Exquisite, Ch. 6

[sam_storyteller]

Title: Exquisite
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: NC-17 for language, sexual content.
Summary: There's a place in Neal Caffrey's head where he doesn't have to lie to himself or be three steps ahead of the other guy, but so far only Peter has found it -- and Peter won't give him what he really wants. Elizabeth, meanwhile, is slowly adjusting to the idea of abetting felons...

Chapter Five

***

Peter came up with him when they got to June's place, ostensibly to make sure he only took the ten minutes he promised. Neal knew that, in reality, Peter was just a sucker for June's coffee.

"Good morning, boys," June called, when they emerged onto the terrace. Coffee and fruit salad; Neal stole a grape and popped it in his mouth. "I was beginning to worry when you didn't come home last night, Neal."

"Wasn't feeling so hot," Neal said, glancing at Peter, who was hiding behind a coffee cup. "Peter let me stay at his place."

"That's sweet of you," June told Peter, passing him the sports section.

"El made me," Peter said. "Neal, the office -- "

"Right," Neal said, and ducked into the guest suite. Moz was asleep on his couch. "Mozzie!"

"No taxation without representation!" Mozzie shouted, startling awake. Neal dug in the closet. It was a pinstripes and loud tie kind of day. "Hey! Where the hell were you, man?"

"Stayed at Peter's. I texted you," Neal said.

"You texted me that you were alive and talked to Alex," Moz retorted. "Then you fell off the radar."

"Gimme a break," Neal said, pulling off Peter's shirt. "Look, I got tased."

He tugged the bandage free from his arm -- it'd just get gross in the shower anyway -- and showed off his wounds. Moz looked impressed.

"Why'd you stay with the Suit?" he asked, still suspicious.

"Why not?" Neal replied, laying out his clothes. "Hey, do you mind? I need to get a shower."

"Far be it from me to hinder your personal hygiene," Moz said. "What'd you hear from Alex?"

Neal tipped his head at the terrace, where Peter was watching them over the edge of the sports page.

"Right. We'll talk later," Moz whispered, tapping the side of his nose.

In the shower, Neal let the water run over him for a while, half-regretting what it was washing away -- traces of Peter and Elizabeth, the smell of their bedsheets. On the other hand, the grime of the past two days was sluicing off as well, and Neal was more than happy to be rid of that. His muscles still hurt from being thrown around by Wilkes's goons.

He cautiously probed around the edges of the barrier he'd put up, in his mind, between Kate and the rest of his life. What he'd done last night, running off without his tracker, that was for Kate. What he'd done later, with Peter and Elizabeth, that was not about Kate. It was something he'd needed like he needed to breathe. He didn't like the feeling, because now he wanted things he had never wanted before.

Neal wanted a lot of things. Beautiful art, money, prestige, power -- Kate. He wanted Kate more than anything. But now he also wanted a roadblock to all of those: a place in someone's life, a place he could rest. A place specifically in Peter and Elizabeth's life. He'd slept so deeply in their bed. He'd knotted Peter's tie to lay a claim to him, to them.

He'd cheated on Kate. No getting around it. No lie he told himself would fix that. None of the truths, either.

He would make it right. He could set the world to rights, he just had to be smart enough and fast enough. When he got the music box and got Kate he'd make sure she spent the rest of her life happy, every minute of it, with him. He wouldn't need to section his life up; Kate would be his life, like Elizabeth was for --

No -- that was wrong, a part of him said, Elizabeth wasn't Peter's life. The most important part of it, he understood that, but even taken together they were separate people. Elizabeth had forgiven his...his inevitability with Peter, because she was confident of Peter's love, but it had been her decision.

Neal rubbed his head, trying to force his thoughts into coherence. He'd cheated on Kate, and Kate would not forgive so wholly and freely as Elizabeth had, if he told her. Even if he could make her understand that he needed this one thing, she had a right to demand amends. Whatever they were, he'd make them, because he owed her, but he needed this. He would do what he had to in order to survive, in order to rescue her. If that included Peter and Elizabeth as a way to keep him from going crazy, he would let himself have that. Kate wasn't the one playing three sides at once, and Kate wasn't here, and it wasn't fair that he had to spend every waking moment trying to be the smartest guy in the room against people who held all the cards.

He had to add a new division to his life: Work time. Kate time. Peter-and-El time.

Funny how much those divisions were beginning to feel like lies. After all, if you put up a barrier, it hides something you don't want to see --

"Caffrey!" Peter yelled through the door. "Did you run down the drain?"

"Coming," Neal yelled back. "Keep your pants on!"

Peter was right, though. They did have a lot to do that day -- reports, both individual and group, another debriefing (Neal was getting annoyingly used to those) and a mandatory interview with the on-staff psych. The hour-long session with the psych was fun; Neal faked being fake-fine, and then breaking down, and threw in some tears for effect, and then said he felt much better, and that he was ready to put this behind him and move on. He didn't think the guy totally swallowed it, but he promised to come in if he was having trouble, and got cleared for continuing duty.

At the end of the day he lurked around Peter's doorway until Peter looked up and gestured for him to come in.

"Wrapping up?" Neal asked, as Peter shuffled papers into a pile.

"Just about. How'd your therapy go?"

Neal grimaced. "Fine. Did you have to go?"

"I don't need therapy. I wasn't the one who was kidnapped."

"I don't want therapy. It's not my first con," Neal replied.

"Did he clear you?"

"Yeah. I promised I'd check in if I felt traumatized. He looked like he'd like to dissect my brain."

"Wouldn't we all," Peter murmured, shutting down his computer. He picked up his suitcase and began sliding paperwork into it. "Coming home with me?"

"Two nights running?" Neal asked.

"Clearly you had a difficult experience. You shouldn't be alone," Peter told him, looking grave.

"That excuse isn't gonna work forever," Neal said, putting his hat on. He was making for the door, but Peter hadn't moved. "Coming?"

Peter rested both hands on his suitcase. "You don't have to," he said. "I can take you back to June's. You never have to, Neal."

"Peter." Neal stepped closer, leaning on the desk. "I really, really want to."

Peter smiled. "You want to make that soufflé thing you do?"

Neal grinned at him. "I will totally make the soufflé thing."

"Then let's go," Peter said. "We'll stop by June's, you can pack a bag."

