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Peter jolted awake to clanging resonating up his townhome stairs. The noise shook his brain significantly, resulting in Peter grumpily opening his eyes, groaning, and swinging his feet out of bed. He patted around the floor for his pajama pants that had been discarded due to…well, due to Elizabeth. Slipping the pjs on, he gazed at his lovely wife as she slept, her dark hair splayed against the white pillow, her curves almost glowing in the soft light. The rise and fall of her breathing was a high contrast to whatever racket was going on downstairs. Cursing the missed opportunity to ravish her, Peter shuffled downstairs.
When Peter reached the kitchen, he found Neal kneeling on the counter, his hand elbow deep into one of the top cabinets. Balanced on his knees, wearing gray sweatpants and one of Peter’s hoodies, he looked like a teenager digging around for a pop tart for breakfast.
Peter sighed and ran a hand down his face. Kate’s plane had blown up two days before and Neal was staying with Peter and Elizabeth. The marshals hadn’t wanted Neal unsupervised even at June’s while they deliberated as to whether to toss Neal back into jail for the whole Kate incident. Rather than placing Neal in a holding cell, Peter had pleaded for Neal to come home with him instead.
Peter almost lost Neal on that tarmac and wasn’t going to lose him again. Just the thought of it twisted Peter’s stomach into knots.
Neal drank himself into oblivion for the past two nights, crashing onto the Burke’s couch in a heap of fitful laughter and mutterings of Van Gogh and Picasso. The sight of a loose limbed, drunk Neal Caffrey was alarming to Peter and worried him sick. Neal Caffrey, who always donned the perfect appearance. Neal Caffrey, who's charm was always ample and overflowing into every crevice of humanity he touched. Neal Caffrey, who always had an escape plan.
But even Neal Caffrey did not have an escape plan for death. None can run from it. Death stretches out dark, curling fingers, gripping onto unexacting lives leaving an absence gaping and raw, plopping the living paralyzed into a foreign world.
And not even Neal Caffrey could charm his way out of grief.
Peter longed to take Neal into his arms and try to heal his wounds, but his words always got caught in his throat and his hands grew stiff if he tried to reach out to Neal. The last evening had ended with Peter tossing a blanket over Neal, watching him sleep fitfully for a few moments, and then collapsing into his own bed with Elizabeth in exhaustion.
Peter refocused on the crazed Neal in his kitchen, digging through his cabinets like a rabid raccoon.
“Neal,” Peter said, narrowing his eyes and crossing his arms.
“Goodmorning, Peter!” Neal said chipperly, “I have coffee brewing!”
Peter sniffed and sure enough, Neal did have an excellent roast wafting through the air--along with the scent of suppressed emotions, like grief.
“Whatcha need up there?” Peter asked suspiciously, studying the cabinet and racking his brain as to what on earth Neal needed besides coffee and ibuprofen at this hour—
“Ahhh…got it!” Neal leapt off the counter and waltzed over to his already-steaming cup of coffee.
In his hand gleamed a clear bottle of…
“Vodka?” Peter sputtered, eyes widening as he reached to snatch the bottle from Neal.
Since when was Neal actually his teenage son with an underdeveloped prefrontal cortex?!
Neal’s eyes slid to Peter as he lifted the bottle out of Peter’s grasp, plucked off the cap, and poured at least a half cup into his coffee. Peter let out a growl as he managed to grab the vodka bottle and place his hand flat over the coffee mug to prevent Neal from picking it up.
“Peter!” Neal whined.
“It’s six o’clock in the morning, you’re not having vodka.”
“In Paris, it’s noon.” Neal’s eyes gleamed as he began stretching his arm across the counter to grab the mug.
“Still not an appropriate time to have vodka,” Peter scowled, moving the mug out of Neal's grasp.
“But—”
Peter slid the mug to the sink and dumped its contents.
Silence.
The hum of the fridge.
Neal’s breathing, in and out.
Kate's plane exploding again and again and again. Ears ringing, heat suffocating, Neal's cries....
Neal abruptly turned to look out the window overlooking the patio, the back of his head displaying a rather wild patch of bedhead. It dawned on Peter that he’d never seen Neal so disheveled.
Peter stepped forward quietly, taking a glance at Neal’s face: dark bags tainted his perfect under-eye skin, his blue eyes bloodshot.
“Neal?” Peter said softly.
The silence continued and Peter almost turned away to put the vodka in his high-security safe when Neal whispered:
“She’s gone, Peter.”
Peter’s heart clenched.
Oh Neal.
