sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2010-11-16 08:54 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2010-11-16 08:54 am
Entry tags:
Exquisite, Chapter 9
Title: Exquisite
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None.
Summary: Neal is finding a place for himself, both at the Bureau and in Peter and Elizabeth's life. Unraveling the mystery of the music box might ruin everything -- but that's a risk he has to take.
Chapter Eight
***
The request, when it came, startled Peter; he'd been expecting something, but this wasn't it.
"I want to see the interrogation tapes of Kate," Neal said, looking nervous. He had every reason to look nervous; he knew what he was asking and what Peter's reaction was likely to be.
It was ten weeks since Kate had died. Neal had been out of prison less than a month. Peter should have kept him busy, but there were no new cases, and the colder cases were all, well, cold. They'd been doing a lot of paperwork, Neal's least favorite activity ever. He'd taken to filling them out in mirror-writing.
Peter set his pen down and sat back, studying Neal in the chair across the desk from him. "Why?" he asked.
"It's important," Neal said.
"I agree, it's important to know why," Peter replied. Neal gave him a frustrated look. "Whether you get to or not depends on what you say, Neal."
"I guess I can't just ask what the right answer would be," Neal said, a hint of Caffrey charm showing through.
"Yep," Peter replied, unamused. "Why do you want to watch my people interrogate your dead girlfriend, Neal?"
Neal slouched forward, elbows on knees, and didn't answer. Peter waited.
"I want to see what she said," he said finally.
"You want to see her again."
"No!" Neal looked up. "I mean -- I do, but that's not -- I just need to see."
"Well, you have to explain," Peter told him. "If you don't know, figure it out."
"You're such an asshole sometimes," Neal told him.
"That's why I make the big bucks," Peter replied ruthlessly.
"What the hell harm is it going to do? Is it going to hurt her? She's dead, Peter."
"Something you should remember."
"I do," Neal snarled. This rage was new; Neal never got angry. Peter watched warily as Neal got himself under control. "I remember every day."
Peter leaned forward and met his eyes. Neal looked away first.
"You tell me why you want to see," he said, "and then we find out if you get to."
Neal chewed on his lip while Peter waited patiently.
"I don't know who she was," he said, finally. He glanced at Peter, but Peter just watched him. "I think...okay." He steepled his hands and tapped his fingers against his lips. "Keller."
Peter gave him a startled look. "Well, that's a leap."
"No...so. I thought we were screwing around. He thought we were dating. At least, I'm pretty sure," Neal said. "It explains some things, anyway."
"Hell hath no fury?" Peter suggested.
"And I think I did that a lot. I know I did it to Alex. Sometimes I don't see what's actually going on."
"You're not quick on the uptake," Peter told him. Neal's eyes widened. "I was telling you this a year ago. Kate wasn't who you thought she was. I told you this, Neal."
"I know, okay? But I don't know what was really her and what was me seeing what I wanted to see. I want to know."
"So this isn't about finding her killer?" Peter asked, skeptical.
"The tapes are five years old, Peter. It's about finding out who she was."
Peter leaned back and studied the ceiling for a while. He could hear Neal's fingers tapping against his knees.
"And you think Kate was more honest with me and my people?" he asked finally. "She was a lockdown, Neal. We didn't get anything out of her she didn't want to give. It's not going to help."
"I'd like to see for myself," Neal insisted. Peter leaned forward again.
"Yeah, okay. If I can get you the tapes, they're yours," he said. Neal looked...not pleased, exactly, but satisfied. "Lemme ask you something."
Neal looked hesitant. Peter couldn't really blame him.
"What do you think we are?" Peter asked. "You, me, Elizabeth. You see what you want to see there, too?"
"You really want to talk about that here?" Neal said, gesturing to Peter's glass-walled office.
"No," Peter said. "But I want an answer. Tonight, maybe."
"Working late?" Neal asked. Peter nodded. "Okay."
"Neal," Peter said belatedly, as Neal stood to leave, because this could not be said too many times. "The tapes aren't a trade. You want them, they're yours, if I can get them. Working late's not a payment. It's an option."
Neal cocked an eyebrow at him. "Do you want me to say no?"
"No!" Peter said. "But -- "
"Then stop telling me I can. I'm a bright boy, boss, I get it," Neal said, and tipped the brim of his hat a little before he left.
***
Elizabeth brought home dinner that night -- leftover sandwiches and little pastry things from an afternoon event, lots of stuff with toothpicks stuck into it. Peter wrapped his arms around her in the kitchen while she was doling them out onto plates, kissing her cheek from behind.
"Guess what I brought home," he said, and tipped his head at Neal, leaning in the doorway. Neal doffed his hat.
"Oh good," Elizabeth said. "I didn't bring any dessert. You think of everything," she added, craning her head to look up at Peter.
"I see how it is," Neal announced. "I'm here so you can curry favor with your wife."
"It's working," Elizabeth replied.
"I'd be offended if it wasn't," Neal said, ducking out of the kitchen. Peter didn't let go of Elizabeth, humming into her hair in a cheerful kind of way as she fixed a third plate with sandwiches.
"He's not allergic to nuts, right?" she asked. "There's walnuts in the stuffed pastry."
"No," Peter said. Allergies, along with everything else about Neal, were filed away both at the Bureau and in his head. Prison medical records, too, which was one reason he'd never bothered to bring up condoms. Neal was clean, or had been when he'd left prison. By his own admission he hadn't been with anyone but them since.
Neal returned, sans hat and jacket, sleeves rolled up, and took up his place in the doorway again. He liked to do that, wait on thresholds, linger and watch until he was invited in. As if some day he might not be invited, and he'd have a good excuse to leave. For all Neal's talk about not saying no, he had an awfully hard time saying yes. Still, usually he at least looked hopeful. Tonight he looked...
He looked tired.
Peter left El at the counter with a kiss to the side of her neck and crossed the kitchen. Neal watched him, eyes flicking to Elizabeth occasionally. Peter caught him by the back of the neck, tugged him just enough to get him to step forward, and kissed him. Neal pushed immediately, like he always did, trying for more touch, a deeper kiss; Peter blocked him, leaning back.
"Hungry?" he asked. Neal glanced at Elizabeth again. "Neal. Here."
Neal's eyes focused on Peter's face.
"Hungry?" Peter repeated.
"Not really," Neal said, docile under Peter's hand.
"Upstairs," Peter told him. "Lie down. El and I are going to have dinner. We'll be up when we're done."
Neal licked his lips. "What -- "
"Neal," Peter said. Neal waited, still and placid, until Peter let him go. He elbowed the kitchen door open and went, a little cocky, but Peter could give him that. His footsteps were quiet on the stairs.
When he turned back to Elizabeth, she had a piece of pastry halfway to her mouth.
"You know sometimes you're just ridiculously hot," she told him, setting the pastry back on her plate. Peter preened a little. "What are you doing?"
"It was a hard day to be Neal," Peter told her. "Bet you he's asleep when we go up."
El gave him a look.
"What? We can take him a sandwich if you're going to be like that," he said. She laughed and kissed him.
***
Neal woke in half-light and to confusing sounds; his skin felt heavy, brain numb, tongue thick.
"...told you." Peter's rumble of a voice, somewhere nearby.
"Bet you didn't think he'd be naked." And that was Elizabeth, and they were talking about him. He wasn't quite sure if he was dreaming; reality was blurring a little bit.
"I think he misunderstood my intent," Peter replied. Neal grunted and rolled over, tangling up in the blanket he'd pulled over himself at some point. The bed creaked a little as Elizabeth sat down on it.
"Hi, babe," she said, bending to kiss him. She tasted like red peppers and vinaigrette. When she was done, he felt marginally more awake, pushing himself up in the bed.
"I didn't mean to fall asleep," he said. "You took your damn time with dinner."
"I wasn't aware I told you we were going to rush," Peter said.
"How long does it take to eat a -- " Neal broke off sharply, because Peter was frowning.
"I told you we'd be up when we were done," Peter said. "Was I unclear?"
Neal shook his head.
"So? Here we are," Peter spread his arms. "We got dinner, you got to rest. Problem?"
"No," Neal murmured. "Why -- "
"Do you need an explanation?"
Oh, God.
But he didn't, not really. Peter had said they would be here; here they were. He didn't have to know why. Peter didn't lie to him, not about this. He trusted both of them not to lie, not to play games with him. Which meant he didn't have to understand, because -- because --
There it was. The place where there were no games, where he didn't have to think. He wouldn't want to live there, but it was so nice sometimes. Elizabeth was petting his hair, fingers threading through it, and he didn't have to run this. Someone else was taking care of things.
Peter hitched his hip against the fireplace near the bed, facing him. "I think it's time to answer the question, Neal. No wrong answers," he added. Neal looked at Elizabeth, but she didn't seem confused; Peter must have told her. And if he hadn't, then it still wasn't Neal's fault. He wouldn't be blamed.
"So?" Peter said. "Us. Here. What do you see? What are we?"
Neal rubbed his face, trying to clear sleep from his brain. He didn't know; they hadn't exactly established many rules. Maybe Peter wanted him to do that. That would be like Peter, because Peter constantly worried about Neal's involvement in...this. As if Neal's enthusiasm in bed didn't prove he was really into it, or something. But he didn't want to set the rules, because if they didn't like them...
"Me," he said slowly, drawing his legs up, circling them with his arms over the blanket. He looked at Elizabeth. "Elizabeth." He looked up from her to Peter, arms crossed again now. "Peter," he added, and then choked on the word, but got it out anyway. "...Sir."
Peter's eyes darkened, but he smiled.
"He's so smart," he said to Elizabeth, reaching into his pocket. He tossed something small and bright to her. "Honey?"
Elizabeth held up the object and Neal felt a shock shoot through him. Handcuffs, real FBI-issue, tough but not impossible to slip or pick; Neal supposed he made bondage difficult, but he was more than willing to bow a little to the myth.
He offered his left arm. Elizabeth kissed his wrist and looked to Peter; he nodded and she tightened the cuff around Neal's wrist, pushing him down with a hand on his chest and fixing the other cuff to the bedside table. The headboard wouldn't work -- it was one thick solid piece of wood, elegant but not practical for their purposes.
Elizabeth seemed to agree. "This bed is not well-designed for tying people up," she told Peter, who snorted.
"It wasn't a huge part of our sex life until recently," he pointed out. "Neal's good though, right?"
