Title: It's Been A Bad Day, Please Don't Take A Picture
Author: TeeJay
Summary: Neal has a bad day, which ends rather uncharacteristically in a bar and then, later on... Well, you'll see.
Written for: kriadydragon for the LiveJournal collarcorner Prompt Fest #3
Prompt/Request: What could possibly go wrong?
Would Like: Neal has a bad day, and it just keeps getting worse. As to what that bad day entails, I'll leave up to the author, I only ask that you keep it tasteful. But I would like some comfort and reassurance for him at the end.
Don't Want: As usual, for the bad to be Neal's fault. For the bad to be something embarrassing - for example, Neal spills water on his pants and everyone thinks he wetted himself.
Genre: Gen, possibly borderline Het
Characters: Neal, Peter, OFC
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Some making out, but nothing that can't still pass as PG-13.
Author's Note: Title from R.E.M. song. And can I just say... In real life, in the last scene, I don't think Neal would have really said no (even though rabidchild67 disagrees with me. I mean, beyond a certain point guys are driven by their other brain, but, well, let's just say I believe in wishful thinking and artistic license. ;o)
This should probably be set somewhere in late season two, prior to Neal and Sara starting to date.
Thank you, rabidchild67, for the beta!
Disclaimer: White Collar, its characters and its settings belong to Jeff Eastin and USA Network. And, guys? Your characters are not only welcome, they're wonderful. I'm just borrowing, I promise.

Bad days had a habit of sneaking up on you perfidiously and without warning. Sometimes they'd start out good or normal and turn into the sucky day from hell slowly, over time. This one had already reared its ugly head the moment Neal opened his eyes.

He rarely woke up with a headache, and when he did, it seldom bode well for the day ahead. Today was no exception.

Bad things came in threes, but today they came in sevens, maybe even eights or nines. Neal stopped counting at one point.

The first had been un unfortunate moment of inattention while shaving, resulting in a cut on his jaw line. The second had been a jerky arm movement that caused the spilling of a mug of coffee, which necessitated a change of clothes. And all of it even before he'd left the apartment.

A dull but steady headache had firmly lodged itself behind his eyes by the time he had changed into a new suit and tie, and the Advil he'd taken along with breakfast only brought marginal relief. He didn't think it was going to be another migraine, because those usually came with blotchy vision and a vengeance. He knew to count his blessings.

By midday, Neal was convinced that today had an evil desire to kick his ass nine ways to Sunday. It didn't help that Peter, runny-nosed and raspy-voiced, had dragged himself to work with the cold of the century. Neal attributed the lack of common sense (which would have been to stay home, recuperate and not pass the germs on to his co-workers) to Elizabeth's four day absence. The latter, no doubt, also contributed to Peter being cranky and generally insufferable. Neal knew to stay as far away from Peter as he could without making the shunning too obvious.

The cases on Neal's desk were nothing if not mediocre (in other words: outright boring). And the ones that might have been challenging on a good day were tedious and inexpugnable on this day. Neal simply didn't have the energy to attempt getting into the right headspace for anything that required inspiration or creative thinking.

Three reports of previously wrapped-up cases were waiting for him to be typed up, and Neal gave his all in terms of procrastination. Which Peter put a very abrupt stop to when he introduced a young man named Neill to Neal. ("Neal, this is Neill. That's with E-I-double-L. He started today, how about you give him the introductory tour? You know, coffee machine, filing system, the works. Jones will take over later when it comes to the FBI specifics.")

On any normal day, Neal would have been proud (though he'd never admit to it) that Peter would hand him the responsibility to teach a probie the basics of the White Collar office. Neal, however, very soon realized that he wasn't made to be a teacher or a mentor.

Neill had questions—too many of them. There came a point when Neal wanted to tell him to just write them down and they'd go over them the next day. By lunch, Neal wanted to scream at him, "Leave me the hell alone, can't you see I have work to do?"

To his credit, he didn't. He swallowed it down, forced a smile and explained things. Give him a break, it's only his first day, a very rational, very annoying voice in the back of his head would whisper.

Neal finally managed to get Neill out of his hair, at least for a while, by putting him in front of a computer at one of the vacant desks, showing him some of the online training slides that the Bureau offered for newcomers. Neal had gone through them a while ago, in a rare moment of boredom in between cases. He'd found them only marginally helpful, but Neill didn't have to know that.

Lunch was cut short (or rather cut altogether) when Peter called Neal to his office. Neal couldn't help letting out a sigh before getting up from his chair and walking up the steps to the glass-walled office.

"Sit down," Peter said, his voice earnest, his face wearing a grave expression.

Neal wasn't in the mood for light banter. "This can't be good."

"It's not. Neal..."

"Please tell me it's not something about Mozzie. Or Elizabeth."

