Chapter Text
A week after Elizabeth is kidnapped and subsequently rescued, Peter starts asking him questions.
In truth, the line of it probably started in the midst of everything; when they didn’t know where Elizabeth was, or where Mozzie was, or where the treasure was. When Peter’s entire world was on the verge of a destructive earthquake, when nothing was okay, when he was hurt, and confused, and angry, and lost. They’d sat together at Neal’s kitchen table, waiting, and Peter had asked him then: Why did you stay?
Today, he asks on the drive into the office.
It’s early morning. They’re getting closer to closing the case with the prep school, where he's posing as a substitute teacher even though he wasn’t asked to. Maybe that’s why it’s on Peter’s mind, or maybe it’s just a convenient opportunity for him to ask something he had probably been curious about since Neal mentioned it. It had been a year ago, by now. Back when they created a fake high school yearbook for him to work undercover on a case he hardly even remembers, anymore.
Traffic is particularly bad for a Tuesday morning, and they’ve stalled at a red light now for two changes. Impatience and restlessness build and swell in Neal’s chest and he has to resist the urge to fidget. Every time he reaches for the knob to the radio, Peter glares at him. He takes to swirling around the melted ice in his coffee, instead, until it’s watered down enough to be almost unappealing. Then he sets it back down in the holder, watches idly as condensation builds on the sides and slowly drips down onto the napkin it’s rested on. Blue ink from a hastily written note bleeds through, and he hopes whatever Peter had put down on it wasn’t too important.
He’s considering asking about it when Peter asks him first.
“Why did you never graduate high school?”
Neal frowns, glances up at him, but Peter is good at playing unassuming, sometimes, and right now is one of those times. A skill he had probably picked up working undercover. He’s relaxed into the backrest as much as he can while he’s in the driver’s seat, hands lightly resting on the steering wheel, fingers drumming along to the quiet music floating in the air. He’s staring out the windshield, maybe refusing to look at Neal or maybe just giving him privacy. He doesn’t usually ask personal questions.
He hardly ever asks about his childhood, his life before he became James Bonds and thus, a target for the FBI. The last time, he thinks, was the copy cat case, and the same question, too, and Neal had brushed him off then.
Neal hesitates. He considers smiling, telling him a joke that’s not a lie even if it’s not quite what he’s looking for, like he usually does when Peter asks him something uncomfortable. He’s good at doing that, alluding to something close to truth without flat out lying to Peter, because he doesn’t lie to Peter. He’ll hide things from him, omit certain details to work in his favor—like the treasure—or he’ll say something true that doesn’t hold to context, all without blatantly lying.
Except since the treasure, and especially since Keller, it’s been obvious Peter is trying to trust him again. And he’s earning that trust back piece by piece. Maybe this is another way for him to figure out his boundaries again, and decide just how much he should allow Neal back into his life. Neal gets it—he hurt Peter more than he ever wanted to—and he doesn’t blame him for it.
But he also misses how close they were, before any of this happened.
So Neal shrugs and picks up his drink again if only to stall for a little bit. He’ll tell Peter the truth—he deserves that much, at least—but there are some things he’s not ready to share, yet. He left WitSec when he was eighteen, but there are still people he cares about that rely on their protection.
And there are still some things he knows he hasn’t dealt with even in the last fifteen or so years. Maybe he’ll never be ready to poke at those scars, but now he thinks it’s something he’ll have to prepare himself for.
Neal thinks of dinner at the Burke’s dinning room table, of sharing coffee at June’s on slower mornings, and jokes and stories traded in the back of the van on stakeouts. He thinks of going undercover with Peter at his side, and all the closeness that comes with that: shared, knowing looks, inside jokes and trusting each other completely.
Whatever Peter wants to know, he’ll tell him.
Neal shrugs, sets his coffee back in the cup holder and makes himself look up at Peter, to meet his eyes when he glances his way.
“I packed a bag and left two months before graduation,” he says. Peter doesn’t react much except to nod, to show he’s listening. “I haven’t so much as stepped foot in Missouri since.”
Neal braces himself for the next, inevitable question: Why? He thinks of his answer, tries to prepare it on his tongue, but the truth is so convoluted he doesn’t know what he’ll even say. His decision, at first, had been spur of the moment, made without consideration of any consequences that might stem from it. He had no plan, no name, no idea where to go or what to do.
He’s trying to think of how to explain this to Peter in the time the two blocks from work gives him, tries to figure out how to describe his feelings of betrayal without telling him about Witness Protection, or his father, or even his childhood dreams of following in his footsteps. Not yet, anyways. Maybe it’s selfish, but he wants to keep that part of him hidden for a little longer, at least. He never even told Moz, or Kate. Never told anyone.
He’s not sure how to even say it.
But all Peter does is nod, and say, “Okay.”
Neal nods back. “Okay.”