Neal, closing his eyes, rattled the cuff and nodded. "Makes me all nostalgic," he said.
"Smartass," Peter told him. "They handcuffed him to a radiator in Des Moines one time," he continued, apparently for El's benefit. "He asked for a glass of icewater. An hour later, they checked up on him and look Ma, no Caffrey. They didn't even find the cuffs. One of 'em was convinced he was a witch."
"Sudden temperature changes -- "
"Did I ask you to talk?" Peter said. Neal fell silent. "Sudden temperature changes make cheap metal brittle," he told Elizabeth. "He snapped the cuff hinges around the radiator pipe and picked up the pieces after him before he left. Cocky," he added fondly.
There was warmth up against him then, from an unexpected direction; Neal realised that while his eyes had been closed, Peter had been stripping down. When he opened them, Peter was lying next to him, chin propped on Neal's shoulder; Elizabeth, still sitting on the other side of him, was undressing. He couldn't really reach up to help, not one-handed and at this angle. Besides, Peter had him mostly pinned, on the side that wasn't bound to the bedside table. There was nothing he could do.
Neal thought sane people in this kind of situation probably panicked. Instead, he could feel his muscles unknotting one by one, shoulders dropping, the sweet-burn ache in his thighs and calves as his whole body went relaxed and pliable.
"Good," Peter said against his shoulder, voice vibrating there. Neal felt Peter's hand smooth down his stomach as Elizabeth turned back and kissed him, her breasts brushing his chest and Peter's arm. Peter stroked his cock slowly, until Elizabeth eased back and pushed his arm aside, nudging him away as she straddled Neal.
Peter, with a laugh, moved lower, cupping Neal's balls, then sliding along his thigh. Elizabeth made a soft, satisfied sound, shifting her hips a little, settling around him. Slow and easy, sleepy sex, El was so gorgeous and there was no hurry, no reason to rush. The longer he drew this out, arching languidly, the longer the cuff would stay around his wrist.
Still, it sluggishly crossed his mind that Peter was getting a raw deal here, and Neal was opening his mouth to say so when Peter caught his eye and shook his head.
"This is what I want from you right now," he said. "Be good."
Neal bucked a little, on the order, and Elizabeth moaned.
"Hey, part three up here," she said. Peter turned to watch her and Neal ran his free hand up her side, stroking her skin. When he brushed his thumb across her nipple, she moaned again.
Peter's hand let go of his thigh, and the warm line of him against Neal's body vanished briefly; Neal concentrated on Elizabeth, because that was what he was supposed to do, mumbling about how good she felt, how much he liked it when she said his name. Peter was back quickly enough, propping himself on an arm to kiss Elizabeth, and his other hand slid up Neal's thigh again, slick and cool, and --
Neal's eyes went wide when Peter dipped below his balls, rubbing lubricant around his hole. Peter pushed a finger inside slowly and Neal bucked hard, holding tight to Elizabeth's hip to keep her stable. Peter just stayed there, kissing Elizabeth, finger inside him moving slowly until Neal thought he would shake apart from the sensation -- gasping, much faster now, unraveling and moaning. Elizabeth was using Peter's shoulder for leverage, hips jerking forward a little every time Neal thrust inside her.
"Love you," Peter said, into El's mouth, but when he did his hand pushed up against Neal and it wasn't just for Elizabeth and Elizabeth clenched around him and Neal came so hard he couldn't breathe.
He was panting still as Elizabeth toppled off him against Peter, laughing and nuzzling Peter's chest before she dropped to the bed, kissing the rise of muscle in Neal's outstretched arm. Neal tried to pull Peter forward, because he really wanted to show that he understood, he wanted to say thank you, he wanted to be good --
The handcuff jerked his arm sharply as he tried to get to Peter, almost toppling the lamp on the bedside table.
"Peter, Peter," he said, pulling at it. "Come on, lemme -- "
"Oh, that again?" Peter asked, grinning from his place near Neal's thigh. Neal whined and Peter gave in, edging up the bed so Neal could prop himself on his free arm and nuzzle Peter's hip, get the smell of him, get his mouth on Peter's cock. God, he wanted --
"It's okay," Peter said, as Neal sucked around the head of his cock, wanting the soft noises Peter always made, the moment when he let go. He ducked his head and took more, hollowing his cheeks, Peter's cock thick on his tongue. Peter's hand rested on the back of his head, fingers curling in his hair. "Neal, that's good," he murmured, and Neal flushed with pleasure. His arm jerked against the cuff again.
"Sweetie," El said, uncertainly, but Neal looked up at Peter, pleading, and Peter shook his head.
"He wants it," he said. "Don't you, Neal?"
Neal hummed contentedly and Peter let out a hiss.
"Not from anyone else, ever," Peter told him, and Neal moaned. "Nobody but us, Neal, I -- ah -- " he broke off as his hips jerked. "I swear, you're ours, nobody else is going to -- "
Neal did a trick with his tongue that he'd been keeping in reserve for just such an occasion, and Peter cut off with a shout of surprise and came, fingers tugging on Neal's hair. It was the loudest Neal had ever heard him.
Peter slumped sideways while Neal sat up and licked his lips, pleased.
"Whoa," El said, resting her head on Neal's shoulder to watch her husband try and catch his breath. He looked dazed. "I think you broke him, Neal."
Neal, wordless, was trying to memorize Peter's face, the slightly glassy look in his eyes. Peter fumbled in the blankets and came up with the handcuff key, offering it to Elizabeth, who bent around and undid the cuff from the bedside table. Neal stretched his arm back slowly. It sometimes cramped, but it was worth it. There were two red stripes across his wrist where the cuff had pulled. He'd be bruised. Elizabeth took the cuff off his wrist and nuzzled the marks, then let him cup her face with his hand, thumb rubbing her cheekbone.
Usually, El would curl up behind Peter, arm wrapped around his shoulder, and then Peter could let Neal be as close as he liked; this time she just stayed where she was as Peter eased himself down onto the pillows on Neal's other side. He looked a little self-conscious about how closely Neal and Elizabeth were watching him.
"This okay?" Elizabeth asked, rubbing Neal's shoulder gently, but she didn't mean the cramp.
"Yeah, s'fine," Neal said, wrapping an arm around her and settling back down in the bed. He turned his head back to Peter, who looked -- well, not quite so wrecked. He was looking at Neal like he'd found something valuable and wasn't quite sure what to do with it.
"Sir," Neal said, very softly, pleased to have finally put a name to this, pleased that he wasn't seeing this wrong. And if he did, Peter would tell him.
"Get some rest," Peter told him. "You look beat."
Elizabeth giggled against Neal's chest, stretching out a hand to touch Peter.
"You should see your face," she said.
Neal, curled between two bodies, closed his eyes and listened to Peter and Elizabeth bicker quietly about the funny face Peter was making and how Elizabeth had no room to talk, their voices tapering into sound as he drifted off.
Perhaps it was the unusual sleeping arrangement, or the fact that he'd settled enough to be really comfortable and let his guard down; Neal was never sure, but that evening his string of luck ran out.
There was so much fire, and he'd shaken Peter off and managed to get into it but he couldn't find Kate, kept finding faceless women instead, kept seeing flashes of her and having to dodge fire to get to her. The smoke clogged his lungs; he tried to cough to clear his throat and couldn't do that, either, and there was music playing so very loud --
He woke from the dream tense and sweating, every muscle tight. His ears were ringing and he couldn't get a proper breath; he struggled into consciousness gasping for air, pushing himself away from the weight on his chest (Peter's shoulder and arm) and the restraints on his legs (El's legs, one knee crossed over his). Peter was sitting up, looking confused. Neal propped himself on his elbows and heard a loud "Ah -- Ah -- Ah -- " and realized it was him, trying to breathe.
"Neal," Peter said, blinking. "Neal -- "
He couldn't get the words out, too busy inhaling huge lungfuls of air, air that was clean and cool and didn't taste like smoke. Peter put a hand on his chest and Neal batted it aside. Elizabeth was stirring next to him, mumbling wordless questions.
"I'm fine," he managed at last, his breathing slowing, arms trembling as the tension left them. "I'm -- hah -- ah -- I'm okay."
"Yeah, you look it," Peter drawled. Neal brushed hair out of his eyes, found it slick enough with sweat to stay combed back, and gave Peter a reassuring grin.
"Seriously, I'm not dying," he said, and this time when Peter put a hand on his chest he didn't stop him. "Bad dream. That's all."
"What's going on?" Elizabeth asked, finally waking, trying to sit up and almost tumbling off the edge of the bed. Neal darted out an arm around her waist and steadied her, swallowing dry-mouthed as he tried to work through the adrenaline. Elizabeth gave him one look and scooted closer.
"Sweetie, get him some water," she told Peter, who tumbled to his feet from the bed and walked to the door, mostly backwards, watching them both. Neal slid over to give Elizabeth more room, trying to wipe the sweat from his face.
"Easy," she said, voice low and soothing, exactly what he needed. "Easy, it's okay. Jesus, Neal, you're soaking."
Neal finally felt like he'd caught his breath. He leaned forward, pulling up his knees, resting his elbows on them. The cool air made the skin on his back prickle.
"Bad dream," he repeated.
"Sounds like it," she agreed. "You're here though, you're okay."
"It's my nervous disposition," he told her with a grin. She smiled and rubbed his back.
"Want to tell me about it?" she asked, as Peter returned with a glass of water and a towel slung over his shoulder. Neal took the water and sipped it; Peter tossed Elizabeth the towel and she smoothed it over Neal's hair.
"Sorry," Neal said quietly.
"Well, I personally blame you," Peter told him. Neal glanced up and saw him smiling reassuringly. He sat on the edge of the bed. "Take a minute. Nothing to be sorry about."
Elizabeth ran the towel down one sweat-damp arm, then left it in Neal's lap, pushing a little on the glass of water in his hand so that he'd drink again.
"Peter used to get nightmares," she said quietly. Neal looked at Peter, but his face was impassive, as if she were talking about someone else entirely. "His first few years with the Bureau he had some bad ones. I think...you see things and your brain can't process them at first."
"It's not about the Bureau," Neal said.
"Kate," Peter murmured.
"Yeah. There was a -- there was a lot of fire," Neal admitted. He lifted the towel and wiped his chest, rubbing an edge along his throat where the sweat pooled. "What time is it?"
"Only about ten," Peter said. "I was going to get up soon and do some work, come back around midnight. I was hoping you'd sleep through."
