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White Collar fic: Three Sunsets in Solitude
Title: Three Sunsets in Solitude
Fandom: White Collar
Word Count: 1700
Pairing: Gen and Peter/Elizabeth
Summary: Three missing scenes for 3x11, taking place the night before the final scene in the episode. Spoilers for 3x11.
Cross-posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/324912
I. Peter & Elizabeth
For a long time after the FBI left them alone in the house, all they could do was hold each other.
Then, after locking the door thoroughly, they went upstairs and took a shower. Peter took his gun with him and laid it beside the sink, after locking the bathroom door as well. He knew exactly what he was doing -- how many articles had he read? how many crime victims had he interviewed? -- and, at the same time, couldn't stop himself. He wondered if he would ever feel safe in his own home again.
There was no burning sexual desire, just the need to touch each other, to see and feel each other. And the need to be clean. Here, too, he'd dealt with enough victims of crime to know that what Elizabeth needed to wash off wasn't physical. And perhaps it wasn't for him, either; he could still feel the places where Keller had touched him, struck him, as if he'd been branded.
They washed each other's bodies, and Elizabeth carefully cleaned and tended his scrapes and bruises, crying a little when she did so. He cleaned the scratches that she'd suffered from broken window glass -- brave Elizabeth, remarkable Elizabeth -- and maybe he cried a little, too.
Clean and bandaged and dressed only in bathrobes, they went back downstairs -- Peter took his gun. There was half a leftover pizza, legacy of the FBI agents who'd been in and out of the house constantly for the last 24 hours. Peter, moving carefully so as not to aggravate his bruises, microwaved four slices on a plate, while El took two cold beers out onto the deck.
El sat in Peter's lap and they ate in silence, feeding Satchmo the crusts and watching their own little sliver of sky above the townhouses shading through sunset-pink into deep, star-studded purple.
Tomorrow would come in its own time: tomorrow, and everything to be dealt with then. Right now there was only tonight, and each other.
II. Neal
The bottle of wine was sitting on Neal's table when he entered his apartment, limping and exhausted, his mind a confused whirl of emotion. Diana had dropped him off at June's. They hadn't spoken much on the drive. He wasn't certain how much damage he'd done to his tentative friendships with Diana and Jones, and tomorrow it wouldn't matter anyway.
The bottle of wine was one that he'd noticed in June's wine cellar -- noticed, and left alone, because it was her best vintage. Even Mozzie didn't have the heart to drink it. And here it was, with no note, just the bottle and a single glass.
He'd given up trying to figure out how June knew things.
He poured himself a glass and settled on the couch, trying to find a position that didn't hurt. One glass would have to be his limit, because he could tell he was going to need painkillers in order to sleep tonight. But it was, indeed, very good wine.
Outside the glass doors of June's loft, the sun was setting, tinting the buildings a muted palette of orange, rose, and salmon. Neal didn't turn on the lights, instead enjoying the view, along with the wine, as the sunset bathed the loft in warm, glowing colors.
No wine in prison, excellent or otherwise. Not even the screw-top swill that Peter had brought to his apartment last year.
How long? he wondered. How old would he be when he finally saw the sky without chainlink and barbed wire in the way? Fifty? Sixty?
Barring the possibility of escape, of course. But he had a feeling it wasn't going to be easy this time around. And he wasn't sure if he wanted to. He'd made it through three and a half years before, and only escaped in the end because he had to find Kate. It was nice to know that the possibility existed, but he'd really meant to serve out his sentence, even then, and walk out the door a free man.
Of course, that had been four years. Not an impossible stretch of time. He wondered if he'd have the mental fortitude to endure twenty. Or forty. To wake up to the same concrete walls each day, knowing that he'd get out of prison an old man, when the handful of people he loved were dead or had forgotten him.
He should probably be spending this, his last night of freedom, living it up -- enjoying all the things he wouldn't have twelve hours from now. But somehow he just didn't feel like it. Maybe it was simply that he really didn't want to get up from this couch right now. But maybe it was more than that. The last couple of days had really put it all in perspective. Everything he could think of that he might be doing tonight -- dancing, clubbing, gambling, eating at the best restaurant in Manhattan -- paled by comparison to what they'd actually managed to accomplish today.