He tries not to sag in relief, and pushes away the lingering thoughts of St. Lois, and the harsh secrets of his childhood. Peter will probably ask it later, but right now, that’s all he has to say.
He doesn’t offer him anything else. Another time, maybe.
Neal gets Elizabeth a well worn copy of Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier for her birthday, with the original cover art from its first print, as well as a not too expensive bottle of champagne. He gives them to her two days after her birthday, wrapped neatly in pearly white paper and a simple blue ribbon. The day of had been too crowded and busy, with her parents in town, the case with Sara and her ex, and even having Mozzie acting as a buffer between Peter and his too-intense father-in-law.
By the time he steps out of the cab and into the warm, March air, it’s near dinner time. The neighborhood is mostly quiet; in the distance, he hears the faint sound of children laughing.
The curtains are drawn open when he steps up to the front porch, and inside he can only just see the tv flickering, hear the ghost of a crowd cheering seeping out through an open window somewhere nearby. A game, it sounds like.
He knocks, and when Peter opens the door, he’s wearing blue jeans with a simple dark green t-shirt.
“No sweater today?” Neal asks, grinning.
Peter rolls his eyes, but he steps aside and opens the door wider to allow him in. “Too late,” he says, closing the door. “They left about an hour ago.”
“Guess there’s always next year,” Neal quips. He grins, tucks the book under one arm to pet Satchmo when he noses at his leg. “Actually, you know my birthday’s coming up. We could always—”
“No,” Peter interrupts. He takes the wrapped book and the bottle from him, turns halfway around and pauses, as if only just realizing something important. Neal waits for him to say something, but he doesn’t. He just frowns at him, purses his lips and continues on his way towards the kitchen table.
Neal frowns, raises his at Satchmo and shrugs, but he lets it go. “Where’s El?”
Peter sighs. He sets the gifts on the table, turns towards the fridge and leans down to grab two bottles of beer. Neal grimaces, but shrugs, and takes one for himself, anyway.
“Her girlfriends from work wanted to take her out yesterday, but they postponed because her parents were in town.”
“Sounds fun,” Neal says, following Peter to the living room. “So it’s just us tonight.”
“Just us,” Peter says, groaning in what Neal thinks, personally, is an unprecedented amount of relief. He sits down on the couch, slouching down and resting his socked feet on the coffee table. “Just us, a couple of beers, and the game.”
“Great.” Neal, surreptitiously, glances towards the closest of El’s bookshelves, and quietly steals a copy of East of Eden before joining him on the couch.
Satchmo yawns, lying down at his feet and closing his eyes. Neal nods, quietly agreeing with him. He’s never been one for sports—although he will admit to having run track in high school. But he’s content enough to just be near Peter, hanging out, even if they’re not doing the same thing. He sets the beer, unopened, on the table next to Peter’s feet, and opens the book to Part One.
He’s almost to the part where Adam leaves home for the war when Peter nudges his knee against his, and Neal realizes, belatedly, that he’s talking to him. He closes the book and looks up, raising his eyebrows. The tv is muted now, playing commercials. He hadn’t noticed.
“What was that?”
Peter nods, points one finger to his still unopened beer. “You gonna drink that?”
Neal grins, shakes his head. “Be my guest.”
Peter twists the top off, tosses the cap back on the table and leans back. He takes a sip, looks to Neal instead of the tv.
And then, casually, he asks, “What were your parents like?”
Neal pauses, thrown off for all of five seconds. Then he sighs, silently reminds himself of his own quiet promise to tell Peter the truth.
Still. It is a bit of a loaded question.
“I already told you about my father,” Neal says, and it isn’t a lie. He did tell Peter about his father—the version of his father he learned from his mother, and grew up believing in wholeheartedly until it hurt.
Peter doesn’t press, even though Neal is pretty sure he sees through his soft deception. He just nods and says, easy enough, “Okay. Tell me about your mother, then.”
Neal frowns, shifting again, near uncomfortable.
He thinks of St. Lois, of early mornings when he was far too young, and having breakfast by himself, different stuffed animals rotated in and out of his mother’s empty seat. He remembers the times he often had to wake her up, or ask Ellen or a neighbor to take him to school, instead. And when he was able, he spent as much time at school as he possibly could—he thrived there, in a way he never had at home. It seemed his whole life, his mother was either too absent, or too present, and he often felt suffocated in her presence.
He read a lot when he was young, because it was quiet, and not something she would disapprove of—like playing outside with the neighborhood kids. When he was too young, he was in danger of telling them all his real name, or something seemingly innocuous about their life before everything happened. When he was slightly older, she was afraid of him simply acting like a child his age, rough housing and getting hurt. Once, when he was seven, he fell from a tree in their yard, and broke his arm in two places. She grounded him until the cast came off, and he was never allowed afterwards to even play on a play set without supervision—not that that stopped him, if he’s being honest. He didn’t understand, at the time, that they had no birth certificates, and were denied coverage because they couldn’t prove they were citizens.
