This fic is long overdue. It was initially a gift-response to this fic, for an AU outcome in the Trouble In Paradise verse and was supposed to be all about Neal and Diana, but Peter came in and stole all the limelight. It's not really done, but it's as done as it's getting given it's been sitting around for seven months. Takes place before Peter knew about Neal and Keller's history together. So, uh, enjoy?
--
“Neal? It’s Diana. I- I. I shot Keller. He’s dead.”
It meant something, that she called him first. It meant something -- what did it mean?
--
But death was never a victory.
Neither was murder.
--
“You’re grieving.”
It had been three days since Diana called with the news; three days since she turned in her badge and gun. They were still waiting on a hearing, but big profile cases wait for no hiccup in the bureaucratic machine and everyone was walking on eggshells. OPR was snooping again, waiting for the infallible Peter Burke to trip up and give them reason to shut the entire division down. They needed to prove they could still work as a team, but bored stiff in the van, they were all beginning to feel the acuity of Diana's loss.
Peter's words were a challenge, carefully tailored. He had been watching like a hawk. Neal deliberately misunderstood them.
“C’mon, our guy sniffs out our plan and makes off with eighty-thousand dollars of Steve Tabernacle’s priceless contemporary art? Of course I’m smarting. If you’d just let me--”
He could feel Peter's eyes, judging, but he took the bait. Said, a bit gruffly, “Eighty thousand dollars of priceless contemporary art you didn’t actually own.”
“Steve owned it.”
“Steve never obtained it legally.”
He couldn’t argue with that so he fell silent. But it wasn’t the money he was angry about, not the art or the operation. He had been robbed of something far more valuable. Revenge. Goodbye. The chance to be the person on the other side of that gun. Another person he cared about, once. Another link to the past and to Kate and it seemed to him that everyday he was burning bridges.
Eventually, he’d run out of bridges.
“He’s not grieving,” Jones injected, and maybe Neal was just imagining the edge to his smile. “He’s just jealous our perp foiled his plan and got away clean. Face it, Caffrey. He outsmarted you.”
“Well, I wasn’t the one who lost track of him in the first place,” Neal countered, folding his hands behind his head. “I like his style. Besides, I don’t think he’ll stay gone. He’s not done with New York yet.”
“Don’t get attached,” Peter groused. “You just got rid of an old rival, we don’t need you looking for a new one.”
Neal shrugged. “Maybe Diana can just shoot him, then, and save us the trouble.”
It was supposed to be a jest, but from the startled looks it got him, he missed the mark. Peter gave him a look that spoke volumes in disappointment, a look that said you pushed too far.
“That’s cold, Caffrey,” Jones said, his voice devoid of warmth, and the look he shot Peter over Neal’s head made him feel like he didn’t exist.
Jones was always an enigma. More of a comrade than an ally, more of a colleague than a friend; Neal always figured Jones tolerated him because Peter did, that he could just as easily turn off that camaraderie like a switch. Neal imagined he could hear it switching, the click as it turned off. The change took something of the warmth in the van with it, or maybe he was just imagining it.
He wanted to take the words back and swallow them but there was some reckless part of him that wasn’t sorry, and he didn’t know why. Like a toothache, he had to keep poking.
“The truth hurts, Jones.”
“Neal.” Peter's voice made him feel like a child and it soured the victory singing in his chest. Jones ducked discreetly out the back door and disappeared. “Is there something we need to discuss?”
"Nope!" Neal answered, oppressively cheerful. His voice echoed against the tin walls of the van and ricocheted, sounding far too loud in the trapped space. "Although Steve might want a word concerning his now empty gallery space. He just can't stand the sight of white walls."
Peter just narrowed his eyes and hummed at him in a way that meant this isn't over, and Neal, knocked down and gathering his dignity, let that stand as a victory.
--
"It was never about the paintings," Peter said, showing up suddenly on Neal's doorstep three hours later with a case of beer hanging from his fingertips, the lapels of his overcoat dotted with rain. He came inside without asking, and Neal was left holding the door, staring for a moment out at the paneled hallway.
"By all means, Peter, come in," he quipped. Peter either didn't hear him, or didn't care. He was too busy setting the beer down on the table, tossing his raincoat across the back of a chair like staying was a forgone conclusion. Neal considered the beer and the keen look in Peter's eyes at the door and figured he was in for a long night.
"What was so urgent that it couldn't wait until morning?" He asked, eyeing the dripping coat with distaste as he moved around the table to fetch a glass for his wine. The table was a barrier between them, which Neal pretended not to notice as he perused his choices and settled on a Rioja red. "I doubt Steve's recent acquisitional loss is enough to send you over here in the rain to gloat. You got those digs in earlier. Gearing up for a repeat performance, Gene Kelly? All you’re missing is an umbrella--"
“I got it,” Peter said, holding up a hand. He shook his head a fraction, annoyingly obstinate, refusing the bait. “You’re grieving."