"You look tired," Elizabeth told him. "All the time."
"Well, guess why," Neal mumbled, but he couldn't really put any edge into it. Elizabeth kissed his shoulder. He felt Peter's hand on his head, which surprised him; Peter was pushing damp hair away from his face with a kind of delicate affection he'd only ever seen him show for Elizabeth before.
"Some of it is still about the Bureau," Peter said. "I think. It's normal. It's hard and ugly sometimes. You just have something...really bad that happened to you, and you focus it all on that."
"It'll be better," Neal said. "When we find out who did it, when I find out -- it'll stop."
Peter kissed his forehead. "No, it won't," he said, gently. "That's not how this works. But we will find out, I promise, and this will get better."
Neal closed his eyes. He could practically hear the looks Peter and Elizabeth were giving each other, until finally Peter shifted off the bed again.
"Off," he ordered, giving Neal a gentle shove. "The sheets are soaked."
Neal got to his feet and let Elizabeth pull him towards the closet while Peter stripped the bed, tossing the sheets in a corner. He did it briskly and efficiently, while Elizabeth found a shirt and pulled it over Neal's head, warm and dry and smelling like their laundry soap. When Peter was done, he kissed Elizabeth and then Neal, tucking his thumb up under Neal's chin.
"Stay with Elizabeth," he said. "I'm going to go do some work. Try to sleep."
Neal nodded.
"Good boy," Peter said, and Neal followed Elizabeth back to the bed. His heart was still racing, but not as fast as it had been; with her hand rubbing circles on his arm, her even breathing soft in the room, he closed his eyes and tried not to be afraid of what might happen if he did sleep again.
He woke briefly when Peter came back to bed, but not long enough to matter; the rest of his sleep was calm, until Elizabeth's alarm woke them all for breakfast.
***
That morning, instead of going straight to the White Collar offices on twenty-one, Peter punched the fifteenth floor button, the level for the main archives. He was touching Neal a lot, more than usual -- hand on his back, fingers around his arm, shoulder brushing against him all morning while they'd made breakfast and dressed and driven to work.
Neal fidgeted with the left cuff of his shirt, thumb rubbing the bruising on his wrist for reassurance.
"Kate's tapes weren't turned over with the evidence on your case when you requested it," Peter said, as the elevator ascended. "She has her own file. I made a call."
"At midnight?" Neal asked, glancing at him.
"After dinner yesterday," Peter said. "You were asleep."
Neal caught his reflection in the mirrored steel of the elevator. He had to admit, he didn't look quite so weary; twelve hours of sleep, even interrupted by sex and nightmares, had probably been good for him.
Sex and Nightmares would be a really excellent title for a book. He should suggest it to Mozzie.
"They'll set you up with a laptop and headphones, everything's on DVD," Peter continued. "You can't take the tapes out of the room. I can stay if you want."
"I'll be okay," Neal said. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," Peter told him. "I still think this isn't the smartest thing either of us have ever done. I don't think it'll help, Neal."
"It's not like it'll make it worse," Neal replied. Peter didn't answer, which was sort of ominous. Neal was beginning to realize that there were consequences involved in working for the FBI, and Peter knew a lot more about them than he did.
Peter left him with the archive manager, who took him to a little viewing desk and brought out a small stack of thin clear DVD cases, each marked with a date, a casefile number, the interrogating agent's name, and the subject's name: Kate Moreau. There were five; two were marked with the name Gerald Argyle, a man Neal remembered as having a soft voice, a brutal technique, and terrible breath (he privately believed this was part of his technique). One was marked Andrea Wright, a name he only recognized from his work with Peter four years on: she was a specialist interrogator, someone they brought in to crack difficult subjects.
"Smart girl," Neal said approvingly. If Kate had merited a specialist, she must have kicked ass.
The last two DVDs in the stack were marked Peter Burke.
Neal wondered, as he absently shuffled them into date order, why they'd never tried Wright on him. He'd had one session with Argyle and two with Burke and that had been it. He supposed Burke had got bored with Neal's staunch refusal to play that particular game. It was difficult to remember what they'd even talked about; the whole thing was a sort of terrifying blur.
Peter. Not Burke. The man who'd sat across from him at the interrogation table had been Peter. He'd left puzzles for Peter, he'd been arrested and interrogated and imprisoned by Peter, and last night he'd sucked Peter's cock, he'd begged to suck Peter's cock. Jesus Christ, what was wrong with both of them?
He wondered how much Peter remembered of those sessions.
He put the first DVD into the tray, closed it, took a deep breath, and tapped "Play". An image flickered up of Kate, alone in the room, and Argyle entering through a door to her left. Neal sat back and began to watch.
***
Peter privately thought showing Neal tapes of Kate, especially a day after a really stupendous nightmare (Neal Caffrey: nothing if not an overachiever), was probably not a very good idea. Still, he had learned quickly that Neal tended to take an idea and run with it until he slammed into a wall, and no amount of tugging on his arm or pointing out the wall would prevent this. Hopefully, sooner or later, he would learn to slow down and listen, but that day was not today, and probably not anywhere in the near future.
There were three new cases asking for his and Neal's attention on his desk, but they were all consultation requests from other departments, nothing specifically for them. Word was getting around about their clearance rates, and agents were beginning to come up with somewhat thin excuses to call in Peter and his trained art-sniffing bloodhound. He dismissed the two VICAP requests out of hand; the last thing Neal needed right now was more blood to look at, and Peter hated investigating violent crimes. Generally the offenders were not terribly bright or entertaining.
The third one was from the Counterterrorism unit, and was marginally more interesting. They had some documents seized from a raid on a domestic terrorist cell that they wanted to authenticate or invalidate, and thought Neal's knowledge of seal forgery might be helpful. Might keep him busy; might track him off Kate a little. Bombings weren't especially something he wanted Neal anywhere near right now either, but it looked like most of the documents were financial.
"Boss," Jones said, leaning in his open doorway just before lunch. "Where's Caffrey?"
"Archives, why?" Peter asked.
"Front desk just called. You know any reason the Marshals would be on their way up?"
Peter swung around and called up Neal's map, tapping his fingers impatiently while it loaded. Neal's tracker showed him at Federal Plaza since this morning, and Peter knew exactly where Neal had been before that, at least since yesterday afternoon.
Possibly the Marshals did too. Possibly someone at the US Marshal's office had gotten suspicious about Neal Caffrey's presence in Peter Burke's house at all hours.
Shit.
"No, but let's not get caught with our asses in the breeze," he said, minimizing Neal's map. "I give you the signal, you slip out quietly and head for the fifteenth floor. I'll call you if there's any trouble, you can...I don't know, hide Neal in a box or something."
Jones grinned. "Yeah, sure thing."
"And send Diana in, would you?"
Diana arrived at his office pretty much right as a couple of Marshals got off the elevator. Peter wiped clammy palms on his thighs and stood up, walking out to the railing.
"Burke?" one of them called.
"Yeah," Peter said. "What's going on?"
"Got a minute?"
Peter gestured to the conference room. Diana stuck close by him as they walked in.
"Is this about Caffrey?" Peter asked, somewhat pleased at the even tone he was keeping.
"Not directly," the lead deputy said. "Daniel Braddock. I'm told you were supervising agent on the Shane Barlowe sting a couple of months back."
"It was a joint effort," Peter said, relief flooding him even as a new anxiety pushed its way to the front of his brain. "This is about Clive, isn't it."
"Clive?" Diana asked.
"Forgery case," Peter told her. "While you were in DC. It's how we got Barlowe. Our forger went into Witness Protection. He bolt?" he asked.
"Not yet," Braddock said.
"Yet?" Peter prompted.
"Chatter out of Malone Maximum Security says that Barlowe's been very active," Braddock said. "One of his lieutenants seems to have taken over about half his former operation, but they think Barlowe's still calling the shots."
"What the hell," Peter said. "I caught the guy for them, what more do they want, wrapping paper and a bow?"
Braddock cracked a grin. "Hey, I'm just the messenger. This lieutenant, who so far we only know as Shotgun -- "
"Nice name," Diana put in.
" -- he's been working an angle on the DEA. Poking around. One of their guys was offered a bribe. Looks like they're after the guy who took Barlowe down, and the snitch who kicked him in the nuts during the bust."
Peter glanced at Diana. Her face was perfectly composed; a little too perfectly. He grinned.
"That would be Neal," he told her.
"I would never have guessed," she solemnly assured him.
"We're talking with the DA now about excising the records, so your names aren't gonna go out if it does get leaked," Braddock continued. "We're also building a story for Benjamin Doss, the snitch -- turns out he's working in Singapore now."
"Singapore, nice," Peter said agreeably.
"You or Caffrey testify at his trial?"
Peter shook his head. "Clive did."
"Which is the other concern," Braddock sighed. "He's in deep cover protection, relocated, but guys like him pick things up. We think he might be getting ready to bolt. If he does -- "
"He might come back to New York. He knows where Neal lives," Peter said.
"So we want you and Caffrey to be aware that there's a dangerous drug kingpin looking for both of you, and a flight-risk teenager who might show up on your doorstep," Braddock said.
"Must be Tuesday," Peter replied. "Listen, guys, I appreciate this. Diana, I want you to get up to speed and keep an eye on this chatter out of Malone. Any questions you guys have, route them through her. You're lead on this if it goes anywhere. You good?" he asked Diana, who nodded. "Okay. I'm gonna go find Caffrey and tell him to keep an eye out for his young friend."
When he reached the archives, Peter found Neal sitting on the counter at the front desk, talking with the archive clerk and shuffling a deck of cards. He looked animated, but a little manic about it; Peter watched from the elevator vestibule as Neal did a card trick, delighting the (very pretty, young, female) clerk.
"Slacking on company time," Peter said, walking through the door. He tsked; Neal turned on the counter, pulling his legs up over the edge to drop down on Peter's side of it.
"He means me," Neal said to the clerk, who looked terrified.
"I mean him," Peter assured her. "Want to get lunch? Looks like you finished your research early."
Neal's face, out of view of the clerk, fell into hard, tired lines for a second before he smiled.
"Yeah, you were right," he said. "There's nothing there."
"Sorry," Peter said quietly.
"Catch you later, Nina!" Neal called, already walking towards the elevators. Peter followed, wanting to pull Neal into him and apologize again. When they got into the elevator, Neal leaned back against the wall and exhaled.