Later, he ran into similar problems with college applications and scholarships. Because he was underage, the marshals wouldn’t let him leave the program, and without a valid birth certificate or social security number, he didn’t have a chance for college.
He’d planned on leaving the day he turned eighteen, on going the academy like his Dad. Going to college, making his own life away from Daniel Brooks and his mother.
Ellen saved him from that fate. She waited until the day he turned eighteen, on his real birthday, not the day he always celebrated in October. She told him the truth. Instead of leaving to escape his mother and become his father, he’d left for himself and become something else.
That was the last day he’d seen either of them, his mother or Ellen. It had been March. Fifteen years have passed.
He wonders if he’ll ever go back to Missouri.
He doesn’t think he will.
“She was . . . not enough, and simultaneously too much. I learned to look after myself pretty quickly, and to stay out of trouble—or at least, not let her know about it,” he admits, thinking of his quiet rebellion when he first learned the thrill of lying and stealing. “But my . . . aunt was there, when she could be. I learned a lot from her.”
Including how to shoot a gun, and hustle at pool, but that’s probably a story for another time.
“Are you still close?” Peter asks. “Your aunt, I mean.”
Neal shakes his head. He doesn’t say why—maybe he’s not even sure, himself. “No. I haven’t seen either of them since I was a teenager.”
“Well,” Peter says, and when he shifts he looks slightly uncomfortable, like he doesn’t really know how to respond to that. Eventually, he pats Neal’s knee, a little awkwardly, and passes him the beer he’d taken from him earlier.
“Well,” Neal agrees, and takes a sip from the bottle even though he knows he won’t like the taste.
Peter clears his throat when he takes the beer back, and takes another quick sip. He frowns, and then points the bottle neck towards East of Eden, discarded on the table when he first muted the game to talk.
“I hated that book in high school,” he says.
“Me too,” Neal admits, and laughs.
“Is your real name Neal?” Peter asks, voice soft but almost echoing in the enclosed space. Neal nearly startles at the sound, sudden when they’ve been quiet for almost a full five minutes, now, but he hides it well enough, with the dark between them. In here, there are no windows.
The power is out. With it, the air conditioning. Sweat beads along his hairline, slick and uncomfortable as it slides down the back of his neck. His tie is already undone, taken off and folded in his lap. His jacket is off, too, draped across one shelf above him, nestled carefully into stacks of bundled cash and blue dye packs. For this job, the suit he’s wearing, though expensive, is technically the Bureau’s. He doesn’t care if it’s ruined either way.
He, Peter, Diana and Jones were all hired to test rob the bank, this time. The people they’re after hit each location as a group of four, just after closing time. To strengthen security and establish a track for how they might gather evidence from other banks, they all went in as a team.
Jones and Diana were lucky enough to be outside of the vault when it closed automatically just after the power was shot. The backup generator works, but only for the necessities and the vault is not one of them. Diana is probably in a near similar situation in the lobby—dim lighting, if any, atmosphere hot and stuffy—but at least the van has air conditioning. And windows.
They have about three hours before Neal thinks they should start to be concerned, but so far the periodic blackouts plaguing the city have only lasted around fifteen minutes.
Even so, Neal has never been more jealous of Jones.
“Really?” Neal deadpans, raising one eyebrow even though he knows Peter won’t be able to see that, even right in front of him. They’re sitting on the ground across from each other, each against one wall, but the space is narrow enough so their feet nearly touch. Even though he can’t see him, or even the outline of him, Neal can feel his presence close by. “You’re asking that right now?”
“Is it?” Peter asks. He hears him shift on the floor, hears the scuff of his shoes on marble, and he groans as he, presumably, yawns and stretches. Like he hasn’t just asked Neal an incredibly personal question while undercover and uncomfortable.
Neal sighs. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, closes his eyes and lets his head drop limply against the wall. “It’s a long story.”
“What else are we going to do?”
“I bet I could crack the lock on the vault from this side, all we need is—”
“Neal,” Peter says. “You’re not cracking the safe without the power—that door is five hundred pounds and you know it.” He moves, puts one hand on Neal’s ankle. It’s heavy, and too warm against the bare spot where the anklet should be. They’d taken it off for the case, but he knows after they’re done here it’ll be back.
His commutation is coming up.
He has no idea what’s going to happen. Kramer is in town, and he talked to Ellen only two days ago. Things could either go his way—or not.
He doesn’t want to think about the or not.
“I’m pretty sure I could,” he says, although it’s something he would have to try to find out. He looks over to the vault door he can’t even see, considers standing and feeling his way around. He purposefully left his phone in the van with Jones, but—“Do you have your phone? I need a flashlight.”