“What?” Neal blinked, derailed, waiting for Peter to retract those words, or for them to start making sense, whichever happened first. Neither did. When nothing more was forthcoming, and Peter continued to stare at him in that irritatingly patient way that made Neal think he’d make a great father, someday, he added, “Peter, that’s ridiculous. I don’t grieve. The art was a loss, but Steve'll live.”
"Not about the paintings, Neal," Peter spoke with such exasperation that Neal felt it like a sting to injured pride. He dismissed art like it didn’t matter, like the paintings were just objects on par with any dollar-a-dozen rendition stacked like cozies in a thrift store attic. He seized tight to that feeling, like a loose thread, and pulled.
“Do you know how many artists you just offended? ‘Cause there are plenty of people in the world who would take offense to what you just implied. Even up and coming contemporaries like Gualdoni."
"Neal."
Something inside him was tensing. He never liked to walk into any conversation blind if he could help it, but Peter's presence and his words were suddenly starting to make a whole lot of sense and it was the kind of sense that made Neal want to run, fast, in the other direction
"I'm just saying. How would you feel if someone took off with Mickey Mantle's baseball bat? Just because it's inanimate doesn't mean people won't grieve for it. Look at Sherlock Holmes. When Conan-Doyle killed him off, people walked around town in black armbands like they were mourning for a real person, not a fictional character."
"You're not mourning for a fictional character. You're mourning for Keller."
Neal stopped. And stared. But the words and Peter still remained. Finally, he said,
"You're kidding me, right?"
Peter just kept up that steady stare. “You tell me.”
He felt that itch kick up under his skin, an old survival instinct from his days on the run. Peter kept talking.
“There’s something I can’t get my head around. I’m hoping you might be able to shed some light.” A pause. The itch intensified. “What was Keller to you?”
“Unstable?” Neal offered. “An egomaniac? A murderer?”
“That's funny," Peter said without humor. "C'mon, Neal. I know you two had a history. There’s more to this than a few chess matches and an old bet. This is something personal, or we wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation right now.”
“Uh, we’re not having any conversation right now. A conversation would be civil -- which this is not, and hopefully based on something a little more substantial than your deductive skills. You think I’m grieving? Peter, you don’t know me half as well as I thought you did.”
“Dammit Neal, stop." Peter sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, sounding as tired as he looked. "I didn’t come here to yell at you. This isn’t an accusation, here. I'm here as a friend.”
--
“Rioja,” Peter said contemplatively, sometime later, nodding at the bottle as Neal refilled his glass. “I like Spanish red. Any significance?”
Neal froze comically, the bottle tipped on its side and sloshing its contents into the glass like a red tide. He righted it and set it down on the table. His hands felt suddenly cold and empty without it, but instead of reaching for the glass, he gripped the back of his chair and leaned into it, casually.
“No,” he hedged. “Why do you ask?”
Peter gave him a sharp look, the detective look. The look that made people single him out as an FBI agent. “Your wine always has some sort of significance. Some story behind it.”
“Sometimes wine is wine, Peter.” Neal shrugged, and picked his glass up to prove a point. It didn’t bite him, or burn his fingers, and Neal was momentarily surprised.
“Aw, c’mon-”
“Nope. Anyone who brings me $6 bottles of wine shouldn’t be allowed to ruminate on the significance of their more privileged counterparts. I don’t think you’re qualified to have this discussion.”
--
“What do you think?”
“I think there’s more to Spain than some antique coin collector.”
"Yes," Peter said, interpreting Neal's wide-eyed look. "I remember. Keller was telling me that story and you interrupted him."
"I figure it was need to know--"
Peter held up a hand and started counting off on his fingers. "So there was that job in Barcelona. "
"Madrid."
"Whatever, and now-"
"And I'm drinking Spanish wine. Wow, you've got quite a case there, Matlock. Any other incriminating evidence you want to bring to light? You gonna point fingers at the chili con carne I have in my fridge from a few nights ago or--"
Peter's eyes slid around the room, appraising, Neal thought, but then he reached out and slid an old book across the table.
"This looks old," he said, running his hands along the worn cover.
"It is," Neal answered, reaching for it. "Can you not touch--"
Peter tipped the cover and then, noting the blip in the pages, followed the crease with his finger until the book lay open on the table. It's spine was well past cracked and lay flat, exposing the bulky text with its intricate gilt-lettered pages, and two innocuous postcards.
"Hmm." Peter dutifully ignored them to run his finger down a gold-lettered passage. "I'd say ...seventeenth century?"
Neal shrugged. "Probably closer to seventeen and a half."
"I doubt this is a family heirloom." That look again. "It's also--"
"Spanish. Yeah, Peter, I get it. You're sensing a theme."