Maybe later, when he'd finished his glass of wine and the sunset's last roseate glow had faded from the sky, he'd go downstairs and see if June wanted to join him for a game or two of Scrabble. Honestly, he couldn't think of anything he'd rather do on his last night of freedom than that: a quiet night in, maybe some takeout food, and the pleasant company of a friend.
Neal drew a deep breath and let his eyes roam around the room, cataloguing everything. The beautifully framed silkscreen that June had brought up to the loft last Christmas. The cashmere scarf Sara had accidentally left behind, that he kept meaning to return. The houseplant Elizabeth had given him. The rubber-band ball he'd swiped from work.
Everywhere a memory.
It should hurt, he thought. He should be terrified, and unhappy, and a lot of other things. But instead there was a feeling that he couldn't even identify for a time. It wasn't happiness, exactly. It was more like a sort of contentment, of inner peace, tinged with gentle regret.
For the first time in months, he no longer felt torn apart. He was no longer living each day braced for discovery, braced to lose one friend or another, braced to make a decision that he didn't want to make.
The worst that could possibly happen had happened. And yet. Elizabeth was safe. Mozzie was speaking to him again. Peter didn't hate him.
He'd lost everything. And yet, in the grand scheme of things, he hadn't really lost anything at all.
III. Mozzie
He'd cleaned out his commonly used safehouses already -- and, if he knew Neal, all of them were probably compromised to the feds at this point anyway. But there were still a few, the ones even Neal didn't know about. Bolt holes, really, places to go when he had nowhere else to go. Not that this had to mean uncomfortable, necessarily. He watched the sun setting over the ocean from the third floor of an abandoned warehouse, with Bach playing softly on a battery-powered CD player, a glass of excellent French burgundy at his elbow, and Sun Tzu's Art of War open on the floor beside him.
Never let it be said that, when going into battle, he didn't consult the best.
A twelve-hour head start, Neal had said. Twelve hours before every fed in the city would be looking for him, including, no doubt, the implacable Peter Burke.
If he had any sense, he'd be headed out of town as fast as he could. But he'd been there, done that, got the proverbial T-shirt. And fate, karma, coincidence or whatever force ran the universe had conspired to drag him back to the city. New York, apparently, was where he was meant to be. And New York was where he planned to stay.
Besides, it was a good strategy. Sun Tzu would have approved. For a while, at least, New York would be the last place they'd look. And it was his home ground. He knew every inch of the city. He had lots of connections here, people who could hide him when needed, and supply him with the things he'd need to dodge the Man.
People, if he were to be completely honest with himself, that he'd miss.
Mozzie had always enjoyed his own company above all others. He'd spent many nights just like this: a glass of wine, some pleasant music, a good book. And that was exactly what he'd been planning on doing tonight.
Except it wasn't enough.
Damn it. Neal had corrupted him far beyond what he'd ever realized. Neal -- and not just Neal, but Neal's entire web of friends and acquaintances. The Suits. June. Everyone.
Or maybe it wasn't Neal's fault at all, and he'd been changing for a long time; he just hadn't wanted to admit it to himself.
The thought of calling Neal crossed his mind. The kid was probably brooding over his upcoming martyrdom; as a dutiful friend, it was Mozzie's job to do what he could by way of pleasant distraction. Except ... they'd said a very poignant, poetic goodbye at the Suits' place. It would spoil it just a bit if he couldn't make it more than two hours without walking back into Neal's life.
After some thought, he picked up one of his burner phones and texted Sally. BUSY?
The reply came almost immediately. SOMETHING IN MIND?
Mozzie smiled. A life unshared was, indeed, a life not worth living. And if it was going to be hard to contact Neal for a while, then it behooved him to work on nurturing some of the other relationships in his life.
Also, with the FBI about to get very interested in him, friends who could help set up new identities were always friends worth having.
