sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2010-08-17 08:12 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2010-08-17 08:12 am
Entry tags:
Exquisite, Ch. 7
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 Six
***
When Neal walked into the office on Monday, it was with a strut and a swagger, and Peter knew he'd found something. He was even wearing the hat.
"Morning," he said, throwing himself into the chair across from Peter's and tossing his hat on the table.
"You look chipper," Peter said.
"It's a beautiful day, and I have a present for you," Neal replied. "First I need to ask a question, though."
Peter set down his pen. "Shoot."
"If someone forges something, something that probably doesn't actually exist and wouldn't harm the very deceased original artist if it did -- "
"Like the Codex?" Peter asked.
"Like the Codex, yeah," Neal said. He looked...excited. "But they sold it to someone who thought they were knowingly buying stolen property, and that buyer was a criminal to begin with, is it still a crime?"
"The buyer's criminal status is irrelevant," Peter said. "It's still fraud."
"Yeah, but how bad is it? Is that something the FBI holds a grudge about?"
Peter considered it. Talking about moral relativism with Neal was dangerous. "If the seller could get us the buyer, and the buyer had significant criminal activity, the Bureau could make a deal."
"What if he could get you Shane Barlowe?" Neal asked.
Shane Barlowe. God, Neal didn't do anything by halves.
A three-agency task force had been chasing Barlowe for years. White Collar wasn't interested in drug running, but other departments and agencies would be. If they could slam-dunk Barlowe, it wasn't just Peter's star that would rise -- the whole department would be in the spotlight, and a major collar facilitated by Neal would make their position with the Bureau a lot more secure.
"I'm listening," Peter said.
"The Codex forger sold Barlowe a couple of fake religious documents. Took him for chump change, but Barlowe's gunning for him now that he knows he got taken. We use him to set up a sting, you catch Barlowe making a buy on stolen goods, you have everything you need to get him on a whole lot more," Neal said.
Definitely excited; this was Neal's favorite kind of sting, because it felt like a con.
"We gotta move fast," Neal continued. "The forger knows Barlowe's after him. If we don't make him an offer now, he's skipping town."
"What does he want?" Peter asked, sitting back.
"Immunity," Neal said, and Peter rolled his eyes. "Come on, Peter, he sold three gorgeous forgeries to a gang lord and one to a killer perv who's now dead. He's offering us Barlowe on a platter."
"You've spoken with him," Peter said. It wasn't a question, but Neal nodded anyway. "You know how to get in touch?"
"Nothing easier," Neal said.
"I want a meet," Peter told him. "I want to see this guy for myself. Can you set that up?"
"I'll make it happen," Neal said. "Come back to June's place with me after work."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "This sounds like a ploy."
"Hand to God, Peter, my intentions are honorable," Neal said, raising one hand. He let it fall and leaned forward. "About that, though..."
"Yeah," Peter said, rubbing his forehead. "I got nothing. You?"
"I was kinda hoping you had something," Neal admitted. "Because all I got is you playing fast and loose putting my tracker on whenever we cut it for a case, and I don't think that'll fly."
"Not even with me," Peter told him.
"What about Elizabeth, she think of anything?"
Peter smiled a little. "She suggested long lunches."
"Nooners! Daring," Neal said.
"Didn't work for Nancy Reagan, won't work here," Peter told him. Neal gave him a dry look, but they both knew he was right. "I figure we can get away with you working late at our place about once a week. Believe me, I never thought I'd be at a point in my life where I was planning this kind of thing."
"Fun, isn't it?" Neal said, grinning. "Playing the system. Even more fun when you're inside it."
"Hmm." Peter didn't want to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. "Okay. Let's go forward with the Barlowe sting. You work up a plan, I'll brief the masses. I'm gonna have Jones bring the DEA in on this, but it's our collar. Don't let them bully you."
"Peter, since when have I ever let anyone bully me?" Neal asked.
Peter smiled, slow, and watched Neal's eyes get sharp and bright.
"Nobody but you," Neal said quietly. He picked up his hat, flipped it onto his head, and stood up. "I'll dust off my best alias."
"Neal," Peter said, as he was leaving.
"Yeah?" Neal asked, leaning back in the door, hat tilted at a rakish angle.
"Barlowe is vicious, and taking him down is going to be very political. Tread carefully," Peter warned him.
"Always do," Neal said. "I'll set up the meet."
Peter spent the day in meetings with the DEA and the joint taskforce, setting up the sting they were going to execute. Neal was everywhere at once: laying out a plan, offering advice, quietly checking with Hughes to make sure his alias, Benjamin Doss, wouldn't be used against him (Doss had gotten up to some shady dealings, but Hughes could only see Barlowe on the horizon). Neal made a lot of promises based on the Codex forger's complicity, and Peter trusted he would come through for them --
Until he actually met the forger, who they found sitting at Neal's dining room table that evening, sketching, like a kid who'd been given crayons and told to keep quiet.
"You didn't tell me he was a ninth-grader," Peter hissed.
"I'm nineteen," Clive said.
"You're a kid," Peter told him, and turned back to Neal. "Seriously, you want us to wire this guy up and send him in against Barlowe?"
"Peter Burke, this is Clive," Neal said, ignoring him and looking resigned. "Clive, Special Agent Peter Burke. He's my handler."
"Yeah, hi," Peter said, shaking the kid's hand. "Seriously, Neal, I don't think Hughes would have gone for this if you told him -- which is why you didn't tell him," he added, more to himself than for Neal's benefit. Neal gave him an only slightly repentant look.
"I'll be there the whole time. He's got it covered," Neal said. "He sold to Barlowe the first time with no backup."
"You seriously forged the Codex Leaf," Peter said. Clive nodded. "How?"
Clive gave Neal a nervous look, like he wasn't sure Peter was really asking for an explanation.
"Where'd you get your chops," Peter clarified.
"That's not relevant," Neal said quickly, before Clive could even open his mouth. He was hovering next to the kid, almost paternally, and Peter could see the metaphorical resemblance: a brilliant nineteen-year-old in over his head, living outside the normal world, not even experienced enough to know when he was being had.
"You up for this?" Peter asked Clive, giving Neal a warning look to keep quiet. "They're not carrying pop-guns."
"Like I have a choice?" Clive replied. "I can pull this off."
"If we get Barlowe, I have a grant of immunity for you," Peter said, making his decision. "If he gets away, he can't press charges, but you'll still be looking at a year or two in prison."
Clive glanced at Neal again. Neal shrugged.
"Them's the breaks," he said. "We'll get Barlowe. We always win."
Peter hoped like hell he was right. If they didn't get Barlowe, it wasn't exactly out of the question that young Clive the Forger would end up dead.
"Neal, a word?" he said, and stepped back into the landing outside the door. Neal followed, closing the door behind him.
"Look, I know he looks young but I was only twenty-two when you started chasing me -- " Neal began, but Peter held up a hand to silence him. Neal looked like he was forcibly swallowing the rest of his sentence.
"You were twenty-two, not nineteen," Peter said. "And you were smarter than he is. I get the connection, okay? But you can't get too involved in this case."
"I'm not -- " Neal broke off again when Peter looked at him.
"He's young, and he's smart, and he's also a criminal," Peter said. "Your job is to help stop people like him. Neal," he added warningly. Neal closed his mouth. "Barlowe is serious fucking business. I give you a lot of leeway when you try to play the Bureau, but not this time. You do the op straight and clean, so that kid in there doesn't get shot. If the shit hits the fan, don't be a hero. Keep yourself safe and let SWAT handle the kid. We clear?"