***

When they got to June's place, her granddaughter Samantha was in the downstairs dining room, playing with Bugsy, June's spoiled and much-loved pug. Neal ran up the stairs, leaving Peter alone with June, Samantha, and Bugsy, who sniffed his shoes before deciding Samantha was more interesting.

"How's she doing?" he asked, nodding at Samantha.

"Better, a little," June said, giving her granddaughter a loving look. "We're waiting to hear about a donor any day now."

"That's good news. You'll let us know, right?" Peter asked.

"Of course." June glanced at the stairs. "Is Neal in trouble?"

"Hm? No. Why, do you know something I don't?" Peter asked, smiling.

"You don't usually come in. Twice in one day is a rare treat for us," June added. Behind her, Samantha threw a ball, which rebounded off a nearby doorframe and sent Bugsy skittering across the hardwood floor.

"Neal's staying with El and me again tonight," he said, hoping he sounded less guilty than he felt.

June clucked sympathetically. "Is he having a hard time? After the kidnapping?"

"How did you -- "

"I read the papers. If you know where to look, you can see a lot. I see you and Neal there frequently," she said. Peter cocked his head. "You have some very interesting adventures, Peter."

"We do our best," Peter said absently, wondering how many other people could read between the lines. Probably not many. June had the advantage of experience and an unusual breadth of knowledge about crime.

"If there's anything I can do..." June spread her hands.

"He'll be fine. You know how Neal is," Peter said, as Neal clattered down the stairs, bag in hand. "Ready?"

"Seeya tomorrow, June," Neal said, kissing her on the cheek. "Hey Sammy!"

"Hi Neal!" Samantha waved.

"Be good for grandma," Neal told her, pointing at her with his hat. She giggled and threw the ball for Bugsy again. Peter rested a hand in the small of his back, guiding him out the door.

They were halfway home before Neal cleared his throat and asked, "You gonna call about my tracker?"

"I called before we left," Peter said, trying to keep a smug note out of his voice.

"That confident, huh?" Neal asked.

"Tell me I'm wrong," Peter replied. Neal was staring at him, his normally light eyes darkening.

"I want to kiss you," Neal said. Peter smiled.

"You want me to crash the Taurus?" he asked. "Save it for when we get home."

"But right after we get home, right? Like, we could grab Elizabeth and go straight upstairs..."

"I believe it's traditional to eat dinner first," Peter told him. Neal looked impatient. "Relax. We have time. It's Friday night, we got nowhere to be tomorrow. This is our life, Neal. Or are you only in it for the sex?"

"The sex is a really important part of it," Neal told him. Peter laughed.

"We'll have a nice dinner. Unwind from the day. See how El's day went. Take a breath," Peter said, and saw Neal inhale sharply, as if it had been an order. "Nobody's going anywhere."

Neal was silent, but he looked restless. Peter tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel.

"You like being told what to do," Peter said.

"No," Neal replied immediately.

"Fine, you like it when I tell you what to do."

No reply. Peter grinned.

"When we get home," Peter said, resting a hand on Neal's fidgeting arm to quiet him, "we'll kiss El hello, and you're going to make dinner. I'll stay with you in the kitchen if you want. How do you pair that with wine?"

"Dry white," Neal answered. "Saint-Véran. Or French Chardonnay, no oak."

"I think we've got some Chardonnay. We'll eat dinner, talk about the day. After that, you follow my lead. You switch off, okay?" Peter said. Neal was breathing hard. "Neal?"

"Yeah," Neal said.

"Try anything before I say so and I swear I'll handcuff you to something and make you watch."

Neal gave him a sharp look, but when Peter didn't continue he sat back, and then almost visibly relaxed. His breathing slowed. He looked different without eight kinds of tension stringing him taut -- less smooth, less poised, infinitely easier to read.

Six years ago, Neal Caffrey had seemed like a ruthlessly clever crook, uncrackable, deft and skilled. When Peter had been chasing him the only reason he'd been confident of a collar was that he had to be or he'd have faltered and lost the thread. It was almost shocking to see Neal drop off his self-imposed pedestal, and to know that for it to happen, he needed Peter to give the order. The power implicit in that was -- frightening. Exhilarating.

If he was very, very careful -- and very lucky -- he might still pull Neal back from the suicidal leap of stealing the music box.

***

Elizabeth was on the phone with a vendor when Peter and Neal walked into the house. She gave them a little wave before returning to writing down quotes, watching out of the corner of her eye as they took their coats off and Peter shepherded Neal into the kitchen, Satchmo following them eagerly.

By the time she was finished, there were clanks and clicks coming from the kitchen, the sound of food being prepared. She set down the phone and put her head through the doorway. Peter was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking very much at ease; Neal was whisking liquid in a bowl.

"Is he making the soufflé?" she asked in a whisper. "Please say yes."

"Hey sweetie," Peter said, bending to kiss her cheek. "He's making the soufflé."

She saw Neal watching them sidelong as he worked. Elizabeth crossed to where he was adding the eggs and leaned up a little to kiss him hello too. He gave her a grin.

"We could skip dinner," she suggested. Neal pulled a face.

"Peter says dinner first," he said.

"Oh he does, does he?" El asked, raising an eyebrow at Peter. It wasn't like him to make decisions for the both of them -- but, on the other hand, Peter knew Neal better than she did. The boys were working through something, or possibly Peter was working Neal through something, and she knew how precarious Neal's position in the world was at the moment. She went back to Peter and stood in front of him, mirroring his pose, until he grinned and let his arms drop, wrapping them around her waist, swaying her against him.

"How was your day?" Peter asked, and she turned in his arms so that she could lean against his chest and watch Neal work. It was fascinating, in a way; Neal's hands had stolen paintings, forged everything under the sun, handled objects worth millions of dollars -- explored crime scenes -- and now they were slicing tomatoes to make her dinner.

"Good," she said, wrapping her own hands around Peter's. Peter's hands held guns. They'd once put zipcuffs on Neal. "Landed a new account."

"Oh?" Peter sounded pleased.

"Yeah, Woodbeam Bank downtown," El said, frowning a little. "They want catered First Mondays for their big investors."

"Really," Neal said, without looking up from the tomatoes.

"Caffrey," Peter growled. Neal shot him an innocent smile.

"I like bankers," he said, licking juice off his thumb.

"You like not being in prison more," El told him.

"It's not my fault I'm so charismatic people want to invest money in my tragically unsuccessful land ventures," Neal continued.