"I didn't get all the way through," he said. "I had a look at Argyle, some of Wright. Couple minutes of you and her."
"Nothing, huh?" Peter asked.
"I mean, we talked about what we'd do if we got caught, ways to shut down interrogation and stuff," Neal said. "I dunno, she was a good con but either I forgot how good or..." he shrugged. "She was a wall. So, maybe I never find out. Maybe Kate's the eternal mystery."
Peter brushed his fingers across the back of Neal's hand, a casual gesture, easy to mistake for an accident if anyone saw the elevator camera feed.
"You know what's really dumb?" Neal asked, laughing a little. "I got bored."
"Interrogations are boring. You were," Peter said.
"I was going for boring," Neal informed him.
"You were a towering success, in that case," Peter replied. Neal shot him a sly look. "Hey. You okay? Don't lie to me."
"I never lie to you," Neal insisted, but he didn't answer the question.
"Neal," Peter said.
"No. I'm not," Neal said, staring hard at the descending numbers above the elevator buttons. "But I will be. So, lunch?"
"Yep," Peter replied, as the elevator let them out on the ground floor. "And I have news of our forger Clive to share."
***
The next day they caught a case, which Peter thought was probably just as well. It would keep Neal busy, keep him from brooding --
And, as it turned out, totally destroy any chances Peter had of keeping Neal's ego in check. Not only was there a young crew of burgeoning cons copycatting him, there were classes being taught about him. Neal looked like he was inches from starting a scrapbook, and he couldn't stop smiling.
Which was, Peter had to admit, not something he minded. Plus, while he wasn't nuts about bringing Alexandra Hunter in on the case, it did get her a one-way ticket to Italy, and thus got her out of Neal's life.
It was interesting to meet Alex again; Peter couldn't help but file her in his head as a sort of surrogate Kate, someone Neal had once run with, someone he'd -- lied about, to himself anyway, someone who was still living and who could perhaps give Neal the catharsis he needed over the enduring mystery of who Kate had really been. Neal had the opportunity to see Alex, really see her, in a way he hadn't ever seen Kate. Peter privately hoped he'd taken it. He'd liked to have seen them together, seen how Neal acted around her, but he got a little taste, at least.
"Per Neal's suggestion," he said, handing over the plane ticket he'd had Jones arrange that morning, "We've booked you on a secure flight to Italy."
She studied the ticket while he talked -- she looked like she never missed a thing, never overlooked an angle. She looked young and sort of...hungry, the same way Neal had when Peter had been chasing him. Lost.
"Neal said you were the best," she said, which startled him -- and then she kissed him on the cheek, which was even more startling.
As soon as her back was turned, he checked to make sure she hadn't lifted his wallet.
They went out for beers that night, he and Neal and Diana, because the case had gone well, because El was out of town, because Diana wanted to pick their brains about the Barlowe case, and because frankly, Peter felt that they were possibly the greatest FBI team ever to flash a badge.
Well, after a couple of beers he did, anyway. Neal was nursing his second vodka and making comments about Peter's taste in beer, and Diana was drinking microbrews and ganging up with Neal on him, in between commentary on the Barlowe case. All was right with the world.
"I tell you what, though," Peter said, loosening his tie. "Neal didn't seem quite so paternal about those punk college kids as he was about Clive."
Neal shrugged. "Different situation. They were never in any real danger. Clive did it because he needed the money; they did it for kicks."
"You did it for kicks," Peter told him.
"My art is pure," Neal replied loftily.
"And they suckered in that kid Justin to do their forgeries for them," Diana added. "No sympathy from me. Plus Jones says they were whiners."
"At least when I allegedly faked something, I knew what I was getting into," Neal agreed. He looked like he was genuinely happy to have closed a good case, and Peter saw his private exultation over helping out Alex in the way he grinned whenever her name came up.
"Well, he's in the clear now," Peter said, ignoring the mild urge to lean over and bite Neal's lower lip. "You think he'll be on a gallery wall someday?"
Neal shook his head. "Not under his own name."
Diana looked at him, head cocked. "You think?"
"Think what?" Peter asked. Diana and Neal looked like they were in on a secret.
"Neal thinks Justin's a baby art forger," Diana said. "Right? I'm right."
"What, you think he really was in on it?" Peter asked.
"No! No," Neal protested, holding up his hands in innocence.
"Okay, so explain," Diana urged.
Neal looked like he was working out how to do that. Peter watched the wheels turn.
"Justin's not an artist," Neal said finally. "He's like me."
"Bullshit," Peter laughed. "I've seen your work. I've seen his work."
"Yeah, his work is proficient," Neal agreed. "But I looked through his sketches. I looked at the reproductions. They're copies -- even the drawing he was doing of the model the day we found him. They're picture-sketches. Run an image through enough Photoshop filters, you get the same effect."
"Isn't that a good thing, when you're faking it?" Diana said. Then she bit her lip. Peter chuckled.
"No sex jokes," Neal said, pointing at both of them. "That's kind of the point. Artists have opinions. Artists look at things -- objects, people, other artists' work -- and they have their own feelings about them. Picasso looked at a face and said, I want to draw this from every angle all at once."
Peter waited for him to continue. Neal ran his hands through his hair.
"When you're doing a reproduction -- "
"A forgery -- " Diana put in.
"Fine, whatever," Neal said impatiently. "When you're re-creating someone else's work you have to understand their feelings, their goals, but you can't have an opinion. If you do it infects the work, and it's not a perfect copy. Justin's not an artist, he's a very complicated Xerox machine. Same as me. Technological virtuoso. There's skill and work involved in that, but..." he shrugged. "We have no vision. I have nothing new to say to the world. I just like art. I like understanding it, and I allegedly like stealing it. I like making up ways to fool people. That kind of art's very different."
"Is that why you didn't become an artist?" Peter asked. "Or was it the money?"
Neal blew air through his lips, scornful. "I could have made money at it. He can, too. Plenty of actual artists with things to say end up doing commercial work, or go there by choice. It's not a bad gig. But someone who doesn't have an opinion or at least a good line of bullshit doesn't have a choice. There's more fun in forgery."
"Till you get caught," Diana pointed out. Neal shrugged again. "But you still have fun, huh? Here?"
Neal didn't look at her; he looked at Peter. "Yeah. That's true."
Diana slid out of the her chair, digging out her wallet. "Next round's on me."
"Nah, I'm good," Peter said.
"Neal?"
"Sure," Neal agreed, finishing his drink. "One more. Ketel One!" he called after her.
"Brand snob," Peter told him.
"I don't take criticism from people who drink Miller," Neal retorted.
"Which brings up a point," Peter said, leaning close. "You said you don't have anything to say."
"Yeah, so?"
"You have plenty of opinions. You're bursting with opinions."
Neal laughed. "Imagine a painting called Boredom In A Surveillance Van."
"Ever seen Nighthawks?"
"It's okay. I'm not an artist. I like what I do," Neal replied.
"What you did."
Neal lifted his eyes. "What I do," he repeated.
Peter gave him a smile. "Good."
"Can I come home with you tonight?" Neal asked, almost in Peter's ear.
"Not tonight," Peter said. "Monday, maybe."
"You could come home with me," Neal suggested. "It's a big empty house with Elizabeth gone."
Peter shook his head. "I don't enjoy the idea of Mozzie walking in on us."
"Yeah, I really gotta put a lock on that door," Neal agreed thoughtfully.
"That'll definitely keep him out," Peter drawled. He sat back, because if Neal kept looking at him like that he was going to be extremely indiscreet in a minute. "I have to say, though, I'd like to see what you'd put on a canvas out of your head."
"So you could learn all my secrets?" Neal asked, grinning.
"That too," Peter agreed, as Diana returned with the drinks. They toasted a good case, and to Elizabeth's health in absentia, and at the end of the night Peter went home to a very big house, with no Elizabeth and no Neal, and a bed that felt very, very cold.
Two weeks later he was sifting through casefiles on his desk, looking for the wrapup of the Navarro bust Mozzie had led them to, when a thin sheet of almost-translucent artist's vellum fell out from between two folders. Peter picked it up and carried it over to the window, perplexed. It was a drawing done with ink pen and art markers, a little cartoonish, as if its creator had been shy of committing anything more permanent or detailed.
It showed the surveillance van from the point of view of someone looking in through the rear doors. Most of the monitors were dark, and everything was washed in blue and black. Jones was on the left, in the foreground, head tipped up to the ceiling. Diana on the right, in the background, had her chin propped on her hand as she watched a monitor. Behind her, in shadow, Peter could see the outline of his own body leaning in the doorway from the cab -- the square shoulders of his suit and just a hint of light on his face, enough to show his features and the sweep of his hair over his forehead.
Central, between Diana and Jones, there was a figure seated with one leg crossed over the other, leaning back but looking down at the one true source of light in the entire composition: a glowing cellphone in one hand. It overlit his face, washing it out into just a hint of nose and eyes, but the shock of black hair and the slim tailored suit were unmistakable identifiers. A pair of handcuffs dangled from his other hand. Peter didn't think the moment had ever happened -- he was sure Neal hadn't had his phone out during the long watch over the rigged locker. Which meant that Neal had composed this. It had something to say.
In the corner, in Neal's neat draftsman's hand, was a legend: The Surveillance Van.
Peter grinned to himself.
"An original Caffrey," he said quietly, noting the clean, precise NC incorporated into a shadow thrown by Jones's arm. It was the same signature he'd seen on Neal's forged bonds. "I'll be damned."
Before he put it away in a folder for safekeeping, though, he studied it again. Neal, true, was the focus of the image, the center of attention, and how like him -- but he was also the only one in the picture with no face.
***
Chapter Ten
References:
Nighthawks by Edward Hopper
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None.
Summary: Neal is finding a place for himself, both at the Bureau and in Peter and Elizabeth's life. Unraveling the mystery of the music box might ruin everything -- but that's a risk he has to take.
Chapter Eight
***
The request, when it came, startled Peter; he'd been expecting something, but this wasn't it.
"I want to see the interrogation tapes of Kate," Neal said, looking nervous. He had every reason to look nervous; he knew what he was asking and what Peter's reaction was likely to be.
It was ten weeks since Kate had died. Neal had been out of prison less than a month. Peter should have kept him busy, but there were no new cases, and the colder cases were all, well, cold. They'd been doing a lot of paperwork, Neal's least favorite activity ever. He'd taken to filling them out in mirror-writing.