Neal seemed to struggle for a moment, but then he nodded. "Clear," he repeated.
Peter gave him a small smile and his hand around the back of Neal's neck as a reward. "This is me looking out for you."
"I know," Neal murmured. He darted his head up quickly, kissed Peter like he was picking a pocket, and pulled away.
***
Neal loved FBI stings with a passion that bordered on the inappropriate, especially for a felon. But he loved them! Not only because they were basically legit cons, but because at the end you didn't just get away with whatever you were after. You got whatever you were after and you got to see the look on your mark's face when he realized he'd been taken.
His first meet with Barlowe was like the best fencing match ever; he'd give him this, the guy was smart and fast, if definitely excitable. It took a lot to talk his way into bringing "that little punk" in to see him, with the promise that Barlowe would give the kid a chance to make good. After all, how could a kid like that know when he'd been passed a forgery?
Let Benjamin Doss handle your antiques, his manner said, and you'll never get taken by another fake again.
The second meet did not quite go as planned.
Clive, Neal had to say, played it off like he'd been made for this. The problem was that once they'd put out the antiques Clive had to fence, and Neal had authenticated them -- they were all real, from FBI evidence storage -- Barlowe opened the briefcase that was supposed to contain the cash, and pulled out a gun instead.
Neal should have thought of this. Nobody needed a briefcase to carry ten grand.
"Hey, whoa," he said, lifting his hands and incidentally blocking a clear shot at Clive with his left palm. "Come on, Barlowe, we made a deal."
"I don't make deals with punks," Barlowe said. "Step aside, Doss."
Neal obediently stepped in front of Clive. He heard Peter cursing at him over the remote two-way.
"I said aside!" Barlowe shouted.
"Aside where? There's a big fucking table there!" Neal pointed out. "Come on man, don't shoot the kid. Just take the goods and go. You've more than made back your fourteen grand with this haul."
"You think he can just come up in here and keep palming off stolen fakes on me," Barlowe said. "I want him out of the business for good. I don't want him talking."
"You are seriously insane," Neal told him.
"What the fuck did you say to me?" Barlowe demanded, angling the gun at Neal's forehead.
A year ago, this would have been a terrifying threat, but Neal was used to guns being pointed at him by now.
"I want you," Neal said, politely, "to very slowly look down. See that red dot on your chest? That's from a sniper rifle held by one of my very close friends at the FBI. Now you could still kill me, but I don't think you want to die pulling the trigger on small time like me."
Barlowe looked down at the dot. He looked back up, and lifted his gun, hands in the air. Jones and his team began to move in --
And then Barlowe twisted, caught Neal across the temple with the edge of the gun, turned like a ballet dancer, and wrapped his arm around Clive's neck. He kicked twice, sharply; Neal felt both blows land, one on his ribcage, the other in his stomach.
"Anyone fires, I kill the kid," Barlowe yelled. Neal, curling in pain at his feet, saw Peter's ashen face at the edge of the warehouse floor. "Anyone comes at me from behind better be prepared for me to fire as my last act on this goddamn Earth."
The pain in his ribcage was fading, but Neal stayed curled on the ground. Barlowe hadn't begun to move yet.
"Let the kid go," Jones called.
"Fuck you, fed," Barlowe replied. Neal looked at Peter again; Peter's right hand was bent, almost as if in supplication, until Neal realised it was a signal. It was an angle.
Barlowe was shorter than Clive.
Neal turned his head. Clive's legs were spread wide; he was being half-supported by Barlowe, and he looked scared out of his mind.
He waited for Peter's mark.
"There's no way out, Barlowe," Peter called. "Even if you shoot the kid, it's over. Do the smart thing."
Peter was walking out of the shadows -- oh Jesus, he had no vest on -- his hand still bent. Neal watched Barlowe's gun hand and sure enough, there it was, because most guys who carried guns didn't treat them like weapons; they treated them like big wagging dicks.
Barlowe pointed the gun at Peter.
Neal pulled his body around, swore at the pain that nipped up his ribcage, and kicked hard between Clive's legs, the heel of his shoe connecting squarely with Barlowe's groin.
Things happened very fast. Barlowe pulled the trigger; Peter threw himself to the side; Clive came down on Neal and Neal grabbed him, rolling, as a shot rang out and Barlowe's blood dappled the warehouse floor. Neal pushed Clive into the arms of a SWAT officer, who dragged him away; he got to his feet and saw Barlowe down, clutching his shoulder, but more importantly he saw Peter down -- flat on his back, a medic crouched over him.
"I'm fine!" Peter called, when he heard Neal running towards him. Neal skidded to a stop a few feet away, not daring to go further. "He missed me. The kid okay?"
Neal glanced at the SWAT guy who had Clive; he gave him the thumbs up. "Yeah, he's fine."
"Okay," Peter said, pushing his would-be medic away and getting to his feet. He cracked his neck, flexing his right arm carefully. Neal watched, heart hammering -- which was stupid, because during the op he'd been fine, but now that it was over he realized Peter could have been shot. Peter could have been shot. And that was stupid too because he knew all the time that Peter could get shot. He could get shot himself. He had been shot, once.
"What the hell did I tell you about not being a hero?" Peter said, walking forward, still flexing his arm. "Neal, I swear to God I'm going to put a muzzle on you. Look at you," he added, hand drifting over what was probably going to look like a black eye, where Barlowe had pistol-whipped him. "Can I get a medic please?" he shouted.
"I'm fine," Neal said, though he suspected he'd have bruises to argue with that.
"That's great," Peter told him. "You still need to get checked. Take him out of here," he ordered, as the SWAT medic took Neal by the arm.
Outside, in the glare of the warehouse parking lot, Neal tolerated the attentions of the medics until they cleared him, then went looking for Clive. He found him sitting sideways in the back of a squad car, looking a little shell-shocked.
"So," Neal said, leaning against the door. "That was interesting. The shakes'll stop in a minute, it's just adrenaline."
Clive absently reached up and ran his fingers through his short brown hair, cradling his head. "He was gonna shoot me."
"Yeah. People like him do that," Neal said.
"This is what you do for a living," Clive said, as if he were puzzling something out.
"Well, usually it's not quite this exciting," Neal admitted.
"You do this kind of thing. All the time. How do you survive?" Clive asked. Neal shrugged.
"I've done worse," he said. "You stay on this route, you will too. Now you see what the game's about."
"Jesus Christ," Clive muttered.
"Lemme give you some advice," Neal said. Clive nodded, looking down at his hands. "Get out now."
"What?" Clive asked.
"Get out now. You've got fourteen grand, get yourself some help and stop stepping over the line." Neal leaned forward, making sure Clive looked up before he continued. "When I was your age I was in Vegas, pulling cons. My handler knows it. He knows everything about me. He knows where I am all the time, because of the tracker."
"So?" Clive asked.
"So he told me, Someone should've done better by you. When I was nineteen, someone should've been looking out for me. I loved the life, so maybe I wouldn't have listened. You don't love it, you just need it, and nobody should put up with this kind of bullshit if they don't love it. Don't get sent up. Get out."
"What about Brunhilda?"
"Screw Brunhilda. She used you and took a cut. You don't see her here keeping you from getting shot, huh?"
Clive gave him a stubborn look. "I'm good at this. I can get out of New York and do it right next time."
"So?" Neal shrugged. "Can, should...maybe go easy on yourself and find a better way. Just -- think about it."