"Woodbeam Bank," Peter reminded El.

"Yeah," she said, while Neal rummaged in a cupboard. "The venue's awful -- they want to hold it in the lobby -- but it's a beautiful building. We're going to have to rent some panels to block off the desks. Probably tables. I have to look into their loading dock situation," she added, making a mental note.

"North side, down the alley to the right," Neal said, slightly muffled due to his head being inside the pantry. "Three surveillance cameras and the cops cruise it to make sure nobody parks there."

"Neal!" Peter called. Neal withdrew from the pantry and looked at him.

"What? I'm not going to hit it," Neal said. "There are easier targets and knocking off banks is boring anyway."

"Hon, what are you looking for?" Elizabeth asked, before Peter and Neal could start bickering about why "boring" was an inappropriate criterion for whether or not to commit a crime.

"Olive oil," Neal said.

"Try the far cupboard," she suggested. Neal ducked around the pantry door and rummaged some more. Eventually they heard a soft Ha! and Neal emerged triumphant. She felt Peter nosing against her ear.

"How does this work?" he asked softly. Not so much asking about the function, she realized, as about how it felt comfortable, already, to have Neal in their kitchen, and how it would feel to have him in their bed later.

"We make it work," she said. Neal looked up from where he was drizzling oil over the tomatoes. The expression on his face was equal parts envious and amorous. She felt a little like a painting he wanted to steal.

The last time they'd eaten a dinner Neal had cooked, Neal had refused to sit anywhere but the floor behind the bookcase column, afraid -- well, perhaps not afraid, perhaps...concerned -- that he'd be seen by someone, and then they'd all be in trouble. This time he sat at the table with them, slipping bits of tomato down to Satchmo as he mostly watched them eat. Several times, even while one of them was talking, she caught Peter giving Neal silent commands, looking pointedly at the food still on Neal's plate or the fork in his hand. The message was clear: dinner's not over until you eat. Neal seemed to be pushing back, a passive-aggressive if you make me wait I'm not going to enjoy it sulk, but at some point while she was talking about table-dressing Peter apparently won, because Neal started to eat in earnest. Maybe hunger simply overcame stubbornness. Or, possibly, it was the second glass of wine. Third? She'd only had two, but Peter had opened a second bottle. He seemed to be enjoying a leisurely dinner.

Whatever it was, between the food and wine, Neal's eyes were brighter, and his shoulders relaxed a fraction, not quite as solidly set as they usually were. When she asked him why bank jobs were boring (oh the glare she got from Peter) he launched eagerly into a story about a criminal he allegedly knew who used to pull heists blindfolded for the extra kick.

"I don't believe you," she said, laughing. Neal, slouched in the chair across from her, was grinning.

"All true," he said. He played with his mostly-empty wineglass, turning it around on the table.

"Do you miss it?" Elizabeth asked. Peter looked at her. Neal seemed to be thinking about it.

"A case is just a con from the flip side," he said finally, which was not quite an answer, really. "I don't miss always looking over my shoulder." Again -- not really a lie, but somewhere in between, because according to Peter, Neal still was. Can't miss what you're still doing. "Do I miss being chased by your husband? No."

Ah. That was the truth. Neal shifted slightly; she knew, without looking, that he was rubbing one foot against his ankle, against the tracker cinched there.

She and Peter knew each other, every inch, every breath; she wouldn't swap that for the world, wouldn't give her husband up to anyone else, because she mostly felt that nobody was worth him. Peter, she knew, didn't understand this and never would, which was part of why she loved him. To Neal, they were both new and exciting, they were mysteries to solve, but they were also more. They were a place for him, something she didn't think he'd ever had before. Neal needed them. To make someone like Neal Caffrey need you, that was special. Enough to give up a piece of Peter and of herself in order to gain.

Peter looked like he'd been gut-punched by Neal's admission. Elizabeth touched his leg.

"Why don't you take the dishes?" she asked. Peter looked at her, thoughtfully, then nodded.

A girl could get used to this.

He gathered her plate and his own, set Neal's on top of them, and then leaned over Neal, something akin to looming.

"Go with Elizabeth," he said, and kissed the crown of Neal's head. Elizabeth stood up and took Peter's place when he went into the kitchen, tugging on Neal's arm to get him to stand. He followed her quietly up the stairs, holding onto her hand the way he had when she'd picked him up from the hospital after he'd been shot. Peter's voice on the phone that day had been close to frantic. El, I can't leave, I promised Neal I'd come get him, you have to go. Please, honey, he's been shot.

In the bedroom, Neal stood quietly, watching her, but there was that look on his face again -- like he wanted to slip the guards and defuse the alarms and abscond with her. She reached up and touched the knot of his tie, but it wouldn't come loose until the collar bar was removed. She undid it, then the clip that held the tie to his shirt, setting them on the shelf over the fireplace.

"You have too many pins," she said, as she removed the cufflinks at his wrists.

"The price of style," he told her, lifting one slightly-more-free hand to sweep through her hair.

"Peter doesn't care about style," she said.

"Yeah, I've seen his suits," Neal replied, which made her laugh.

"Peter," she said, moving into the curve of Neal's arm, inside it so that his hand cupped the back of her head, "cares about brains. You know what he said, when you broke out?"

"God damn Neal Caffrey?" Neal tried.

"He said He's smart. You know how I like smart." She tugged at his tie, pulling it loose, and he lifted a hand to work the buttons of the shirt open.

"That explains his wife," Neal said.

She gave him a slightly cynical grin. "You say the nicest things."

"It's my natural charm," he told her.

"Why Peter, Neal?" she asked, and he frowned. "There are plenty of people you could have for a smile."

"I can't have him for a smile," Neal said. "He caught me. There's this place in my head he gets into, I don't know how to do it. And because of you."

She tilted her head at him. "Me?"

"In my world people don't get married and have houses and dogs and nice dinners in their houses with their dogs," Neal said. "Kate and me were never like this. I've never seen this. You -- " he looked frustrated. "There's...a time. I love the game, I love the puzzles, but there's a little time when I don't have to be playing anyone. And it feels like...you're that time, for Peter. And he's that time for you. I want in."

"You sound uncertain," she said, rubbing a thumb across his collarbone, soothing gently. "What's scaring you?"

