sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2010-11-17 08:54 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2010-11-17 08:54 am
Entry tags:
Exquisite, Chapter 10
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 Nine
***
Neal had a desk at the FBI, like any real agent, with a computer and a phone and some file folders. His desk drawers probably had more art supplies in them than most agents had, but he didn't have a lockbox for a gun, so he called it even. Before Kate died, he'd never bothered to keep much at his desk because he wasn't going to be there long. Now, trying to figure out what to do with himself, he noticed things were...accumulating.
He'd have put up a few photo frames like everyone had on their desk, but his loved ones were either top-secret or dead, and his photo frames would have had art prints in them. Since he didn't actually want to give off the impression of an oddball eccentric, he kept it to objects -- a little reproduction bust of Aristotle, an inlaid box swiped from his suite at June's meant for storing cigars (repurposed as a catch-all for coins and other pocket detritus), a set of watchmaker's magnifiers that came in handy every time someone wanted a document examined.
And, taped to the corner of his monitor, his Save The Park armband.
It was a small irony in the grand scheme of Neal's life -- but Neal found it a significant one -- that Timmy Nolan Memorial Park was outside of his two-mile radius. He'd basically caused it to exist, but he couldn't go there for the ribbon-cutting or to watch it being leveled and seeded and the backstop installed. He didn't even especially like baseball.
He could have asked Peter to let him off the leash so he could visit it. Probably Peter wouldn't have even insisted on going with him. But Neal decided that wasn't...right, somehow. Instead, he hung the armband on his monitor and he thought, In two years, I'll go and see it.
In two years, when (if; but he must think 'when') he got his parole, when the tracker came off. He hadn't spent two solid years anywhere since he was thirteen, unless you counted prison. By the time he got his parole it'd be three years total.
But where else was he going to go?
In two years he'd get the tracker off and he'd convince Peter and Elizabeth to take Satchmo and drive out to Timmy Nolan Memorial Park and spend an afternoon there to celebrate his freedom. Maybe they could have a picnic.
Sometimes he felt his dreams had become very small. Other times they felt so big, in their own way, that they stunned him.
But first he had to find out who'd killed Kate. Even if that fucked up his parole or his life here. He had to.
Neal knew that you don't get to have the really big dreams until the old dreams are put away.
***
Peter and Neal didn't talk much about Kate. Nobody did. Especially not that Neal was looking for whoever killed her, or that Peter had the music box.
El would be a fool not to know these things, and Elizabeth Burke was not a fool. Neal kept secrets from Peter -- Neal kept secrets from everyone, that was just who he was -- but Peter didn't like secrets, and the fact that he was keeping this one from Neal visibly bothered him. If it hadn't, Elizabeth would have worried; she still worried, but at least not quite so much, and for Peter rather than about him. The fact that Neal was looking for Kate's killer was equally obvious. Peter knew, and occasionally seemed angry that he couldn't do anything about it, either to help or hinder. Watching them circle each other was sometimes frustrating, even if she loved them.
It wasn't that she felt like an outsider, exactly. Neal's adoration of her was clear, and his desire for her no less intense than for Peter. She didn't want him with the same possessive urgency that Peter did, but then she wasn't Peter, and wouldn't have wanted the desperate submission Neal offered in return. Neal loved her, that was enough; Peter's devotion to her was ironclad, so that wasn't a concern.
Sometimes she went around in her head about it, but she always came back to the same conclusion. The boys were hers; it was just their world that wasn't.
She had two conversations about the secrets they were keeping. The one with Neal went like this:
She got home from Denver -- another business trip, another week without Peter and Neal -- wanting nothing more than a bath and a glass of wine. She texted Peter that she was home safe; he sent his love and "Neal says hi", which was as close to Neal sending his love as she was likely to get in print. She ran herself a bath, peeled her slightly sweat-sticky, reeking-of-airport clothes off, and settled in. She was just really getting into enjoying the hot water when she heard the door slam downstairs, and Neal's voice in the foyer.
"Elizabeth?"
"Up here," she called, praying that he'd gotten Peter's permission for this little jaunt, and that armed US Marshals weren't about to storm the house. Neal's footsteps on the stairs were echoed by Satchmo's scrambling claws, and then Neal appeared in the doorway, all tight shirt and snappy hat and wide smile.
"Hi," he said, as the dog snuck past him to nose at the bathtub. She pushed Satchmo away gently before he could try to drink from it. "Bad time?"
"Not anymore," she replied.
"Bad flight," he surmised.
"Just long. C'mere," she said, and Neal tossed his hat into the bedroom and shrugged out of his coat and settled on the bathroom floor next to the tub, elbows folded on the lip of it, chin on his arms. She flicked a little water at him and he wrinkled his nose. "To what do I owe the pleasure of Neal in the middle of the day? Did you set off your tracker?"
"I wanted to see you. I got Peter's ok, I think he wanted me to check up on you. The FBI thinks I'm picking up some files he left here, I can't stay long," Neal said. "We missed you."
She stroked his hair, matting it with damp a little. "Babe."
"Peter says he'd come if he could but he's bringing dinner to make up for it," Neal recited.
"He's bringing pizza, isn't he."
"Probably," Neal allowed. "He's also bringing me, if that helps."
"Always," she said. Neal still sometimes needed to be told that they wanted him. He watched her with his big, clear blue eyes. "Quiet morning?"
Neal looked indecisive.
"Not so quiet morning?"
"I -- " Neal frowned. "Mozzie and I went to see the wreckage. Don't tell Peter."
The wreckage -- oh God. The wreckage. Neal went to see the pieces of what was left after his girlfriend died in a fiery explosion.
"Okay," she said slowly, quietly. "Did it help?"
Neal closed his eyes. "I don't know yet. It hurt like hell."
"I'm sorry, baby." She sat with him in silence for a little while. "You weren't there legally, were you."
"No."
Elizabeth stroked his cheek. "I am sorry. I know that can't have been easy. But you can't tell me stuff I can't tell Peter, not big stuff like this that could get us all in trouble."
His eyes flew open. "Are you gonna -- "
"No," she said quickly. "No, our secret. But this is your free pass. Don't do it again, okay? Tell June or Mozzie, but -- with things like this, you can't tell me unless it's okay to tell Peter."
Neal nodded, staring at her like she was currently the only thing in his world.
"You know -- you know I wouldn't do that to you to hurt you, right?" he asked.
"I know," she said softly, and leaned forward to kiss him. "Now. Go back and be good and I'll see you tonight."
Neal grinned. "Okay, yes ma'am."
"And don't forget sausage on the pizza!" she called after him.
So that wasn't too awful, and she could keep one secret from Peter, one inadvertent confession of Neal's.
Her conversation with Peter was less traumatic, at least for her. He came home early one afternoon, without Neal, and said "Hey hon," in a totally normal tone of voice, and then wrapped her really tight in his arms and started shaking.
Once in a while Peter had bad days. Not just days where bad things happened; sometimes the bad things that had happened were pretty minor compared to other things he'd seen. Sometimes he just had a day where coping was a little harder for whatever reason. They'd developed a routine without ever really talking about it, because it embarrassed Peter, that he couldn't always be the big bad special agent.
She held on tight to him, waiting for him to be the first to let go. When he did, she pushed him towards the sofa and curled up with him there, head on his shoulder, burrowing into the arm he kept around her.
"Bad day?" she asked. He turned and rested his chin on top of her head.
"Yeah," he said.
"Wanna talk about it?"
Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn't. "No," he said into her hair. "Tell me about your day."
So she picked up his hand and held it and talked about what she'd done, the parties she was planning, the little complications in her professional life. Peter eventually settled down, breathing a little slower, body relaxed a little more around hers. When she ran out of things to talk to him about, she just sat quietly, listening to him breathe.
"I've got Diana working a special project," he said finally, which she already knew; she also knew the special project was probably the music box, though she didn't think Peter knew she knew. "She had me take a look at something today."
"Something bad?" Elizabeth asked.
"No, not even that," Peter said, almost as if he were confused by it. "Not bad. Puzzling. It just...made me remember. Things. The explosion."
The explosion haunted Neal -- gave him nightmares, made it hard for him to sleep sometimes -- but it bothered Peter, too.
"I love you so much," Peter said. "If I lost you like that, I don't know -- "
"Shh, shh," she told him, rubbing his palm soothingly. "I'm right here. Stop thinking of imaginative ways for me to die, it's creepy."
Peter leaned back, gave her a startled look, and then laughed and pressed his forehead to her temple.
"You're right, you're always right," he said, kissing her.
"I think we need Stupid Movie Night," she told him. Stupid Movie Night always made Peter feel better. He kissed her again and got up to get beer and make popcorn, while she looked for the dumbest movie she could find on television.
Peter was keeping the music box from Neal, and that wasn't good; he knew it wasn't good, which somehow made it worse. And he was thinking a lot about the explosion, about what Neal had lost, because Peter tried to put himself into other peoples' shoes perhaps more than was healthy for him. Especially Neal's. Seeing through Neal Caffrey's eyes was almost second nature to him by now.
Peter owned Neal, in almost every sense of the word. She knew he and Neal both partitioned off work from playtime, but that Peter's concern for Neal's independence (what little of it he could have) crossed that partition. And there were moments when Peter belonged to her, when his willingness to do anything for her meant she had to be a little careful too.
Elizabeth didn't mind knowing these things; it made her feel powerful, and loved.
But it also made her worry. One day they were going to have to tell each other their secrets, and they both had so much to lose.