Peter groans. But he moves his hand away, and Neal takes the opportunity to shift away from him, fold his legs halfway underneath himself. He unbuttons his shirt, folds it down just enough to feel the cold wall smooth against his bare shoulders. The shock of it gives him goosebumps and he leans into it, slouching.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Peter says, and his voice is gentle and honest. He means it. If Neal doesn’t want to tell him, he won’t push.
It’s as annoying as it is annoyingly touching.
Neal sighs again. He closes his eyes, drums his fingers against the flooring. “My real name is Neal, Peter.”
“Okay,” Peter says, like he doesn’t believe him. Which is even more slightly irritating, except—he didn’t grow up with the name Neal. Even if it’s his real name, he didn’t know it until he was eighteen years old.
He wonders what Peter would say if he knew he left the Witness Protection Program and assumed his real name again, despite the apparent danger that was associated with his family. So far, no one has sought him out. Not his father, or the Irish mob, or any dirty cops that may have slipped through Justice’s fingers. But he’s also spent most of his adult life constantly moving. Aside from prison, of course, but even then no one bothered him. And now, stuck in the same place for four years, nothing has happened.
Then again, just because nothing has happened doesn’t mean nothing could happen. After all, it had taken decades for the Dentist to catch up with Mozzie. He knows the possibility is there.
He can imagine both Peter and Mozzie lecturing him about it, and frowns.
“My mother’s maiden name is Caffrey,” he offers, stalling as he considers between telling him right now and telling him another time. After his commutation, maybe. “I changed it when I was eighteen.”
Peter hums in the dark. “Is that when you found out? About your father?”
“Yeah,” Neal says, softly. “Been going by Caffrey ever since.”
He expects another question after that. Maybe a what was your name before? Or How did you find out? Peter, as usual, surprises him.
“You know,” he offers, quietly, “for a while there, we thought your real name was Nick Halden. His name was on our paperwork for six months before we realized.”
Neal smiles. “Then you had to change it all to Neal Caffrey instead?”
“No. Then we had to change it all to John Doe instead.”
He laughs. “What was wrong with James Bonds?”
Peter groans. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
Neal grins. He knows, with the darkness settled in between them, Peter won’t see it. But he hopes he’ll hear the mischief and pride in his voice. “Never.”
Neal recognizes the cake sitting out on the counter from his own bakery. It’s the same one from the line he’d just put out this morning, when he stopped by for a little bit to bake and people watch before work. It’s a strawberry cake, a thin layer of dark chocolate frosting coating it, a ring of strawberries at the top edge. Candy letters adorn the top, neatly spelling out Happy Birthday, Neal!
“I can’t tell if this is an elaborate April Fool’s joke or if you guys genuinely want to have a birthday party for me,” Neal says, but he obediently ducks his head enough for Diana to secure a pointed party hat on him. Judging by the tiny pile of presents on the Burke’s coffee table, it’s the latter. Maybe both. “You guys know my birthday was last week, right?”
“Sure, Caffrey,” Jones says, patting him on the back. He points his beer at the cake, then nods towards the dimly lit oven. “But I’m not about to pass up an opportunity to eat cake from the greatest bakery—”
“It’s the Greatest Cake,” Neal interrupts, but Jones ignores him. ‘“The Great Escape.”’
“—or some of Mrs. Burke’s famous lasagna. So play along.” He takes a sip of his beer.
“I can play along,” Neal agrees, swiping a strawberry from the top of the cake. Diana swats his hand. “Hey! It’s my birthday.”
She rolls her eyes, but before she can say anything, Peter interrupts, swinging the back door open and stepping inside just behind Satchmo. Neal grins, leans down and lets Satch nose at his hand before scratching behind his ears.
“Hey, you guys made it,” Peter says, closing the door.
“Caffrey’s trying to eat the cake without us, boss.”
Peter frowns, but he doesn’t seem all that surprised. “Neal—”
“Are we snitching?” Neal asks, interrupting. “Because Diana hit me.”
“It was a love tap.”
“Believe me,” Jones says, shrugging, “she can hit harder.”
“Okay, okay,” Peter says, steering him away from the counter by the cake. He opens the back door again, where Neal can just barely see they’ve moved a picnic table onto the cobble of their patio. “Enough fighting, children.”
Neal almost retorts something childish, along the lines of But, Dad, except right when he opens his mouth, he’s distracted. “Seriously?”
“I was told there would be wine,” Mozzie says, cheering him with a glass.
Elizabeth laughs. She stands from the table, abandoning her own glass of wine, and hugs him. “Hey, sweetie. Happy April Fool’s. And happy birthday.”
Neal hugs her back, uses the opportunity to whisper in her ear, “You know it’s not actually my birthday, right?”
“Well,” El says, stepping back and shrugging, “we missed it last year. And this year. Oh, and Peter thinks you’re lying about the date.”
Jones and Diana laugh. He watches them exchange a loaded glance as they sit down at the table—probably, there’s a bet going on around the office about his real birthday. Peter huffs, sounding exasperated, but he doesn’t deny it. Neal grins. “Should I be flattered?”