Peter set his pen down and sat back, studying Neal in the chair across the desk from him. "Why?" he asked.
"It's important," Neal said.
"I agree, it's important to know why," Peter replied. Neal gave him a frustrated look. "Whether you get to or not depends on what you say, Neal."
"I guess I can't just ask what the right answer would be," Neal said, a hint of Caffrey charm showing through.
"Yep," Peter replied, unamused. "Why do you want to watch my people interrogate your dead girlfriend, Neal?"
Neal slouched forward, elbows on knees, and didn't answer. Peter waited.
"I want to see what she said," he said finally.
"You want to see her again."
"No!" Neal looked up. "I mean -- I do, but that's not -- I just need to see."
"Well, you have to explain," Peter told him. "If you don't know, figure it out."
"You're such an asshole sometimes," Neal told him.
"That's why I make the big bucks," Peter replied ruthlessly.
"What the hell harm is it going to do? Is it going to hurt her? She's dead, Peter."
"Something you should remember."
"I do," Neal snarled. This rage was new; Neal never got angry. Peter watched warily as Neal got himself under control. "I remember every day."
Peter leaned forward and met his eyes. Neal looked away first.
"You tell me why you want to see," he said, "and then we find out if you get to."
Neal chewed on his lip while Peter waited patiently.
"I don't know who she was," he said, finally. He glanced at Peter, but Peter just watched him. "I think...okay." He steepled his hands and tapped his fingers against his lips. "Keller."
Peter gave him a startled look. "Well, that's a leap."
"No...so. I thought we were screwing around. He thought we were dating. At least, I'm pretty sure," Neal said. "It explains some things, anyway."
"Hell hath no fury?" Peter suggested.
"And I think I did that a lot. I know I did it to Alex. Sometimes I don't see what's actually going on."
"You're not quick on the uptake," Peter told him. Neal's eyes widened. "I was telling you this a year ago. Kate wasn't who you thought she was. I told you this, Neal."
"I know, okay? But I don't know what was really her and what was me seeing what I wanted to see. I want to know."
"So this isn't about finding her killer?" Peter asked, skeptical.
"The tapes are five years old, Peter. It's about finding out who she was."
Peter leaned back and studied the ceiling for a while. He could hear Neal's fingers tapping against his knees.
"And you think Kate was more honest with me and my people?" he asked finally. "She was a lockdown, Neal. We didn't get anything out of her she didn't want to give. It's not going to help."
"I'd like to see for myself," Neal insisted. Peter leaned forward again.
"Yeah, okay. If I can get you the tapes, they're yours," he said. Neal looked...not pleased, exactly, but satisfied. "Lemme ask you something."
Neal looked hesitant. Peter couldn't really blame him.
"What do you think we are?" Peter asked. "You, me, Elizabeth. You see what you want to see there, too?"
"You really want to talk about that here?" Neal said, gesturing to Peter's glass-walled office.
"No," Peter said. "But I want an answer. Tonight, maybe."
"Working late?" Neal asked. Peter nodded. "Okay."
"Neal," Peter said belatedly, as Neal stood to leave, because this could not be said too many times. "The tapes aren't a trade. You want them, they're yours, if I can get them. Working late's not a payment. It's an option."
Neal cocked an eyebrow at him. "Do you want me to say no?"
"No!" Peter said. "But -- "
"Then stop telling me I can. I'm a bright boy, boss, I get it," Neal said, and tipped the brim of his hat a little before he left.
***
Elizabeth brought home dinner that night -- leftover sandwiches and little pastry things from an afternoon event, lots of stuff with toothpicks stuck into it. Peter wrapped his arms around her in the kitchen while she was doling them out onto plates, kissing her cheek from behind.
"Guess what I brought home," he said, and tipped his head at Neal, leaning in the doorway. Neal doffed his hat.
"Oh good," Elizabeth said. "I didn't bring any dessert. You think of everything," she added, craning her head to look up at Peter.
"I see how it is," Neal announced. "I'm here so you can curry favor with your wife."
"It's working," Elizabeth replied.
"I'd be offended if it wasn't," Neal said, ducking out of the kitchen. Peter didn't let go of Elizabeth, humming into her hair in a cheerful kind of way as she fixed a third plate with sandwiches.
"He's not allergic to nuts, right?" she asked. "There's walnuts in the stuffed pastry."
"No," Peter said. Allergies, along with everything else about Neal, were filed away both at the Bureau and in his head. Prison medical records, too, which was one reason he'd never bothered to bring up condoms. Neal was clean, or had been when he'd left prison. By his own admission he hadn't been with anyone but them since.
Neal returned, sans hat and jacket, sleeves rolled up, and took up his place in the doorway again. He liked to do that, wait on thresholds, linger and watch until he was invited in. As if some day he might not be invited, and he'd have a good excuse to leave. For all Neal's talk about not saying no, he had an awfully hard time saying yes. Still, usually he at least looked hopeful. Tonight he looked...
He looked tired.
Peter left El at the counter with a kiss to the side of her neck and crossed the kitchen. Neal watched him, eyes flicking to Elizabeth occasionally. Peter caught him by the back of the neck, tugged him just enough to get him to step forward, and kissed him. Neal pushed immediately, like he always did, trying for more touch, a deeper kiss; Peter blocked him, leaning back.
"Hungry?" he asked. Neal glanced at Elizabeth again. "Neal. Here."
Neal's eyes focused on Peter's face.
"Hungry?" Peter repeated.
"Not really," Neal said, docile under Peter's hand.
"Upstairs," Peter told him. "Lie down. El and I are going to have dinner. We'll be up when we're done."
Neal licked his lips. "What -- "
"Neal," Peter said. Neal waited, still and placid, until Peter let him go. He elbowed the kitchen door open and went, a little cocky, but Peter could give him that. His footsteps were quiet on the stairs.
When he turned back to Elizabeth, she had a piece of pastry halfway to her mouth.
"You know sometimes you're just ridiculously hot," she told him, setting the pastry back on her plate. Peter preened a little. "What are you doing?"
"It was a hard day to be Neal," Peter told her. "Bet you he's asleep when we go up."
El gave him a look.
"What? We can take him a sandwich if you're going to be like that," he said. She laughed and kissed him.
***
Neal woke in half-light and to confusing sounds; his skin felt heavy, brain numb, tongue thick.
"...told you." Peter's rumble of a voice, somewhere nearby.
"Bet you didn't think he'd be naked." And that was Elizabeth, and they were talking about him. He wasn't quite sure if he was dreaming; reality was blurring a little bit.
"I think he misunderstood my intent," Peter replied. Neal grunted and rolled over, tangling up in the blanket he'd pulled over himself at some point. The bed creaked a little as Elizabeth sat down on it.
"Hi, babe," she said, bending to kiss him. She tasted like red peppers and vinaigrette. When she was done, he felt marginally more awake, pushing himself up in the bed.
"I didn't mean to fall asleep," he said. "You took your damn time with dinner."
"I wasn't aware I told you we were going to rush," Peter said.
"How long does it take to eat a -- " Neal broke off sharply, because Peter was frowning.
"I told you we'd be up when we were done," Peter said. "Was I unclear?"
Neal shook his head.
"So? Here we are," Peter spread his arms. "We got dinner, you got to rest. Problem?"
"No," Neal murmured. "Why -- "
"Do you need an explanation?"
Oh, God.
But he didn't, not really. Peter had said they would be here; here they were. He didn't have to know why. Peter didn't lie to him, not about this. He trusted both of them not to lie, not to play games with him. Which meant he didn't have to understand, because -- because --
There it was. The place where there were no games, where he didn't have to think. He wouldn't want to live there, but it was so nice sometimes. Elizabeth was petting his hair, fingers threading through it, and he didn't have to run this. Someone else was taking care of things.
Peter hitched his hip against the fireplace near the bed, facing him. "I think it's time to answer the question, Neal. No wrong answers," he added. Neal looked at Elizabeth, but she didn't seem confused; Peter must have told her. And if he hadn't, then it still wasn't Neal's fault. He wouldn't be blamed.
"So?" Peter said. "Us. Here. What do you see? What are we?"
Neal rubbed his face, trying to clear sleep from his brain. He didn't know; they hadn't exactly established many rules. Maybe Peter wanted him to do that. That would be like Peter, because Peter constantly worried about Neal's involvement in...this. As if Neal's enthusiasm in bed didn't prove he was really into it, or something. But he didn't want to set the rules, because if they didn't like them...
"Me," he said slowly, drawing his legs up, circling them with his arms over the blanket. He looked at Elizabeth. "Elizabeth." He looked up from her to Peter, arms crossed again now. "Peter," he added, and then choked on the word, but got it out anyway. "...Sir."
Peter's eyes darkened, but he smiled.
"He's so smart," he said to Elizabeth, reaching into his pocket. He tossed something small and bright to her. "Honey?"
Elizabeth held up the object and Neal felt a shock shoot through him. Handcuffs, real FBI-issue, tough but not impossible to slip or pick; Neal supposed he made bondage difficult, but he was more than willing to bow a little to the myth.
He offered his left arm. Elizabeth kissed his wrist and looked to Peter; he nodded and she tightened the cuff around Neal's wrist, pushing him down with a hand on his chest and fixing the other cuff to the bedside table. The headboard wouldn't work -- it was one thick solid piece of wood, elegant but not practical for their purposes.
Elizabeth seemed to agree. "This bed is not well-designed for tying people up," she told Peter, who snorted.
"It wasn't a huge part of our sex life until recently," he pointed out. "Neal's good though, right?"
Neal, closing his eyes, rattled the cuff and nodded. "Makes me all nostalgic," he said.
"Smartass," Peter told him. "They handcuffed him to a radiator in Des Moines one time," he continued, apparently for El's benefit. "He asked for a glass of icewater. An hour later, they checked up on him and look Ma, no Caffrey. They didn't even find the cuffs. One of 'em was convinced he was a witch."
"Sudden temperature changes -- "
"Did I ask you to talk?" Peter said. Neal fell silent. "Sudden temperature changes make cheap metal brittle," he told Elizabeth. "He snapped the cuff hinges around the radiator pipe and picked up the pieces after him before he left. Cocky," he added fondly.