***
First, however, there were good nights.
Neal got one good night a week with Peter and Elizabeth. Not that all his other nights were awful or anything, most of them were pretty good too. He'd spent most of his life alone, so he didn't mind solitude, and anyway Mozzie was usually lurking around, making things interesting.
But working late was especially good.
"This is the dumbest movie of all our dumb movie nights," Peter said.
"Shh, he has the Death Tile," Elizabeth hissed.
"I blame you for this," Peter told Neal. "We're going to have to watch all three, now, aren't we?"
Six, Neal mouthed at him from the floor. Peter covered his face with one hand. Satchmo, ever inquisitive, wandered past and gave Neal a good sniffing before curling up on his cushion.
Elizabeth had told Neal he could sit on the couch with her, and said she liked being between them, but Neal liked the way they looked -- Peter on the end of the couch, Elizabeth curled up against him. So he sat on the floor and leaned against Peter's knee, and occasionally Elizabeth's hand drifted down to rub his hair. On the screen, Tiles Of Fire III: Urban Reckoning was just getting good, but Neal was engrossed in his sketchbook, graphite (8B, almost as good as charcoal) skimming in aimless shapes: abstract designs turning into from-memory replicas of Leonardo, Sargent, Turner, Cezanne, Hockney. Figures from the murals at the Villa of the Mysteries at Pompeii. Medusine faces off Greek kraters. A study of a 6th century Bodhisattva from the Met.
It was peaceful. Bizarrely peaceful, the domesticity still alien to him. Yes, when the movie was over Peter was probably going to tie him up or Elizabeth would hold him down or something equally entertaining, and Neal was thrumming with anticipation. But right now Elizabeth was eating popcorn and Peter had a beer and Neal had a beer and a sketchbook and he was doing exactly what he wanted to do. And what he wanted to do wasn't even technically breaking any laws.
Well, the Hockney sketch might come close, it was a pretty damn good replica without an original reference, but Neal carefully inscribed his initials next to the date and that meant reproduction, not forgery.
"Neal," Peter said quietly.
"Hm?" Neal looked up at him. Peter held out his hand -- not an order, there was a question in his face -- and Neal nodded and passed the sketchbook up to him. Peter paged through it, flipping quickly, and Neal could see him slotting every single image into place. Hockney, Cezanne, Turner, Sargent, Leonardo.
"How did you learn this?" Peter asked, almost as if Neal weren't even there.
"Don't know," Neal said with a shrug. "You've got my file, it's all in there."
"The file doesn't explain everything," Peter said.
"I like art."
"You always drew reproductions?" Peter asked.
"You've got my file," Neal repeated. "You ever see a photograph of the mural I did in grade school?"
Peter chuckled, passing the book back. "Every Sister I talked to had a picture of it."
"Aw, I'm remembered," Neal said, grinning down into his book.
"Eleven years old. What a little asshole," Peter said.
"They had it coming!" Neal protested. That had been one of the best nights of his young life, breaking into the school and whitewashing one whole wall in the main hallway and painting an epic and scathingly satirical mural of everyone at St. Calvin's who'd ever crossed him or screwed him over. Painting Donny Bragg as a cherub with a tiny penis might have been overdoing it, in hindsight, but Neal knew he'd be expelled for that particular prank anyway. His first expulsion; at least he'd gone out with a bang.
"And yet you were the one who got expelled," Peter said, obviously thinking along the same lines.
"You got expelled when you were eleven?" Elizabeth asked. Neal tipped his head back and studied them.
"You never read my file?" he said to her.
"Well, I'm not employed by the FBI," she told him.
Peter just shrugged. "I tried not to bring my work home with me," he said.
"Yeah, that worked out well for you," Neal replied. Peter grunted and Neal looked down again, turning to a fresh page in the sketchbook, drawing idly. Circles and lines, squares, arcs, arches, sinuous shapeless un-angled things.
When he was sixteen he saw The Maltese Falcon for the first time and spent the whole film staring at the little shadowed triangles Bogart's cheekbones cast on his skin, which didn't make sense until he was seventeen and really enjoying being groped by Matty Keller in a hotel room in Monaco. Back then Keller was lean too, and he had the same kind of little shadowy triangles, and Neal didn't actually like a lot of what Keller did to people but he liked the little triangles and the way Matty kissed.
Matthew Keller was in prison; he was a murderer. Neal's pencil skritched softly across the page.
Alex was interesting to draw, she had a nose that fascinated him. Sometimes it looked totally ordinary and then she'd pull her hair back and it would be sharp and angular and perfect and he had to kiss her. Alex was in Italy with a Matisse, far away and safe from whoever was after her, whoever had killed Kate. She'd kissed him goodbye.
Kate was all pale skin and dark hair and black-rimmed eyes, and when she was angry with him her whole face went smooth and cold and gorgeous. When she was happiest her eyes were this bright, clear and somehow complicated blue; he used to want to find the perfect color of paint to match them, but he never quite got it right. Kate was a challenge. And Kate was dead.
Neal stopped for a minute, rubbed a line almost into obscurity while the familiar pain of her death passed through him, and then kept going.
Peter had an odd face. Handsome, undoubtedly, but there was something about his lips, some broad curve that made them interesting more than attractive. Eyes too old for his face -- the Bureau's fault, Neal guessed, thinking about the time Cruz had said we all need a breather. Memorable, though.
Elizabeth looked a little like Kate, in the right light, but only if you had no eye for detail, and Neal prided himself on his eye for detail. Higher cheekbones, a more prominent chin, a slightly rounder nose. Older than Kate, of course, but only in subtle ways. A nice face to draw, a much-loved face.
He didn't realize Elizabeth was bent over him, watching him work, until she rested her chin on the crown of his head. He stopped himself from tilting it up, an immediate instinct, and flicked the graphite stick around in his fingers.
"Critique?" he asked, looking down at the sketch. Disjointed, inelegant, but then art sometimes was that way. It was all sort of boxed together, all the eyes and noses and jawlines, mouths and hands, nothing looking like what it was.
"It looks like Picasso," she said. "Is it Picasso?"
"No," Neal said, shrugging a little. "It's not anything."
Well, it was, of course. It was half a dozen lovers: Matty, Alex, Kate, others too -- and Peter and Elizabeth. Kate was two sharp lines, Matty four, Alex a couple of angles, Peter and Elizabeth a twined set of curves in the middle of the whole thing. Neal turned it sideways, as if that was going to somehow make it coalesce.
"Kind of a mess," he added, but he dated and initialed it anyway, and then set the sketchbook on the coffee table as Elizabeth leaned back. "I'm getting another drink, you want anything?"
"Glass of water?" Elizabeth said. Peter shook his head. Before the kitchen door closed all the way he heard Peter say, I don't get it, but it's interesting. He stopped inside the door and strained his ears; Elizabeth answered, Sweetie, you don't have to get it.
He took another beer out of the fridge -- Peter's drinking habits might destroy Neal's tastebuds, eventually -- and opened it, skimming the bottlecap into the trash. When he came back with the beer and Elizabeth's water, the sketchbook was back where he'd left it.
***
Peter surfaced briefly from sleep the next morning, sometime after midnight and a little before sunrise. When he opened his eyes, he saw Neal nearby, arms lifted over his head, hands twined in his hair, awake and breathing faster than he should be. Peter watched as Neal rolled off the bed; he reached out to grab him, missed, and groped sleepily at where he had been. Neal, turning, gave him a smile in the dim light.
"I'm fine," he said softly. "It's okay."
"Mf," Peter managed, and then cleared his throat. Behind him, Elizabeth pressed her face to his shoulderblades, still sleeping. "We need a bigger bed," he mumbled. "You need therapy."
Neal laughed. "I'm just restless. Go back to sleep."
Peter drifted down slowly, aware of a clatter as Neal gathered something off the dresser, a creak as he came back to bed. He slitted his eyes enough to see Neal sitting up with his sketchbook propped on his knees; well, that was fine. Peter rested his hand on Neal's drawn-up ankle, just below the tracker. Neal's muscle twitched, but he didn't say anything, and Peter fell asleep again to the soft sound of graphite on paper.
He dreamed he was chasing something (not unusual, it was a dream he had a lot) but there were moths, wherever he was, and they kept fluttering around his face, getting in his field of vision, brushing his skin in not entirely comfortable ways. He woke again to the sound of his own voice -- "Fucking moths!" -- and opened his eyes.
"You do talk in your sleep," Neal said, not looking up from his sketchbook. "It's cute. Bug hunting?"
Peter shifted, brushing at his face where he could still feel them, and when he brought his hand away it was covered in thin black streaks.
"Neal," he muttered. Neal looked down and a comical expression of dismay passed over his face.
"Aw, crap," he said, putting the graphite aside. "Sorry -- "
"What did you do?" Peter asked.
"Nothing! It's just pencil grit," Neal told him, licking his thumb and rubbing it on Peter's cheek. Peter jerked back.
"What, am I five?" he asked, swiping at the dampness.
"Last night your dick was inside me, you're really going to complain about some saliva?" Neal asked, sounding far too reasonable for -- oh God, the clock said six-thirty.
"No dirty talk, it's too early," Elizabeth groaned, propping herself up on Peter's shoulder like he was a pillow. "Neal, the sheets."
Peter looked down. The sheets around Neal were smeared with the same thin streaks, dotted here and there with crumbs of graphite.