Clive turned away, pulling into the cop car a little, feet up on the runnerboard. Neal shook his head and wandered off, waiting for Peter and the team to get done doing the preliminaries inside. It was half an hour before they brought Barlowe out, bandaged and still yelling threats, and shoved him none-too-gently in the back of an armored wagon. The SWAT guys tipped their hats at Peter, who'd followed them out, and began loading their gear. Neal watched as Peter bent his head close to Cruz to give a few last-minute orders and then walked across the parking lot to stand in front of him, arms crossed.
"I know I stepped in front of a gun -- " Neal began, but Peter reached out a hand and tugged on Neal's ear -- removing the wireless two-way plug. Neal stared at it.
"Your radio was on. Channel five," Peter said. He flicked his thumbnail across the battery switch. "Pretty much everyone was on channel three. Me, maybe Cruz, heard what you said."
"Peter -- "
"Shh," Peter said. Neal fell silent. "You stand here, Neal, and you think about what you just did. You maybe just saved that kid's life."
"Maybe," Neal protested.
"Doesn't matter. From here out it's his call. You still did good," Peter said. "Hopefully he gets out. I'll see about getting him in Witness Protection, he'll probably need it once Barlowe's guys hear about this."
"He wouldn't have -- he would've got caught. Probably fast. You have to love the work," Neal said.
"Yeah. That's my point. You looked out for someone, Neal. That's something you can do here. Love this work. Be proud of it. I am," Peter added. "Which is the only reason I am not busting your ass for trying to get shot."
"I wasn't trying," Neal pointed out. Peter opened the car door.
"Get in," he said, tilting his head at the seat. Neal didn't wait to be shoved in.
"Where are we going?" Neal asked.
"Your ribs okay?"
"Yeah, he kicks like a punk."
"Good," Peter told him, backing the car out of the warehouse's lot. "I'm taking you home."
Neal glanced at him. "Your home? Are we working late tonight?"
"Oh yeah," Peter said, poker-faced, and passed him his tracker. Neal sighed and buckled it around his ankle. "I already let the Marshals know. Speakerphone," he told the car, as they got on the road. "Call Elizabeth."
"We are truly living in the future," Neal said to him, as a ringing noise filled the car.
"You, keep quiet," Peter told him. There was a click as Elizabeth picked up.
"I'm never going to get used to a car phoning me," she said.
"Hi, hon," Peter replied. "Where are you?"
"On my way home. Where are you?"
"Pretty much the same," Peter said. Neal watched his face -- so many complicated emotions, so much affection in it.
"Early day for you. How'd the op go?" Elizabeth asked. Peter pursed his lips. "That well, huh?" she said, into the silence.
"Nobody died," Peter said. "We got our guy."
There was a soft exhalation. "How badly did you get beat up? How's Neal?"
"I'm fine," Neal put in. Peter gave him a brief glare. "Peter almost got shot," he added, grinning.
"Neal got pistol-whipped," Peter replied.
"It's not a competition," Elizabeth told them. "It's really not a competition for who's going to make me worry more."
"We're both okay," Peter answered. "You want me to pick up dinner?"
Neal sat back as Peter and Elizabeth sorted out dinner, talked about errands, and did some kind of strange domestic dance together about their day. Even talking about how Satchmo needed a trip to the groomer's, Peter was relaxed -- perhaps because of that. Certainly after taking down a drug kingpin or planning a luncheon for three hundred people, the groomer didn't seem very stressful. It was like they didn't need to be told to turn off. They just did it. Elizabeth didn't need or want Peter to be a fed with her, and Peter didn't bother trying to be.
He imagined, as they were pulling into a parking place near Elizabeth's favorite Greek restaurant, what it must be like to have someone love you even if you weren't putting on a show.
And then he wondered if maybe he was the strange one, and Peter and Elizabeth were the way things were supposed to be.
***
By the time they got home, Neal looked like he'd been in a fistfight, a dark bruise running from temple down across his cheekbone, swelling a little under his eye. He walked like it too, stiff and slow, back very straight. Peter had a strange sense of déjà vu as he set the takeaway on the table and El fussed around Neal, making him undo his shirt off to display his latest injuries. Then she fussed at Peter until he rolled up his sleeve -- Neal was such a fucking snitch sometimes -- and put an ice pack on his elbow. He tossed a second one to Neal, who applied it carefully to his face as he opened the takeaway containers with his other hand.
"Dining in style tonight," Elizabeth said, passing out plastic forks. Neal waited for them to start eating, but once they did he dove in like he'd never seen food before, which was reassuring.
"So I think," Peter said, picking up their discussion from the car, "I can drop Satchmo off tomorrow morning on the way in, I just need to leave a little early. But if you need to be in midtown by ten..."
"Well, maybe they can hold onto him for an hour or two. I'll be done by eleven," El said, pouring some of her soup into the empty mug he held out. "I can run him home, get lunch here, and be back in Manhattan for the dinner. Oh, there's a dinner," she added. "So I'll be home late."
"If you walk him at lunch, he'll be fine, and I can -- " Peter broke off, because Neal was laughing, hiding it by looking down at his food, but definitely laughing. "What?"
"Sorry, it's just..." Neal looked up, eyes bright, grinning. "No, sorry. You almost got shot today and now it's all, oh, well, what do we do about Satchmo?"
Peter glanced at Elizabeth, but she looked as baffled as he felt.
"Sweetie, are you okay?" she asked.
"I'm fine." Neal gestured with his ice pack, then pressed it back against his face again. "It's...I don't know, domestic."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "You have a problem with domestic? 'Cause Satchmo's been around a lot longer than you have, so if it's you or the dog..."
Neal sobered up fast. El kicked Peter under the table.
"He's joking, Neal," she said.
"I don't have a problem with it," Neal said, quieter now. "I'm just not used to it."
"It's not like you were raised by wolves," Peter pointed out. He sensed he was treading very close to the borderline of Neal's psyche. On the one hand he didn't want to poke Neal's crazy -- but on the other, well, a glimpse into it was usually educational.
"You would know," Neal told him, but he smiled when he said it, and took another bite of food. Satchmo, who had been equal-opportunity begging from under the table, laid his head on Neal's thigh and whined piteously. Neal looked down at him in surprise, and Peter started to laugh. He wasn't even sure why it was so funny, but it was, and obviously El thought so too because she was trying valiantly not to snort as she stifled her laughter. Neal was smiling, rubbing Satchmo's head.
"If I have to bump you off to be favorite around here, I will," he told the dog, which was even funnier, the mental image of Neal all in black creeping down the stairs some night to carry out a hit on their dog. Elizabeth leaned around the edge of the table to kiss Neal's uninjured cheek, and Peter watched in amusement as Neal turned his head to steal a real kiss, casual and smooth as any con he'd ever pulled.
That evening, just because he could, he hooked a handcuff around Neal's wrist and attached it to the leg of the bedside table. He didn't make particular use of the restraint, and Neal could have slipped it any time he wanted; really it just meant Neal had one less hand to touch with. But Neal's eyes got dark and narrow when Peter fastened it, and Peter could hear him rattle it occasionally, to be sure it was still there.
By the time he unlocked it, Neal was bonelessly sprawled against Elizabeth and already half asleep. Peter flicked the catch free, set the handcuffs on the bedside table, and eased in next to El, while Neal absently rubbed his wrist. He must think Peter couldn't see his face in the dark; the secret, delighted smile wasn't meant to be visible to others, Peter was sure. It was a shame. Neal so rarely showed genuine, guileless pleasure.
***
Four days after Barlowe went down, when the bruise on Neal's face had faded away to a faint yellow blotch, he got the call from Alex about the music box, and he put the wheels in motion to get his tracker deactivated.
Then Fowler came back to New York, and everything changed.