There was warmth up against him then, from an unexpected direction; Neal realised that while his eyes had been closed, Peter had been stripping down. When he opened them, Peter was lying next to him, chin propped on Neal's shoulder; Elizabeth, still sitting on the other side of him, was undressing. He couldn't really reach up to help, not one-handed and at this angle. Besides, Peter had him mostly pinned, on the side that wasn't bound to the bedside table. There was nothing he could do.
Neal thought sane people in this kind of situation probably panicked. Instead, he could feel his muscles unknotting one by one, shoulders dropping, the sweet-burn ache in his thighs and calves as his whole body went relaxed and pliable.
"Good," Peter said against his shoulder, voice vibrating there. Neal felt Peter's hand smooth down his stomach as Elizabeth turned back and kissed him, her breasts brushing his chest and Peter's arm. Peter stroked his cock slowly, until Elizabeth eased back and pushed his arm aside, nudging him away as she straddled Neal.
Peter, with a laugh, moved lower, cupping Neal's balls, then sliding along his thigh. Elizabeth made a soft, satisfied sound, shifting her hips a little, settling around him. Slow and easy, sleepy sex, El was so gorgeous and there was no hurry, no reason to rush. The longer he drew this out, arching languidly, the longer the cuff would stay around his wrist.
Still, it sluggishly crossed his mind that Peter was getting a raw deal here, and Neal was opening his mouth to say so when Peter caught his eye and shook his head.
"This is what I want from you right now," he said. "Be good."
Neal bucked a little, on the order, and Elizabeth moaned.
"Hey, part three up here," she said. Peter turned to watch her and Neal ran his free hand up her side, stroking her skin. When he brushed his thumb across her nipple, she moaned again.
Peter's hand let go of his thigh, and the warm line of him against Neal's body vanished briefly; Neal concentrated on Elizabeth, because that was what he was supposed to do, mumbling about how good she felt, how much he liked it when she said his name. Peter was back quickly enough, propping himself on an arm to kiss Elizabeth, and his other hand slid up Neal's thigh again, slick and cool, and --
Neal's eyes went wide when Peter dipped below his balls, rubbing lubricant around his hole. Peter pushed a finger inside slowly and Neal bucked hard, holding tight to Elizabeth's hip to keep her stable. Peter just stayed there, kissing Elizabeth, finger inside him moving slowly until Neal thought he would shake apart from the sensation -- gasping, much faster now, unraveling and moaning. Elizabeth was using Peter's shoulder for leverage, hips jerking forward a little every time Neal thrust inside her.
"Love you," Peter said, into El's mouth, but when he did his hand pushed up against Neal and it wasn't just for Elizabeth and Elizabeth clenched around him and Neal came so hard he couldn't breathe.
He was panting still as Elizabeth toppled off him against Peter, laughing and nuzzling Peter's chest before she dropped to the bed, kissing the rise of muscle in Neal's outstretched arm. Neal tried to pull Peter forward, because he really wanted to show that he understood, he wanted to say thank you, he wanted to be good --
The handcuff jerked his arm sharply as he tried to get to Peter, almost toppling the lamp on the bedside table.
"Peter, Peter," he said, pulling at it. "Come on, lemme -- "
"Oh, that again?" Peter asked, grinning from his place near Neal's thigh. Neal whined and Peter gave in, edging up the bed so Neal could prop himself on his free arm and nuzzle Peter's hip, get the smell of him, get his mouth on Peter's cock. God, he wanted --
"It's okay," Peter said, as Neal sucked around the head of his cock, wanting the soft noises Peter always made, the moment when he let go. He ducked his head and took more, hollowing his cheeks, Peter's cock thick on his tongue. Peter's hand rested on the back of his head, fingers curling in his hair. "Neal, that's good," he murmured, and Neal flushed with pleasure. His arm jerked against the cuff again.
"Sweetie," El said, uncertainly, but Neal looked up at Peter, pleading, and Peter shook his head.
"He wants it," he said. "Don't you, Neal?"
Neal hummed contentedly and Peter let out a hiss.
"Not from anyone else, ever," Peter told him, and Neal moaned. "Nobody but us, Neal, I -- ah -- " he broke off as his hips jerked. "I swear, you're ours, nobody else is going to -- "
Neal did a trick with his tongue that he'd been keeping in reserve for just such an occasion, and Peter cut off with a shout of surprise and came, fingers tugging on Neal's hair. It was the loudest Neal had ever heard him.
Peter slumped sideways while Neal sat up and licked his lips, pleased.
"Whoa," El said, resting her head on Neal's shoulder to watch her husband try and catch his breath. He looked dazed. "I think you broke him, Neal."
Neal, wordless, was trying to memorize Peter's face, the slightly glassy look in his eyes. Peter fumbled in the blankets and came up with the handcuff key, offering it to Elizabeth, who bent around and undid the cuff from the bedside table. Neal stretched his arm back slowly. It sometimes cramped, but it was worth it. There were two red stripes across his wrist where the cuff had pulled. He'd be bruised. Elizabeth took the cuff off his wrist and nuzzled the marks, then let him cup her face with his hand, thumb rubbing her cheekbone.
Usually, El would curl up behind Peter, arm wrapped around his shoulder, and then Peter could let Neal be as close as he liked; this time she just stayed where she was as Peter eased himself down onto the pillows on Neal's other side. He looked a little self-conscious about how closely Neal and Elizabeth were watching him.
"This okay?" Elizabeth asked, rubbing Neal's shoulder gently, but she didn't mean the cramp.
"Yeah, s'fine," Neal said, wrapping an arm around her and settling back down in the bed. He turned his head back to Peter, who looked -- well, not quite so wrecked. He was looking at Neal like he'd found something valuable and wasn't quite sure what to do with it.
"Sir," Neal said, very softly, pleased to have finally put a name to this, pleased that he wasn't seeing this wrong. And if he did, Peter would tell him.
"Get some rest," Peter told him. "You look beat."
Elizabeth giggled against Neal's chest, stretching out a hand to touch Peter.
"You should see your face," she said.
Neal, curled between two bodies, closed his eyes and listened to Peter and Elizabeth bicker quietly about the funny face Peter was making and how Elizabeth had no room to talk, their voices tapering into sound as he drifted off.
Perhaps it was the unusual sleeping arrangement, or the fact that he'd settled enough to be really comfortable and let his guard down; Neal was never sure, but that evening his string of luck ran out.
There was so much fire, and he'd shaken Peter off and managed to get into it but he couldn't find Kate, kept finding faceless women instead, kept seeing flashes of her and having to dodge fire to get to her. The smoke clogged his lungs; he tried to cough to clear his throat and couldn't do that, either, and there was music playing so very loud --
He woke from the dream tense and sweating, every muscle tight. His ears were ringing and he couldn't get a proper breath; he struggled into consciousness gasping for air, pushing himself away from the weight on his chest (Peter's shoulder and arm) and the restraints on his legs (El's legs, one knee crossed over his). Peter was sitting up, looking confused. Neal propped himself on his elbows and heard a loud "Ah -- Ah -- Ah -- " and realized it was him, trying to breathe.
"Neal," Peter said, blinking. "Neal -- "
He couldn't get the words out, too busy inhaling huge lungfuls of air, air that was clean and cool and didn't taste like smoke. Peter put a hand on his chest and Neal batted it aside. Elizabeth was stirring next to him, mumbling wordless questions.
"I'm fine," he managed at last, his breathing slowing, arms trembling as the tension left them. "I'm -- hah -- ah -- I'm okay."
"Yeah, you look it," Peter drawled. Neal brushed hair out of his eyes, found it slick enough with sweat to stay combed back, and gave Peter a reassuring grin.
"Seriously, I'm not dying," he said, and this time when Peter put a hand on his chest he didn't stop him. "Bad dream. That's all."
"What's going on?" Elizabeth asked, finally waking, trying to sit up and almost tumbling off the edge of the bed. Neal darted out an arm around her waist and steadied her, swallowing dry-mouthed as he tried to work through the adrenaline. Elizabeth gave him one look and scooted closer.
"Sweetie, get him some water," she told Peter, who tumbled to his feet from the bed and walked to the door, mostly backwards, watching them both. Neal slid over to give Elizabeth more room, trying to wipe the sweat from his face.
"Easy," she said, voice low and soothing, exactly what he needed. "Easy, it's okay. Jesus, Neal, you're soaking."
Neal finally felt like he'd caught his breath. He leaned forward, pulling up his knees, resting his elbows on them. The cool air made the skin on his back prickle.
"Bad dream," he repeated.
"Sounds like it," she agreed. "You're here though, you're okay."
"It's my nervous disposition," he told her with a grin. She smiled and rubbed his back.
"Want to tell me about it?" she asked, as Peter returned with a glass of water and a towel slung over his shoulder. Neal took the water and sipped it; Peter tossed Elizabeth the towel and she smoothed it over Neal's hair.
"Sorry," Neal said quietly.
"Well, I personally blame you," Peter told him. Neal glanced up and saw him smiling reassuringly. He sat on the edge of the bed. "Take a minute. Nothing to be sorry about."
Elizabeth ran the towel down one sweat-damp arm, then left it in Neal's lap, pushing a little on the glass of water in his hand so that he'd drink again.
"Peter used to get nightmares," she said quietly. Neal looked at Peter, but his face was impassive, as if she were talking about someone else entirely. "His first few years with the Bureau he had some bad ones. I think...you see things and your brain can't process them at first."
"It's not about the Bureau," Neal said.
"Kate," Peter murmured.
"Yeah. There was a -- there was a lot of fire," Neal admitted. He lifted the towel and wiped his chest, rubbing an edge along his throat where the sweat pooled. "What time is it?"
"Only about ten," Peter said. "I was going to get up soon and do some work, come back around midnight. I was hoping you'd sleep through."
"You look tired," Elizabeth told him. "All the time."
"Well, guess why," Neal mumbled, but he couldn't really put any edge into it. Elizabeth kissed his shoulder. He felt Peter's hand on his head, which surprised him; Peter was pushing damp hair away from his face with a kind of delicate affection he'd only ever seen him show for Elizabeth before.
"Some of it is still about the Bureau," Peter said. "I think. It's normal. It's hard and ugly sometimes. You just have something...really bad that happened to you, and you focus it all on that."
"It'll be better," Neal said. "When we find out who did it, when I find out -- it'll stop."
Peter kissed his forehead. "No, it won't," he said, gently. "That's not how this works. But we will find out, I promise, and this will get better."