"It'll wash out!" Neal protested, but Peter hooked him around the waist and grabbed for the sketchbook, hauling Neal down into the mess he'd made. Elizabeth pulled the book out of his hand while Peter wrestled Neal flat on his back.
"I'm making you replace these," he said, holding him down by his wrists.
"Oh please, make me," Neal drawled, but he tried to make a grab to get the book back. Peter blocked him.
"No art in bed," Peter told him, scowling. "New rule."
"Sweetie," El said.
"No, the next thing you know he'll be putting up an easel -- "
"Peter." El's voice was calm and quiet but nonetheless commanding. Peter let go of Neal's wrists and glanced over his shoulder. She was sitting up, book open. He leaned back and looked over the other side of the book, upside-down. Neal stayed where he was, but he watched them both.
The open page was a sketch of Jones in motion, that loose-limbed track runner thing he did when he was chasing a perp. Elizabeth flicked back a page and there was June, laughing -- and another page back was a study of the lower half of a man's face. Peter pressed a fingertip to his lips -- those were his lips, that was his chin. The single eye and nose nearby were Elizabeth's, absolutely unmistakable.
"It's still basically reproduction," Neal said, as El carefully traced around a line indicating Peter's throat. Back another page was Hughes, in the style of Sargent, all quick strokes and hooded eyes, and below him was a cartoonish doodle of Satchmo with a giant bone in his mouth. Mozzie's glasses and shiny bald head looked up from the far corner.
"They're lovely, Neal," Elizabeth said, and Peter saw the quick flicker of pleasure in Neal's face. "You should draw yourself."
Neal laughed. "I see myself in the mirror every day. Boring."
"You use that word a lot," Peter told him.
"There's a lot of boring things in the world." Neal propped himself on an elbow. "They don't mean anything. Just had a bad dream, wanted to draw."
Elizabeth shot Neal a sardonic look. Peter took the book out of her hands and passed it back to him. Neal closed it and set it aside; there was a long smear of graphite on his own cheek, now that his face was fully visible.
"Wash your face," Peter told him. Neal nodded and slid out of bed, getting more graphite on his shoulders and back. Peter rolled over and nudged Elizabeth, who burrowed down against him, kissing his jaw.
"You have stripes," she told him, but at least she didn't lick her thumb and try to rub them off.
"Someone got graphite all over me," he replied. Elizabeth laughed into his neck.
"He's never going to be ordinary, is he?" she asked. "Those sketches were amazing, though."
Peter, who had spent three years analyzing everything Neal Caffrey did or made or stole or sold, stared at the ceiling and thought about it.
"No Kate," he said.
"Can you blame him?"
"Mm. Maybe not."
Elizabeth rested a hand on his stomach. "I can hear your gears turning."
"Neal has a nightmare, he wakes up -- I wake up, he tells me to go back to sleep, and then he sits in the dark and draws," Peter mused, talking it out because he wasn't sure where it was going yet. "What does he draw..."
"Friends, companions, lovers?"
"Things that are comforting," Peter surmised. "Familiar things. Ah. No wonder."
"Again, I ask, can you blame him?" Elizabeth said. "Mr. Art Critic."
"It's still a chase," Peter said. "He's still leaving me puzzles. Clever boy Caffrey. He just doesn't mean to leave them anymore."
"What can you do?"
"Nothing," Peter said, and it cut surprisingly deep to say it. "Nothing I can do. Just...wait for the crash."
There was a puff of humid warm air from the hallway and Neal walked back into the room, damp, wearing a pair of Peter's pajama pants he'd apparently found in the bathroom. His hair was slicked back, and the graphite marks were gone.
"He looks good in your clothes," Elizabeth whispered, while Neal gathered the sketchbook and graphite up and set them by the stairs where he'd remember to take them with him.
"Better than he'd look in yours," Peter muttered back. She laughed and pushed him out of the bed. Peter left the bedroom, catching Neal around the waist again and pressing a kiss to the side of his throat as he passed. Neal gave him an almost wild, wide-eyed look, but sooner or later he was going to have to get used to it, so Peter ignored it and went to take his shower.
***
By all rights, Peter shouldn't like Sara Ellis. He hadn't, when they'd first met; she'd been young and arrogant, nosing into his pursuit of Neal and then insisting when he caught him that Neal be tried for the theft of the Raphael, even though Peter knew it wouldn't stick. Five years on she was still after Neal for the goddamn Raphael, even though it could put Neal back in prison and fuck up a pretty good thing.
But even five years ago she'd been driven and meticulous in her research, and she hadn't been shy about sharing her intel, and Peter respected that. Now she was less bluster and more confidence, and seemed to understand the way the game was played. Peter found that he did like her. He liked watching Neal deal with her. Neal danced with his marks and it was an interesting dance to watch, especially when the mark knew she was being conned. He didn't know why Neal was dancing with Sara -- Neal wasn't petty enough to be mocking her, and he wasn't stupid enough to think she'd give up the chase -- but it was fun to see.
The week that Sara came back into their lives, El was gone -- again -- and that meant dinner at Neal's, because Peter stopping by after work was just two guys hanging out, whereas Peter and Elizabeth in Neal's little suite was the kind of thing that would make people talk. It also meant cheese sandwiches and wine, because Neal didn't so much cook and Peter wasn't especially in the mood to. Peter had to give him this, though, he knew how to pair wine with cheese sandwiches.
"So," he said, sitting back in the chair, feeling his spine pop in about four places. "What do you want from Sara Ellis?"
"A guy can't make friends?" Neal asked, around a paintbrush clenched in his teeth. When they came in he'd said something along the lines of Oooh, afternoon light! and Peter had watched in amazement as Neal stripped off his shirt, changed into a pair of ragged cheap pajama pants, and set up a gesso'd board on the easel. On reflection, the pajamas were Peter's, which raised the question of why Neal was now stealing his clothing, a question for another time perhaps.
"You told me to start a conversation," Neal reminded him, using the blunt wooden tip of the paintbrush to mix paint in a little tray.
"What you're doing with Sara, that's not a conversation," Peter pointed out. Neal swept another streak of orange-red tempera across the board.
"You know me," Neal said absently. "I like to be liked."
"Mmhm. So do you fall for everyone who chases you?" Peter inquired. Neal shot him a look over his shoulder.
"Fall for Sara Ellis? She almost shot me," he said.
"Well, you were in her bedroom with a loaded gun," Peter pointed out. "She had reasonable cause."
"I'm not hot for Sara," Neal said.
Peter tilted his head. "Whatcha painting, Neal?"
"Nothin'," Neal replied, in the exact same tone of voice.
"Neal..."
Neal shrugged, edging yellow into the red. "You look at a person, you see a person. I look at a person, I see light and shadow and color."
"And?"
Neal tossed the brush bristles-up in a cup. "And her hair is very perplexing."
Peter laughed.
"It's not funny. I'm not falling for her. Your lips are perplexing too," Neal retorted.
"Not helping your case!" Peter was still laughing.
"You should hear what I have to say about Hughes," Neal told him. "Not to mention Bugsy."
"The pug?" Peter asked.
"Mmhm. Pugs have very interesting ears," Neal said. "You could do a whole study on liquid lines using a pug as a model."
Peter stood up and joined him at the canvas, hands on hips. "So this is, what, an abstraction?"
"Color study," Neal replied. "She's very...coiffed."
Peter, mindful of the windows they weren't quite visible through and of the easy access June and Mozzie had to this room, rested a hand on Neal's bare arm, thumb rubbing the scar there, and kissed his shoulder briefly before going back to the table. After a while, with Neal still playing with color at the easel, he spoke again.
"You know, El and I..." he pondered how to say it. "As...bizarrely pleasant as it is to have you around -- "
"Thanks," Neal drawled. "I get it -- it's not like I think you guys never have sex when I'm not there. I mean, you did for ten years, so obviously."
Sometimes Peter was very grateful for Neal's directness. "Look, I'm just saying, I know I say a lot of bullshit in bed. But if you were interested in someone, that'd be okay. It'd be good, in some ways."
"Seriously, I'm not chasing Sara Ellis," Neal answered.
"I'd just like to know," Peter continued doggedly. "As a friend, that's all. People tell each other crap like that."
"You are really bad at this whole emotional discussion thing," Neal announced.
"Usually Elizabeth handles it."
"For good reason, I see." Neal carried his brushes to the sink and began washing them. "Hey, if I somehow end up meeting someone who isn't trying to get me imprisoned, kill me, or steal my game, I'll let you know."
Peter joined him at the sink, leaning against the counter. "You remember when I caught you?"
"Hm," Neal grunted.
"One of the first things you did was ask me how the wife was. After we had our little tête-à-tête about guns."
"Yeah, I don't really..." Neal pressed his lips together. "No, see, I don't actually remember a lot of that. I was kind of scared shitless at the time."
"You put on a good act."
Neal glanced up, grinned, looked back down as the water flowed over the brushes and his fingers, diluting the tempera and washing it away. "I really liked you, you know, when you were this guy playing tag with us. You were interesting. A pain in the ass, but interesting. Then all of a sudden, holy shit, Peter Burke's in my home with a gun."
"Your home was an empty squat in Jersey," Peter said.
"It was still my home. And there you were, like, ten feet tall, slapping zipties on my wrists. Don't get me wrong," Neal added. "It was impressive, but all I really remember is your suit."
"You knew you were going away for it, that time."
"Yeah. The mind panics, it picks things out. Your suit. I must have fallen asleep the first month I was in prison with that suit in front of my eyes. So, maybe I asked about Elizabeth, I don't know. Was I a dick?"