“No,” Peter says, annoyed. “Who lies about their birthday?”
“And about their age,” Mozzie says, helpfully. “Though that’s just speculation on my part.”
“Thanks, Moz,” Neal says, sarcastically. He sits down at the table between him and Peter, across from Jones and Diana, Elizabeth directly in front of him.
“We’re all entitled to our secrets,” Mozzie says, pouring him a glass of wine and handing it over. '”Reveal not every secret you have to a friend, for how can you tell but that friend may hereafter become an enemy.”’
“How inspiring,” Peter says, dryly.
“Does that apply to your birthday, though?” Jones asks.
Neal grins. “It might. But, you know, I’ve always liked the second half of that quote better. ‘And bring not all mischief you are able to upon an enemy, for he may one day become your friend.”’
“Aw, how sweet,” Elizabeth says, nudging Peter, who ducks his head and tries to hide his grin.
“Yeah, I like that better.”
“To friends, then?” Diana asks, raising her beer bottle.
Neal raises his own glass, clinks the rim against everyone else’s drinks. “To friends.”
“Presents?” Elizabeth asks, setting her glass back on the table. “Then we can eat. How’s that?”
“Oh, you better open those presents fast, Caffrey. I’m only here for the lasagna.”
Neal laughs. “I’ll open them as slowly as possible, just for you, Jones.”
Peter grins, stands up from the table and steps away. “I’ll get them, I need another beer, anyway.”
Neal stands up, too. “I’ll help.”
Surprisingly, Peter doesn’t say no. He nods, so Neal falls into step just behind him. He closes the door once they’re inside, muffles the sound of laughter at something Elizabeth says. He grins. “You think I’m lying about my birthday? You know I’ve never lied to you.”
“I know,” Peter says, opening the fridge and grabbing a beer, “which is how I know you’re lying. Your birth certificate says Caffrey. You told me you changed it when you were eighteen, and I believe you.”
“Well,” Neal says, “that doesn’t mean I’m lying about my birthday. There’s a bet going on around the office, isn’t there?”
Peter grins. “There might be. So, when’s your birthday, Neal?”
“Sorry to make you lose your bet, Peter, but I was born on March 21st.”
“1970?”
“It was the 70’s, at least.”
“I knew it.” He takes a sip of his new beer, tosses the cap in the trash on his way into the living room. “How old are you?”
“Well, we’re celebrating my fortieth. But I’m actually thirty-three.”
Peter stops dead in his tracks. Neal almost bumps into him. “What?”
“You’re thirty-three. Thirty-three,” he says, exasperated. “I was expecting thirty-nine, maybe thirty-eight. Hell, I wouldn’t have been surprised if you told me you were forty-three.”
“Hey,” Neal says, playing offended.
Peter shakes his head. “Thirty-three. You know this makes you youngest in the office.”
Neal raises his eyebrows as Peter hands him a few gift-wrapped boxes. “Does it?”
“You have to be thirty-five to become an agent.”
“Oops,” Neal says, following him back through the dining room.
Peter grabs his beer before he opens the door, shaking his head. He lets Neal step through, closes it behind him. “I can’t believe you.”
“Can’t believe what?” Elizabeth asks.
Neal shrugs, putting the few gifts on the table and sitting down. “I think I just made him lose his bet.”
Peter sits back down beside him. “Technically, no one wins.”
“Damn,” Jones says, like he doesn’t care at all. “Hurry up and open your presents.”
“He hasn’t eaten all day,” Diana says, hiding her smile behind her beer bottle.
“Alright, alright.” Neal grabs one box on top, wrapped conspicuously in faded newspapers. Mozzie’s doing, probably. Before he can tear the paper, Peter blocks his hand.
“Hold on. Forgot about this one.” He tosses a small box, about the size of his palm, onto the top of the stack, wrapped in blue striped paper. “Might wanna open that one first, actually.”
Neal raises his eyebrows, but he shrugs and takes the smaller one, instead. He rips the paper open, leaves the wrapping on the table, and takes the lid off.
Inside is the key to his anklet.
Neal laughs, suddenly overwhelmed. “You heard back from the board?”
“You’re a free man,” Peter says, and Elizabeth starts clapping. Everyone else follows suit.
“And this isn’t an April—”
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Diana says, and alright. Admittedly, that would be a little extreme.
“It’s real,” Moz says. “Hurry up and take it off before the Man corrupts you further.”
Neal shifts, folding his leg up on the bench and lifting his pant leg. He hands the key back to Peter. “You wanna do the honors?”
Peter grins. He grabs the key, unlocks the anklet for the last time, and tosses it on the table.
“A shame, really,” Mozzie says, and sniffs. “I was this close to cracking it.”
Neal laughs.
