Chapter Text
There was a very strong Oriental man on either side of Peter holding each of his arms in a tight grip. The formidable pair made sure that the FBI agent was positioned, front and center, to witness the terrible debacle before him. Neal was lying on the floor of a warehouse enduring a seemingly never-ending torture. Again and again, the downward plunge of the rebar tore into his prone body. The evil man wielding the instrument of cruelty seemed caught up in a frenzy, so, over and over, Peter heard the nauseating sound of unyielding metal thwack into human muscle and bone. Neal had stopped crying out and moving long ago, even before the SWAT team finally breached the space. When Peter’s captors saw the weapons pointed at them and reluctantly released him, all that a distraught FBI agent could do was sink to his knees and begin a mournful keening.
~~~~~~~~~~
Peter and Neal had gone undercover a few weeks before to infiltrate a Chinese triad who were heavy into the drug trade and human trafficking. Neal had posed as a potential backer for their enterprise, and Peter was supposed to have been his bodyguard. Somehow, Neal’s real identity must have been uncovered before this latest meeting that had turned deadly. Peter suspected that the lethal triad was determined to make an example of Neal before they put a bullet into Peter’s own brain. Peter’s FBI team had rescued their boss from certain death just in the nick of time, but they had been too late for Neal.
The polished mahogany casket sat atop a bier at the peaceful cemetery that overlooked Neal’s beloved New York City. June and Elizabeth had taken care of all the details because Peter remained almost in a frozen fugue state. He now sat in the row of chairs at the gravesite, silent and dry-eyed, simply because he had no more tears left in his body to shed. Thankfully, June had the fortitude to deliver the one and only eulogy that day. She was strong in the face of tragedy, having already been through this ceremony of grief more than once during her lifetime. Standing proud and tall, she began to speak in a soft voice.
“Neal was a very special and unique person—actually, one of a kind. I believe that many people may say that was a good thing because how would the world have handled more than one Neal Caffrey. But, they would have been so wrong. What this cruel world needs are more people like Neal. He had a good and gentle heart, and, when he loved, he loved fiercely, faithfully, and unconditionally. And, he was just as generous with his forgiveness—grudges simply were not his style. Why waste time with anger? Life was too short to embrace hatred. He preferred to reward his disparagers with one of his most charming smiles, and then he got on with the business of living.
Make no mistake, Neal loved life. I never saw him depressed or disheartened for very long. If there was a bump in the road, he just figured out a way to surmount it, and he got on with living. Actually, he grabbed life with both hands. It was almost as if he tried to cram everything into his existence as fast as he could. Perhaps he had a premonition warning him that his time on this earth would not be a lengthy one, and he would not live to be old.
Neal was many things to many people, and he touched a lot of lives in his few years with us. He was a surrogate son to me, and like a brother to others. And, he became so many other embodiments to those who gravitated into his orbit—a friend, a partner, a lover, a confidante, a champion. To put his life into perspective, he meant something to everyone here today. We will mourn him, but, we definitely will not ever forget him.”
You could hear a pin drop when June had concluded those brief, poignant words. She then genteelly grasped her granddaughter’s arm, and as she passed Neal’s traumatized handler on her exit from the gravesite, she bent down and whispered softly in his ear.
“Peter, please be kind enough to come to my home this evening around 8 PM.”
Peter thought that he may have nodded, but he wasn’t sure. He turned to answer June properly, but she had already melted into the vast crowd that had quietly assembled behind the immediate mourners. Peter was truly amazed at the turnout.
He saw Reese Hughes, Kyle Bancroft, and Walt Furlong all standing side by side, somber in their dark suits. Of course, Clinton and Diana were right behind them, and Peter was amazed to see Lauren Cruz. Apparently, the young agent had flown in from her present position in Chicago for the funeral. Sara had also flown in from London, and Peter noticed that she had literally shredded the tissue in her hands. Another redhead, Agent Kimberly Rice, was in the process of offering her more from her own purse.
The sheer number of people was astounding. Peter recognized many faces even though he could not put a name to the sundry file clerks and secretaries throughout the 21st floor of the FBI building. Peter would bet that Neal had known each and every one of their names, as well as those of their spouses and children. Neal was a people person, and “people” from all walks of life loved him. And, many owed him their lives.
There was UN Ambassador Adam Wilson and his son, Christopher Harlowe, whom Neal had saved from the possibility of a lifetime in a Myanmar prison. Next to them were the very wealthy Stuart Gless and his daughter, Lindsay. Lindsay did indeed owe her life to Neal’s temporary pact with an old foe. Then Peter’s eyes spied the elegant Sophie Covington. The beautiful blonde had obscured her face with a short, black veil from her small pillbox hat. It reminded Peter of another funeral—that of Sophie’s wealthy husband. Neal had saved her from being abducted that fateful day.
Josh and James Roland were also in attendance, with James holding fast to his small daughter’s hand. Savannah was safe because Neal had negotiated with her kidnapper until Peter could locate the child and whisk her away to safety. David Sullivan’s appearance took Peter back in time. It had been one of their early cases, with Peter and Neal ultimately taking down a corrupt judge and saving the Sullivan’s home from foreclosure.
