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Neal woke on instinct, the familiar surroundings of the Burke’s guest room feeling at once uncannily quiet. He had that prickling sensation at the back of his neck, the kind that he had learned through years of being in dangerous situations to never ignore. Slowly, he opened his eyes and turned his head to the doorway, his breath hitching and heart pumping faster when he saw a silhouette. The shadow was low to the ground though, sitting- before his mind could catch up, Neal’s muscles began to relax. It was only Peter.
Even as Neal’s fear wore off, a sense of uneasiness persisted. It was the middle of the night and the house was dark, save for the nightlights scattering the hallway for when Little Neal woke up to get his parents after a nightmare. One warm light illuminated Peter’s figure; he sat horizontally, taking up the whole doorway, his arms holding his knees loosely. His head was down, his line of sight on the doorframe itself. He looked up only as Neal got up from his bed, walking over slowly.
As Neal approached, Peter jolted slightly in surprise, and swiped a hand across his eyes. Neal pretended not to notice.
“Peter,” he said softly, knowing the Burke’s son was in the room nearest to them. “What happened?”
“Sorry to wake you,” Peter said hoarsely, giving a smile of sympathy. “Little Neal had a nightmare. I didn’t want to go back to bed yet, in case it came back.”
Neal stared down at him. “Right,” he said. The story didn’t make much sense; Neal was sure he would have heard crying, given that his room was closer than the Burkes’ bedroom. Neal was a light sleeper to boot, too; prison had pressed that habit upon him, and it remained no matter how many years had passed between him and his time behind bars.
Peter didn’t move to leave the doorway, so Neal sat down, studying the carpeted floor until the older man spoke.
“Alright,” Peter said at last. “So it wasn’t Little Neal. I had a nightmare.”
Neal whistled lowly and shook his head. “Using your four year old son as a scapegoat. That’s cold, Peter.”
He was trying, unsuccessfully, to add some brevity to the strangeness in the air between them. Peter gave him a flicker of a smile, but said nothing.
“What was it about?” Neal asked, for it was the only direction he felt the conversation could go.
Peter was silent for a moment. He only spoke when Neal looked up and met his gaze. It was then Neal noticed how truly exhausted Peter looked. It was not the stress of the holidays, nor the fatigue of having a young child; there was something else in his gaze too, a certain sadness. And Neal had an aching feeling that he had somehow been the cause.
“I was in a long hallway,” Peter began. “It had no doors, no windows. I couldn’t see the end of it, and I couldn’t hear anything. But I knew-” Peter stopped, swallowing. “I knew you were somewhere near, and that you were in trouble. But I couldn’t find you. Couldn’t do anything.”
Peter looked at Neal expectantly, waiting for him to say something. But Neal had no idea what he could say in the face of his friend’s fear. They had not spoken so vulnerably to each other in years, the last time being when Peter had reunited with Neal in Paris, after his supposed death. There had been tears, and shouting, and when all the sharpness of their emotions had started to dull, Neal had thought their friendship might enter some sort of new phase, where they could be more open with each other without the constraints of a handler and CI relationship. But then the months had passed by so quickly from that reunion, and Neal had settled into coming back to New York City once a year- always for Christmas, and only for Christmas. Each time he and Peter reunited, just as their stiffness began to melt, Neal would return to Paris for the New Year, and their communication was reduced to the odd post card or text message for birthdays.
And so it was that with biting shame, Neal let Peter comfort himself. “Ah, it was just a dream,” Peter said in response to Neal’s silence. “I always get them around this time of year.”
And at that comment, Neal’s biting shame gnawed at the implication. ‘This time of year.’ The one time of year Neal was actually in the Burke’s home.
Maybe it was the lateness of the hour that made him so candid and careless with his words, or maybe it was his guilt. Regardless, Neal said without a second thought, “I’m sorry to cause you so much pain at Christmas time. We can- we can take a break next year. You should have one just with your family.”
“What?” Peter murmured. “No, Neal, that’s not what I meant.”
“You said it yourself,” Neal said, and could hear distantly how his own voice sounded choked. “I give you nightmares.”
“No, I shouldn’t have said- we want you here. El and I love having you here.”
They loved having him here; they couldn’t wait to have him back. He should reach out more, come by for the summer. All these things they said- El especially said- but to Neal, it always sounded like that vague Southern hospitality he had experienced growing up in St. Louis. They were just words, made to soften their true hesitancy into letting him back into their lives.