The drive to the office is tense, quiet. Peter’s hands on the steering wheel are white-knuckled. His mouth is pursed. He doesn’t say, I’m sorry, or, They’ll be fine, or even offer to go with him when they get there, to be moral support when Jay tells him—whatever she wants to tell him.
Neal can’t stop looking at their pictures. He can’t stop looking at Caleb’s icy blue eyes, or his mother’s and brother’s golden brown eyes. He does the math in his head again, even though he doesn’t need to. Ten years.
It could be his kid.
“Can we get a DNA test?” he asks, breaking the silence.
Peter shifts uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. Neal grips the handle of the door as the car jerks forward. He’s never been an easy passenger. “I actually already scheduled you one.” He winces, glances over at him before looking back at the road. His tone is apologetic, still, and Neal gets it but he’s tired of it. He never knows how to act when he’s not in control. “As soon as I found out.”
Neal nods, slowly. “Thanks.” He hesitates. He doesn’t know what to say, how to start. He should tell him, now. It’s relevant. It’s what I would do, he’d said, earlier, but he should have said, It’s what I did.
Maybe they were really kidnapped. Maybe he is in denial.
“Listen, Peter—” he says, but the words crash into his; at the same time, Peter says his name. He hesitates, mouth a straight light, eyebrows pushed down. Neal shakes his head. “You go first.”
Peter sighs. His fingers tap the steering wheel. “Do you really think they just ran away?”
Neal looks out the window. He tries to think of his own time in WitSec, tries to imagine what would have happened if anyone found them, and the Marshal’s hadn’t been there. The thought of it makes him sick. He doubts they would have just kidnapped him or his mother or even Ellen. Leave no witnesses.
Kidnapping doesn’t make sense. Even if it did, why take the kids? Why not Jay, too? How would they have found them, when they’ve been in the program for a year now?
Running away makes more sense. It’s infinitely safer than the alternative. Maybe that’s what makes this option so desperate.
“I don’t know. I hope so.”
“Yeah,” Peter sighs. He clears his throat. His voice is still rough, almost wet. “Me too.” He pauses. “How old were you, when you ran away?”
“The first time or the last time?”
Peter makes a weird noise in the back of his throat. He coughs, uses one hand to unscrew the lid to his water bottle even though Neal could have done it for him. The car jerks again. Neal grimaces. Peter drinks, clears his throat again. “I don’t—both. Either. Whichever one is less heartbreaking.”
“It’s not heartbreaking, Peter, it’s just—alright, fine,” he says, when Peter looks at him with sad puppy dog eyes he never wants to see again. “The first time, I was probably six or seven. It wasn’t really running away so much as it was running to Ellen’s and getting lost.”
He’d been missing for half a day, at least. He remembers the marshals questioning him, afterward, staying in a hotel on vacation with Mom and Ellen and their ‘friends’ in the conjoined room next door. He thinks they all went by different names then, too, but he doesn’t know, can’t remember. He was young. He’d just gotten lost.
This is an easy city to get lost in, Neal thinks. Especially if you’re some sixteen year old kid trying to navigate an unfamiliar part of the city, all while dragging along your ten year old little brother on his birthday.
If they ran away, anyway.
We’ll find them. They’ll be fine.
“And the last time?” Peter says, drawing his attention back to his original question.
“I was eighteen. My aunt and I had—-it wasn’t an argument, not really. But it was tough, and I was a kid, so—I packed a bag and I left. Traveled for a few years. Got myself in and out of trouble. Eventually made my way to New York, met Moz . . . you know the rest.”
Peter hums. “I’m sorry,” he says, when he parks the car. He kills the engine. The following silence is deafening, almost dizzying. Neal waits for more. Nothing comes.
“What for?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. You ready?”
Neal looks back down at the photos of Jay, Jamie and Caleb. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Peter nods. They step out of the car, into the parking garage. Neal notices a few unfamiliar black SUV’s at the end of the line. Ford Escapes. Probably the marshals. Jay is already here.
Peter keeps one hand on his shoulder the entire way up to the twenty- first floor.
The air around them is thick, sweltering hot, heavy and damp against his skin. The walk to their destination is only one block, but Neal’s already ditched his hat even before they decided to wander outside. It’s too hot for it today. The humidity bleeds into his hairline, curls the longer wisps of his hair in a light sweat, and the fabric it’s made out of is far too expensive for that. He’d left it abandoned on the console of the van, next to a discarded and forgotten book describing the intricacies of Baroque. Peter had taken it from Neal’s personal library two weeks before, for a case that fizzled out and died like a dead end street.
Privately, he thinks this case will do the same. He doubts their suspect is stupid enough to do the same thing again so quickly after the last time. He considers complaining, but doesn’t. Peter’s mood always sours in the heat, and anyway, he thinks Peter already knows.