Peter almost did not recognize Julianna Laslo because he had met her so many years before as well. The young woman’s grandmother had been the “Young Girl with Locket,” and, although Peter never called Neal on it, the FBI agent knew that his CI had made sure that the sentimental portrait remained in Julianna’s family.
Peter ticked off other mourners in his head. There was Dana and John Mitchell, Taryn Vandersant, and even the thin foreign model, Tara “something,” whom Neal had squired around during that over-the-top Fashion Week extravaganza that Neal threw, much to Hughes’ consternation.
The diminutive Dr. Drugov of the “impenetrable vest” invention was here to pay his respects to the man who had saved his life in a parking facility. Chloe Baker and Evan Leary, two star-crossed young lovers who met in an exclusive private school, solemnly held hands and mourned a kind and understanding mentor. Even Scott Rivers was present, escorted by a prison guard. Somehow, “Robin Hoodie” had managed to wrangle a bereavement pass to come to say goodbye to another brazen former thief—the one person whose words had managed to influence the outcome of Scott’s life.
Over the years of their sometimes-tumultuous partnership, Peter realized that he always had focused on Neal’s shortcomings and missteps. Now, seeing these people here today, Peter finally comprehended just how much good that Neal had done in those same years. It was humbling to register that fact only after Neal’s death. There was so much that Peter should have told him, but didn’t, when he was alive.
Mourners slowly began meandering quietly back to their cars, and Peter took note that there was one person conspicuously absent in the crowd. Peter kept scanning those departing figures looking for a small, bald man with thick glasses. Even if Mozzie had affected a disguise, he certainly could not hide his short stature. Peter thought he may have glimpsed a shadow lurking behind a grave monument of a large, ornate angel, but the afternoon light could have been playing tricks on his mind. Peter needed to connect with Neal’s best friend, because perhaps only Mozzie could truly share the depths of Peter’s sorrow.
~~~~~~~~~~
Later that night, Peter forced himself to drive to June’s home. As he parked his car at the curb, he could not help but notice that the mansion was lit up like a Christmas tree. A raucous party seemed to be in full swing when he rang the bell. June greeted him warmly, and with still-nimble pickpocketing fingers, relieved the FBI agent of his credentials and plopped them into a 17th century Japanese Imari porcelain bowl on the sideboard.
“There are no cops or robbers here tonight, Peter,” the lady of the house informed him. “The guests are all simply friends of Neal’s who are holding a good old-fashioned Irish wake in his honor.”
In a daze, Peter slowly made his way into the Grand Salon overflowing with people, all laughing, talking, and drinking. Gordon Taylor, the international heist mastermind, was tickling the ivories on the piano as Alex Hunter sang an old German drinking song in a surprisingly clear, sweet voice:
“Those were the days my friend
We thought they'd never end
We'd sing and dance forever and a day
We'd live the life we choose
We'd fight and never lose
For we were young and sure to have our way.
Those were the days, oh yes those were the days.”
The only other people that Peter recognized were the mysterious and sultry Egyptologist, Raquel Laroque, and Mozzie’s quirky, tech-savvy friend, “Sally-no last name.” He assumed the rest of the guests were members of the forger community, fences, and other con artists—a virtual cornucopia of crime from every walk of life.
Someone suddenly pushed a glass of single-malt Scotch into his hand, and then a hush fell over the room. Peter watched in fascination as Mozzie, eyes puffy and red, stepped into the center of things, and began a much-skewed rendition of Marc Antony’s tribute to Caesar upon his death.
“Friends, Fellow Miscreants, Suit, lend me your ears;
We come not to bury Neal, but to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them,
The good is oft interred with their bones.
Do not let it so be with Neal.
Let us talk of his deeds,
Let us laugh and celebrate his life.
He was our friend, but, alas, he is no more.”
Glasses were then raised in tribute and refilled again and again. One after the other, each “miscreant” claimed the floor and told outrageous tales of Neal’s cunning and daring. After all, that pesky “statute of limitations” was moot now. Some of these deeds were things that the FBI had always suspected Neal of committing, but could never prove. However, most of the more stunning exploits concerned crimes that Peter had never heard about because they had been carried out abroad. Peter was astounded at just how much felonious “living” Neal had managed to cram into his abbreviated existence. The FBI had only managed to scratch the surface.
Peter marveled at the fact, so evident now, that Neal had straddled two very different worlds. With suave finesse, he had swanned comfortably through both, never losing perspective nor panache. Neal could be whatever you needed him to be at any given time. Although a chameleon, he was sincere in whatever role that he was playing at the moment, so you believed in him. Peter had believed in him, as had Mozzie, and now, damn it, he was lost to them both!
Sometime around 2 AM, Peter had lost track of how many drinks that he had consumed. However, he realized that he was now very seriously inebriated. Most of the crowd had thinned out, and June’s hired help was collecting plates and glasses onto silver serving trays, a subtle hint that the farewell sendoff was over. Peter was dismayed to see that Mozzie was nowhere in sight. June, however, came and sat beside him and placed a gentle hand on his arm.