Suddenly, Neal was prepping a heist, prepping to leave New York, readying himself to see Kate again. He was so close he could taste it, and a little part of him liked the smile that the prospect put on Alex's face. He was sculpting, planning, laying things out, in his element --
He was also the reason the FBI searched Elizabeth's offices, and the reason Peter was put on suspension; Peter had punched Fowler for harassing his wife, but Fowler wouldn't have been there if Neal hadn't called him in. He was, quite suddenly, ripping apart the lives of the people he loved most in the world after Kate. He and Peter were on opposite sides: Peter was going after Fowler, but only Fowler was protecting Neal. Any other time he would have reveled in the freedom of almost a full week without the tracker watching his every move, but how could he face Peter and Elizabeth knowing what he'd done?
Once he finally had the box, it felt like the button had been pushed and the machine was in motion. He had to make the call. All his work had been pushing towards this point. How could he not? He made the call, he made the drop...and he couldn't say goodbye.
He had said goodbye to June, and Mozzie just got all emotionally constipated and quoted proverbs at him. Jones and Cruz would understand. He could just about say goodbye to Elizabeth, and anyway he owed her for nearly destroying her career.
"There's something I wanted to ask you," he said, because the phone somehow gave him enough distance from Elizabeth that he could finally ask. "You and Peter. How'd you know?"
She was silent for a while.
"Well...I think there's a difference between loving the idea of someone," she said, "and actually loving who they really are."
Which was no real answer. Or rather, it was an answer to a different question. Maybe she thought he'd meant, How did you know about me?
He couldn't say goodbye to Peter. He had to get to the airstrip. Once he was on the plane with Kate, this was a lost world, just a chapter of his past he could forget. He and Kate had new lives, legal lives, waiting for them. He would keep her safe, and she would give him peace. That was how it worked.
Wasn't it?
He made it all the way to the hangar, to the fucking tarmac, before god damn Peter Burke showed up for one more try at knocking down Neal's comforting illusions.
It wasn't that he wasn't listening when Peter spoke -- every word seemed to echo for him -- but he felt confused, too, half-drugged. Peter was standing there like some immovable, unarguable fact, and Kate's sheer presence was pulling him towards the plane. Most of his thoughts were with Kate, but they weren't clear thoughts, they weren't the ones he wanted.
He thought about every time she'd talked about boring suburban life (a life Neal sometimes, secretly, envied); he thought about how Kate would rather draw a moustache on a Great Master than steal it. He loved her, he did love her, because despite all the fights they'd had about his recklessness and her carelessness, she understood him. Kate had let him love her even when she knew everything: why he'd bolted when he was fourteen and been sent to a juvie camp when he was fifteen and broken out and run around the world trying to find something worth having. Kate was it. He did love her, he must love her; she wasn't just an idea, she was Kate. He was sure she understood him. That couldn't have been a lie he told himself, not like the other lies --
Except Peter kept casting doubt, not by talking but simply by existing. Peter knew those things about him too, Peter knew it all. Peter and Elizabeth were worth it, thought he was worth it, and Peter demanded more of him for the having.
Peter, who had once settled his weight down on top of Neal like Neal was the only thing in the world, securing him there, protecting him, giving him that brief peace. Peter, who came to the hangar not because he was going to arrest him or even argue with him but just because he wanted to know why Neal hadn't said goodbye.
"I don't know," Neal said. He felt short of breath. He could think his way out of anything; he could think his way out of this, if only he could grab hold of a single strand of truth. Or even a convincing lie (except suddenly none of them were).
"Yeah you do," Peter said, in the same voice he used whenever he knew Neal was screwing around. "Tell me."
"I don't know!"
"Why?" Peter demanded.
"You know why!" Neal tried not to shout, because he was already fucking crying, he was crying about leaving his damn jailer, or maybe because some dream he'd invented was crashing around his ears.
"Tell me," Peter ordered.
"Because you're the only one who could change my mind," Neal said, before he even thought about it.
But Peter didn't order him to come back; Peter was going to make him choose it, if he chose it. It was just...Kate was there, and he'd come this far, and she needed him. That was too strong a pull -- years of loving Kate against a handful of weeks of loving Peter and Elizabeth.
Or maybe he was just an idiot.
Neal was halfway to the plane before Peter's chain choked him tight and he had to turn back. He had to. God alone knew what he'd tell Kate, if Kate even stayed to hear it. He had no idea what he would do here in New York. He had no idea what OPR would do to him, and he didn't care. This felt real, it felt as though he could put out a hand and touch it, and suddenly the life he was imagining for himself and Kate was just a pathetic series of lies he'd told them both. Lies maybe Kate didn't even believe.
It was on his lips to say it -- "Tell me if I don't go it'll be all right" -- and if Peter had said it would, he would have turned his back on everything he'd worked for. On Peter's nod he would have left the plane on the tarmac and spent the rest of his life making it up to them.
But instead, a sudden shockwave and a blast of heat knocked him to the ground, and the decision was made for him.
Kate was dead.
***
Interlude: Supermax
Mondays are the best day, because he gets two visitors.
Mozzie comes in the morning to meet with him as his legal counsel. Mozzie doesn't like visiting the prison, and he never did last time because last time he didn't have his "degree" yet, but he's okay visiting if he's there as legal counsel. There's a lot they can't talk about, but they talk about some stuff, and Mozzie slips him gum and cigarettes.
June comes in the afternoon, bringing sweets and making light chatter. The first time she came Neal was stunned to see her there, but she just said it brought back happy memories of Byron. June understands maybe better than anyone else. He's so grateful for June, and all her distracting talk of the world outside and of her grandkids.
Tuesdays, Elizabeth comes to see him. Technically Neal's only allowed two food packages a month, but either June's bribing someone or the guards like Elizabeth, because every week she has something for him -- hermetically sealed, commercially stamped per regulation, but still. Elizabeth works with caterers; she knows people who will hermetically seal and commercially stamp just about anything. One week she brings terrine de foie gras, and Neal gives a gourmet food tasting and palate-development lecture in the exercise yard that afternoon. He never has any trouble with the other inmates.
Thursdays, Peter visits. Normally Peter's badge would have meant they didn't have to sit in a cubicle with double-paned glass between them, but Peter's badge has been taken away from him, so it's visiting hours only. They don't talk much; Peter is obviously unused to this kind of visitation, and is less adaptable to it than Elizabeth. He often seems to have no idea what to say. It's good just to see him though, and every week Neal can honestly report he's kept his head down and his nose clean.
Jones and Cruz sometimes stop in, but it's erratic; they don't get as much spare time as Peter, and Neal can't really blame them. Jones brings him a chess set, though, and Cruz brings him some art supplies, all carefully concordant with prison guidelines. Neal practices his conte drawing with a Sargent book he requested from June, and mails them to Cruz with stamps Mozzie passes him. She's moved on from White Collar now; he jokes that he has too, but it falls a little flat.
He's never had so many visitors in prison before. Last time only Kate came, and the occasional crony who wanted to nose around and see if Neal would drop the location of his cache. This time he gets called to the visitor's room almost every day. It makes it easier to do what Peter said when they were taking Neal into custody after the bombing: sit tight, don't make trouble, and let me take care of this.
He grieves for Kate, quietly. He's uncertain whether he's mourning her or the fantasies he built around her. Perhaps both. Either way, it hurts like a knife in the gut, and sometimes when he sleeps he dreams about the explosion.
Neal takes it day by day, but this time he doesn't bother to mark the wall. Peter said he'd take care of it, so all Neal has to do is wait. Surely he won't have to wait long.