"How do you spend your whole lives telling each other the truth?" Neal asked. He looked like he actually didn't know, which was -- heartbreaking, a little.

"Very carefully, and not without fights," she replied.

"And abject apologies, at times," Peter said, from the doorway. Neal turned, looking like he'd been caught out, but Peter was smiling. Elizabeth gave Neal a tiny shove. Peter caught him by the shoulder, fingers sliding up to his throat -- this was some gesture they'd developed, she wasn't sure when, but it was part of their language with each other.

"No more thinking," Peter said softly. "No more tonight, okay?"

Neal nodded against Peter's hand. Elizabeth watched her husband kiss this...bizarre, desperate, locked-away man who'd walked into their life as a casefile and been dragged further in by Peter as a friend. Sometimes, especially early in their relationship when she was still wrapping her head around her boyfriend's ex-boyfriends, she'd wondered what Peter and Mike had looked like together. The reality of Peter and Neal was stunning.

When they parted, Neal licked his lips, eyes closed.

"Are we going to have sex now?" he asked. Elizabeth covered her mouth. "We're going to have sex now, right?"

Peter grinned and shoved him backwards, a little more roughly than he would someone less capable of handling themselves. "Yes," he said. "Elizabeth?"

"Nobody has even started undressing me," she announced. The matching predatory grins on the boys' faces were very promising indeed.

***

Sometime in the night, after the sex -- Peter was going to have to step up his workout routine if this kept up -- but before they slept, he looked over at Neal and saw utter, blissful blankness on his face. He looked almost high on it; not surprising, given the way he'd reacted to the full focus of two other people on him.

Neal, apparently, loved touch. He really loved it. Possibly more than he wanted orgasm, Neal wanted to touch: nuzzling full-bodied against Elizabeth, fingers never still when he could smooth them over Peter's skin, refusing the delicate offer of a blowjob (just as well, Peter had never felt he was very good at those) and reaching instead for an arm to cling onto while they kissed, places to stroke and explore. Multiplied by two, and Neal sometimes looked like he didn't have enough hands. He did pretty well with the two he did have, though.

Peter hadn't been with a man, not counting Neal's demanding overtures, in almost twelve years. Neal hadn't been with anyone for over four. Elizabeth seemed the only really comfortable member of the party, fitting into the two of them in unexpected ways, good ways, occasionally surprising ways.

And a tiny part of him would admit that perhaps he took a little pleasure in giving her a show. Neal certainly seemed to. Under Peter's hands, under Peter's control, Neal was obedient and passionate and completely shameless. He was willing to do anything to get another little hit off Peter or Elizabeth. Or both at once.

Neal's question had been more telling than Neal or possibly even Elizabeth realized. How do you spend your whole lives telling each other the truth?

He wondered, not for the first time, what lies Neal had told Kate, explicit or implicit. He'd often wondered if Kate knew what she had or what she was playing with, but perhaps Kate hadn't even been allowed to see. Had Matthew Keller? Keller was cruel, a lifetime's worth of cruel, so even if he'd been able to see, he probably wouldn't have bothered. Peter firmly believed Keller should never have been allowed anywhere near the boy Neal must have been.

But Kate...Kate might have believed, might still believe, that Neal was bigger, stronger, faster, better, everything more than he was or than any one person possibly could be. Neal was very, very good at lying, especially to himself. There was an appeal in his skill, certainly, and it was useful to Peter in their work. But the appeal only existed so long as he could see the truth underneath it. Truths like tonight, when Neal went wordless and brainless and let himself go. If Kate ever managed to get him in that state, she was smarter than Peter gave her credit for.

"Good?" Neal asked, when he saw Peter watching him. He reached across Elizabeth, between them, and brushed the backs of his fingers over Peter's arm.

"Good," Peter said.

"Am I good?" Neal pressed, and Peter heard Elizabeth snort. His arm was around her waist, but he stretched his hand out enough to rest it on Neal's stomach. Neal tensed momentarily before relaxing into the touch.

"You're spoiled," Peter told him.

"Don't listen to him," Elizabeth said. "You're good, Neal."

Neal stretched up languidly to kiss her. Peter kissed the back of her neck.

"Go to sleep, hon," she told Neal. He obediently closed his eyes, and Peter felt Elizabeth's breathing even out. He lay awake until he was sure they were both asleep, and only then did he let himself follow.

***

Neal's phone rang at eight in the morning, just as he was getting out of the shower. He rummaged in the pocket of his trousers for it, trying to untangle the legs, until Peter whistled and held it up, tossing it to him. Mozzie.

"Yeah, what's up?" Neal asked, trying to pull on his underwear, talk on the phone, and make his hair behave all at the same time.

"Where the hell are you, man? Did you move out or something?" Moz asked.

"You're at my place?"

"Yeah, and you're not. Again."

"Neal? Peter?" Elizabeth's voice drifted up the stairs. "You want some waffles?"

"Is that Mrs. Suit?" Moz asked.

"Do we have syrup?" Peter yelled back.

"Who was that?" Moz demanded, as Elizabeth called "I think so!"

"That was Mr. Suit," Neal sighed. Peter gave him a narrow look. He mouthed Mozzie at him.

"Why are you at the Suit Homestead at eight in the morning on a Saturday?" Moz asked.

"Why do you keep coming into my home without my permission at eight in the morning on a Saturday?" Neal retorted.

"First you show up wearing one of the Suit's shirts, now you're having breakfast with them? You don't think that's a little Single White Female?" Moz countered.

"Mozzie, why did you call?" Neal asked.

"I turned up something on your Codex," Moz said. "I think I've got our guy. Well. Our lady."

"I'm listening," Neal said. He pulled Peter away from the mirror by the loop of his belt and bent their heads together so that Peter could hear.

"Okay, I want you to think about the Codex," Moz said.

"I'm thinking," Neal told him.

"Now take away the Latin. Think about the vellum. Who do we know who does vellum like that?"

Neal scrolled through his contacts, mentally. "Two or three people in New York alone. Vellum's not hard, Moz. I can do vellum."

Peter gave Neal a sardonic look.

"Who paints on vellum? You have to mix your own paint for that. Who's the go-to for mixed pigment for vellum?"

Neal tipped his head back a little. He knew a name. "She's still in the game?"

"No. That's my point. She's out of the game. She retired. But she's not dead, you know?"

"Out of the game," Neal said thoughtfully. "So she retired...and got bored?"