"You were a smartass," Peter said. "That's about it."
"Good to know." Neal pinched the brushes between thumb and forefinger, squeezing the excess water out before tipping them bristles-up into the drying rack next to the sink. "I was twenty-five, Peter."
"By which time you'd stolen millions," Peter replied. "Sorry, youth isn't a plea with me."
"No, that's not..." Neal turned to him. "It's not like I'm saying I didn't know what I...allegedly did. I'm just saying. I was twenty-five and terrified."
"You scared now?" Peter asked.
Neal's lips curved. "No," he admitted.
"So what's the problem?" Peter asked, leaning close.
"Aside from turning thirty in a couple of months?" Neal asked lightly. "Not a damn thing. Did I really ask you about Elizabeth?"
"Sooo, how's the wife?" Peter said, in a decent imitation of Neal, five years back. Neal cracked up laughing.
"Jesus, good for me!" he crowed. "What did you say?"
"I said I was taking her out to celebrate."
That made Neal laugh harder, throwing himself down on the couch, legs up on the cushions, head against one of the arms. "And did you?"
"No," Peter admitted, sitting down on the other arm of the couch, facing Neal, his feet on either side of Neal's long legs. "I went home, I told her we got you, and then I slept for fifteen hours straight."
"I shoulda sent you a bottle of champagne," Neal mused. "And now here we are."
Peter nodded. They were there. Undeniable fact.
"You ever think maybe we're messed up?" Neal asked. Peter considered it.
"Nope," he said. He really hadn't, not since that first night El had said Neal should stay with them, and he'd finally given in. He'd meant it; he was never going to say no.
"Huh." Neal sat up a little. "Well, that's good, I guess."
"I told you. Sometimes the people you love change. Sometime who you love changes, too."
Neal smiled, a mixture of adoration and self-satisfaction. Peter wondered what the hell he'd done to be given this; something he didn't even know he wanted until Neal showed up and offered it to him.
"Can I ask you something?" Peter said. Neal nodded, scooting forward. "Why don't you just give her the damn Raphael and get her off your ass? Don't tell me you couldn't slip it to her without getting caught."
Neal considered it. Peter wondered if Neal would do it if ordered.
"If someone had stolen a Raphael and was asked about giving it back," he said, and Peter grinned, "there might be a lot of reasons. Maybe it's worth millions, and it's an investment. Maybe he fenced it. Maybe he liked it, and wanted it for himself, and thought the owner was kind of an asshole. Maybe he's just stubborn. Most of all, though, if he did give it back, every other recovery agent in the country would be on him like piranhas."
"Ah. Yeah," Peter agreed. "That last one's a problem."
"Not insurmountable," Neal remarked, leaning back, languid and calm. "There are ways." He stretched. "This theoretical thief, he could put it back where he found it. That'd be a good game. Or he could tip off the FBI. I hear they got some really clever guys there. Maybe leave a treasure map."
Neal rubbed his right foot against his tracker, eyes on the ceiling, thinking. He was turned on by this, Peter realized -- mentally turned on, sure, but he got off in a very literal way on these cons. Peter slid off the arm of the couch; Neal looked up sharply, but Peter just spread one hand, a stay down gesture, and Neal tipped his head back again when Peter settled on the floor at his hip, left arm slung across his thighs, facing him.
"A treasure map?" Peter prompted.
"Not literally," Neal said. He was flushed, tongue darting out to lick his lips. "Say one of those smart guys at the FBI finds a clue at some crime scene. If he's smart enough -- "
Peter grinned. "You mean a puzzle."
Neal huffed. "Is that what you called them? I called them treasure maps."
"Treasure maps promise some kind of prize at the end," Peter pointed out, hand drifting up Neal's thigh.
"Do they," Neal murmured, the message perfectly clear: What do you think I am?
"So this thief leaves a puzzle, a treasure map," Peter continued. He ran his thumb over Neal's cock, trapped in the pajamas -- his pajamas -- and Neal shivered. "Lets the FBI find the painting. Or...?"
"Someone finds the painting and turns it in," Neal writhed a little. "Peter -- "
"What? Having trouble concentrating?" Peter asked. Neal drew in a deep breath, visibly calming himself while Peter stroked slowly, all the way down and back up again. "What else?"
"What -- " Neal licked his lips again. "What else. Uh. Hm," he added, arching a little. Peter stopped moving, and Neal made that wonderful little whine. "What else. He could fence it and turn in the buyer. Tip off a couple of co -- oh -- cops that they should be in a certain place at a certain time. Sell it, take the cash, send the buyer right into an ambush."
"Profitable," Peter remarked.
"Fun," Neal said, sucking in a breath as Peter pressed gently with his thumb. "Especially if you get a crooked buyer, someone you already want to put away."
"Dangerous?" Peter asked.
"Mmhm," Neal's assent was more of a moan.
"How else?" Peter prompted.
"You bastard," Neal breathed.
"Come on, Neal, think it out," Peter told him. "Just one more."
Neal twisted up into Peter's grip and Peter stilled again until Neal collapsed back against the cushions, getting himself under control.
"There's a -- bad way," he said, closing his eyes. "There's ways I wouldn't."
"If you were the thief."
"Yeah, if I was -- you could break in," Neal said, fingers curling against the fabric of the sofa, the one truly visible point of stress. "Into Sara's house."
Peter felt something twist inside him.
"Leave the painting and a note," Neal continued, and he seemed to be breathing a little easier than he had. "The note says -- " he exhaled. "Peter, don't make me."
"Tell me," Peter said.
"It says, it says, if you tell them -- " Neal whined again. "If you tell them who brought this to you, remember that I know -- I know how to get into your home," he finished. "And you wrap a bullet in it."
A chill ran over Peter's skin. Neal seemed to be calmer, but that wasn't quite it -- the idea was repulsive to him, especially since it had come from his own brilliant mind. It was settling him, but not in a good way.
"But you wouldn't do that," he reminded Neal, who nodded. "Because you're good. You're trying to be good."
Neal arched so hard the muscles in his throat corded, and Peter flattened his hand, pressing him down. The breath went out of Neal in a rush and he pushed himself up, looking confused.
"Stay there," Peter told him, and stood up. Neal watched, strung taut and breathing fast, as Peter stepped into his shoes and pulled his jacket on.
"Peter?" he asked.
"Stay," Peter told him, and tossed Neal's phone onto his chest. "I'm going home. I'll tell you when. You can do whatever you want until then, except..."
"Oh my God you son of a bitch," Neal moaned, one hand clutching the phone.
"Remember this," Peter told him, checking for his wallet and badge. "So close to what you want and someone told you no. This is how Sara feels."
"This is not how Sara feels," Neal assured him. "If she did she'd have shot me by now."
"Hm." Peter bent and kissed his forehead. "It's still good for someone to tell you no. Call you in a few."
He waited until he was on the road, pulled up at a stoplight, and then scrolled through his contacts for Neal. There was no point in making him suffer needlessly; that wasn't the goal of the exercise.
"Peter," Neal answered.
"Now," Peter said, and Neal gasped ragged, breathed roughly, came with a high wordless cry of satisfaction.
Peter smiled. And, admittedly, adjusted his pants slightly. "Remember," he said, as Neal audibly caught his breath, "I could order you to give the Raphael back. I won't. But I could."
"What Raphael?" Neal managed, and Peter laughed.
"Would you, if I did?" Peter asked. Neal was silent for a while.
"If I had it, and could get to it, and wouldn't go back to prison for it," Neal said finally. "Yeah. I probably would." Another pause. "Why don't you?"
"Because there's more to this than a painting," Peter said. "And maybe eventually you'll return it on your own."
Neal laughed -- a quiet, contented laugh. "Goodnight, Peter."
"Night, Neal."
***
Neal was still endorphin-high off the orgasm when Mozzie showed up, which was a little awkward. At least he'd managed a shower and to put some clothes back on before he walked out of the bathroom and found Mozzie hunched over the painting on the easel, studying it with his keen miss-nothing eyes.
"Hey, Moz," Neal called from the bathroom doorway.
"I saw the Suit leave," Moz said, still regarding the painting.
"What, I'm under surveillance now?" Neal asked, without any real rancor in his tone. He felt loose, shoulders relaxed, skin sensitive to little currents in the air.
"You are when I see the Suit's car parked out front," Mozzie answered. He leaned back from the painting. "It's very -- it's sort of Munch meets Mucha. See, when you actually take your time, you have good control."
"I always have good control," Neal said, sprawling bonelessly in a chair. Mozzie looked up at him.
"I see you had fun with the Suit," he said, raising an eyebrow.
"You don't want details," Neal reminded him. "And yeah. I did."
"So what is it?" Mozzie asked, gesturing at the painting.
"Color study. Messing around, I guess," Neal replied. It occurred to him that he'd done a lot of messing around lately. "It's nothing."
"So much talent going so terribly to waste for the feds," Moz mused, sitting down across from him. Neal gave him a blissed-out grin. "How's it going with Sara?"
"Not this well," Neal told him. "I did treat her to a lovely rooftop dinner."
"And?"
"And she told me I smiled for a living," Neal replied.
"No guns this time."
"Baby steps," Neal agreed.
Mozzie fixed him with a look. "What does the Suit say about you wooing the Shroud?"
Neal raised an eyebrow. "The Shroud?"
"Dead Suit," Mozzie said.