***
Chapter Eight
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 Six
***
When Neal walked into the office on Monday, it was with a strut and a swagger, and Peter knew he'd found something. He was even wearing the hat.
"Morning," he said, throwing himself into the chair across from Peter's and tossing his hat on the table.
"You look chipper," Peter said.
"It's a beautiful day, and I have a present for you," Neal replied. "First I need to ask a question, though."
Peter set down his pen. "Shoot."
"If someone forges something, something that probably doesn't actually exist and wouldn't harm the very deceased original artist if it did -- "
"Like the Codex?" Peter asked.
"Like the Codex, yeah," Neal said. He looked...excited. "But they sold it to someone who thought they were knowingly buying stolen property, and that buyer was a criminal to begin with, is it still a crime?"
"The buyer's criminal status is irrelevant," Peter said. "It's still fraud."
"Yeah, but how bad is it? Is that something the FBI holds a grudge about?"
Peter considered it. Talking about moral relativism with Neal was dangerous. "If the seller could get us the buyer, and the buyer had significant criminal activity, the Bureau could make a deal."
"What if he could get you Shane Barlowe?" Neal asked.
Shane Barlowe. God, Neal didn't do anything by halves.
A three-agency task force had been chasing Barlowe for years. White Collar wasn't interested in drug running, but other departments and agencies would be. If they could slam-dunk Barlowe, it wasn't just Peter's star that would rise -- the whole department would be in the spotlight, and a major collar facilitated by Neal would make their position with the Bureau a lot more secure.
"I'm listening," Peter said.
"The Codex forger sold Barlowe a couple of fake religious documents. Took him for chump change, but Barlowe's gunning for him now that he knows he got taken. We use him to set up a sting, you catch Barlowe making a buy on stolen goods, you have everything you need to get him on a whole lot more," Neal said.
Definitely excited; this was Neal's favorite kind of sting, because it felt like a con.
"We gotta move fast," Neal continued. "The forger knows Barlowe's after him. If we don't make him an offer now, he's skipping town."
"What does he want?" Peter asked, sitting back.
"Immunity," Neal said, and Peter rolled his eyes. "Come on, Peter, he sold three gorgeous forgeries to a gang lord and one to a killer perv who's now dead. He's offering us Barlowe on a platter."
"You've spoken with him," Peter said. It wasn't a question, but Neal nodded anyway. "You know how to get in touch?"
"Nothing easier," Neal said.
"I want a meet," Peter told him. "I want to see this guy for myself. Can you set that up?"
"I'll make it happen," Neal said. "Come back to June's place with me after work."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "This sounds like a ploy."
"Hand to God, Peter, my intentions are honorable," Neal said, raising one hand. He let it fall and leaned forward. "About that, though..."
"Yeah," Peter said, rubbing his forehead. "I got nothing. You?"
"I was kinda hoping you had something," Neal admitted. "Because all I got is you playing fast and loose putting my tracker on whenever we cut it for a case, and I don't think that'll fly."
"Not even with me," Peter told him.
"What about Elizabeth, she think of anything?"
Peter smiled a little. "She suggested long lunches."
"Nooners! Daring," Neal said.
"Didn't work for Nancy Reagan, won't work here," Peter told him. Neal gave him a dry look, but they both knew he was right. "I figure we can get away with you working late at our place about once a week. Believe me, I never thought I'd be at a point in my life where I was planning this kind of thing."
"Fun, isn't it?" Neal said, grinning. "Playing the system. Even more fun when you're inside it."
"Hmm." Peter didn't want to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. "Okay. Let's go forward with the Barlowe sting. You work up a plan, I'll brief the masses. I'm gonna have Jones bring the DEA in on this, but it's our collar. Don't let them bully you."
"Peter, since when have I ever let anyone bully me?" Neal asked.
Peter smiled, slow, and watched Neal's eyes get sharp and bright.
"Nobody but you," Neal said quietly. He picked up his hat, flipped it onto his head, and stood up. "I'll dust off my best alias."
"Neal," Peter said, as he was leaving.
"Yeah?" Neal asked, leaning back in the door, hat tilted at a rakish angle.
"Barlowe is vicious, and taking him down is going to be very political. Tread carefully," Peter warned him.
"Always do," Neal said. "I'll set up the meet."
Peter spent the day in meetings with the DEA and the joint taskforce, setting up the sting they were going to execute. Neal was everywhere at once: laying out a plan, offering advice, quietly checking with Hughes to make sure his alias, Benjamin Doss, wouldn't be used against him (Doss had gotten up to some shady dealings, but Hughes could only see Barlowe on the horizon). Neal made a lot of promises based on the Codex forger's complicity, and Peter trusted he would come through for them --
Until he actually met the forger, who they found sitting at Neal's dining room table that evening, sketching, like a kid who'd been given crayons and told to keep quiet.
"You didn't tell me he was a ninth-grader," Peter hissed.
"I'm nineteen," Clive said.
"You're a kid," Peter told him, and turned back to Neal. "Seriously, you want us to wire this guy up and send him in against Barlowe?"
"Peter Burke, this is Clive," Neal said, ignoring him and looking resigned. "Clive, Special Agent Peter Burke. He's my handler."
"Yeah, hi," Peter said, shaking the kid's hand. "Seriously, Neal, I don't think Hughes would have gone for this if you told him -- which is why you didn't tell him," he added, more to himself than for Neal's benefit. Neal gave him an only slightly repentant look.
"I'll be there the whole time. He's got it covered," Neal said. "He sold to Barlowe the first time with no backup."
"You seriously forged the Codex Leaf," Peter said. Clive nodded. "How?"
Clive gave Neal a nervous look, like he wasn't sure Peter was really asking for an explanation.
"Where'd you get your chops," Peter clarified.
"That's not relevant," Neal said quickly, before Clive could even open his mouth. He was hovering next to the kid, almost paternally, and Peter could see the metaphorical resemblance: a brilliant nineteen-year-old in over his head, living outside the normal world, not even experienced enough to know when he was being had.
"You up for this?" Peter asked Clive, giving Neal a warning look to keep quiet. "They're not carrying pop-guns."
"Like I have a choice?" Clive replied. "I can pull this off."
"If we get Barlowe, I have a grant of immunity for you," Peter said, making his decision. "If he gets away, he can't press charges, but you'll still be looking at a year or two in prison."
Clive glanced at Neal again. Neal shrugged.
"Them's the breaks," he said. "We'll get Barlowe. We always win."
Peter hoped like hell he was right. If they didn't get Barlowe, it wasn't exactly out of the question that young Clive the Forger would end up dead.
"Neal, a word?" he said, and stepped back into the landing outside the door. Neal followed, closing the door behind him.
"Look, I know he looks young but I was only twenty-two when you started chasing me -- " Neal began, but Peter held up a hand to silence him. Neal looked like he was forcibly swallowing the rest of his sentence.
"You were twenty-two, not nineteen," Peter said. "And you were smarter than he is. I get the connection, okay? But you can't get too involved in this case."
"I'm not -- " Neal broke off again when Peter looked at him.
"He's young, and he's smart, and he's also a criminal," Peter said. "Your job is to help stop people like him. Neal," he added warningly. Neal closed his mouth. "Barlowe is serious fucking business. I give you a lot of leeway when you try to play the Bureau, but not this time. You do the op straight and clean, so that kid in there doesn't get shot. If the shit hits the fan, don't be a hero. Keep yourself safe and let SWAT handle the kid. We clear?"
Neal seemed to struggle for a moment, but then he nodded. "Clear," he repeated.