"Wouldn't you?"

Neal glanced at Peter. Peter's face said he'd like to know the answer to that question too.

"Nobody really retires," Neal murmured. "What, she started taking students? Advertised on Craigslist?"

"Why not? She stays safe, pockets a commission, never goes near the actual crime. I'm telling you. Find her, find your Codex-maker."

"Thanks Moz. That's awesome. I owe you. I'll see you this afternoon," Neal said, and hung up while Mozzie was trying to circle back around to why Neal was with Peter and Elizabeth on a Saturday morning.

"Who is 'she'?" Peter asked, tilting his head.

Neal tapped the phone against his lips, thoughtfully.

"Neal..." Peter said. It was his I'm not going to push you but if you don't talk I might stab you voice.

Neal turned to him. He was nearly naked; Peter had no shirt on. Downstairs, Elizabeth was making waffles in her pyjamas. It felt stupid to say it.

"How much do you trust me?" he asked. Peter looked annoyed. "To run with a case. A legit case I have no other interests in. Just to chase a lead. I let you listen in," he added, holding up the phone. Peter took it out of his hand and tossed it on the bed.

"Who are you protecting?" he asked.

"Right now? Nobody. I'll tell you if you ask," Neal said. "I'm asking you not to ask, though. Just give me a few days to run this one down myself."

"Nothing illegal," Peter said. They were almost touching. "You document everything. When you can bring the Bureau in, the minute you can bring the Bureau in -- "

"I will, I swear," Neal said.

"Is this gonna be dangerous?" Peter asked. The question caught Neal by surprise.

"I don't think so," he told him, which was as honest as he could be. "If it is, I'll call you in."

Peter held him by the back of the neck, kissed him briefly, and let him go, pulling a polo shirt on. "Run with it. Don't make me regret letting you. You coming down for waffles?" he asked, walking to the top of the stairs.

"Yeah, right down," Neal replied, and went to dig a shirt out of his bag.

***

When Neal walked out onto June's terrace, just past lunchtime, Mozzie was teaching Cindy card tricks under June's indulgent eye.

"No, just -- your pinky, there," Moz said, pointing, and Cindy shuffled the deck and very carefully placed her little finger in the brief. "Subtler. Smoother."

"You're letting him teach her sharping?" Neal asked June, watching in amusement.

"Young women should always know how to make their way in the world," June said. "It's a valuable skill. If Byron were still alive, he'd have made sure all his grandchildren knew this sort of thing."

"I could teach her to forge the classics," Neal offered.

"Cindy's more of a postmodernist," June told him. "If she wants to learn, she'll ask. How are you, dear?"

Neal gave her a reassuring smile. "Well-fed. Slept like a baby. I'm okay, June."

"I'm glad to hear it. Cindy, I think Mr. Haversham and Neal have some business to take care of. We'd better leave them to it."

"Bye, Dante," Cindy said, waving at him as they left.

"She'll never be a card sharp," Mozzie said, as Neal took June's vacated seat.

"She'll never need to be," Neal said.

"You're right. If she's ever helpless and destitute, I will rescue her."

Neal gave him a sardonic look. "Have fun with that. So. Brunhilda?"

"Brunhilda," Moz said, leaning back in his chair.

"You know, I thought she had died."

"Everyone did, for a while," Moz said. "She got mixed up with the Canadians."

Neal eyed him. "The Canadians?"

"They can be surprisingly vicious when you rip them off for a quarter million and leave plastic Loonies behind," Moz said. "I guess she worked something out, though. We're seeing her for tea."

"What, you called up and made an appointment?" Neal asked.

"No, but I know where she takes tea on Saturday afternoons," Mozzie said.

"Great. Where?"

Moz shook his head. "Not so fast, my friend. First, there's information I want from you."

Neal glanced at him. Most people underestimated Moz; they thought he was a funny, neurotic little man who lived in a fantasy world. And he was. But he was also a genius, he never forgot anything, and if he felt challenged he'd do anything it took to find out what he wanted to know. He was the kind of man who would drop a bug on Satchmo precisely because the idea of bugging the dog was patently ridiculous.

He really didn't want Moz to find out what was going on by bugging Satchmo. The poor man's head might explode.

"Information on what?" Neal asked disarmingly. "You know what I know, Moz, you know that."

"Not everything," Moz replied. He leaned forward. "So. You were breakfasting with the Suits."

"Do we really have to get into it?" Neal asked.

"We wouldn't if you were a better liar," Mozzie said.

"I'm an awesome liar, what are you talking about?"

"If you weren't trying to hide something, you wouldn't be asking not to talk about it," Moz pointed out. "Plus you were wearing the Suit's shirt last time I saw you."

"Will you get over that? Mine had burns in it."

"Tell us what you know," Moz said, pretending to wave a hot poker in front of Neal's face. "Or it's the poker for you!"

Neal tipped his head back, staring up at the sky. You could see a lot of sky from the terrace.

Moz abruptly dropped the act.

"Seriously, man. What is it?" he asked.

"I was getting laid, okay?" Neal said, rubbing his face. "I wasn't just staying over. I was, you know." He lowered his face to raise his eyebrows at Mozzie. "Staying over."

Moz gaped at him. "You're doing Mrs. Suit? He's going to kill you!"

"I'm not -- stop calling her that!"

Moz's gape, if it were possible, got bigger. "You're doing the Suit? Are you out of your mind? Is he making you? He's making you, isn't he. I know a guy who can have him bumped off -- "

"Oh my God, stop, what is wrong with you?" Neal said. "Nobody's making me do anything."

"Wait, if you're doing the Suit, but Mrs. S -- " Mozzie caught his eye and sighed, "Elizabeth was there..."

"This is why I don't tell you stuff," Neal told him. "We do things. Together. All three of us."

There was a pause.

"Wow," Moz said. "I mean. Wow."

"Happy now?" Neal asked.

"Way to go!" Moz answered, holding up his hand for a high five. Neal just looked at him. Moz let his hand drop. "How long?"

"Not long." Neal shrugged.

"What about Kate? Does this mean you're officially turning in your obsessed boyfriend badge?"

"I'm still gonna find Kate. This is just..." Neal hated himself for saying it, but he had to believe it, on some level. "It's a pressure valve."

He stood up, walking past the table almost to the wall of the terrace, shoving his hands in his pockets. Mozzie seemed to be considering things.