"That's a little sick, Moz."
Mozzie pointed at him. "You're evading."
"Peter's fine with it," Neal said firmly. "He thinks it might be good for me."
"This whole thing is so -- "
"Anais Nin, I know," Neal groaned. "Look, if I have to woo to get the package, I will. That's all it is."
Mozzie made a skeptical noise but he didn't push, just changed the subject to Neal's wine collection and what he ought to buy next.
***
Chapter Eleven
References:
Villa of the Mysteries at Pompeii
Example of a Gorgon's-head bowl
Bodhisattva, 6th century, at the Met
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 Nine
***
Neal had a desk at the FBI, like any real agent, with a computer and a phone and some file folders. His desk drawers probably had more art supplies in them than most agents had, but he didn't have a lockbox for a gun, so he called it even. Before Kate died, he'd never bothered to keep much at his desk because he wasn't going to be there long. Now, trying to figure out what to do with himself, he noticed things were...accumulating.
He'd have put up a few photo frames like everyone had on their desk, but his loved ones were either top-secret or dead, and his photo frames would have had art prints in them. Since he didn't actually want to give off the impression of an oddball eccentric, he kept it to objects -- a little reproduction bust of Aristotle, an inlaid box swiped from his suite at June's meant for storing cigars (repurposed as a catch-all for coins and other pocket detritus), a set of watchmaker's magnifiers that came in handy every time someone wanted a document examined.
And, taped to the corner of his monitor, his Save The Park armband.
It was a small irony in the grand scheme of Neal's life -- but Neal found it a significant one -- that Timmy Nolan Memorial Park was outside of his two-mile radius. He'd basically caused it to exist, but he couldn't go there for the ribbon-cutting or to watch it being leveled and seeded and the backstop installed. He didn't even especially like baseball.
He could have asked Peter to let him off the leash so he could visit it. Probably Peter wouldn't have even insisted on going with him. But Neal decided that wasn't...right, somehow. Instead, he hung the armband on his monitor and he thought, In two years, I'll go and see it.
In two years, when (if; but he must think 'when') he got his parole, when the tracker came off. He hadn't spent two solid years anywhere since he was thirteen, unless you counted prison. By the time he got his parole it'd be three years total.
But where else was he going to go?
In two years he'd get the tracker off and he'd convince Peter and Elizabeth to take Satchmo and drive out to Timmy Nolan Memorial Park and spend an afternoon there to celebrate his freedom. Maybe they could have a picnic.
Sometimes he felt his dreams had become very small. Other times they felt so big, in their own way, that they stunned him.
But first he had to find out who'd killed Kate. Even if that fucked up his parole or his life here. He had to.
Neal knew that you don't get to have the really big dreams until the old dreams are put away.
***
Peter and Neal didn't talk much about Kate. Nobody did. Especially not that Neal was looking for whoever killed her, or that Peter had the music box.
El would be a fool not to know these things, and Elizabeth Burke was not a fool. Neal kept secrets from Peter -- Neal kept secrets from everyone, that was just who he was -- but Peter didn't like secrets, and the fact that he was keeping this one from Neal visibly bothered him. If it hadn't, Elizabeth would have worried; she still worried, but at least not quite so much, and for Peter rather than about him. The fact that Neal was looking for Kate's killer was equally obvious. Peter knew, and occasionally seemed angry that he couldn't do anything about it, either to help or hinder. Watching them circle each other was sometimes frustrating, even if she loved them.
It wasn't that she felt like an outsider, exactly. Neal's adoration of her was clear, and his desire for her no less intense than for Peter. She didn't want him with the same possessive urgency that Peter did, but then she wasn't Peter, and wouldn't have wanted the desperate submission Neal offered in return. Neal loved her, that was enough; Peter's devotion to her was ironclad, so that wasn't a concern.
Sometimes she went around in her head about it, but she always came back to the same conclusion. The boys were hers; it was just their world that wasn't.
She had two conversations about the secrets they were keeping. The one with Neal went like this:
She got home from Denver -- another business trip, another week without Peter and Neal -- wanting nothing more than a bath and a glass of wine. She texted Peter that she was home safe; he sent his love and "Neal says hi", which was as close to Neal sending his love as she was likely to get in print. She ran herself a bath, peeled her slightly sweat-sticky, reeking-of-airport clothes off, and settled in. She was just really getting into enjoying the hot water when she heard the door slam downstairs, and Neal's voice in the foyer.
"Elizabeth?"
"Up here," she called, praying that he'd gotten Peter's permission for this little jaunt, and that armed US Marshals weren't about to storm the house. Neal's footsteps on the stairs were echoed by Satchmo's scrambling claws, and then Neal appeared in the doorway, all tight shirt and snappy hat and wide smile.
"Hi," he said, as the dog snuck past him to nose at the bathtub. She pushed Satchmo away gently before he could try to drink from it. "Bad time?"
"Not anymore," she replied.
"Bad flight," he surmised.
"Just long. C'mere," she said, and Neal tossed his hat into the bedroom and shrugged out of his coat and settled on the bathroom floor next to the tub, elbows folded on the lip of it, chin on his arms. She flicked a little water at him and he wrinkled his nose. "To what do I owe the pleasure of Neal in the middle of the day? Did you set off your tracker?"
"I wanted to see you. I got Peter's ok, I think he wanted me to check up on you. The FBI thinks I'm picking up some files he left here, I can't stay long," Neal said. "We missed you."
She stroked his hair, matting it with damp a little. "Babe."
"Peter says he'd come if he could but he's bringing dinner to make up for it," Neal recited.
"He's bringing pizza, isn't he."
"Probably," Neal allowed. "He's also bringing me, if that helps."
"Always," she said. Neal still sometimes needed to be told that they wanted him. He watched her with his big, clear blue eyes. "Quiet morning?"
Neal looked indecisive.
"Not so quiet morning?"
"I -- " Neal frowned. "Mozzie and I went to see the wreckage. Don't tell Peter."
The wreckage -- oh God. The wreckage. Neal went to see the pieces of what was left after his girlfriend died in a fiery explosion.
"Okay," she said slowly, quietly. "Did it help?"
Neal closed his eyes. "I don't know yet. It hurt like hell."
"I'm sorry, baby." She sat with him in silence for a little while. "You weren't there legally, were you."
"No."
Elizabeth stroked his cheek. "I am sorry. I know that can't have been easy. But you can't tell me stuff I can't tell Peter, not big stuff like this that could get us all in trouble."
His eyes flew open. "Are you gonna -- "
"No," she said quickly. "No, our secret. But this is your free pass. Don't do it again, okay? Tell June or Mozzie, but -- with things like this, you can't tell me unless it's okay to tell Peter."
Neal nodded, staring at her like she was currently the only thing in his world.
"You know -- you know I wouldn't do that to you to hurt you, right?" he asked.
"I know," she said softly, and leaned forward to kiss him. "Now. Go back and be good and I'll see you tonight."
Neal grinned. "Okay, yes ma'am."
"And don't forget sausage on the pizza!" she called after him.
So that wasn't too awful, and she could keep one secret from Peter, one inadvertent confession of Neal's.
Her conversation with Peter was less traumatic, at least for her. He came home early one afternoon, without Neal, and said "Hey hon," in a totally normal tone of voice, and then wrapped her really tight in his arms and started shaking.
Once in a while Peter had bad days. Not just days where bad things happened; sometimes the bad things that had happened were pretty minor compared to other things he'd seen. Sometimes he just had a day where coping was a little harder for whatever reason. They'd developed a routine without ever really talking about it, because it embarrassed Peter, that he couldn't always be the big bad special agent.
She held on tight to him, waiting for him to be the first to let go. When he did, she pushed him towards the sofa and curled up with him there, head on his shoulder, burrowing into the arm he kept around her.
"Bad day?" she asked. He turned and rested his chin on top of her head.
"Yeah," he said.
"Wanna talk about it?"
Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn't. "No," he said into her hair. "Tell me about your day."
So she picked up his hand and held it and talked about what she'd done, the parties she was planning, the little complications in her professional life. Peter eventually settled down, breathing a little slower, body relaxed a little more around hers. When she ran out of things to talk to him about, she just sat quietly, listening to him breathe.
"I've got Diana working a special project," he said finally, which she already knew; she also knew the special project was probably the music box, though she didn't think Peter knew she knew. "She had me take a look at something today."
"Something bad?" Elizabeth asked.
"No, not even that," Peter said, almost as if he were confused by it. "Not bad. Puzzling. It just...made me remember. Things. The explosion."
The explosion haunted Neal -- gave him nightmares, made it hard for him to sleep sometimes -- but it bothered Peter, too.
"I love you so much," Peter said. "If I lost you like that, I don't know -- "
"Shh, shh," she told him, rubbing his palm soothingly. "I'm right here. Stop thinking of imaginative ways for me to die, it's creepy."
Peter leaned back, gave her a startled look, and then laughed and pressed his forehead to her temple.
"You're right, you're always right," he said, kissing her.
"I think we need Stupid Movie Night," she told him. Stupid Movie Night always made Peter feel better. He kissed her again and got up to get beer and make popcorn, while she looked for the dumbest movie she could find on television.
Peter was keeping the music box from Neal, and that wasn't good; he knew it wasn't good, which somehow made it worse. And he was thinking a lot about the explosion, about what Neal had lost, because Peter tried to put himself into other peoples' shoes perhaps more than was healthy for him. Especially Neal's. Seeing through Neal Caffrey's eyes was almost second nature to him by now.