Peter gave him a small smile and his hand around the back of Neal's neck as a reward. "This is me looking out for you."
"I know," Neal murmured. He darted his head up quickly, kissed Peter like he was picking a pocket, and pulled away.
***
Neal loved FBI stings with a passion that bordered on the inappropriate, especially for a felon. But he loved them! Not only because they were basically legit cons, but because at the end you didn't just get away with whatever you were after. You got whatever you were after and you got to see the look on your mark's face when he realized he'd been taken.
His first meet with Barlowe was like the best fencing match ever; he'd give him this, the guy was smart and fast, if definitely excitable. It took a lot to talk his way into bringing "that little punk" in to see him, with the promise that Barlowe would give the kid a chance to make good. After all, how could a kid like that know when he'd been passed a forgery?
Let Benjamin Doss handle your antiques, his manner said, and you'll never get taken by another fake again.
The second meet did not quite go as planned.
Clive, Neal had to say, played it off like he'd been made for this. The problem was that once they'd put out the antiques Clive had to fence, and Neal had authenticated them -- they were all real, from FBI evidence storage -- Barlowe opened the briefcase that was supposed to contain the cash, and pulled out a gun instead.
Neal should have thought of this. Nobody needed a briefcase to carry ten grand.
"Hey, whoa," he said, lifting his hands and incidentally blocking a clear shot at Clive with his left palm. "Come on, Barlowe, we made a deal."
"I don't make deals with punks," Barlowe said. "Step aside, Doss."
Neal obediently stepped in front of Clive. He heard Peter cursing at him over the remote two-way.
"I said aside!" Barlowe shouted.
"Aside where? There's a big fucking table there!" Neal pointed out. "Come on man, don't shoot the kid. Just take the goods and go. You've more than made back your fourteen grand with this haul."
"You think he can just come up in here and keep palming off stolen fakes on me," Barlowe said. "I want him out of the business for good. I don't want him talking."
"You are seriously insane," Neal told him.
"What the fuck did you say to me?" Barlowe demanded, angling the gun at Neal's forehead.
A year ago, this would have been a terrifying threat, but Neal was used to guns being pointed at him by now.
"I want you," Neal said, politely, "to very slowly look down. See that red dot on your chest? That's from a sniper rifle held by one of my very close friends at the FBI. Now you could still kill me, but I don't think you want to die pulling the trigger on small time like me."
Barlowe looked down at the dot. He looked back up, and lifted his gun, hands in the air. Jones and his team began to move in --
And then Barlowe twisted, caught Neal across the temple with the edge of the gun, turned like a ballet dancer, and wrapped his arm around Clive's neck. He kicked twice, sharply; Neal felt both blows land, one on his ribcage, the other in his stomach.
"Anyone fires, I kill the kid," Barlowe yelled. Neal, curling in pain at his feet, saw Peter's ashen face at the edge of the warehouse floor. "Anyone comes at me from behind better be prepared for me to fire as my last act on this goddamn Earth."
The pain in his ribcage was fading, but Neal stayed curled on the ground. Barlowe hadn't begun to move yet.
"Let the kid go," Jones called.
"Fuck you, fed," Barlowe replied. Neal looked at Peter again; Peter's right hand was bent, almost as if in supplication, until Neal realised it was a signal. It was an angle.
Barlowe was shorter than Clive.
Neal turned his head. Clive's legs were spread wide; he was being half-supported by Barlowe, and he looked scared out of his mind.
He waited for Peter's mark.
"There's no way out, Barlowe," Peter called. "Even if you shoot the kid, it's over. Do the smart thing."
Peter was walking out of the shadows -- oh Jesus, he had no vest on -- his hand still bent. Neal watched Barlowe's gun hand and sure enough, there it was, because most guys who carried guns didn't treat them like weapons; they treated them like big wagging dicks.
Barlowe pointed the gun at Peter.
Neal pulled his body around, swore at the pain that nipped up his ribcage, and kicked hard between Clive's legs, the heel of his shoe connecting squarely with Barlowe's groin.
Things happened very fast. Barlowe pulled the trigger; Peter threw himself to the side; Clive came down on Neal and Neal grabbed him, rolling, as a shot rang out and Barlowe's blood dappled the warehouse floor. Neal pushed Clive into the arms of a SWAT officer, who dragged him away; he got to his feet and saw Barlowe down, clutching his shoulder, but more importantly he saw Peter down -- flat on his back, a medic crouched over him.
"I'm fine!" Peter called, when he heard Neal running towards him. Neal skidded to a stop a few feet away, not daring to go further. "He missed me. The kid okay?"
Neal glanced at the SWAT guy who had Clive; he gave him the thumbs up. "Yeah, he's fine."
"Okay," Peter said, pushing his would-be medic away and getting to his feet. He cracked his neck, flexing his right arm carefully. Neal watched, heart hammering -- which was stupid, because during the op he'd been fine, but now that it was over he realized Peter could have been shot. Peter could have been shot. And that was stupid too because he knew all the time that Peter could get shot. He could get shot himself. He had been shot, once.
"What the hell did I tell you about not being a hero?" Peter said, walking forward, still flexing his arm. "Neal, I swear to God I'm going to put a muzzle on you. Look at you," he added, hand drifting over what was probably going to look like a black eye, where Barlowe had pistol-whipped him. "Can I get a medic please?" he shouted.
"I'm fine," Neal said, though he suspected he'd have bruises to argue with that.
"That's great," Peter told him. "You still need to get checked. Take him out of here," he ordered, as the SWAT medic took Neal by the arm.
Outside, in the glare of the warehouse parking lot, Neal tolerated the attentions of the medics until they cleared him, then went looking for Clive. He found him sitting sideways in the back of a squad car, looking a little shell-shocked.
"So," Neal said, leaning against the door. "That was interesting. The shakes'll stop in a minute, it's just adrenaline."
Clive absently reached up and ran his fingers through his short brown hair, cradling his head. "He was gonna shoot me."
"Yeah. People like him do that," Neal said.
"This is what you do for a living," Clive said, as if he were puzzling something out.
"Well, usually it's not quite this exciting," Neal admitted.
"You do this kind of thing. All the time. How do you survive?" Clive asked. Neal shrugged.
"I've done worse," he said. "You stay on this route, you will too. Now you see what the game's about."
"Jesus Christ," Clive muttered.
"Lemme give you some advice," Neal said. Clive nodded, looking down at his hands. "Get out now."
"What?" Clive asked.
"Get out now. You've got fourteen grand, get yourself some help and stop stepping over the line." Neal leaned forward, making sure Clive looked up before he continued. "When I was your age I was in Vegas, pulling cons. My handler knows it. He knows everything about me. He knows where I am all the time, because of the tracker."
"So?" Clive asked.
"So he told me, Someone should've done better by you. When I was nineteen, someone should've been looking out for me. I loved the life, so maybe I wouldn't have listened. You don't love it, you just need it, and nobody should put up with this kind of bullshit if they don't love it. Don't get sent up. Get out."
"What about Brunhilda?"
"Screw Brunhilda. She used you and took a cut. You don't see her here keeping you from getting shot, huh?"
Clive gave him a stubborn look. "I'm good at this. I can get out of New York and do it right next time."
"So?" Neal shrugged. "Can, should...maybe go easy on yourself and find a better way. Just -- think about it."