"It's like some kind of French New Wave film," Mozzie said finally. Neal turned to give him a questioning look. "Bourgeois couple takes beautiful, troubled artist as lover."

"Ew, no, Moz," Neal wrinkled his nose. "I'm not even sure where to start with the wrong of that."

"Tell me it's inaccurate?"

"Peter and Elizabeth aren't bourgeois. And it's not...like that."

"I don't want to hear details," Moz said hastily.

"Good, because you don't get to," Neal told him, annoyed. "Also, who said I was troubled? Could you maybe be happy for me?"

"Who says I'm not happy for you? I'm not happy you're schtupping The Man -- "

"Augh, Mozzie!"

" -- but if that's what primes your canvas, fine. I'm just saying, I'm pretty sure Anais Nin wrote this story already."

"It's not a story," Neal insisted. "It's my life."

Moz crossed his arms on the table, studying him. "If it makes you happy, I'm all for it," he said, quieter and more serious now. "I just think it's a little weird, that's all."

"What in my life isn't weird?" Neal asked.

"Point." Moz was silent for a moment. "What about the feds?"

"What about them?"

"What happens if they find out?"

"They won't," Neal said. "Who's going to tell them, you? It's fine. Peter said it was fine. Nobody's gonna know."

Mozzie nodded. "I have to ask one more question."

Neal put his hands up in the air, supplicating some unknown god of forgers and thieves. "What?"

"Are you conning them? Because if so it's the best con ever and I totally want to know what your angle is."

Neal sighed and let his hands fall. "It's not a con. It's just this...thing. It's new. I don't know."

Mozzie tilted his head. "It must be the hair. People are such suckers for your hair."

"Yeah. It's the hair, Moz." Neal rolled his eyes. "Can we stop talking about my newly rekindled sex life and focus on the Codex?"

"You're having a threesome with the fed who caught you and his stunningly attractive wife. Sorry if I linger a moment," Moz retorted.

"Brunhilda," Neal reminded him.

"Right. Brunhilda. She has tea every Saturday at the Russian place near Central Park."

"Well," Neal said, "Let's go keep her company."

***

The first time Neal met Brunhilda, he'd put her age at around eighty, but since she didn't appear to have aged since then he was currently at a loss. She was a striking woman, short white hair coiffed stylishly above a narrow, intelligent, slightly hawk-nosed face. Her fingers, thin and delicate, were in the middle of spreading caviar on a blini when Neal walked into the tea room and stopped in front of her table. She looked up, sharp and ready to remonstrate, and then she smiled.

"Little Neal Caffrey," she said, delight filling her voice. "What on Earth are you doing here?"

"Scamming tea," Neal told her, sitting down at the table. "Hiya, Hilda. You remember Mozzie?"

"Of course," Brunhilda said, patting Mozzie's hand as he sat on the other side. "Keeping out of mischief, are we?"

"I try, ma'am," Mozzie said primly. Neal grinned, and her attention swung back to him.

"Look at you, all grown up," she told him. "Last time I saw you, you were all legs and eyes. Prison made a man out of you."

"Oh, you heard about that," Neal said, amused.

"I hear everything. Have some caviar," she offered. He took a bite and made an appropriately appreciative face. "I had heard you were back in New York, but I thought you'd gone straight."

"Like you?" Neal asked. She gave him a narrow-eyed look.

"I'm too old to go running around dodging the cops anymore," she said. "And I can't be bothered to play games with other cons. Give me caviar and hot tea and good company. Although, if you're here..."

"We're looking for someone," Mozzie said, pouring himself tea into a cup a solicitous waiter set on the table as he passed. "Neal?"

"Yeah, thanks," Neal said, holding out another cup. "We're looking for someone who does medieval text work."

"Tell me more," Brunhilda said, resting her chin on her hand.

"A piece turned up. Supposedly a leaf from the Third Codex. You're familiar?"

"Not overly," she said. "What about it?"

"It's great work," Neal said, which was the truth. He sipped his tea. "I've had a look at it. If I wasn't trying to find fault, I'd believe it myself. Illuminated calligraphy on vellum. You know anyone who does that kind of work?"

She nibbled on a finger sandwich. "Do you know, some men came to my flat this morning to ask me about a very similar piece."

"Who?" Neal asked. If Peter had jumped the gun somehow and fucked it up --

"Some unsavory men. It turns out the artist -- whoever he or she may be -- inadvisably sold a very expensive forgery to a very excitable criminal. They were interested to know if I had any information on such an artist, given that my paints were used in the production of it. I told them I sell a lot of paint; I simply hadn't any clue."

Neal studied her expression.

"Maybe your memory's been jogged since then?" he suggested hopefully. "I'd like to meet the artist. I might have a job for them."

She smiled at him, but there was a slightly nasty edge to it. He was reminded that the historical Brunhilda, while a princess, had also been a ruthless dictator.

"I'm afraid I'm really terribly amnesiac around feds," she said. Neal stared at her. "My sources are very good, Neal."

Neal leaned forward. "Honest truth. We dug up the leaf after a bust, and I got put onto it, but the FBI doesn't know I'm here."

"Yes, they do," she replied. Her foot knocked delicately against his ankle, where his tracker lay.

"Okay, but they don't know why," he corrected. "Seriously, would Mozzie come along if the feds were trailing us?"

"Neal, you can argue all you want, darling," she said, sipping her tea, "but the fact remains, you work for the FBI. I'm afraid I have nothing to tell you. Charming boy," she added, rubbing his cheek.

"Look, if you or someone else is in trouble, we can protect them," Neal said. She laughed.

"My lord, you even sound like a fed. Not that some of my favorite people haven't been lawmen; they make very passionate lovers. But they're not to be trusted, Neal, and you're one of them now."

"I know you're out of the game," Neal tried. "I know you've got a student who isn't. All I want is a name, Hilda. Lemme talk to them. I swear I won't narc."

"Promises made from a position of authority generally aren't worth the breath it took to make them," Brunhilda replied. "Neal, I think you'd better leave, before I lose my temper."

Neal opened his mouth to object, because he didn't like being called a fed and he didn't like being told he was The Man. Mozzie shook his head subtly at him.

"Come on," Mozzie said, standing. "Hilda, always a pleasure."