"No, no, they're fine. It's—"

Whatever it was, Peter looked like he didn't know where to start. Neal urged him, "Look, just tell me."

Peter sighed a heavy sigh. "Okay. Apparently, there's been a series of grave desecrations all over the city in recent weeks. NYPD has been investigating it for quite a while, but they could never arrest anyone. Last night they hit again."

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"They hit Calvary Cemetery."

Neal swallowed. He realized the significance. Kate's ashes were buried there. In a haunted voice, he asked, "Did they...?"

The unspoken question hung in the air for a long moment before Peter confirmed, "PD confirmed that Kate's grave was among those they vandalized."

"How bad is it?"

"I'm not sure. They say it's pretty bad. We can go if you want. Already cleared it with the Marshals."

"Okay," Neal just said.

In the car, Neal tried to quiz Peter on the few details he knew. This wasn't a case the FBI could officially get involved in. Details in the official reports that Peter had access to were sketchy at best.

Arriving at the cemetery, Neal tried to mentally prepare himself, but as they got closer, the picture of destruction in front of his eyes hit him harder than he was prepared for. Gravestones were overturned, pieces of them broken off as if someone had taken a pickaxe to them. Whole graves had been dug up, urns were strewn across the lawns, some now empty. Yellow crime scene tape cordoned off a large area.

Peter's FBI badge got them inside the perimeter. They were advised not to touch anything. Neal carefully drew closer to Kate's grave. It was one of those that was severely hit. The headstone lay overturned, the surface bore several scrapes and scratches. What was worst were the large, flaming letters 'FUCKING WHORE' sprayed across it in neon pink spray paint. Her silver urn lay on the grass next to the grave, the ashes scattered around it. The urn had several dents and also bore a similar pink inscription of 'WHORE'.

Neal felt sick to his stomach. He whirled around, facing Peter. "Who would do this?" he whispered, his voice laden with contempt and barely contained anger.

Peter could only mutter an empty, "I don't know."

Before he could say anything else, Neal walked away, brisk steps putting distance between him and the crime scene.

Just far enough to get away from the devastation and gruesome location, he stopped, leaning his back against the wall of one of the tombs. Who indeed would do this? What kind of cruel person would prey on the last resting place of souls long gone, on a spot where people would come to share their grief and say their last goodbyes? Neal couldn't fathom the idea.

He heard the approaching footsteps despite the grass and he looked up to see Peter walking in his direction. He wasn't sure whether to feel grateful or annoyed. Peter would be awkwardly hovering close by, unsure how to deal with the emotional undertones, then usher him into the car. There was a certain comfort in the idea that Peter's presence was still better than witnessing this alone.

Neal looked at Peter when he stopped a few feet away from Neal. Peter's soft voice surprised him when he asked, "Do you need more time?"

Did he? He slowly shook his head. "No. I think I've seen enough."

Peter nodded curtly and turned towards where he'd parked the car. "Come on," he urged gently.

They got into the car simultaneously, but Peter didn't start the motor right away. That prompted Neal to look at him. There was latent rage in Peter's face, Neal could see his jaw muscles working. He was just as upset, which slightly surprised Neal. Peter had never been a fan of Kate's, but this obviously went too far, even in Peter's book.

"Can you promise me something?" Neal finally asked.

Peter just looked at him, and Neal continued, "Tell me they'll catch who did this."

"Rest assured, I will do everything in my power to help, but I'm just not sure how much I can really do. This is nowhere near FBI jurisdiction. I have a friend higher up in PD, that's the only thing I can think of right now."

"Thank you," Neal muttered.

"You want me to take you home?"

"No." He knew it'd only make him angrier, spiral him into dark places he'd been absent from for a while and would rather not return to. "No, the office will be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

They didn't talk for the rest of the drive back.

Neal couldn't really remember how he'd gotten through the rest of the day. He'd tried to immerse himself in menial tasks to keep his mind off things. Diana and Jones had asked him to consult on a case they were working on, possibly something Peter had put them up to. Neal knew enough to be thankful.

He was the last to leave the office around half past seven. He couldn't bear the idea of going home to an empty apartment, not tonight. He didn't even know what had made him do it, but twenty minutes later, he found himself entering a bar a block away from his Riverside Drive residence.

The interior was pretty standard. Dark, wooden furniture, Rat Pack- and New York-themed posters on the walls. The space behind the bar was crammed with bottles of exotic and less exotic brands of liquor. Neal found a seat at one end of the bar, ordering a Ketel One, uncharacteristically straight up.

The pure vodka burned in his throat as he downed the shot, and he relished the sensation. He ordered and second, and a third in rapid succession. Definitely not a red wine kinda night tonight.

He was just toying with the idea of a fourth shot when the bartender put one in front of him. "Courtesy of the lady over here," she pointed out.