Clive turned away, pulling into the cop car a little, feet up on the runnerboard. Neal shook his head and wandered off, waiting for Peter and the team to get done doing the preliminaries inside. It was half an hour before they brought Barlowe out, bandaged and still yelling threats, and shoved him none-too-gently in the back of an armored wagon. The SWAT guys tipped their hats at Peter, who'd followed them out, and began loading their gear. Neal watched as Peter bent his head close to Cruz to give a few last-minute orders and then walked across the parking lot to stand in front of him, arms crossed.
"I know I stepped in front of a gun -- " Neal began, but Peter reached out a hand and tugged on Neal's ear -- removing the wireless two-way plug. Neal stared at it.
"Your radio was on. Channel five," Peter said. He flicked his thumbnail across the battery switch. "Pretty much everyone was on channel three. Me, maybe Cruz, heard what you said."
"Peter -- "
"Shh," Peter said. Neal fell silent. "You stand here, Neal, and you think about what you just did. You maybe just saved that kid's life."
"Maybe," Neal protested.
"Doesn't matter. From here out it's his call. You still did good," Peter said. "Hopefully he gets out. I'll see about getting him in Witness Protection, he'll probably need it once Barlowe's guys hear about this."
"He wouldn't have -- he would've got caught. Probably fast. You have to love the work," Neal said.
"Yeah. That's my point. You looked out for someone, Neal. That's something you can do here. Love this work. Be proud of it. I am," Peter added. "Which is the only reason I am not busting your ass for trying to get shot."
"I wasn't trying," Neal pointed out. Peter opened the car door.
"Get in," he said, tilting his head at the seat. Neal didn't wait to be shoved in.
"Where are we going?" Neal asked.
"Your ribs okay?"
"Yeah, he kicks like a punk."
"Good," Peter told him, backing the car out of the warehouse's lot. "I'm taking you home."
Neal glanced at him. "Your home? Are we working late tonight?"
"Oh yeah," Peter said, poker-faced, and passed him his tracker. Neal sighed and buckled it around his ankle. "I already let the Marshals know. Speakerphone," he told the car, as they got on the road. "Call Elizabeth."
"We are truly living in the future," Neal said to him, as a ringing noise filled the car.
"You, keep quiet," Peter told him. There was a click as Elizabeth picked up.
"I'm never going to get used to a car phoning me," she said.
"Hi, hon," Peter replied. "Where are you?"
"On my way home. Where are you?"
"Pretty much the same," Peter said. Neal watched his face -- so many complicated emotions, so much affection in it.
"Early day for you. How'd the op go?" Elizabeth asked. Peter pursed his lips. "That well, huh?" she said, into the silence.
"Nobody died," Peter said. "We got our guy."
There was a soft exhalation. "How badly did you get beat up? How's Neal?"
"I'm fine," Neal put in. Peter gave him a brief glare. "Peter almost got shot," he added, grinning.
"Neal got pistol-whipped," Peter replied.
"It's not a competition," Elizabeth told them. "It's really not a competition for who's going to make me worry more."
"We're both okay," Peter answered. "You want me to pick up dinner?"
Neal sat back as Peter and Elizabeth sorted out dinner, talked about errands, and did some kind of strange domestic dance together about their day. Even talking about how Satchmo needed a trip to the groomer's, Peter was relaxed -- perhaps because of that. Certainly after taking down a drug kingpin or planning a luncheon for three hundred people, the groomer didn't seem very stressful. It was like they didn't need to be told to turn off. They just did it. Elizabeth didn't need or want Peter to be a fed with her, and Peter didn't bother trying to be.
He imagined, as they were pulling into a parking place near Elizabeth's favorite Greek restaurant, what it must be like to have someone love you even if you weren't putting on a show.
And then he wondered if maybe he was the strange one, and Peter and Elizabeth were the way things were supposed to be.
***
By the time they got home, Neal looked like he'd been in a fistfight, a dark bruise running from temple down across his cheekbone, swelling a little under his eye. He walked like it too, stiff and slow, back very straight. Peter had a strange sense of déjà vu as he set the takeaway on the table and El fussed around Neal, making him undo his shirt off to display his latest injuries. Then she fussed at Peter until he rolled up his sleeve -- Neal was such a fucking snitch sometimes -- and put an ice pack on his elbow. He tossed a second one to Neal, who applied it carefully to his face as he opened the takeaway containers with his other hand.
"Dining in style tonight," Elizabeth said, passing out plastic forks. Neal waited for them to start eating, but once they did he dove in like he'd never seen food before, which was reassuring.
"So I think," Peter said, picking up their discussion from the car, "I can drop Satchmo off tomorrow morning on the way in, I just need to leave a little early. But if you need to be in midtown by ten..."
"Well, maybe they can hold onto him for an hour or two. I'll be done by eleven," El said, pouring some of her soup into the empty mug he held out. "I can run him home, get lunch here, and be back in Manhattan for the dinner. Oh, there's a dinner," she added. "So I'll be home late."
"If you walk him at lunch, he'll be fine, and I can -- " Peter broke off, because Neal was laughing, hiding it by looking down at his food, but definitely laughing. "What?"
"Sorry, it's just..." Neal looked up, eyes bright, grinning. "No, sorry. You almost got shot today and now it's all, oh, well, what do we do about Satchmo?"
Peter glanced at Elizabeth, but she looked as baffled as he felt.
"Sweetie, are you okay?" she asked.
"I'm fine." Neal gestured with his ice pack, then pressed it back against his face again. "It's...I don't know, domestic."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "You have a problem with domestic? 'Cause Satchmo's been around a lot longer than you have, so if it's you or the dog..."
Neal sobered up fast. El kicked Peter under the table.
"He's joking, Neal," she said.
"I don't have a problem with it," Neal said, quieter now. "I'm just not used to it."
"It's not like you were raised by wolves," Peter pointed out. He sensed he was treading very close to the borderline of Neal's psyche. On the one hand he didn't want to poke Neal's crazy -- but on the other, well, a glimpse into it was usually educational.
"You would know," Neal told him, but he smiled when he said it, and took another bite of food. Satchmo, who had been equal-opportunity begging from under the table, laid his head on Neal's thigh and whined piteously. Neal looked down at him in surprise, and Peter started to laugh. He wasn't even sure why it was so funny, but it was, and obviously El thought so too because she was trying valiantly not to snort as she stifled her laughter. Neal was smiling, rubbing Satchmo's head.
"If I have to bump you off to be favorite around here, I will," he told the dog, which was even funnier, the mental image of Neal all in black creeping down the stairs some night to carry out a hit on their dog. Elizabeth leaned around the edge of the table to kiss Neal's uninjured cheek, and Peter watched in amusement as Neal turned his head to steal a real kiss, casual and smooth as any con he'd ever pulled.
That evening, just because he could, he hooked a handcuff around Neal's wrist and attached it to the leg of the bedside table. He didn't make particular use of the restraint, and Neal could have slipped it any time he wanted; really it just meant Neal had one less hand to touch with. But Neal's eyes got dark and narrow when Peter fastened it, and Peter could hear him rattle it occasionally, to be sure it was still there.
By the time he unlocked it, Neal was bonelessly sprawled against Elizabeth and already half asleep. Peter flicked the catch free, set the handcuffs on the bedside table, and eased in next to El, while Neal absently rubbed his wrist. He must think Peter couldn't see his face in the dark; the secret, delighted smile wasn't meant to be visible to others, Peter was sure. It was a shame. Neal so rarely showed genuine, guileless pleasure.
***
Four days after Barlowe went down, when the bruise on Neal's face had faded away to a faint yellow blotch, he got the call from Alex about the music box, and he put the wheels in motion to get his tracker deactivated.
Then Fowler came back to New York, and everything changed.