"Do I have to point out the postcards or are we good there?"
"I'm just wondering, have you ever heard the phrase 'correlation does not equal causation?'"
"I have."
"So..?" Neal prompted.
"So, what happened in Spain?"
Neal groaned. "Peter, you're impossible."
"So nothing happened? You and Keller didn't run the gamut on illegal outfits from art and antiquities theft to forgery to stock fraud while soaking up the Spanish sunshine?"
Neal said nothing.
"Stupid question. What I want to know is, what makes it so personal for you? I thought you hated Keller. The way you're acting, it's almost like you two were friendly."
"We were, once."
Peter looked surprised at the admission, but didn’t push it.
"Is that where Kate comes in?"
Neal recoiled almost physically. "What makes you think Kate has anything to do with this?"
"I've never seen you so maudlin over anyone else. Besides, there's always been a thing between you two and Kate."
Peter broke off with a frown when Neal started laughing. It had started as a quiet chuckle but somewhere along the way it traveled down his body, gathering strength until his shoulders were shaking with mirth.
"What?"
"Nothing," Neal said, recovering quickly and wiping his eyes. "Nothing. "
"You know you can tell me anything, right? Whatever it was, I'm not here to judge. I'm tying to help you. You're my friend, Neal, and you're obviously having a tough time here. I saw how you were after Kate."
Neal jolted, bristling, on-guard, shoulders up. Peter's voice softened. "I don't want to lose you like that again."
--
"Diana shouldn't have shot Keller," Neal said finally, staring at his hands.
Peter looked up in surprise. His voice was soft, almost fond. "I agree with you. I'm glad you think that way. Although I'm not sure we're seeing eye to eye here. I know why I think she shouldn't have done it, but why do you?"
"It was the wrong thing to do," Neal answered. "You said it yourself, a long time ago. Revenge or justice, you can't have both."
"You wanted to be the one holding that gun," Peter guessed, and it was Neal's turn to look surprised. "You think you could have done it? Pulled the trigger?"
"I didn't," Neal said, ignoring the way it wasn’t an answer.
"Quit evading. We both know that."
They fell into silence. Peter let it hang suspended between them, waiting. Half of dealing with Neal was a study in patience. He could afford to wait. After a few moments, Neal dropped his gaze to the wine glass and seized it, a physical anchor, a distraction for his hands. He spoke quietly, slowly, and Peter let the words come at their own pace.
"Keller made our lives hell. He hurt you, Elizabeth. Kono. I won't say he deserved it, but-" he shrugged, almost sheepishly.
Peter understood. That was just who Neal was. He wasn't the kind of guy who wished death on his enemies, even people like Keller who did all they could to earn it. It was one of the reasons he had taken a liking to him, all those years ago. He was struck again with the realization that Neal was a good guy, and something like pride swelled in his chest at the thought, that he was here to see it happen.
Still, he had to ask. “You don’t think he deserved it?”
Neal seemed to recognize the driving force behind the question. He shook his head. “Not like this. No one deserved this. Not even Keller.”
--
“More urgently, Diana.”
“Diana.”
“Are you two gonna be okay?”
Neal shrugged. "We will be."
"Look at that," Peter said, in his proving a point voice. "You're on stage five already."
"Stage five?"
"Uh-huh. Acceptance. Elizabeth was a smart woman."
"You mean 'is' a smart woman?"
"Elizabeth Burke is a genius. I'm talking about Kübler-Ross."
Neal stared at him, unimpressed. "Really?" He said flatly. "The five stages of loss and grief?"
Peter shrugged. "Tell me I'm wrong."
Neal said nothing. Peter smiled, a little jaded, a little sad. He stood, leaving his wine glass half-empty, and clapped Neal on the shoulder when he went to grab his coat.
"Whenever you're ready to talk, buddy."
"Yeah," Neal said to Peter's retreating back. By the time he downed the rest of Peter's glass, Peter was already too far away to hear. "Thanks."
"Mom... Can we finally have that talk again... Bagel's been a good dog and I've been taking care of him... Can we make him part of the Barrigan Family.... I know Neal got him for me behind your back.... But Bagel is been an asset..."
The job is three months in the making and planned to a T, until their mark, Bryan, gets handsy just because he thinks he can.
Diana breaks his nose (and one, or both, of his arms) and then offers Sara dinner.
Sara counters with an invite to her hotel room, room service dutifully provided by Emily June (whose existence is legit in everything but flesh), and they spend the night doing things with their mouths that are a lot more interesting than eating.
So, my thread with on-burkes-leash has made me seriously consider what would happen at a wedding reception with a guest list containing most of the characters from White Collar and Suits.
When I wake up I get really scared because I don’t know if you’re still here or maybe you went back to New York because you liked it there a lot maybe more than here, so I go look in your room just to make sure you’re still here and you are and that makes me really happy.