Neal closed his eyes. He could practically hear the looks Peter and Elizabeth were giving each other, until finally Peter shifted off the bed again.
"Off," he ordered, giving Neal a gentle shove. "The sheets are soaked."
Neal got to his feet and let Elizabeth pull him towards the closet while Peter stripped the bed, tossing the sheets in a corner. He did it briskly and efficiently, while Elizabeth found a shirt and pulled it over Neal's head, warm and dry and smelling like their laundry soap. When Peter was done, he kissed Elizabeth and then Neal, tucking his thumb up under Neal's chin.
"Stay with Elizabeth," he said. "I'm going to go do some work. Try to sleep."
Neal nodded.
"Good boy," Peter said, and Neal followed Elizabeth back to the bed. His heart was still racing, but not as fast as it had been; with her hand rubbing circles on his arm, her even breathing soft in the room, he closed his eyes and tried not to be afraid of what might happen if he did sleep again.
He woke briefly when Peter came back to bed, but not long enough to matter; the rest of his sleep was calm, until Elizabeth's alarm woke them all for breakfast.
***
That morning, instead of going straight to the White Collar offices on twenty-one, Peter punched the fifteenth floor button, the level for the main archives. He was touching Neal a lot, more than usual -- hand on his back, fingers around his arm, shoulder brushing against him all morning while they'd made breakfast and dressed and driven to work.
Neal fidgeted with the left cuff of his shirt, thumb rubbing the bruising on his wrist for reassurance.
"Kate's tapes weren't turned over with the evidence on your case when you requested it," Peter said, as the elevator ascended. "She has her own file. I made a call."
"At midnight?" Neal asked, glancing at him.
"After dinner yesterday," Peter said. "You were asleep."
Neal caught his reflection in the mirrored steel of the elevator. He had to admit, he didn't look quite so weary; twelve hours of sleep, even interrupted by sex and nightmares, had probably been good for him.
Sex and Nightmares would be a really excellent title for a book. He should suggest it to Mozzie.
"They'll set you up with a laptop and headphones, everything's on DVD," Peter continued. "You can't take the tapes out of the room. I can stay if you want."
"I'll be okay," Neal said. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," Peter told him. "I still think this isn't the smartest thing either of us have ever done. I don't think it'll help, Neal."
"It's not like it'll make it worse," Neal replied. Peter didn't answer, which was sort of ominous. Neal was beginning to realize that there were consequences involved in working for the FBI, and Peter knew a lot more about them than he did.
Peter left him with the archive manager, who took him to a little viewing desk and brought out a small stack of thin clear DVD cases, each marked with a date, a casefile number, the interrogating agent's name, and the subject's name: Kate Moreau. There were five; two were marked with the name Gerald Argyle, a man Neal remembered as having a soft voice, a brutal technique, and terrible breath (he privately believed this was part of his technique). One was marked Andrea Wright, a name he only recognized from his work with Peter four years on: she was a specialist interrogator, someone they brought in to crack difficult subjects.
"Smart girl," Neal said approvingly. If Kate had merited a specialist, she must have kicked ass.
The last two DVDs in the stack were marked Peter Burke.
Neal wondered, as he absently shuffled them into date order, why they'd never tried Wright on him. He'd had one session with Argyle and two with Burke and that had been it. He supposed Burke had got bored with Neal's staunch refusal to play that particular game. It was difficult to remember what they'd even talked about; the whole thing was a sort of terrifying blur.
Peter. Not Burke. The man who'd sat across from him at the interrogation table had been Peter. He'd left puzzles for Peter, he'd been arrested and interrogated and imprisoned by Peter, and last night he'd sucked Peter's cock, he'd begged to suck Peter's cock. Jesus Christ, what was wrong with both of them?
He wondered how much Peter remembered of those sessions.
He put the first DVD into the tray, closed it, took a deep breath, and tapped "Play". An image flickered up of Kate, alone in the room, and Argyle entering through a door to her left. Neal sat back and began to watch.
***
Peter privately thought showing Neal tapes of Kate, especially a day after a really stupendous nightmare (Neal Caffrey: nothing if not an overachiever), was probably not a very good idea. Still, he had learned quickly that Neal tended to take an idea and run with it until he slammed into a wall, and no amount of tugging on his arm or pointing out the wall would prevent this. Hopefully, sooner or later, he would learn to slow down and listen, but that day was not today, and probably not anywhere in the near future.
There were three new cases asking for his and Neal's attention on his desk, but they were all consultation requests from other departments, nothing specifically for them. Word was getting around about their clearance rates, and agents were beginning to come up with somewhat thin excuses to call in Peter and his trained art-sniffing bloodhound. He dismissed the two VICAP requests out of hand; the last thing Neal needed right now was more blood to look at, and Peter hated investigating violent crimes. Generally the offenders were not terribly bright or entertaining.
The third one was from the Counterterrorism unit, and was marginally more interesting. They had some documents seized from a raid on a domestic terrorist cell that they wanted to authenticate or invalidate, and thought Neal's knowledge of seal forgery might be helpful. Might keep him busy; might track him off Kate a little. Bombings weren't especially something he wanted Neal anywhere near right now either, but it looked like most of the documents were financial.
"Boss," Jones said, leaning in his open doorway just before lunch. "Where's Caffrey?"
"Archives, why?" Peter asked.
"Front desk just called. You know any reason the Marshals would be on their way up?"
Peter swung around and called up Neal's map, tapping his fingers impatiently while it loaded. Neal's tracker showed him at Federal Plaza since this morning, and Peter knew exactly where Neal had been before that, at least since yesterday afternoon.
Possibly the Marshals did too. Possibly someone at the US Marshal's office had gotten suspicious about Neal Caffrey's presence in Peter Burke's house at all hours.
Shit.
"No, but let's not get caught with our asses in the breeze," he said, minimizing Neal's map. "I give you the signal, you slip out quietly and head for the fifteenth floor. I'll call you if there's any trouble, you can...I don't know, hide Neal in a box or something."
Jones grinned. "Yeah, sure thing."
"And send Diana in, would you?"
Diana arrived at his office pretty much right as a couple of Marshals got off the elevator. Peter wiped clammy palms on his thighs and stood up, walking out to the railing.
"Burke?" one of them called.
"Yeah," Peter said. "What's going on?"
"Got a minute?"
Peter gestured to the conference room. Diana stuck close by him as they walked in.
"Is this about Caffrey?" Peter asked, somewhat pleased at the even tone he was keeping.
"Not directly," the lead deputy said. "Daniel Braddock. I'm told you were supervising agent on the Shane Barlowe sting a couple of months back."
"It was a joint effort," Peter said, relief flooding him even as a new anxiety pushed its way to the front of his brain. "This is about Clive, isn't it."
"Clive?" Diana asked.
"Forgery case," Peter told her. "While you were in DC. It's how we got Barlowe. Our forger went into Witness Protection. He bolt?" he asked.
"Not yet," Braddock said.
"Yet?" Peter prompted.
"Chatter out of Malone Maximum Security says that Barlowe's been very active," Braddock said. "One of his lieutenants seems to have taken over about half his former operation, but they think Barlowe's still calling the shots."
"What the hell," Peter said. "I caught the guy for them, what more do they want, wrapping paper and a bow?"
Braddock cracked a grin. "Hey, I'm just the messenger. This lieutenant, who so far we only know as Shotgun -- "
"Nice name," Diana put in.
" -- he's been working an angle on the DEA. Poking around. One of their guys was offered a bribe. Looks like they're after the guy who took Barlowe down, and the snitch who kicked him in the nuts during the bust."
Peter glanced at Diana. Her face was perfectly composed; a little too perfectly. He grinned.
"That would be Neal," he told her.
"I would never have guessed," she solemnly assured him.
"We're talking with the DA now about excising the records, so your names aren't gonna go out if it does get leaked," Braddock continued. "We're also building a story for Benjamin Doss, the snitch -- turns out he's working in Singapore now."
"Singapore, nice," Peter said agreeably.
"You or Caffrey testify at his trial?"
Peter shook his head. "Clive did."
"Which is the other concern," Braddock sighed. "He's in deep cover protection, relocated, but guys like him pick things up. We think he might be getting ready to bolt. If he does -- "
"He might come back to New York. He knows where Neal lives," Peter said.
"So we want you and Caffrey to be aware that there's a dangerous drug kingpin looking for both of you, and a flight-risk teenager who might show up on your doorstep," Braddock said.
"Must be Tuesday," Peter replied. "Listen, guys, I appreciate this. Diana, I want you to get up to speed and keep an eye on this chatter out of Malone. Any questions you guys have, route them through her. You're lead on this if it goes anywhere. You good?" he asked Diana, who nodded. "Okay. I'm gonna go find Caffrey and tell him to keep an eye out for his young friend."
When he reached the archives, Peter found Neal sitting on the counter at the front desk, talking with the archive clerk and shuffling a deck of cards. He looked animated, but a little manic about it; Peter watched from the elevator vestibule as Neal did a card trick, delighting the (very pretty, young, female) clerk.
"Slacking on company time," Peter said, walking through the door. He tsked; Neal turned on the counter, pulling his legs up over the edge to drop down on Peter's side of it.
"He means me," Neal said to the clerk, who looked terrified.
"I mean him," Peter assured her. "Want to get lunch? Looks like you finished your research early."
Neal's face, out of view of the clerk, fell into hard, tired lines for a second before he smiled.
"Yeah, you were right," he said. "There's nothing there."
"Sorry," Peter said quietly.
"Catch you later, Nina!" Neal called, already walking towards the elevators. Peter followed, wanting to pull Neal into him and apologize again. When they got into the elevator, Neal leaned back against the wall and exhaled.
"I didn't get all the way through," he said. "I had a look at Argyle, some of Wright. Couple minutes of you and her."
"Nothing, huh?" Peter asked.
"I mean, we talked about what we'd do if we got caught, ways to shut down interrogation and stuff," Neal said. "I dunno, she was a good con but either I forgot how good or..." he shrugged. "She was a wall. So, maybe I never find out. Maybe Kate's the eternal mystery."
Peter brushed his fingers across the back of Neal's hand, a casual gesture, easy to mistake for an accident if anyone saw the elevator camera feed.
"You know what's really dumb?" Neal asked, laughing a little. "I got bored."
"Interrogations are boring. You were," Peter said.
"I was going for boring," Neal informed him.
"You were a towering success, in that case," Peter replied. Neal shot him a sly look. "Hey. You okay? Don't lie to me."