Suddenly, Neal was prepping a heist, prepping to leave New York, readying himself to see Kate again. He was so close he could taste it, and a little part of him liked the smile that the prospect put on Alex's face. He was sculpting, planning, laying things out, in his element --
He was also the reason the FBI searched Elizabeth's offices, and the reason Peter was put on suspension; Peter had punched Fowler for harassing his wife, but Fowler wouldn't have been there if Neal hadn't called him in. He was, quite suddenly, ripping apart the lives of the people he loved most in the world after Kate. He and Peter were on opposite sides: Peter was going after Fowler, but only Fowler was protecting Neal. Any other time he would have reveled in the freedom of almost a full week without the tracker watching his every move, but how could he face Peter and Elizabeth knowing what he'd done?
Once he finally had the box, it felt like the button had been pushed and the machine was in motion. He had to make the call. All his work had been pushing towards this point. How could he not? He made the call, he made the drop...and he couldn't say goodbye.
He had said goodbye to June, and Mozzie just got all emotionally constipated and quoted proverbs at him. Jones and Cruz would understand. He could just about say goodbye to Elizabeth, and anyway he owed her for nearly destroying her career.
"There's something I wanted to ask you," he said, because the phone somehow gave him enough distance from Elizabeth that he could finally ask. "You and Peter. How'd you know?"
She was silent for a while.
"Well...I think there's a difference between loving the idea of someone," she said, "and actually loving who they really are."
Which was no real answer. Or rather, it was an answer to a different question. Maybe she thought he'd meant, How did you know about me?
He couldn't say goodbye to Peter. He had to get to the airstrip. Once he was on the plane with Kate, this was a lost world, just a chapter of his past he could forget. He and Kate had new lives, legal lives, waiting for them. He would keep her safe, and she would give him peace. That was how it worked.
Wasn't it?
He made it all the way to the hangar, to the fucking tarmac, before god damn Peter Burke showed up for one more try at knocking down Neal's comforting illusions.
It wasn't that he wasn't listening when Peter spoke -- every word seemed to echo for him -- but he felt confused, too, half-drugged. Peter was standing there like some immovable, unarguable fact, and Kate's sheer presence was pulling him towards the plane. Most of his thoughts were with Kate, but they weren't clear thoughts, they weren't the ones he wanted.
He thought about every time she'd talked about boring suburban life (a life Neal sometimes, secretly, envied); he thought about how Kate would rather draw a moustache on a Great Master than steal it. He loved her, he did love her, because despite all the fights they'd had about his recklessness and her carelessness, she understood him. Kate had let him love her even when she knew everything: why he'd bolted when he was fourteen and been sent to a juvie camp when he was fifteen and broken out and run around the world trying to find something worth having. Kate was it. He did love her, he must love her; she wasn't just an idea, she was Kate. He was sure she understood him. That couldn't have been a lie he told himself, not like the other lies --
Except Peter kept casting doubt, not by talking but simply by existing. Peter knew those things about him too, Peter knew it all. Peter and Elizabeth were worth it, thought he was worth it, and Peter demanded more of him for the having.
Peter, who had once settled his weight down on top of Neal like Neal was the only thing in the world, securing him there, protecting him, giving him that brief peace. Peter, who came to the hangar not because he was going to arrest him or even argue with him but just because he wanted to know why Neal hadn't said goodbye.
"I don't know," Neal said. He felt short of breath. He could think his way out of anything; he could think his way out of this, if only he could grab hold of a single strand of truth. Or even a convincing lie (except suddenly none of them were).
"Yeah you do," Peter said, in the same voice he used whenever he knew Neal was screwing around. "Tell me."
"I don't know!"
"Why?" Peter demanded.
"You know why!" Neal tried not to shout, because he was already fucking crying, he was crying about leaving his damn jailer, or maybe because some dream he'd invented was crashing around his ears.
"Tell me," Peter ordered.
"Because you're the only one who could change my mind," Neal said, before he even thought about it.
But Peter didn't order him to come back; Peter was going to make him choose it, if he chose it. It was just...Kate was there, and he'd come this far, and she needed him. That was too strong a pull -- years of loving Kate against a handful of weeks of loving Peter and Elizabeth.
Or maybe he was just an idiot.
Neal was halfway to the plane before Peter's chain choked him tight and he had to turn back. He had to. God alone knew what he'd tell Kate, if Kate even stayed to hear it. He had no idea what he would do here in New York. He had no idea what OPR would do to him, and he didn't care. This felt real, it felt as though he could put out a hand and touch it, and suddenly the life he was imagining for himself and Kate was just a pathetic series of lies he'd told them both. Lies maybe Kate didn't even believe.
It was on his lips to say it -- "Tell me if I don't go it'll be all right" -- and if Peter had said it would, he would have turned his back on everything he'd worked for. On Peter's nod he would have left the plane on the tarmac and spent the rest of his life making it up to them.
But instead, a sudden shockwave and a blast of heat knocked him to the ground, and the decision was made for him.
Kate was dead.
***
Interlude: Supermax
Mondays are the best day, because he gets two visitors.
Mozzie comes in the morning to meet with him as his legal counsel. Mozzie doesn't like visiting the prison, and he never did last time because last time he didn't have his "degree" yet, but he's okay visiting if he's there as legal counsel. There's a lot they can't talk about, but they talk about some stuff, and Mozzie slips him gum and cigarettes.
June comes in the afternoon, bringing sweets and making light chatter. The first time she came Neal was stunned to see her there, but she just said it brought back happy memories of Byron. June understands maybe better than anyone else. He's so grateful for June, and all her distracting talk of the world outside and of her grandkids.
Tuesdays, Elizabeth comes to see him. Technically Neal's only allowed two food packages a month, but either June's bribing someone or the guards like Elizabeth, because every week she has something for him -- hermetically sealed, commercially stamped per regulation, but still. Elizabeth works with caterers; she knows people who will hermetically seal and commercially stamp just about anything. One week she brings terrine de foie gras, and Neal gives a gourmet food tasting and palate-development lecture in the exercise yard that afternoon. He never has any trouble with the other inmates.
Thursdays, Peter visits. Normally Peter's badge would have meant they didn't have to sit in a cubicle with double-paned glass between them, but Peter's badge has been taken away from him, so it's visiting hours only. They don't talk much; Peter is obviously unused to this kind of visitation, and is less adaptable to it than Elizabeth. He often seems to have no idea what to say. It's good just to see him though, and every week Neal can honestly report he's kept his head down and his nose clean.
Jones and Cruz sometimes stop in, but it's erratic; they don't get as much spare time as Peter, and Neal can't really blame them. Jones brings him a chess set, though, and Cruz brings him some art supplies, all carefully concordant with prison guidelines. Neal practices his conte drawing with a Sargent book he requested from June, and mails them to Cruz with stamps Mozzie passes him. She's moved on from White Collar now; he jokes that he has too, but it falls a little flat.
He's never had so many visitors in prison before. Last time only Kate came, and the occasional crony who wanted to nose around and see if Neal would drop the location of his cache. This time he gets called to the visitor's room almost every day. It makes it easier to do what Peter said when they were taking Neal into custody after the bombing: sit tight, don't make trouble, and let me take care of this.
He grieves for Kate, quietly. He's uncertain whether he's mourning her or the fantasies he built around her. Perhaps both. Either way, it hurts like a knife in the gut, and sometimes when he sleeps he dreams about the explosion.
Neal takes it day by day, but this time he doesn't bother to mark the wall. Peter said he'd take care of it, so all Neal has to do is wait. Surely he won't have to wait long.
***
Chapter Eight
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