Peter owned Neal, in almost every sense of the word. She knew he and Neal both partitioned off work from playtime, but that Peter's concern for Neal's independence (what little of it he could have) crossed that partition. And there were moments when Peter belonged to her, when his willingness to do anything for her meant she had to be a little careful too.
Elizabeth didn't mind knowing these things; it made her feel powerful, and loved.
But it also made her worry. One day they were going to have to tell each other their secrets, and they both had so much to lose.
***
First, however, there were good nights.
Neal got one good night a week with Peter and Elizabeth. Not that all his other nights were awful or anything, most of them were pretty good too. He'd spent most of his life alone, so he didn't mind solitude, and anyway Mozzie was usually lurking around, making things interesting.
But working late was especially good.
"This is the dumbest movie of all our dumb movie nights," Peter said.
"Shh, he has the Death Tile," Elizabeth hissed.
"I blame you for this," Peter told Neal. "We're going to have to watch all three, now, aren't we?"
Six, Neal mouthed at him from the floor. Peter covered his face with one hand. Satchmo, ever inquisitive, wandered past and gave Neal a good sniffing before curling up on his cushion.
Elizabeth had told Neal he could sit on the couch with her, and said she liked being between them, but Neal liked the way they looked -- Peter on the end of the couch, Elizabeth curled up against him. So he sat on the floor and leaned against Peter's knee, and occasionally Elizabeth's hand drifted down to rub his hair. On the screen, Tiles Of Fire III: Urban Reckoning was just getting good, but Neal was engrossed in his sketchbook, graphite (8B, almost as good as charcoal) skimming in aimless shapes: abstract designs turning into from-memory replicas of Leonardo, Sargent, Turner, Cezanne, Hockney. Figures from the murals at the Villa of the Mysteries at Pompeii. Medusine faces off Greek kraters. A study of a 6th century Bodhisattva from the Met.
It was peaceful. Bizarrely peaceful, the domesticity still alien to him. Yes, when the movie was over Peter was probably going to tie him up or Elizabeth would hold him down or something equally entertaining, and Neal was thrumming with anticipation. But right now Elizabeth was eating popcorn and Peter had a beer and Neal had a beer and a sketchbook and he was doing exactly what he wanted to do. And what he wanted to do wasn't even technically breaking any laws.
Well, the Hockney sketch might come close, it was a pretty damn good replica without an original reference, but Neal carefully inscribed his initials next to the date and that meant reproduction, not forgery.
"Neal," Peter said quietly.
"Hm?" Neal looked up at him. Peter held out his hand -- not an order, there was a question in his face -- and Neal nodded and passed the sketchbook up to him. Peter paged through it, flipping quickly, and Neal could see him slotting every single image into place. Hockney, Cezanne, Turner, Sargent, Leonardo.
"How did you learn this?" Peter asked, almost as if Neal weren't even there.
"Don't know," Neal said with a shrug. "You've got my file, it's all in there."
"The file doesn't explain everything," Peter said.
"I like art."
"You always drew reproductions?" Peter asked.
"You've got my file," Neal repeated. "You ever see a photograph of the mural I did in grade school?"
Peter chuckled, passing the book back. "Every Sister I talked to had a picture of it."
"Aw, I'm remembered," Neal said, grinning down into his book.
"Eleven years old. What a little asshole," Peter said.
"They had it coming!" Neal protested. That had been one of the best nights of his young life, breaking into the school and whitewashing one whole wall in the main hallway and painting an epic and scathingly satirical mural of everyone at St. Calvin's who'd ever crossed him or screwed him over. Painting Donny Bragg as a cherub with a tiny penis might have been overdoing it, in hindsight, but Neal knew he'd be expelled for that particular prank anyway. His first expulsion; at least he'd gone out with a bang.
"And yet you were the one who got expelled," Peter said, obviously thinking along the same lines.
"You got expelled when you were eleven?" Elizabeth asked. Neal tipped his head back and studied them.
"You never read my file?" he said to her.
"Well, I'm not employed by the FBI," she told him.
Peter just shrugged. "I tried not to bring my work home with me," he said.
"Yeah, that worked out well for you," Neal replied. Peter grunted and Neal looked down again, turning to a fresh page in the sketchbook, drawing idly. Circles and lines, squares, arcs, arches, sinuous shapeless un-angled things.
When he was sixteen he saw The Maltese Falcon for the first time and spent the whole film staring at the little shadowed triangles Bogart's cheekbones cast on his skin, which didn't make sense until he was seventeen and really enjoying being groped by Matty Keller in a hotel room in Monaco. Back then Keller was lean too, and he had the same kind of little shadowy triangles, and Neal didn't actually like a lot of what Keller did to people but he liked the little triangles and the way Matty kissed.
Matthew Keller was in prison; he was a murderer. Neal's pencil skritched softly across the page.
Alex was interesting to draw, she had a nose that fascinated him. Sometimes it looked totally ordinary and then she'd pull her hair back and it would be sharp and angular and perfect and he had to kiss her. Alex was in Italy with a Matisse, far away and safe from whoever was after her, whoever had killed Kate. She'd kissed him goodbye.
Kate was all pale skin and dark hair and black-rimmed eyes, and when she was angry with him her whole face went smooth and cold and gorgeous. When she was happiest her eyes were this bright, clear and somehow complicated blue; he used to want to find the perfect color of paint to match them, but he never quite got it right. Kate was a challenge. And Kate was dead.
Neal stopped for a minute, rubbed a line almost into obscurity while the familiar pain of her death passed through him, and then kept going.
Peter had an odd face. Handsome, undoubtedly, but there was something about his lips, some broad curve that made them interesting more than attractive. Eyes too old for his face -- the Bureau's fault, Neal guessed, thinking about the time Cruz had said we all need a breather. Memorable, though.
Elizabeth looked a little like Kate, in the right light, but only if you had no eye for detail, and Neal prided himself on his eye for detail. Higher cheekbones, a more prominent chin, a slightly rounder nose. Older than Kate, of course, but only in subtle ways. A nice face to draw, a much-loved face.
He didn't realize Elizabeth was bent over him, watching him work, until she rested her chin on the crown of his head. He stopped himself from tilting it up, an immediate instinct, and flicked the graphite stick around in his fingers.
"Critique?" he asked, looking down at the sketch. Disjointed, inelegant, but then art sometimes was that way. It was all sort of boxed together, all the eyes and noses and jawlines, mouths and hands, nothing looking like what it was.
"It looks like Picasso," she said. "Is it Picasso?"
"No," Neal said, shrugging a little. "It's not anything."
Well, it was, of course. It was half a dozen lovers: Matty, Alex, Kate, others too -- and Peter and Elizabeth. Kate was two sharp lines, Matty four, Alex a couple of angles, Peter and Elizabeth a twined set of curves in the middle of the whole thing. Neal turned it sideways, as if that was going to somehow make it coalesce.
"Kind of a mess," he added, but he dated and initialed it anyway, and then set the sketchbook on the coffee table as Elizabeth leaned back. "I'm getting another drink, you want anything?"
"Glass of water?" Elizabeth said. Peter shook his head. Before the kitchen door closed all the way he heard Peter say, I don't get it, but it's interesting. He stopped inside the door and strained his ears; Elizabeth answered, Sweetie, you don't have to get it.
He took another beer out of the fridge -- Peter's drinking habits might destroy Neal's tastebuds, eventually -- and opened it, skimming the bottlecap into the trash. When he came back with the beer and Elizabeth's water, the sketchbook was back where he'd left it.
***
Peter surfaced briefly from sleep the next morning, sometime after midnight and a little before sunrise. When he opened his eyes, he saw Neal nearby, arms lifted over his head, hands twined in his hair, awake and breathing faster than he should be. Peter watched as Neal rolled off the bed; he reached out to grab him, missed, and groped sleepily at where he had been. Neal, turning, gave him a smile in the dim light.
"I'm fine," he said softly. "It's okay."
"Mf," Peter managed, and then cleared his throat. Behind him, Elizabeth pressed her face to his shoulderblades, still sleeping. "We need a bigger bed," he mumbled. "You need therapy."
Neal laughed. "I'm just restless. Go back to sleep."
Peter drifted down slowly, aware of a clatter as Neal gathered something off the dresser, a creak as he came back to bed. He slitted his eyes enough to see Neal sitting up with his sketchbook propped on his knees; well, that was fine. Peter rested his hand on Neal's drawn-up ankle, just below the tracker. Neal's muscle twitched, but he didn't say anything, and Peter fell asleep again to the soft sound of graphite on paper.
He dreamed he was chasing something (not unusual, it was a dream he had a lot) but there were moths, wherever he was, and they kept fluttering around his face, getting in his field of vision, brushing his skin in not entirely comfortable ways. He woke again to the sound of his own voice -- "Fucking moths!" -- and opened his eyes.
"You do talk in your sleep," Neal said, not looking up from his sketchbook. "It's cute. Bug hunting?"
Peter shifted, brushing at his face where he could still feel them, and when he brought his hand away it was covered in thin black streaks.
"Neal," he muttered. Neal looked down and a comical expression of dismay passed over his face.
"Aw, crap," he said, putting the graphite aside. "Sorry -- "
"What did you do?" Peter asked.
"Nothing! It's just pencil grit," Neal told him, licking his thumb and rubbing it on Peter's cheek. Peter jerked back.
"What, am I five?" he asked, swiping at the dampness.