“I hope, Peter, that this ‘celebration’ of Neal’s life tonight may have helped a little. Grieving will be a different process for each of us, but we don’t have to travel that dark road alone.”
Peter simply stared mutely at the kind matron, not knowing if he had the coherence to answer politely. June certainly could read between the unsaid lines.
“Peter, you are seriously into your cups, and it would not be prudent or safe for you to drive. I can either call you a cab, or you can spend the rest of the morning here until you sober up.”
Peter found himself again gaping at this kind lady trying to process what she was saying. Finally, he managed to croak out a question of sorts.
“Neal’s room?”
“Of course, Darling. Can you make it up the stairs on your own?”
“Course I can,” Peter managed to slur.
That was a bit of drunken overstatement. By the third flight, Peter was literally crawling on his hands and knees, one step at a time. Nevertheless, somehow, when he entered the door to the loft, he felt that he had come home to a sanctuary. He flopped onto the bed, inhaling Neal’s lingering scent in the bed linens, and fell into a deep stupor that may have passed for sleep.
Sometime, in the pre-dawn hours, as the rays of the morning sun were barely cresting over the skyscrapers beyond, he opened his eyes and stared at his CI seated in a chair, one ankle crossed over a knee, watching him intently. Neal was wearing one of his spiffy three-piece suits, and the familiar fedora that he favored was cocked at a rakish angle on his head. The apparition that seemed to be Neal smiled fondly at Peter, but didn’t say a word. The hung-over agent felt comforted for the first time since his friend’s death. Peter exhaled deeply and closed his eyes once more, but when he opened them again hours later, Neal had vanished.
~~~~~~~~~~
At Hughes’ insistence, Peter had stayed home for a week. His first day back on the 21st floor of the FBI building had not gone well. When he exited the elevator and pushed through the glass doors, the first desk that he encountered was Neal’s. Peter immediately lost it and began bellowing, “Who did this? Who did this?!”
Diana was brave enough to stand and approach her boss.
“We thought it might be easier for you if we cleared away his things, Peter, so you wouldn’t be reminded of Neal every time that you looked down into the bullpen.”
“Well, maybe I want to be reminded of him,” Peter spat out at his favorite junior associate.
“It’s too damn soon to box up his life and pack it all away as if he never existed! Doesn’t anybody get that? It is disrespectful, and it’s cold and unfeeling.”
“I’m sorry, Peter. Everything—it’s all safe in your office,” Diana answered timidly.
Hughes had come out onto the little balcony and had witnessed Peter’s tantrum.
“Peter,” he said softly, “my office, please.”
And that is how Peter found himself with an open-ended bereavement leave of absence. It was definitely not a punishment, Hughes clarified. The old man realized the depth of the bond that Peter and Neal had shared, and it would be cruel and counterproductive to tell him to cowboy up. There was no expiration sell-by date on mourning, so Hughes would allow Peter to proceed at his own pace. He also suggested some psychological grief counseling, but he was pretty sure that fell on deaf ears. Peter arranged his features into a more bland façade, collected the cardboard banker’s box of Neal’s knickknacks, and stopped by Diana’s desk to apologize profusely for his outburst. Then he left the office barely half an hour after he had arrived.
~~~~~~~~~~
It was hard to be at loose ends with no schedule, no purpose, no objective other than to get his emotional life back on an even keel. That was easier said than done. In the days that followed, Peter found himself in a state of inertia. He now bought his favorite beer by the case instead of six-packs, and seemed rooted to the sofa staring at the television through daytime soaps, evening dramas, and interminable infomercials long after the late, late talk show hosts had signed off. El begged him to take a short vacation to some peaceful island, or, at least, to talk to a therapist. Peter ignored her pleas, and, night after night, his patient wife fell asleep alone in their bed.
Today, the long-suffering woman was out of town overseeing a large, intricate wedding on Long Island. As was his new habit, Peter had knocked back at least a half-dozen beers before noon, and was in a twilight doze on the sofa when Satchmo’s sudden whining pierced his consciousness. When Peter cracked an eye in the dog’s direction, he saw the Lab wagging his tail and looking excited. Well, he’d let him out into the backyard in a few seconds. Then the inebriated man felt something soft pelting his face, and groggily opened his eyes once again.
Neal was seated in the Windsor chair facing him with a toy trebuchet in his hands. He was launching small cannon balls made of paper in Peter’s direction, just as he once had done in the White Collar office. Today he was dressed in casual jeans and a sweater, and had an impish grin on his face. Peter simply stared at him in disbelief, suspecting that he had finally crossed into the realm of alcoholism with accompanying hallucinations.
“Yer not real,” Peter slurred as unequivocally as a drunken man could be.
Neal smiled sadly. “I’m as real as you need me to be, Peter. And, apparently, right now, you really do need me to be here. So, Partner, since you can’t seem to let me go, I suppose that I am in for the long haul.”