He set the vodka on the counter and placed a hand on Neal’s shoulder.
“I know,” Peter said, giving Neal’s shoulder a squeeze, “I’m so sorry.”
Neal’s face crumbled, tears tumbling down his cheeks, all of his suppressed emotions giving way to a raw, hurting human.
Peter had no words, his chest aching as he watched the mask of Neal Caffrey slip away and a breaking heart come into view. He gently enveloped Neal into a hug, attempting to squeeze the broken pieces together.
“I wish she was still here,” Neal said, gripping Peter tightly, hot tears spilling onto Peter’s neck.
“I know,” Peter repeated, still unsure what to say, but continued to hold Neal as Neal's shoulders shook from crying.
“At least you’re still here,” Neal whispered.
The words were so quiet that Peter knew they were not meant for his ears, but his heart still shattered on to the kitchen floor. He kept his arms around Neal, hoping that his wordless communication would be enough.
I’ll always be here for you.
~~~~~~~~
2 Years later
Peter tore out of his bed, shirt soaked with sweat, mind running in circles tight enough to choke his heart. El slept soundlessly next to him (cuddling with her pregnancy pillow, not Peter) so Peter tiptoed downstairs and began to brew a cup of coffee.
Everywhere Peter looked, Neal stared back at him. Neal sat on the couch, grinning wildly. Neal was throwing his rubber-band ball in the office. Neal flipped his hat at Peter’s front door. Neal laughed as he and Elizabeth ate dinner.
Those intelligent, bright eyes haunted Peter, wove their way into his veins, spreading depression throughout his body like a cold IV. Neal had driven Peter crazy while he was alive, but at least his light had filled Peter’s soul, made him whole. Now, Peter was no less insane over Neal, but was now broken, no light to brighten his heart.
Peter’s eyes burned as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push Neal’s face from his mind.
Please, leave me alone. Peter begged, suddenly willing to do anything just to erase the memory of Neal, to dull the pain.
In a mad frenzy, Peter climbed onto the counter and reached into the highest cabinet, pulling out a bottle of vodka. He opened the bottle and proceeded to combine vodka with his coffee, humming to himself as he mumbled:
“Just to take the edge off…”
He was going to be a father in a few weeks, he couldn’t be still dealing with this grief—-
“It’s six o’clock in the morning, you’re not having vodka.”
Peter looked up, startled at the smooth male voice.
There was Neal in his kitchen, dressed impeccably in a beautiful tailored suit and Devore fedora. His eyes were glittering, his skin rosy, his chest rising and falling with life.
Peter shook his head, trying to dissipate the vision.
“You’re not real,” Peter said, forcing his eyes shut, trying to banish Neal, trying so hard that stars erupted behind his eyelids.
He opened his eyes and Neal was still there, pouring his vodka-filled coffee cup into the sink.
“Hey!” Peter exclaimed, snatching the mug back and lifting it to his lips, “It’s noon in Paris! You’re in my head, you can’t just—”
Neal's face flickered at the word Paris, a shadow passing as his smile faded.
“Peter,” Neal said softly, his eyes growing melancholy.
“I know,” Peter whispered, setting the mug down, “I…I have to be strong. For El, for…our son.”
Neal nodded and extended a hand to Peter over the counter. Peter reached for Neal’s fingertips, hand trembling, but retracted it before they could touch. He had to get a grip of reality, he couldn’t be reaching for ghosts. His hand fell to the countertop with a thud, his eyes focused at his own clenched fist.
“You’re allowed to break down, Peter,” Neal said gently, “But you have to let me go.”
Peter’s eyes filled to the brim, overflowing with hot anger.
“I can’t just let you go! You–you–-were—are– a part of me!” Peter said, slamming a hand against his own chest over his heart, “I—I loved you!”
Sobs overtook Peter’s body as he braced himself against the kitchen counter, the months of holding back his sorrow finally gushing out. He’d allowed his guilt to fester and take root, growing into a poison that was killing him slowly. The loss of light in his life had turned Peter into a walking corpse himself, dead-eyed and unmotivated as the days ticked by, darkness devouring him whole.
Elizabeth deserved better, his job deserved better, his son—hell, everyone deserved better but Peter was barely holding on as grief and guilt shackled him in darkness. The tears kept coming, his shoulders heaving with the weight of it all, face in his hands, heart screaming in near-silent agony.
A slender hand found Peter’s shoulder. Peter turned and pulled Neal into him, Peter didn’t care if this was his grief-ridden mind hallucinating, he was going to hold on to Neal as long as he—
And in a blink, Neal vanished. Peter sunk to the kitchen floor, hugging himself, hoping the world would just swallow him up right then and there.