“I know that,” Neal said, and realized he may have just lied to Peter for the first time. “But if my being here is- distressing- you should have the holidays without me. You don’t need to invite me out of some sense of… obligation.” Because he was on a roll with honesty, and because he didn’t know if he would be coming back again after this conversation- if the Burkes would want him back- Neal continued on quickly, “I see the way you look at me, Peter, when you think I won’t notice. Like you don’t really want me here; like you’re angry that I am here. And you have every right-”
“Neal! ” Peter said, as loudly as he could without waking the youngest member of the house. “You’ve got this all wrong. Do you think we invite you just because we’re being polite?”
Neal’s silence was answer enough. Peter’s eyes widened, then softened. “Do you think we named our son after you, just for the heck of it?” he whispered.
“No. You named him after me because I was dead,” Neal said bitterly. It was an honor he had deserved only if he had stayed dead. Now that he was back, every time he turned to the sound of the Burke’s calling for their son, he was reminded of the last horrible con he had pulled.
“Yes. You were dead,” Peter said. How strange it was, to recall so much grief for someone who was right in front of him. “So if I look at you sometimes, and I get this strange look in my eyes- it’s not because I’m angry at you. It’s because I can’t quite believe that you’re here, and that something horrible won’t happen to change that. That one day, you won’t come back.” Peter paused, leaning forward. He had to make sure the young man heard him. “I don’t have nightmares because you’re here, Neal. I have nightmares because you leave.”
In the dark, Peter saw Neal’s eyebrows rise in surprise. He had a flight back to Paris tomorrow; in the confusion of their conversation, he had almost forgotten.
He couldn’t understand what Peter was saying though; all these years since their reunion, things had never quite felt the same between them, and he thought it was because what he had done was unforgivable. Irredeemable. The Burkes kept in touch, and invited him every year- for nostalgia, Neal assumed, and possibly because they felt sorry for him.
“But… doesn’t it remind you of what I did?” Neal asked hesitantly. “Me being here?”
“No. Not at all. It just reminds me of how much I miss you.”
Neal’s breath hitched. Peter spoke so easily then, as if he wasn’t undoing years of Neal’s misinterpretations.
“Why- why haven’t you ever said that before?” Neal stammered out, and began to feel hot tears fall down his face.
All these years, and Peter had never said he’d missed Neal in the times between their annual reunion. And it hurt, because Neal missed Peter like hell.
“Oh Neal.” Peter leaned forward, and wrapped Neal in a hug. This one was not like those that they gave each other as Neal left for the airport each year- that quick kind, punctuated with a slap on the back. This time, when Peter pulled away, he kept a hand on Neal’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. If I never made that clear, then that’s my fault. Ever since I realized you weren’t dead, weren’t gone forever, I’ve been afraid of smothering you. Of making you not want to come back.”
“I’ll always come back,” Neal said, hesitantly adding. “If you’ll have me.”
“Of course we’ll have you. But you never stay,” Peter said, smiling sadly.
“You know I have to go back to Paris. My job- and I love Paris,” he finished lamely.
“Yes, you love Paris, I know,” Peter said, waving a hand like it was a fact that perpetually annoyed him. “But does it feel like home?”
Neal thought of the brilliant museums, the cobbled streets, the delicious cafes. Then he thought of all the long days filled with lonesome meals, and all the times he’d think of something to say, and have no one to say it to.
“No.”
“Does New York?”
He thought of lunches with June, his random rendezvous spots with Mozzie in corners of the park he never knew existed. Of breakfast with the Burkes, and falling asleep on their couch when Peter played yet another tacky Christmas movie because it was “tradition.” Of watching Peter and El playing with their son, who considered older Neal’s card tricks to be one of the greatest wonders of his small universe.
“Yes.”
“Then come back,” Peter said desperately. “Come back for the summer. Come for the fall and spring, too. You don’t have to stay here, but- please, Neal. If you don’t know that you’re family to us by now, then I don’t know what else to say.”
Neal studied Peter, and for the first time in years, he noticed the fondness in Peter’s eyes; all the love that he had told himself couldn’t be there, laid before him. This time, Neal hugged Peter. And as he nestled his head onto his shoulder, chin itched by the scratchy threads of his sweater, he said simply, “Okay. I’ll come back. I promise.”