~
Fandom: White Collar
Word Count: 1700
Pairing: Gen and Peter/Elizabeth
Summary: Three missing scenes for 3x11, taking place the night before the final scene in the episode. Spoilers for 3x11.
Cross-posted: http://archiveofourown.org/works/324912
I. Peter & Elizabeth
For a long time after the FBI left them alone in the house, all they could do was hold each other.
Then, after locking the door thoroughly, they went upstairs and took a shower. Peter took his gun with him and laid it beside the sink, after locking the bathroom door as well. He knew exactly what he was doing -- how many articles had he read? how many crime victims had he interviewed? -- and, at the same time, couldn't stop himself. He wondered if he would ever feel safe in his own home again.
There was no burning sexual desire, just the need to touch each other, to see and feel each other. And the need to be clean. Here, too, he'd dealt with enough victims of crime to know that what Elizabeth needed to wash off wasn't physical. And perhaps it wasn't for him, either; he could still feel the places where Keller had touched him, struck him, as if he'd been branded.
They washed each other's bodies, and Elizabeth carefully cleaned and tended his scrapes and bruises, crying a little when she did so. He cleaned the scratches that she'd suffered from broken window glass -- brave Elizabeth, remarkable Elizabeth -- and maybe he cried a little, too.
Clean and bandaged and dressed only in bathrobes, they went back downstairs -- Peter took his gun. There was half a leftover pizza, legacy of the FBI agents who'd been in and out of the house constantly for the last 24 hours. Peter, moving carefully so as not to aggravate his bruises, microwaved four slices on a plate, while El took two cold beers out onto the deck.
El sat in Peter's lap and they ate in silence, feeding Satchmo the crusts and watching their own little sliver of sky above the townhouses shading through sunset-pink into deep, star-studded purple.
Tomorrow would come in its own time: tomorrow, and everything to be dealt with then. Right now there was only tonight, and each other.
II. Neal
The bottle of wine was sitting on Neal's table when he entered his apartment, limping and exhausted, his mind a confused whirl of emotion. Diana had dropped him off at June's. They hadn't spoken much on the drive. He wasn't certain how much damage he'd done to his tentative friendships with Diana and Jones, and tomorrow it wouldn't matter anyway.
The bottle of wine was one that he'd noticed in June's wine cellar -- noticed, and left alone, because it was her best vintage. Even Mozzie didn't have the heart to drink it. And here it was, with no note, just the bottle and a single glass.
He'd given up trying to figure out how June knew things.
He poured himself a glass and settled on the couch, trying to find a position that didn't hurt. One glass would have to be his limit, because he could tell he was going to need painkillers in order to sleep tonight. But it was, indeed, very good wine.
Outside the glass doors of June's loft, the sun was setting, tinting the buildings a muted palette of orange, rose, and salmon. Neal didn't turn on the lights, instead enjoying the view, along with the wine, as the sunset bathed the loft in warm, glowing colors.
No wine in prison, excellent or otherwise. Not even the screw-top swill that Peter had brought to his apartment last year.
How long? he wondered. How old would he be when he finally saw the sky without chainlink and barbed wire in the way? Fifty? Sixty?
Barring the possibility of escape, of course. But he had a feeling it wasn't going to be easy this time around. And he wasn't sure if he wanted to. He'd made it through three and a half years before, and only escaped in the end because he had to find Kate. It was nice to know that the possibility existed, but he'd really meant to serve out his sentence, even then, and walk out the door a free man.
Of course, that had been four years. Not an impossible stretch of time. He wondered if he'd have the mental fortitude to endure twenty. Or forty. To wake up to the same concrete walls each day, knowing that he'd get out of prison an old man, when the handful of people he loved were dead or had forgotten him.
He should probably be spending this, his last night of freedom, living it up -- enjoying all the things he wouldn't have twelve hours from now. But somehow he just didn't feel like it. Maybe it was simply that he really didn't want to get up from this couch right now. But maybe it was more than that. The last couple of days had really put it all in perspective. Everything he could think of that he might be doing tonight -- dancing, clubbing, gambling, eating at the best restaurant in Manhattan -- paled by comparison to what they'd actually managed to accomplish today.