Neal was dead.
Peter’s heart ached, his body throbbed with the absence of Neal…
But he had a job to do, a husband to be, and father to become. Those brilliant blue eyes taunted him, urged him to keep going. It’s what Neal would have wanted.
Peter inhaled and exhaled through his lips, cheeks stinging from salty tears. Gradually, he stood and wiped his eyes.
He took the vodka and dumped it down the sink.
It was time to move on.
~~~~~~
Post-Canon
Peter and Neal stumbled into the kitchen, sides aching from laughter, eyes puffy from tears.
“Boys!” Elizabeth hissed from the living room, “Keep it down! Sleeping baby upstairs!”
They both quieted their giggles as they prowled the kitchen cabinets, searching for something in which toast their recent reunion. Peter had arrived in New York around 3 am, Neal in tow, and they spent the first half-hour at the Burke’s home just staring at Peter's baby son sleeping in his crib. The second half hour was dedicated to a lecture from Elizabeth on Neal’s foolishness. The last two hours were Peter and Neal, sitting on the couch, talking and talking and talking until their throats were dry and all the tears had turned into laughter.
Peter had found Neal, after that year of absolute hell. Neal was alive and here, living and breathing in his townhome once more.
“Let’s just make coffee,” Peter said, “It’s almost six am. God. I’m going to feel like shit today.”
Peter started the coffee.
Neal audibly balked with a cry of distress.
“No! You cannot welcome me back to New York with coffee–as much as I adore it. Where’s that Bordeaux I sent you last week?” Neal said, sweeping into the kitchen and scanning the countertops.
“Oh, Elizabeth and I drank that immediately.”
“So much for delayed gratification,” Neal snorted.
Peter glared.
“You’ve been dead for a year, I think my skills in delayed gratification are—”
“Okay okay, fair enough,” Neal said quietly, guiltily, the mood dampening.
The air sizzled around them uncomfortably.
“I’m pouring us coffee,” Peter stated, grabbing two mugs from a lower shelf.
“How about this?” Neal said as he clambered up on the counter and found the vodka bottle (a new one) on the top shelf.
Peter rolled his eyes, but grinned nonetheless.
“It’s six o’clock in the morning—” Peter started.
“...You’re not having vodka,” Neal finished softly, as if he’d said the words before, too, as if Peter’s vision had been real after all.
Peter met Neal’s eyes. He was angry, so angry he could punch Neal for what he’d put him through. But he also was so grateful that Neal was alive, he felt he could vomit right there on the kitchen floor. Peter's fury dissolved, his affection for Neal rising in his heart, cooling his mind.
You're alive, was all Peter could think, over and over and over until he believed it. Until he no longer doubted that Neal was here in his kitchen as he'd seen him in so many nightmares and visions.
“Damn it, Neal,” Peter whispered wetly, unscrewing the cap and pouring a drop in two coffee cups, then filling them with steaming coffee, “It’s noon in Paris.”
This time, Neal’s eyes filled, his bright face clouded.
Guilt gripped Peter’s heart yet again (would that ever go away? The pressing guilt that somehow, Neal's "death" had been Peter's fault entirely?).
“You’re alive,” Peter said hurriedly, rushing to erase the sorrow between them, raising his mug to Neal.
Neal swallowed and looked away, unable to meet Peter’s stare.
“Neal,” Peter pressed gently, placing a firm hand on Neal’s shoulder, “I’m glad you’re home.”
A tiny smile cracked through Neal’s lips as those blue eyes grew misty. He picked up the coffee mug slowly, his eyes searching Peter’s. Peter felt as if Neal could see his soul, open and battered; Peter didn’t care. He wanted Neal to see. Peter wanted Neal to know how much he was loved.
They clinked mugs and took a sip, then set their mugs down, grimacing.
Peter shuddered and Neal wrinkled his nose.
“Doesn’t taste nearly as good as it sounds,” Peter murmured.
Neal laughed brightly and Peter caught his eyes, a grin pulling at his lips.
Neal’s eyes were shining, his radiant energy infecting Peter once again and Peter couldn’t resist the joy that welled in his heart. He practically attacked Neal with a hug, wrapping his arms around him, hands pressing firmly into Neal’s back, Neal’s own fingers curling into Peter’s shirt, clinging to him.
“It may be noon in Paris, but I'm glad I'm here.” Neal whispered softly, “This is home."