Besides. Playing a widower for this case is hard for him, he knows. Especially with Elizabeth out of town—pretending his wife is dead, coming home to an empty bed—he can tell this one is hitting Peter far too close to home. He’d rather annoy his friend into a better mood instead of actually complaining about a case he knows they’re both tired of.
“Hey, Dad. After this, you should buy me an ice cream cone. It’s hot.”
Next to him, Peter snorts indignantly. “Just because we’re undercover as father and son, doesn’t mean you suddenly turn into a twelve year old, Neal.”
“Is that a no?” Neal asks, stepping slightly in front of Peter to open the door. The metal of the handle is almost too hot in his hands, but as he swings it open, cold air comes rushing out to meet them. He sighs in relief.
“Who am I kidding?” Peter mutters, sliding past him and into the lobby. “You’re always like this.”
Neal grins, but doesn’t retort anymore. He schools his face as he slips inside just behind Peter, and subtlety changes his posture and gait to be less confident, more relaxed.
Inside the funeral home it’s dim, low lighting and soft shadows it takes a few seconds to adjust to. Neal blinks, squints in the dark. He takes a moment to casually glance around, noting the layout: the hallway to the right that leads to the bathrooms, the chapel room to the left, straight ahead the viewing rooms, and next to them, a connected office.
They’re there for the last few details for the arrangement on Peter Solomon’s wife’s funeral. The synthetic diamond wedding ring, the gem-encrusted necklace and the matching earrings he made for this case sit heavy in his pocket, a gps attachment hidden in the clasp of the jewelry. It’s a simple enough set, elegant and incredibly expensive, with the line of real diamonds throughout, but it’s easy enough to switch out with something even readily available from the mall.
The receptionist greets them warmly, then leads them back to the office to meet with the owner, Thomas Wright of Wright’s Mortuary. The first time Neal met the man he was skittish, nervous and distracted.
Neal shakes the man’s hand with a smile, subtly wipes his palm on the front of his suit afterwards. Once this case is over with, he’ll have to get it dry cleaned.
Or just throw it out entirely, Neal thinks sarcastically, watching as the man coughs into his fist before shaking Peter’s hand.
“Peter, Nick. Thank you for joining me,” Thomas says, leading them to the desk and motioning for them to sit down. “This meeting shouldn’t take long, I promise. There’s only a few things left to discuss.”
“Right,” Peter agrees, pulling out a chair and sitting down next to Neal. “My son and I have a request, actually.”
Neal slides the jewelry out of his pocket, lays it flat on the desk, watching Thomas’s reaction as he does. He seems interested, but he’s good at hiding it; he’s not over eager.
“Before she died, Mom gave a lot of her jewelry to my wife,” Neal says. “But these were her favorites. Dad, Kate and I agreed, she should be wearing these—for the viewing, at least.”
”We realize,” Peter says, and he shifts like he’s uncomfortable, apologetic, “that it’s late notice. Everything is tomorrow, I know.”
”It’s not too late to make minor changes,” Thomas assures them. He swiftly lifts the jewelry up, inspects it for himself. Then he leans forward, presses a button on the phone. “I’ll have my wife take these. Maria is already preparing everything tomorrow, so this is just in time.” Then he leans forward, presses a button on the phone and reiterates everything to the receptionist.
Neal’s expecting their other suspect to walk through the door, take the jewelry set from them and switch it before tomorrow. They’ve narrowed it down to either her or the husband or both, given their current financial status, and the fact that they’re the only real employees capable of pulling it off—no one else has access to the safe they store their clients’ belongings in.
He’s not really expecting a teenager to walk through the door. Neal frowns, exchanges a quiet glance with Peter.
The son is supposed to be spending the summer out of state. According to their intel, anyway.
“Sam,” Thomas starts, but the kid cuts him off.
“Mom sent me,” he says. “She’s busy.” He casts a nervous glance in their direction. Neal smiles on reflex. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“It’s alright,” Peter says.
“Don’t worry about it,” Neal says, watching as he grabs the necklace. He frowns. Watches the kid leave, as he shuts the door, head down, just as nervous as his father. Something more is going on.
This works better, actually. Leave the boring part of fake funeral planning to Peter. He can slip back in when he’s done.
“Actually,” Neal says, when Thomas addresses a question towards him he wasn’t paying attention to, “I was just about to go grab a smoke. You got this, right, Dad?”
Peter glares at him. “I thought you were quitting,” he says, pointedly.
“I will after the funeral. Promise.” He smiles, reassuring even though Peter isn’t having it, and sticks his pinky finger out like a kid. He rolls his eyes, but he hooks his finger around Neal’s and keeps his glare. Don’t do anything stupid, he hears, but Peter hasn’t said anything.
Neal smiles, apologizes to him and Thomas once more and quietly slips out the door. The hallway is empty, silent; almost eerie. He hesitates, then follows it down to the corner, where the staircase leads down to the morgue and private area. The safe is down there, too. Probably, it’s where Sam went.