"My door is always open to you, Mozzie," she said, and Moz gave her a little bow. She offered her hand to Neal, who fumed as he bent to kiss it. "Neal...well, look out for yourself. You're swimming with sharks."

"Thanks, Hilda," he muttered, and followed Mozzie out of the tea room. In the cooler, relatively fresher air outside, he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, thinking.

"Well, that could have gone better," Moz said. "I should've come alone."

"She wouldn't have told you. Something's got her scared," Neal said. "She won't tell anyone anything. It's what she always used to do, just clamp down and wait for the shit to blow past."

"So what do we do? Follow her?"

"Follow Brunhilda," Neal said. "Yeah, that's a fantastic idea."

"What great ideas do you have, Mr. Fed?"

Neal tucked his chin against his chest, thinking. "Didn't Hilda used to teach at NYU? She had some alias as an assistant professor."

"You think her student's an actual student?"

"It's a lead," Neal said with a shrug.

"Gonna call the Suit in?" Mozzie asked. He gave Neal what Neal was pretty sure was supposed to be a friendly leer. It looked almost menacing.

Neal considered it, though. Peter's badge could probably get them easy access to all of Brunhilda's class rosters. Jones and Cruz could shake down all the students until something fell out. Neal could probably even have the lead. Not that he wanted the lead, wanting the lead was for actual feds and asskissers at that, but still. He'd get the lead.

On the other hand, if what he suspected was true, Brunhilda's student was in a lot more trouble than just a nosy federal consultant could bring. Calling everyone in on a Saturday for this would be pointless, and nobody would be at the NYU records offices anyway.

"Let's go kick over some rocks," he said. "I'm gonna poke around on campus. You wanna come along?"

"Unwashed fraternity brothers and the faint whiff of arrogant academia. No thank you," Mozzie said.

Neal left Mozzie at the subway and caught a cab to the NYU campus. He didn't really have a goal in mind; he just wandered around, putting his head into any open building, loitering around the library and poaching someone's computer in the lab after they left without logging off. No mailing list requests for Latin scholars; no news about anyone disappearing suddenly. Lots of bitching about classes. Looked like he hadn't missed much, skipping out of formal education at fifteen.

The registrar's office was almost stupidly easy to get into, and there was a set of hardcopy printouts of the year's enrollment sitting in a binder behind one of the desks. He thumbed through it, took pictures with his phone of the two classes taught by Hilda Summerfield, and put everything back where he'd found it.

He was sitting in a college bar, hoping the food would be edible and rewarding his hard efforts with a microbrew, when his phone rang.

"Going back to school?" Peter asked, when he answered.

"Checking my map?" Neal replied.

"I do every day," Peter reminded him. "What's so interesting about the NYU campus?"

"Oh, you know. Stuff. College football. Academia. Coeds."

"I'm pretty sure we don't call them coeds anymore," Peter said. Neal sipped his beer.

"Chasing down a lead on the Codex," he told him. "Long shot. I took myself off the clock for the evening. I can swing by later -- "

"I think three nights in a row might be pushing it," Peter told him.

"Having trouble keeping up?" Neal asked.

"With you? I seem to remember something about catching you," Peter replied, unruffled. "Other people can see your map too, Neal. Go home, sleep in your own bed tonight. I'll see you on Monday and we'll talk."

"About my tracker."

"Yeah. About that," Peter agreed.

"Tell Elizabeth I say hi."

"She does too," Peter said, sounding amused. "Seeya Monday, Neal."

***

Neal spent Sunday restless, feeling as if he were waiting for everything -- for Alex to get in touch about the music box, to talk to Peter about his tracker, for classes at NYU to start on Monday so that he could potentially stalk Hilda's students. To see Peter again. To, if he was very lucky, see Elizabeth again, perhaps for lunch if she was downtown.

He knew how to wait, but he didn't enjoy it. He fidgeted through breakfast until June told him he was making the dog nervous, and then he went running to see if he could work off the energy, but that just made him restless and tired. Washing the Jag had more or less the same effect, though it was always nice to get a hot car like that under his hands. Mozzie was incommunicado on some minor job or other. Sketching only frustrated him.

Finally he gave up and went to take a shower, washing the last traces of car soap and chamois-smell down the drain, turning the hot water up high to try and beat his muscles into relaxation. Of all the places he had lived, June's undoubtedly had the best water pressure. The little things mattered.

There was this guy in supermax, a lifer, who used to jerk off in the communal showers and didn't care who knew it; he called it gettin' clean, inside and out. Most of the inmates were more furtive, but Neal suspected that at least some of them had admired the guy's guts. He always had. In prison, he'd tried to treat it like eating or working out, a physical function, because if he let himself drift into anything less clinical it just brought back the sharp pain of loss when it was done. Missing Kate. Yearning for Kate, spending his whole week looking forward to her visit.

Here, with the privacy of four walls, it was a little easier, and with the prospect of seeing Kate again he wanted to think about her. The way she was soft, the way her body fitted under his, all the insane places they'd been. Hiding out, breaking in, running, hotel rooms and safe houses and cars they'd slept in. It was easier to think about her hips and thighs and the way her hair splayed on the pillows, while he stood in the shower alone and wrapped his hand around his dick and --

Even as he was closing his eyes, leaning his forehead against the slick tile, a different image flicked across his mind. Elizabeth -- same dark hair but completely different in every other respect, straddling his hips and propping herself on his chest as they moved together. Peter's hand reaching up from next to him to cup her breast, Neal breathless as she set the pace. Kate had never done that, or maybe never thought he wanted her to. The memory was blurred over with the heat of Peter's mouth on his, and Neal flexed his hips forward and grunted softly.

Kate. He'd have Kate, he'd win this game and he'd get Kate back and the minute they were alone he'd kiss her so hard she forgot her name.

He growled in frustration, trying every fantasy he knew, but he couldn't feel the build of it, couldn't really remember what it had been like. Even that one time she'd been so furious with him over something that she'd scratched the shit out of his back, and he'd been a little ashamed of how much he'd liked that. He'd felt marked, like for once she was admitting he belonged to her.

Peter didn't leave marks, he thought, and his whole body jerked with a surge of pleasure. Peter didn't have to leave marks. Elizabeth liked to bite, gentle little nips that didn't even bruise, but in the moment they'd felt like brands on his skin. Being with them was like being overloaded, drowning in sensation after years without --

He bit down to muffle the cry as he came, because he honestly wasn't sure whose name he would even have said.