Maybe later, when he'd finished his glass of wine and the sunset's last roseate glow had faded from the sky, he'd go downstairs and see if June wanted to join him for a game or two of Scrabble. Honestly, he couldn't think of anything he'd rather do on his last night of freedom than that: a quiet night in, maybe some takeout food, and the pleasant company of a friend.
Neal drew a deep breath and let his eyes roam around the room, cataloguing everything. The beautifully framed silkscreen that June had brought up to the loft last Christmas. The cashmere scarf Sara had accidentally left behind, that he kept meaning to return. The houseplant Elizabeth had given him. The rubber-band ball he'd swiped from work.
Everywhere a memory.
It should hurt, he thought. He should be terrified, and unhappy, and a lot of other things. But instead there was a feeling that he couldn't even identify for a time. It wasn't happiness, exactly. It was more like a sort of contentment, of inner peace, tinged with gentle regret.
For the first time in months, he no longer felt torn apart. He was no longer living each day braced for discovery, braced to lose one friend or another, braced to make a decision that he didn't want to make.
The worst that could possibly happen had happened. And yet. Elizabeth was safe. Mozzie was speaking to him again. Peter didn't hate him.
He'd lost everything. And yet, in the grand scheme of things, he hadn't really lost anything at all.
III. Mozzie
He'd cleaned out his commonly used safehouses already -- and, if he knew Neal, all of them were probably compromised to the feds at this point anyway. But there were still a few, the ones even Neal didn't know about. Bolt holes, really, places to go when he had nowhere else to go. Not that this had to mean uncomfortable, necessarily. He watched the sun setting over the ocean from the third floor of an abandoned warehouse, with Bach playing softly on a battery-powered CD player, a glass of excellent French burgundy at his elbow, and Sun Tzu's Art of War open on the floor beside him.
Never let it be said that, when going into battle, he didn't consult the best.
A twelve-hour head start, Neal had said. Twelve hours before every fed in the city would be looking for him, including, no doubt, the implacable Peter Burke.
If he had any sense, he'd be headed out of town as fast as he could. But he'd been there, done that, got the proverbial T-shirt. And fate, karma, coincidence or whatever force ran the universe had conspired to drag him back to the city. New York, apparently, was where he was meant to be. And New York was where he planned to stay.
Besides, it was a good strategy. Sun Tzu would have approved. For a while, at least, New York would be the last place they'd look. And it was his home ground. He knew every inch of the city. He had lots of connections here, people who could hide him when needed, and supply him with the things he'd need to dodge the Man.
People, if he were to be completely honest with himself, that he'd miss.
Mozzie had always enjoyed his own company above all others. He'd spent many nights just like this: a glass of wine, some pleasant music, a good book. And that was exactly what he'd been planning on doing tonight.
Except it wasn't enough.
Damn it. Neal had corrupted him far beyond what he'd ever realized. Neal -- and not just Neal, but Neal's entire web of friends and acquaintances. The Suits. June. Everyone.
Or maybe it wasn't Neal's fault at all, and he'd been changing for a long time; he just hadn't wanted to admit it to himself.
The thought of calling Neal crossed his mind. The kid was probably brooding over his upcoming martyrdom; as a dutiful friend, it was Mozzie's job to do what he could by way of pleasant distraction. Except ... they'd said a very poignant, poetic goodbye at the Suits' place. It would spoil it just a bit if he couldn't make it more than two hours without walking back into Neal's life.
After some thought, he picked up one of his burner phones and texted Sally. BUSY?
The reply came almost immediately. SOMETHING IN MIND?
Mozzie smiled. A life unshared was, indeed, a life not worth living. And if it was going to be hard to contact Neal for a while, then it behooved him to work on nurturing some of the other relationships in his life.
Also, with the FBI about to get very interested in him, friends who could help set up new identities were always friends worth having.
~