"I never lie to you," Neal insisted, but he didn't answer the question.
"Neal," Peter said.
"No. I'm not," Neal said, staring hard at the descending numbers above the elevator buttons. "But I will be. So, lunch?"
"Yep," Peter replied, as the elevator let them out on the ground floor. "And I have news of our forger Clive to share."
***
The next day they caught a case, which Peter thought was probably just as well. It would keep Neal busy, keep him from brooding --
And, as it turned out, totally destroy any chances Peter had of keeping Neal's ego in check. Not only was there a young crew of burgeoning cons copycatting him, there were classes being taught about him. Neal looked like he was inches from starting a scrapbook, and he couldn't stop smiling.
Which was, Peter had to admit, not something he minded. Plus, while he wasn't nuts about bringing Alexandra Hunter in on the case, it did get her a one-way ticket to Italy, and thus got her out of Neal's life.
It was interesting to meet Alex again; Peter couldn't help but file her in his head as a sort of surrogate Kate, someone Neal had once run with, someone he'd -- lied about, to himself anyway, someone who was still living and who could perhaps give Neal the catharsis he needed over the enduring mystery of who Kate had really been. Neal had the opportunity to see Alex, really see her, in a way he hadn't ever seen Kate. Peter privately hoped he'd taken it. He'd liked to have seen them together, seen how Neal acted around her, but he got a little taste, at least.
"Per Neal's suggestion," he said, handing over the plane ticket he'd had Jones arrange that morning, "We've booked you on a secure flight to Italy."
She studied the ticket while he talked -- she looked like she never missed a thing, never overlooked an angle. She looked young and sort of...hungry, the same way Neal had when Peter had been chasing him. Lost.
"Neal said you were the best," she said, which startled him -- and then she kissed him on the cheek, which was even more startling.
As soon as her back was turned, he checked to make sure she hadn't lifted his wallet.
They went out for beers that night, he and Neal and Diana, because the case had gone well, because El was out of town, because Diana wanted to pick their brains about the Barlowe case, and because frankly, Peter felt that they were possibly the greatest FBI team ever to flash a badge.
Well, after a couple of beers he did, anyway. Neal was nursing his second vodka and making comments about Peter's taste in beer, and Diana was drinking microbrews and ganging up with Neal on him, in between commentary on the Barlowe case. All was right with the world.
"I tell you what, though," Peter said, loosening his tie. "Neal didn't seem quite so paternal about those punk college kids as he was about Clive."
Neal shrugged. "Different situation. They were never in any real danger. Clive did it because he needed the money; they did it for kicks."
"You did it for kicks," Peter told him.
"My art is pure," Neal replied loftily.
"And they suckered in that kid Justin to do their forgeries for them," Diana added. "No sympathy from me. Plus Jones says they were whiners."
"At least when I allegedly faked something, I knew what I was getting into," Neal agreed. He looked like he was genuinely happy to have closed a good case, and Peter saw his private exultation over helping out Alex in the way he grinned whenever her name came up.
"Well, he's in the clear now," Peter said, ignoring the mild urge to lean over and bite Neal's lower lip. "You think he'll be on a gallery wall someday?"
Neal shook his head. "Not under his own name."
Diana looked at him, head cocked. "You think?"
"Think what?" Peter asked. Diana and Neal looked like they were in on a secret.
"Neal thinks Justin's a baby art forger," Diana said. "Right? I'm right."
"What, you think he really was in on it?" Peter asked.
"No! No," Neal protested, holding up his hands in innocence.
"Okay, so explain," Diana urged.
Neal looked like he was working out how to do that. Peter watched the wheels turn.
"Justin's not an artist," Neal said finally. "He's like me."
"Bullshit," Peter laughed. "I've seen your work. I've seen his work."
"Yeah, his work is proficient," Neal agreed. "But I looked through his sketches. I looked at the reproductions. They're copies -- even the drawing he was doing of the model the day we found him. They're picture-sketches. Run an image through enough Photoshop filters, you get the same effect."
"Isn't that a good thing, when you're faking it?" Diana said. Then she bit her lip. Peter chuckled.
"No sex jokes," Neal said, pointing at both of them. "That's kind of the point. Artists have opinions. Artists look at things -- objects, people, other artists' work -- and they have their own feelings about them. Picasso looked at a face and said, I want to draw this from every angle all at once."
Peter waited for him to continue. Neal ran his hands through his hair.
"When you're doing a reproduction -- "
"A forgery -- " Diana put in.
"Fine, whatever," Neal said impatiently. "When you're re-creating someone else's work you have to understand their feelings, their goals, but you can't have an opinion. If you do it infects the work, and it's not a perfect copy. Justin's not an artist, he's a very complicated Xerox machine. Same as me. Technological virtuoso. There's skill and work involved in that, but..." he shrugged. "We have no vision. I have nothing new to say to the world. I just like art. I like understanding it, and I allegedly like stealing it. I like making up ways to fool people. That kind of art's very different."
"Is that why you didn't become an artist?" Peter asked. "Or was it the money?"
Neal blew air through his lips, scornful. "I could have made money at it. He can, too. Plenty of actual artists with things to say end up doing commercial work, or go there by choice. It's not a bad gig. But someone who doesn't have an opinion or at least a good line of bullshit doesn't have a choice. There's more fun in forgery."
"Till you get caught," Diana pointed out. Neal shrugged again. "But you still have fun, huh? Here?"
Neal didn't look at her; he looked at Peter. "Yeah. That's true."
Diana slid out of the her chair, digging out her wallet. "Next round's on me."
"Nah, I'm good," Peter said.
"Neal?"
"Sure," Neal agreed, finishing his drink. "One more. Ketel One!" he called after her.
"Brand snob," Peter told him.
"I don't take criticism from people who drink Miller," Neal retorted.
"Which brings up a point," Peter said, leaning close. "You said you don't have anything to say."
"Yeah, so?"
"You have plenty of opinions. You're bursting with opinions."
Neal laughed. "Imagine a painting called Boredom In A Surveillance Van."
"Ever seen Nighthawks?"
"It's okay. I'm not an artist. I like what I do," Neal replied.
"What you did."
Neal lifted his eyes. "What I do," he repeated.
Peter gave him a smile. "Good."
"Can I come home with you tonight?" Neal asked, almost in Peter's ear.
"Not tonight," Peter said. "Monday, maybe."
"You could come home with me," Neal suggested. "It's a big empty house with Elizabeth gone."
Peter shook his head. "I don't enjoy the idea of Mozzie walking in on us."
"Yeah, I really gotta put a lock on that door," Neal agreed thoughtfully.
"That'll definitely keep him out," Peter drawled. He sat back, because if Neal kept looking at him like that he was going to be extremely indiscreet in a minute. "I have to say, though, I'd like to see what you'd put on a canvas out of your head."
"So you could learn all my secrets?" Neal asked, grinning.
"That too," Peter agreed, as Diana returned with the drinks. They toasted a good case, and to Elizabeth's health in absentia, and at the end of the night Peter went home to a very big house, with no Elizabeth and no Neal, and a bed that felt very, very cold.
Two weeks later he was sifting through casefiles on his desk, looking for the wrapup of the Navarro bust Mozzie had led them to, when a thin sheet of almost-translucent artist's vellum fell out from between two folders. Peter picked it up and carried it over to the window, perplexed. It was a drawing done with ink pen and art markers, a little cartoonish, as if its creator had been shy of committing anything more permanent or detailed.
It showed the surveillance van from the point of view of someone looking in through the rear doors. Most of the monitors were dark, and everything was washed in blue and black. Jones was on the left, in the foreground, head tipped up to the ceiling. Diana on the right, in the background, had her chin propped on her hand as she watched a monitor. Behind her, in shadow, Peter could see the outline of his own body leaning in the doorway from the cab -- the square shoulders of his suit and just a hint of light on his face, enough to show his features and the sweep of his hair over his forehead.
Central, between Diana and Jones, there was a figure seated with one leg crossed over the other, leaning back but looking down at the one true source of light in the entire composition: a glowing cellphone in one hand. It overlit his face, washing it out into just a hint of nose and eyes, but the shock of black hair and the slim tailored suit were unmistakable identifiers. A pair of handcuffs dangled from his other hand. Peter didn't think the moment had ever happened -- he was sure Neal hadn't had his phone out during the long watch over the rigged locker. Which meant that Neal had composed this. It had something to say.
In the corner, in Neal's neat draftsman's hand, was a legend: The Surveillance Van.
Peter grinned to himself.
"An original Caffrey," he said quietly, noting the clean, precise NC incorporated into a shadow thrown by Jones's arm. It was the same signature he'd seen on Neal's forged bonds. "I'll be damned."
Before he put it away in a folder for safekeeping, though, he studied it again. Neal, true, was the focus of the image, the center of attention, and how like him -- but he was also the only one in the picture with no face.
***
Chapter Ten
References:
Nighthawks by Edward Hopper
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(Anonymous) 2010-11-16 03:38 pm (UTC)(link)I love your angle and the way you've explained things.
I like Clive and I like the way you described Neal's outlook on his art.
I also loved the picture he drew.
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"Neal tended to take an idea and run with it until he slammed into a wall." Funny because it's so, so true. I laughed. Would say more about the brilliance
and hot sexbut am reading and writing on phone. I looooooooove this!no subject
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I love Peter in the gangster scene. "I'LL START...WITH YOUR THUMBS."
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Anyways, this is ridiculously excellent. Completely headcanon for me now. I loved the handcuffs, and the art stuff at the end. Noface!Neal needs a hug. (Now I'm thinking of No-face from Spirited Away and wishing I could draw 'cause that would be interesting.)
This fic is making my week infinitely better.
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And for some reason, the mirror-writing went right by me in earlier reads. Oh Neal. You may disclaim your artists' opinions, but your aspirations just keep peeking through.
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(Anonymous) 2010-11-18 05:44 am (UTC)(link)And I'd love to see that picture. :D
Dances from the cafe
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This story is so delicious, and that line in particular was such a perfect garnish.
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Now, I don't want to heap on too much praise, but I know many authors have some difficulty with descriptions, and I think it's a mark of a really great author when they manage to describe an image in such a way that it becomes even more evocative than if someone would just insert an actual picture. Most of my best memories of literature have that in common.
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(Anonymous) 2014-02-09 10:21 am (UTC)(link)