By the time he'd caught his breath, his skin was reddening and wrinkling; he shut the water off and stepped out, tying a towel around his waist, combing his hair flat against his head with his fingers. He opened the door from the bathroom --

A man was sitting at his table. A stranger; slim, brown hair, dark tan. Young, from the look of him, still in a gawky adolescent phase. He didn't look up when Neal emerged.

"I really gotta start posting a guest list or something on my door," Neal said, closing the bathroom door behind him.

"I broke in," the young man said.

"Downstairs kitchen?" Neal asked carefully. He was naked, and there was a housebreaker in June's home. He was pretty sure he could take him, if he had to, but that wasn't the kind of naked wrestling he especially enjoyed.

"Yeah. The pug's not much of a watchdog. These are great," he added, sifting through the sketches Neal had shoved aside in frustration. Copies of old, familiar Leonardo diagrams; poor ones at that.

"You should see the real thing," Neal said. "Who are you?"

The man -- boy, really -- looked up and then quickly looked away again, shyly. "Brunhilda sent me."

Neal opened his mouth to complain that he'd left Brunhilda the hell alone, and she didn't need to send twelve-year-olds to try and scare him, but he caught himself before the diatribe could begin.

"Brunhilda didn't send you," he said. He was suddenly conscious of the tracker on his ankle, starkly visible against his skin, and the white raised scar on his shoulder. "But you came from her, right?"

A nod. Neal rummaged in the dresser for some underwear, turning his back and slipping it on under the towel.

"You're the kid who did the Codex," he continued, stepping into a pair of trousers and discarding the towel. Might as well put on the full Caffrey Rat Pack regalia. This was going to be interesting. "What's your name?"

"Clive," the boy answered.

"Clive...?"

"Just Clive, for now." There was a cocky edge to the kid's tone, not quite arrogance but just a little bit of bluster. Neal could respect that. He'd been a cocky asshole too. He pulled on an undershirt and then reached for one of Byron's dress shirts, turning around. Clive was watching him.

"How old are you?" Neal asked, threading a tie through his collar. He picked up the collar-bar from the bowl on the dresser and began fitting it in.

"Nineteen," Clive answered. Neal gave him a small grin.

"You do good work for someone your age. You do good work for someone my age," he added, sliding a cufflink into his left sleeve.

"So you really are a fed?" Clive asked.

"Brunhilda paints broad strokes," Neal told him. Right cufflink. He pondered shoes and socks, but the image would be more awkward than the payoff would be worth. He walked barefoot to the table and pulled out a chair, sitting down across from Clive. The boy had smart, sharp eyes; an expressive face. "I consult with the feds. I found your screwup on the Codex for them."

"That fucking Codex," Clive said bitterly.

"Yeah, you got sloppy right at the end. What gives?"

"It was my fourth try. I thought the solvent would evaporate."

"Never think. Know," Neal told him. "If you'd done it right you wouldn't be sitting here now. Why are you sitting here now, anyway?"

Clive twitched a sheet of sketch paper between his fingers. He was nervous; a little in awe, Neal thought, but something much bigger was eating at him. He tilted his head.

"Brunhilda said I wasn't the only one asking about you," he said. Clive winced. "Who else is after you?"

"She told me you were a fed," Clive replied, as if that were an explanation. "She said I shouldn't trust you, that you'd flip me over to the cops and I'd go away. But it's probably better than getting shot."

"Jesus, kid, what the hell did you do?" Neal asked.

"I haven't got any contacts. I can't use Brunhilda's, that's not safe for her, and I owe her. I had to make my own. The guy who bought the Codex put me onto another collector, so I did some sheets from a Book of Hours. I sold them to a guy named Barlowe. I didn't know Barlowe -- "

" -- runs a drug ring for most of Lower Manhattan?" Neal finished. Clive nodded miserably.

"He heard about the Codex, I don't know how, and he had someone take a look at his stuff. He knows I ripped him off."

"Yeah, here's a question," Neal said, tugging the sketch paper out of Clive's hands. Clive looked up at him. "Why did you rip him off? You're a kid. You're obviously educated. You do this for kicks?"

Clive shook his head. "I needed some cash. My parents kicked me out."

Neal raised an eyebrow.

"I came out," Clive said defiantly.

"Sometimes that happens," Neal told him, keeping his voice low. "I'm sorry. How'd you find Brunhilda?"

"I was saving up for school. I used to sit in on classes. Brunhilda said I could put all that private-school Latin to good use. She let me stay at her place until Barlowe started poking around."

"How much did you take Barlowe for?"

"Fourteen thousand dollars."

Neal rolled his eyes. "He's gonna shoot you over fourteen grand?"

"Apparently it's a matter of pride," Clive said, and there was a little pride in his own eyes. "Barlowe couldn't spot a fake. He's insulted."

Neal sat back, his mind working, biting around the edges of the problem, examining it from other angles. Clive needed to get the hell out of New York if Barlowe was gunning for him. He doubted he could fast-talk a deal; Barlowe wasn't interested in anything the kid had except his fourteen grand.

Barlowe ran a big operation. Crack him and his cronies would just move in and take over, but it'd still be a gold star on Peter's resume. And that kind of case made judges throw around immunity like candy.

Nineteen. Young to be in the game. He'd probably never pulled a real con in his life. On the other hand, he'd survived on his own long enough to hook up with Brunhilda. A kid with no resources and no support got desperate fast, but learned fast too.

"So why are you here?" Neal asked.

"You said you had a job for me," Clive said.

"You burn through the fourteen grand already?"

"There's a guy says it costs thirty to make me disappear."

Neal laughed. "He's ripping you off. You could do it yourself for fifteen. I can't help you, though."

"Can't or won't?" Clive asked, jutting out his chin. The bravado of youth suddenly struck Neal as uproariously funny.

"I found you for the feds. I work for them. I got a little leeway on this one, so they don't know I've found anything yet. You run tonight, get a head start, I won't say anything. If you stay in New York, I gotta turn you in."

Clive looked -- he looked like he was going for mildly disappointed, but also like he was about to cry.

"But if you trust me," Neal added, "I have another option for you."

Chapter Seven

References:
Collar bars are hot. (Neal wears these in canon occasionally -- you can see one in his collar in the first scene of this past week's episode.)
Brunhilda's tea room.