#classicratpack

Dear Neal,

I got a lot to say, but on the other hand, maybe i shouldn't bother. Me and you always had a connection; you can tell what I'm gonna say before I say it, and you try to figure out my next move before I make it. so here goes:

I ain't sorry. you knew that was coming, didn't you? I ain't sorry. My recent stay in prison gave me a lot of time to think, and that's what I figured out. I ain't sorry, for any of it. That makes me the bad guy, but do you really think I'm sorry for kidnapping Peter Burke and his wife? For coming after you? Because if you look in the dark corners of your heart, Neal, you ain't really sorry either. Oh, you're sorry your fed and his wife got involved; you're sorry I managed to stay one step a head of you, even when you thought you won. But you're not sorry for playing the game; admit that playing against me makes you feel alive, and you're not sorry. I ain't, either. The game was never as good with any else.

 But maybe you're playing a different game now, sweetheart? All white picket fences and happy families? If that's your angle, I wish you the bitterest fuck you that was ever uttered by a blackened heart. What a waste, Neal.

I never thought you, of all people, would disappoint me. Imagine my surprise when I get back to New York and you're Burkey's pet con. Worse, almost the worse that could happen, is that you love it. You love him, the law abiding citizen. your shining white knight. And his wife, that goddamn- I gotta ask if you love the fed's wife because she looks like our girl. Don't tell me you never noticed, goddamn your faithless heart. i'm not mad you found someone else; no, even though you'll tell yourself it is (I know you too, sweetheart, as well as I know myself). It's cause you're trying to rewrite history, write me out and rewrite Katie's ending. It's cause you're the weakest, most diluted version of yourself with them and I'll never forgive you for that. When it was you and me and Katie in Spain, we were gods. And now you're nothing but ordinary.

So I'm not sorry and you disappoint me and I'll never forgive you. And I love you. didn't expect that, did you?

el sol se pone, sweetheart. Finally.

I'll be seeing you

In every lovely summer's day

In everything that's light and gay

Send me “black bird” for a darker memory of my muse’s past

((Note: this went to a place I didn’t expect. Trigger warnings for blood, internalized homophobia, and violence))

The first time he kissed a boy, he got punched in the mouth.

drunk phone call 

(only two and four are drunk. the rest are just. peter.) 

five phone calls, or 'a conman never dies, their smile just fades away' 

i. 

"Neal, buddy, here's the thing. I know you're  not dead. You can't be. You're Neal Caffrey.  You and me, Neal, we've been through too  much. And I know you're not dead, because  you didn't say goodbye. You always said  goodbye to everyone but me. One last con,  right?" 

ii. 

"I hate you. You're making me do this alone,  and I hate you. God damn it, Neal! You don't  ever consider anyone but yourself, do you? No,  you just go around, hurting people, taking things,  you don't even consider the consequences. You  never have." 

iii. 

"Hey. It's a Thursday. It's August. I swear I'd forget  everything else if you showed up on El's due date.  That offer I made you, it's still on the table. Just  come back home. Everything else, we can work  it out." 

iv. 

"I don't know why I called." 

v. 

mistletoe meme 

"It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas," Coming down the stairs, one hand still set on the banister, he can’t help but stare openly. Christmas sweaters were one thing, but these were just awful, and itchy, and matching. 

First of all, he’s going to kill Diana Berrigan. Who does she think she is, Mrs. Weasley? Ten points are coming directly from Gryffindor for her idea of a Christmas gift. 

Second, letting him spend the first day of his winter vacation rereading the first book of the Harry Potter series was an equally bad idea. 

But kill him, alright, he’s got to be prepared, he needs to read favorite children’s literature, and just because he’s finished baby proofing the house does not mean he’s anywhere near done preparing to become a father. He’s not. His son’s going to be seventeen and Peter still won’t be prepared. 

"It … actually looks pretty good," he admits, still paused on the stairs, taking in the house they’ve been decorating all day. If he closes his eyes, takes half a breath, he can imagine the brownstone as it will be, in years to come. 

A toddler making his way through the house; tiny fingers grabbing at everything. Rifling through his drawers and stealing his precious belongings. Unwrapping Christmas presents under the tree; school science fair projects and bake sale cookies. Birthdays with Theo, homework at the kitchen table, early mornings, late nights; first dates and broken hearts. Prom nights. Graduation. 

He can let himself get carried away, sometimes. 

He imagines Neal and Elizabeth through it all and tries not to feel the way his throat tightens, or how he panics at the thought of the former vanishing. 

Not yet. No one’s gone. They’re all here. 

And Peter thinks that if he tries hard enough, holds his breath long enough, it will stay that way. 

"I’m glad you could make it," he hears himself saying, stepping off the final step and making his way across the living room. "Christmas wouldn’t have been the same without you. Especially this year. I didn’t know how we were going to find the time to decorate the place. Did you - oh." 

There are only a few people in the world who can startle him, and mistletoe seems to be a good way to do it. 

"Are we going to, um - "

why you gotta be so ruuuude.

you're in my house 

on my wife

with my couch 

i mean, dear boy, i mEAN, 

alyssa our streak continues because 

f r e e man are you fucking serious. get out of my life.

beloved

free man