"Last night your dick was inside me, you're really going to complain about some saliva?" Neal asked, sounding far too reasonable for -- oh God, the clock said six-thirty.
"No dirty talk, it's too early," Elizabeth groaned, propping herself up on Peter's shoulder like he was a pillow. "Neal, the sheets."
Peter looked down. The sheets around Neal were smeared with the same thin streaks, dotted here and there with crumbs of graphite.
"It'll wash out!" Neal protested, but Peter hooked him around the waist and grabbed for the sketchbook, hauling Neal down into the mess he'd made. Elizabeth pulled the book out of his hand while Peter wrestled Neal flat on his back.
"I'm making you replace these," he said, holding him down by his wrists.
"Oh please, make me," Neal drawled, but he tried to make a grab to get the book back. Peter blocked him.
"No art in bed," Peter told him, scowling. "New rule."
"Sweetie," El said.
"No, the next thing you know he'll be putting up an easel -- "
"Peter." El's voice was calm and quiet but nonetheless commanding. Peter let go of Neal's wrists and glanced over his shoulder. She was sitting up, book open. He leaned back and looked over the other side of the book, upside-down. Neal stayed where he was, but he watched them both.
The open page was a sketch of Jones in motion, that loose-limbed track runner thing he did when he was chasing a perp. Elizabeth flicked back a page and there was June, laughing -- and another page back was a study of the lower half of a man's face. Peter pressed a fingertip to his lips -- those were his lips, that was his chin. The single eye and nose nearby were Elizabeth's, absolutely unmistakable.
"It's still basically reproduction," Neal said, as El carefully traced around a line indicating Peter's throat. Back another page was Hughes, in the style of Sargent, all quick strokes and hooded eyes, and below him was a cartoonish doodle of Satchmo with a giant bone in his mouth. Mozzie's glasses and shiny bald head looked up from the far corner.
"They're lovely, Neal," Elizabeth said, and Peter saw the quick flicker of pleasure in Neal's face. "You should draw yourself."
Neal laughed. "I see myself in the mirror every day. Boring."
"You use that word a lot," Peter told him.
"There's a lot of boring things in the world." Neal propped himself on an elbow. "They don't mean anything. Just had a bad dream, wanted to draw."
Elizabeth shot Neal a sardonic look. Peter took the book out of her hands and passed it back to him. Neal closed it and set it aside; there was a long smear of graphite on his own cheek, now that his face was fully visible.
"Wash your face," Peter told him. Neal nodded and slid out of bed, getting more graphite on his shoulders and back. Peter rolled over and nudged Elizabeth, who burrowed down against him, kissing his jaw.
"You have stripes," she told him, but at least she didn't lick her thumb and try to rub them off.
"Someone got graphite all over me," he replied. Elizabeth laughed into his neck.
"He's never going to be ordinary, is he?" she asked. "Those sketches were amazing, though."
Peter, who had spent three years analyzing everything Neal Caffrey did or made or stole or sold, stared at the ceiling and thought about it.
"No Kate," he said.
"Can you blame him?"
"Mm. Maybe not."
Elizabeth rested a hand on his stomach. "I can hear your gears turning."
"Neal has a nightmare, he wakes up -- I wake up, he tells me to go back to sleep, and then he sits in the dark and draws," Peter mused, talking it out because he wasn't sure where it was going yet. "What does he draw..."
"Friends, companions, lovers?"
"Things that are comforting," Peter surmised. "Familiar things. Ah. No wonder."
"Again, I ask, can you blame him?" Elizabeth said. "Mr. Art Critic."
"It's still a chase," Peter said. "He's still leaving me puzzles. Clever boy Caffrey. He just doesn't mean to leave them anymore."
"What can you do?"
"Nothing," Peter said, and it cut surprisingly deep to say it. "Nothing I can do. Just...wait for the crash."
There was a puff of humid warm air from the hallway and Neal walked back into the room, damp, wearing a pair of Peter's pajama pants he'd apparently found in the bathroom. His hair was slicked back, and the graphite marks were gone.
"He looks good in your clothes," Elizabeth whispered, while Neal gathered the sketchbook and graphite up and set them by the stairs where he'd remember to take them with him.
"Better than he'd look in yours," Peter muttered back. She laughed and pushed him out of the bed. Peter left the bedroom, catching Neal around the waist again and pressing a kiss to the side of his throat as he passed. Neal gave him an almost wild, wide-eyed look, but sooner or later he was going to have to get used to it, so Peter ignored it and went to take his shower.
***
By all rights, Peter shouldn't like Sara Ellis. He hadn't, when they'd first met; she'd been young and arrogant, nosing into his pursuit of Neal and then insisting when he caught him that Neal be tried for the theft of the Raphael, even though Peter knew it wouldn't stick. Five years on she was still after Neal for the goddamn Raphael, even though it could put Neal back in prison and fuck up a pretty good thing.
But even five years ago she'd been driven and meticulous in her research, and she hadn't been shy about sharing her intel, and Peter respected that. Now she was less bluster and more confidence, and seemed to understand the way the game was played. Peter found that he did like her. He liked watching Neal deal with her. Neal danced with his marks and it was an interesting dance to watch, especially when the mark knew she was being conned. He didn't know why Neal was dancing with Sara -- Neal wasn't petty enough to be mocking her, and he wasn't stupid enough to think she'd give up the chase -- but it was fun to see.
The week that Sara came back into their lives, El was gone -- again -- and that meant dinner at Neal's, because Peter stopping by after work was just two guys hanging out, whereas Peter and Elizabeth in Neal's little suite was the kind of thing that would make people talk. It also meant cheese sandwiches and wine, because Neal didn't so much cook and Peter wasn't especially in the mood to. Peter had to give him this, though, he knew how to pair wine with cheese sandwiches.
"So," he said, sitting back in the chair, feeling his spine pop in about four places. "What do you want from Sara Ellis?"
"A guy can't make friends?" Neal asked, around a paintbrush clenched in his teeth. When they came in he'd said something along the lines of Oooh, afternoon light! and Peter had watched in amazement as Neal stripped off his shirt, changed into a pair of ragged cheap pajama pants, and set up a gesso'd board on the easel. On reflection, the pajamas were Peter's, which raised the question of why Neal was now stealing his clothing, a question for another time perhaps.
"You told me to start a conversation," Neal reminded him, using the blunt wooden tip of the paintbrush to mix paint in a little tray.
"What you're doing with Sara, that's not a conversation," Peter pointed out. Neal swept another streak of orange-red tempera across the board.
"You know me," Neal said absently. "I like to be liked."
"Mmhm. So do you fall for everyone who chases you?" Peter inquired. Neal shot him a look over his shoulder.
"Fall for Sara Ellis? She almost shot me," he said.
"Well, you were in her bedroom with a loaded gun," Peter pointed out. "She had reasonable cause."
"I'm not hot for Sara," Neal said.
Peter tilted his head. "Whatcha painting, Neal?"
"Nothin'," Neal replied, in the exact same tone of voice.
"Neal..."
Neal shrugged, edging yellow into the red. "You look at a person, you see a person. I look at a person, I see light and shadow and color."
"And?"
Neal tossed the brush bristles-up in a cup. "And her hair is very perplexing."
Peter laughed.
"It's not funny. I'm not falling for her. Your lips are perplexing too," Neal retorted.
"Not helping your case!" Peter was still laughing.
"You should hear what I have to say about Hughes," Neal told him. "Not to mention Bugsy."
"The pug?" Peter asked.
"Mmhm. Pugs have very interesting ears," Neal said. "You could do a whole study on liquid lines using a pug as a model."
Peter stood up and joined him at the canvas, hands on hips. "So this is, what, an abstraction?"
"Color study," Neal replied. "She's very...coiffed."
Peter, mindful of the windows they weren't quite visible through and of the easy access June and Mozzie had to this room, rested a hand on Neal's bare arm, thumb rubbing the scar there, and kissed his shoulder briefly before going back to the table. After a while, with Neal still playing with color at the easel, he spoke again.
"You know, El and I..." he pondered how to say it. "As...bizarrely pleasant as it is to have you around -- "
"Thanks," Neal drawled. "I get it -- it's not like I think you guys never have sex when I'm not there. I mean, you did for ten years, so obviously."
Sometimes Peter was very grateful for Neal's directness. "Look, I'm just saying, I know I say a lot of bullshit in bed. But if you were interested in someone, that'd be okay. It'd be good, in some ways."
"Seriously, I'm not chasing Sara Ellis," Neal answered.
"I'd just like to know," Peter continued doggedly. "As a friend, that's all. People tell each other crap like that."
"You are really bad at this whole emotional discussion thing," Neal announced.
"Usually Elizabeth handles it."
"For good reason, I see." Neal carried his brushes to the sink and began washing them. "Hey, if I somehow end up meeting someone who isn't trying to get me imprisoned, kill me, or steal my game, I'll let you know."
Peter joined him at the sink, leaning against the counter. "You remember when I caught you?"
"Hm," Neal grunted.
"One of the first things you did was ask me how the wife was. After we had our little tête-à-tête about guns."
"Yeah, I don't really..." Neal pressed his lips together. "No, see, I don't actually remember a lot of that. I was kind of scared shitless at the time."
"You put on a good act."
Neal glanced up, grinned, looked back down as the water flowed over the brushes and his fingers, diluting the tempera and washing it away. "I really liked you, you know, when you were this guy playing tag with us. You were interesting. A pain in the ass, but interesting. Then all of a sudden, holy shit, Peter Burke's in my home with a gun."
