Title: From the Wreckage
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: G
Length: ~1000 words
Note: Contains huge spoilers for 6.06. Also angst.
Summary: Mozzie has a question for Clinton.

From the Wreckage

Clinton poured himself a generous measure of Glenlivet and collapsed on his couch, letting his head fall back and his eyes close. The White Collar team was a mess, what was left of it. Everyone was in shock, and rather than coming together to share their pain, they'd retreated into separate corners. Diana had spent the last week glaring ferociously at anyone who came near and hurrying home to Theo at five every evening. Peter looked ten years older, his movements slow and stiff, and he'd been holed up in his office. Clinton himself had tried to carry on as usual, to set an example for the junior agents, but he couldn't hide his low spirits nor his impatience with the daily routine. A shadow hung over the whole division. First Siegel, now this.

The team had taken down the Pink Panthers. By rights the air should have rung with triumph and self-congratulation, but the victory had been completely swallowed up by the fact of Caffrey's death.

It was still hard to believe he was really gone.

Clinton took another swallow of whisky and tried not to dwell on memories of Neal turning up on his doorstep during the Barrett-Dunne case, the two of them drinking together. That had been a lifetime ago, before Neal screwed up his chance of commutation by running off to Cape Verde. Clinton still didn't know for certain what had prompted Neal to cut his anklet that time, but Peter's lack of cooperation with the Bureau's manhunt had been telling.

A loud knock startled Clinton out of his reverie, making him spill whisky on his shirt. He brushed at it as he headed for the front door, wondering who could be visiting him this late. It was past ten, and his upstairs neighbor was away on business.

Mozzie stood on the doorstep like a belligerent hand grenade. His arms were folded, jaw set, eyes narrow behind his glasses. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

Clinton's throat tightened. The little guy's presence in New York was another reminder that Neal hadn't fooled them all and skipped town. He was really gone this time. And Mozzie had to be hurting more than any of them. "Hey, Mozzie."

"Let me in. I can't have anyone see me consorting with a Fed." Mozzie's voice was hard. He shifted his weight.

Clinton held the door ajar and stood back. "You want a drink?"

"No," said Mozzie. "The only thing I want is what you owe me. An answer to a question."

"What?"

"We made a bet, and I won." Mozzie wasn't looking at him. He stood in the entranceway, his gaze fixed on the Theyer print just inside the door as if he couldn't bear to make eye contact. "So here's my question: was anyone at the Federal Bureau of Iniquity preparing a legal challenge to Neal's contract? Did Neal — was he a free man?"

"You know I can't answer that," said Clinton. "But I can promise you Peter wanted Caffrey to get his freedom, so if the Bureau were going to try anything, it would have come from DC. And I'm sure no one there would have reneged—"

"I don't want your assurances," interrupted Mozzie flatly. "I want a real answer, researched and duly evidenced. You have forty-eight hours." He turned and was gone.

Clinton leaned on the wall and blew out a breath. He was going to need help with this one.


*


He didn't want to trouble Peter, so he went to Diana, who still had contacts in Washington. When Diana heard it was for Mozzie, she stopped scowling and reached for the phone. "He deserves an answer."

By this stage, Clinton wanted the answer too. Would the Bureau really have let Neal go, or was Clinton working for an organization that would break its word and detain someone, not out of justice but for graspingly pragmatic reasons? At the commutation hearing Clinton had spoken against Neal's sentence being cut short, but he'd never thought it should be permanent.

Two days later, they had their answer. Diana brought Theo over, asleep in his car seat, and she and Clinton drank coffee and talked about celebrity gossip and current affairs, waiting for Mozzie's return.

The knock came at 10:17pm – forty-eight hours to the minute. Mozzie was still pale and hostile, but he softened slightly when he saw Theo. He and Diana exchanged a glance full of feeling but neither said anything.

"Well?" Mozzie asked Clinton, both of them still standing.

"Here's your answer." Clinton took a file folder from the breakfast bar and handed it to him. It contained two memos. The first was two lines from Peter to Section Chief Bruce Hawes. It was written on ASAC letterhead and said in its entirety, "If the Bureau's contract with Consultant Neal Caffrey regarding the take-down of the Pink Panthers is not honored, I will tender my resignation, effective immediately." Clinton guessed, based on its existence, that Peter too had harbored doubts about the Bureau's good faith.

The second memo was from the Bureau Deputy Director to Caffrey's oversight committee, cc'ed to Peter and dated four days before the take-down. It was two pages of legalese and government clichés, but essentially it confirmed that if Neal Caffrey and the NY White Collar division succeeded in apprehending the international criminal gang known as the Pink Panthers, Neal would be released from any remaining obligations to the Justice Department or the Bureau.

Mozzie took a long breath and let it out. His shoulders sagged. "Thank you."

He dropped the folder onto the coffee table, wiped his fingers on his pants and turned to leave.

"Mozzie," said Diana.

Mozzie stopped in his tracks but didn't turn.

"Stay and have a cup of coffee with us." Diana made it more of an order than an invitation, and for a moment Clinton thought Mozzie would shrug it off and disappear back out into the night, maybe never to be seen again. Somehow, that felt worse than anything. As if even after all this time, Neal had been the only thing holding them all together.

"I've got whisky," offered Clinton. "If you want something stronger."

Mozzie turned slowly, his eyes going first to Theo, then to the two of them. "Coffee," he said. He came back and perched on the edge of the chair nearest the baby. "Coffee would be all right."


END