Neal's gaze went to where she was pointing and he noticed a woman a few seats over. She wasn't what you would call a 'looker', but her posture radiated confidence and there was an attractiveness to her that would have intrigued Neal if he'd had an interest to look more closely.

He raised the glass in her direction and downed the shot but didn't move otherwise. It was then that she took her glass of ale and walked over to him, sitting down on the vacant stool next to him.

"Haven't they taught you that it's impolite not to say thank you when someone buys you a drink?"

He smiled weakly. "Thank you."

She glanced at the empty shot glasses before him. "Bad day, huh?"

"Yeah, you could say that," he sighed.

"Don't I know it."

He knew she was just playing the game, and that he was supposed to either engage her in an honest conversation or join in the game play, but the usual Caffrey ease at flirting eluded him tonight. "Look..." he started, but she interrupted him.

"Is this the part where you're going to tell me that you're not interested and would rather be left alone?"

"Kinda, yeah."

"And what if I said that it was very lonely over there, at the other end of the bar?"

"I'd either take pity on you or tell you that you shouldn't have any trouble finding an attractive man to help you with that."

"And I'd either reply that pity can be a very admirable notion or reply that you'd be right because I already found him."

Boy, she was coming on strong. And he could feel himself resigning to his fate. "And which option would you prefer?"

"I can't say I have a strong preference."

"Well, then let me decide on option no. 2, because I have a feeling it is more flattering for both of us."

"So," she took a sip from her beer. "Wanna talk about your bad day?"

"I could, but it'd result in making me less flattering and interesting. So maybe not."

"Okay, fair enough," she smiled, and he suddenly noticed just how red and luscious her lips were. Desirable. Definitely kissable.

It didn't take long for him to sweet-talk her, especially since she seemed more than willing. They first kissed outside the bar, a kiss of hunger and mutual desire. He didn't even know her name, but it didn't matter.

He whispered in her ear that he didn't live far. She followed him all too readily.

Neal took her hand as they walked up the stairs to his apartment. He pulled her inside with a giddy smile on his lips, closing the door behind them.

She smelled so good, and Neal reached into her hair at the nape of her neck, drawing her closer.

Their lips collided and her tongue felt out his, curling around his teeth into his cheek and back. She was quite the kisser.

Neal's hand came around her back and he pushed his palm upward, feeling the naked skin beneath her top. He only separated his mouth from hers for a moment to draw in a breath, finding it again soon thereafter.

He tumbled backwards, his back colliding with the door as she got more aggressive and placed her palms on the wooden surface next to his shoulders.

This was uncharacteristic, but it had been too long, and Neal's mind was wiped blank with sudden desire. And then, sudden and unbidden, there was... something. A flash of an old memory—Kate lying next to him in bed after a rather stimulating night, smiling that million dollar smile at him. Before he knew it or could push it away, it consumed him.

He drew back his face, lightly pushing her away. "I'm sorry," he panted. "I... shouldn't do this."

She took a step back, a mischievous grin on her face. "Do what? Have mindless sex with total strangers?"

The look on Neal's face only gained a more haunted undertone. "Yeah, that."

"Aw, come on. We were doing so well," she said playfully.

Neal ducked out from under her arms, retreating to the dining table. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I think you should leave."

Her voice was incredulous. "You're throwing me out? Seriously?"

"Yeah. No, not throwing you out. Look," he sighed, "it's... kind of a long story."

"And the next thing I know, you'll be telling me your girl just broke up with you and your conscience is telling you that this is so very wrong. Yay me. Story of my life."

"She died," Neal just said. It hung in the air for a long moment.

"Geez, I'm sorry," she whispered, all mockery gone from her voice.

He waved a consoling hand. "No, it's okay. It's... been almost a year. But still, this—it just feels wrong."

"Yeah, okay, I guess I... kinda get that."

There was an awkward pause, neither knowing what to say. Neal looked at her, really taking her in for the first time tonight. She was beautiful, maybe in a bit of an unconventional kind of way, but Neal had never liked the conventional type anyway.

He made a quick decision. "I have an excellent bottle of South African Petit Verdot. Can I interest you in some of that?"

She hesitated a moment, then rearranged her clothes and stepped closer to the dining table. "Okay, I'll bite."

He smiled and went over to the wine rack to retrieve the bottle, then got the corkscrew and wine glasses from the kitchenette.

They spent the next three hours, fully clothed and engrossed in conversation over excellent red wine, before she, after several stifled yawns, left Neal's apartment at half past midnight.

Neal watched the front door close behind her as he fingered the note with her phone number and then turned to walk back up the stairs. Was he ready to start dating again? Did he even want to start dating again?

This had been such a sweet ending to such a sucky day that he quietly smiled to himself. Maybe it was time. And maybe he was ready.

THE END.