Peter squeezes Neal more firmly. “Hon, I swear I didn’t know until this afternoon.”
El presses her cheek against Neal's; he can't tell whose tears are whose any more. “Neal. Honey, I need you to get this through your head: Kate made her own choices.”
“No.” Neal barely recognizes his own voice.
“She did.” El wraps a hand in the back of his sweatshirt and tugs gently. “She was making deals you didn't know about, making plans, taking chances. She risked your life.”
Neal wants to back away, but he's still clinging to them so tightly. “She needed me to protect her.”
“You can't take responsibility for everything she did,” Peter says softly. “You can't. I don't think she'd like that, either.”
Neal knows, immediately, what Kate would say if he tried. It's unprintable, and it startles a laugh out of him. “She'd have been so angry with me.”
“Yeah, well,” El says, “If you ever try to think I don't make my own choices in this world, I'll be angry, too.”
The image of Kate, furious and laughing, settles in Neal's mind like a soft light. It's the first time he's been able to think of her alive; to think of her life. The weight of the grief is still there; Neal knows it will be for a long time. But for the first time since her death, he thinks he might not drown in it.
El tugs them into the living room and onto the couch, pushing the pillows and blankets onto the floor. It's awkward when none of them are willing to let go, but they make it without injury. El ends up practically in Neal's lap, with both of them leaning on Peter. Someone is stroking Neal's hair; he's not sure who, and doesn't have the energy to care for the moment. He lets the warmth fill him, listening to three people breathe in the same space.
After a long time, El stirs. “There's a lot we still need to talk about.”
Neal tenses. The fingers in his hair shift immediately to work at the muscles of his neck.
“She means later,” Peter says gently.
“I do,” El agrees.
Neal sighs. Nothing has really been mended, and there was so much anger. Some of it is his fault. “Can I apologize again anyway?”
“Nope.” He can hear El's smile. “You’re just going to have to live with my forgiving you.”
It's Peter's turn to sigh. “Will you forgive me, too?” He says it lightly, but Neal can feel the tension in him.
“Yes.” El reaches up blindly and takes Peter's hand. Their twined fingers are warm against Neal's shoulder. “I'm not there yet. But yes.”
Peter relaxes all at once. “Will you forgive me soon enough that I don't have to sleep on the couch?”
El laughs, more happily than Neal could have imagined so soon after the argument, and it makes him believe just a little, that maybe things aren't so badly broken that they can't be mended.
“Don't push your luck.” El pokes Peter in the shoulder, hard enough for Neal to feel it, but she takes Peter's hand again once she's done it.
Neal closes his eyes and lets the rhythm of their breathing fill up all the silent places.