He thinks of when he was the kid’s age, and all the trouble he got into—all the things Ellen stuck her neck out to protect him from.
The sign on the door reads Employees Only. Neal glances around, makes sure there’s no cameras before he clicks his watch off and picks the automatic lock. He follows the stairs down, until he gets to the landing. The basement is even colder than it was upstairs. He finds himself almost wishing for the unbearable heat outside.
But he’s down here, and he’s not turning around, and just down the hall there’s an open door. Practically inviting him in. Neal accepts the invite with grace and silently slips through the open doorway.
It’s another office, similar to the one upstairs, less well-lit, less inviting. Sam stands with his back to him, safe open, empty. He’s taking pictures of the necklace, sprawled out across the desk he’s facing.
“Sam, right?” Neal says, and the kid startles, spinning around, wide-eyed. “Not planning on selling that, are you? Because—”
Sam turns again, fumbling the necklace before quickly turning back to the safe—and pulling out a gun.
Neal raises his hands slightly in front of his chest, palms open, empty. He takes a step back. “Okay.” Maybe shouldn’t have led with that. “Listen, I can help, but the FBI—”
The gun cracks. Neal gasps, stumbles back, and at the same time, the gun clatters to the ground.
Blood drips down his wrist in a steady, quick river. He presses it against his chest, wincing. His arm is suddenly, intensely numb. It doesn’t hurt—it feels asleep, almost, tv static and needles.
Seconds pass. Sam stares at him, frozen. Like he doesn’t know what to do or how to react.
Neal feels much the same. He opens his mouth, It’s okay, I’m fine, but nothing comes out. He swallows again, takes another step back and presses his back against the wall, steadying himself.
“Oh, God,” Sam says. “I—I didn’t—”
Noise erupts outside. Shouts and footsteps. Suddenly, the room is crowded, Peter and Jones and Diana, and Sam is crying but he’s fine. He watches Jones kick the gun away, watches him put his hand on the kid’s shoulder, and then Peter fills his line of sight and he’s distracted. He can see the others leaving just out of the corner of his eye, can hear Diana pushing everyone out and saying Give them space, Jones reading the Miranda, but it doesn’t matter. Peter takes precedence.
“Hey, Dad,” Neal says, and he tries to make it a joke but it comes out strangled. Fear claws at his chest. “Would you believe me—if I said I got lost?”
”Absolutely not,” Peter says, but his voice is surprisingly gentle. He holsters his gun, strips his jacket off. “Sit down.”
Neal nods, and although Peter hovers over him, one hand outstretched just in case, he lets him slide down to the ground by himself. His arm jostles; the feeling of pins and needles intensifies. He winces.
“You’re gonna be fine,” Peter says, gently grabbing his hand and pulling his arm away from his chest. The feeling of the blood on his skin, his arm, hot and wet and sticky as it peels away from the fabric of his shirt, is sickening. Neal gags. Peter wraps his own jacket around his arm, staunching the blood flow. “Sorry.”
”It—it doesn’t hurt,” Neal says, and he’s panting now. He can’t breathe. It’s hot in here, stuffy and suffocating. He can’t breathe. “I can’t feel my arm. Oh, God. Peter, I can’t feel my arm.”
”Neal—”
”I think I’m having a panic attack,” he admits, still gasping for breath, but he’s not getting any air, it’s too thick, or maybe too thin, but but it’s not—it’s not—he can’t—
“Okay,” Peter says, calm, steady. “That’s okay. You’re fine. Breathe. Hey—what was the first thing you ever stole?”
Neal groans. His chest hurts. His arm is—a phantom. He can’t feel it. He can’t breathe. “You’re—you’re trying to distract me.”
“Is it working?”
Neal closes his eyes. Peter shifts. The world tilts, breathless. “Hey, come on, Neal. Focus. What was the first thing you ever stole? Come on.”
”It—it was a key card.”
“Okay, good, a key card. Good. What for? A hotel? A museum?”
It’s so hot. The air is too thick, and the blood seeping through his clothes and Peter’s fingers is too warm, too red and present. He can’t—
“Neal,” Peter says.
”No, it—it was for my elem—my elementary school.” He gasps. The room is dizzy. Don’t panic. The first thing he stole. Distraction. Breathe, don’t panic. “My—mother kept . . . I was always late, kept getting deten—detention.”
“Okay,” Peter says, except—except. “Okay, so you stole a key card. Then what?”
He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. Something’s wrong.
”Neal?”
”I don’t feel good,” Neal mumbles and gags, coughing. The back of his throat tastes metallic.
Peter swears. The room spins, tilts on its axis, it’s two dimensional—the earth is flat, Mozzie was right. Neal can’t breathe, can’t think. He feels—bad. Not good. I don’t feel good don’t bother me; Ginsberg. Kate’s favorite. Kate’s dead.
Peter will be so upset if he dies.