"Your home was an empty squat in Jersey," Peter said.
"It was still my home. And there you were, like, ten feet tall, slapping zipties on my wrists. Don't get me wrong," Neal added. "It was impressive, but all I really remember is your suit."
"You knew you were going away for it, that time."
"Yeah. The mind panics, it picks things out. Your suit. I must have fallen asleep the first month I was in prison with that suit in front of my eyes. So, maybe I asked about Elizabeth, I don't know. Was I a dick?"
"You were a smartass," Peter said. "That's about it."
"Good to know." Neal pinched the brushes between thumb and forefinger, squeezing the excess water out before tipping them bristles-up into the drying rack next to the sink. "I was twenty-five, Peter."
"By which time you'd stolen millions," Peter replied. "Sorry, youth isn't a plea with me."
"No, that's not..." Neal turned to him. "It's not like I'm saying I didn't know what I...allegedly did. I'm just saying. I was twenty-five and terrified."
"You scared now?" Peter asked.
Neal's lips curved. "No," he admitted.
"So what's the problem?" Peter asked, leaning close.
"Aside from turning thirty in a couple of months?" Neal asked lightly. "Not a damn thing. Did I really ask you about Elizabeth?"
"Sooo, how's the wife?" Peter said, in a decent imitation of Neal, five years back. Neal cracked up laughing.
"Jesus, good for me!" he crowed. "What did you say?"
"I said I was taking her out to celebrate."
That made Neal laugh harder, throwing himself down on the couch, legs up on the cushions, head against one of the arms. "And did you?"
"No," Peter admitted, sitting down on the other arm of the couch, facing Neal, his feet on either side of Neal's long legs. "I went home, I told her we got you, and then I slept for fifteen hours straight."
"I shoulda sent you a bottle of champagne," Neal mused. "And now here we are."
Peter nodded. They were there. Undeniable fact.
"You ever think maybe we're messed up?" Neal asked. Peter considered it.
"Nope," he said. He really hadn't, not since that first night El had said Neal should stay with them, and he'd finally given in. He'd meant it; he was never going to say no.
"Huh." Neal sat up a little. "Well, that's good, I guess."
"I told you. Sometimes the people you love change. Sometime who you love changes, too."
Neal smiled, a mixture of adoration and self-satisfaction. Peter wondered what the hell he'd done to be given this; something he didn't even know he wanted until Neal showed up and offered it to him.
"Can I ask you something?" Peter said. Neal nodded, scooting forward. "Why don't you just give her the damn Raphael and get her off your ass? Don't tell me you couldn't slip it to her without getting caught."
Neal considered it. Peter wondered if Neal would do it if ordered.
"If someone had stolen a Raphael and was asked about giving it back," he said, and Peter grinned, "there might be a lot of reasons. Maybe it's worth millions, and it's an investment. Maybe he fenced it. Maybe he liked it, and wanted it for himself, and thought the owner was kind of an asshole. Maybe he's just stubborn. Most of all, though, if he did give it back, every other recovery agent in the country would be on him like piranhas."
"Ah. Yeah," Peter agreed. "That last one's a problem."
"Not insurmountable," Neal remarked, leaning back, languid and calm. "There are ways." He stretched. "This theoretical thief, he could put it back where he found it. That'd be a good game. Or he could tip off the FBI. I hear they got some really clever guys there. Maybe leave a treasure map."
Neal rubbed his right foot against his tracker, eyes on the ceiling, thinking. He was turned on by this, Peter realized -- mentally turned on, sure, but he got off in a very literal way on these cons. Peter slid off the arm of the couch; Neal looked up sharply, but Peter just spread one hand, a stay down gesture, and Neal tipped his head back again when Peter settled on the floor at his hip, left arm slung across his thighs, facing him.
"A treasure map?" Peter prompted.
"Not literally," Neal said. He was flushed, tongue darting out to lick his lips. "Say one of those smart guys at the FBI finds a clue at some crime scene. If he's smart enough -- "
Peter grinned. "You mean a puzzle."
Neal huffed. "Is that what you called them? I called them treasure maps."
"Treasure maps promise some kind of prize at the end," Peter pointed out, hand drifting up Neal's thigh.
"Do they," Neal murmured, the message perfectly clear: What do you think I am?
"So this thief leaves a puzzle, a treasure map," Peter continued. He ran his thumb over Neal's cock, trapped in the pajamas -- his pajamas -- and Neal shivered. "Lets the FBI find the painting. Or...?"
"Someone finds the painting and turns it in," Neal writhed a little. "Peter -- "
"What? Having trouble concentrating?" Peter asked. Neal drew in a deep breath, visibly calming himself while Peter stroked slowly, all the way down and back up again. "What else?"
"What -- " Neal licked his lips again. "What else. Uh. Hm," he added, arching a little. Peter stopped moving, and Neal made that wonderful little whine. "What else. He could fence it and turn in the buyer. Tip off a couple of co -- oh -- cops that they should be in a certain place at a certain time. Sell it, take the cash, send the buyer right into an ambush."
"Profitable," Peter remarked.
"Fun," Neal said, sucking in a breath as Peter pressed gently with his thumb. "Especially if you get a crooked buyer, someone you already want to put away."
"Dangerous?" Peter asked.
"Mmhm," Neal's assent was more of a moan.
"How else?" Peter prompted.
"You bastard," Neal breathed.
"Come on, Neal, think it out," Peter told him. "Just one more."
Neal twisted up into Peter's grip and Peter stilled again until Neal collapsed back against the cushions, getting himself under control.
"There's a -- bad way," he said, closing his eyes. "There's ways I wouldn't."
"If you were the thief."
"Yeah, if I was -- you could break in," Neal said, fingers curling against the fabric of the sofa, the one truly visible point of stress. "Into Sara's house."
Peter felt something twist inside him.
"Leave the painting and a note," Neal continued, and he seemed to be breathing a little easier than he had. "The note says -- " he exhaled. "Peter, don't make me."
"Tell me," Peter said.
"It says, it says, if you tell them -- " Neal whined again. "If you tell them who brought this to you, remember that I know -- I know how to get into your home," he finished. "And you wrap a bullet in it."
A chill ran over Peter's skin. Neal seemed to be calmer, but that wasn't quite it -- the idea was repulsive to him, especially since it had come from his own brilliant mind. It was settling him, but not in a good way.
"But you wouldn't do that," he reminded Neal, who nodded. "Because you're good. You're trying to be good."
Neal arched so hard the muscles in his throat corded, and Peter flattened his hand, pressing him down. The breath went out of Neal in a rush and he pushed himself up, looking confused.
"Stay there," Peter told him, and stood up. Neal watched, strung taut and breathing fast, as Peter stepped into his shoes and pulled his jacket on.
"Peter?" he asked.
"Stay," Peter told him, and tossed Neal's phone onto his chest. "I'm going home. I'll tell you when. You can do whatever you want until then, except..."
"Oh my God you son of a bitch," Neal moaned, one hand clutching the phone.
"Remember this," Peter told him, checking for his wallet and badge. "So close to what you want and someone told you no. This is how Sara feels."
"This is not how Sara feels," Neal assured him. "If she did she'd have shot me by now."
"Hm." Peter bent and kissed his forehead. "It's still good for someone to tell you no. Call you in a few."
He waited until he was on the road, pulled up at a stoplight, and then scrolled through his contacts for Neal. There was no point in making him suffer needlessly; that wasn't the goal of the exercise.
"Peter," Neal answered.
"Now," Peter said, and Neal gasped ragged, breathed roughly, came with a high wordless cry of satisfaction.
Peter smiled. And, admittedly, adjusted his pants slightly. "Remember," he said, as Neal audibly caught his breath, "I could order you to give the Raphael back. I won't. But I could."
"What Raphael?" Neal managed, and Peter laughed.
"Would you, if I did?" Peter asked. Neal was silent for a while.
"If I had it, and could get to it, and wouldn't go back to prison for it," Neal said finally. "Yeah. I probably would." Another pause. "Why don't you?"
"Because there's more to this than a painting," Peter said. "And maybe eventually you'll return it on your own."
Neal laughed -- a quiet, contented laugh. "Goodnight, Peter."
"Night, Neal."
***
Neal was still endorphin-high off the orgasm when Mozzie showed up, which was a little awkward. At least he'd managed a shower and to put some clothes back on before he walked out of the bathroom and found Mozzie hunched over the painting on the easel, studying it with his keen miss-nothing eyes.
"Hey, Moz," Neal called from the bathroom doorway.
"I saw the Suit leave," Moz said, still regarding the painting.
"What, I'm under surveillance now?" Neal asked, without any real rancor in his tone. He felt loose, shoulders relaxed, skin sensitive to little currents in the air.
"You are when I see the Suit's car parked out front," Mozzie answered. He leaned back from the painting. "It's very -- it's sort of Munch meets Mucha. See, when you actually take your time, you have good control."
"I always have good control," Neal said, sprawling bonelessly in a chair. Mozzie looked up at him.
"I see you had fun with the Suit," he said, raising an eyebrow.
"You don't want details," Neal reminded him. "And yeah. I did."
"So what is it?" Mozzie asked, gesturing at the painting.
"Color study. Messing around, I guess," Neal replied. It occurred to him that he'd done a lot of messing around lately. "It's nothing."
"So much talent going so terribly to waste for the feds," Moz mused, sitting down across from him. Neal gave him a blissed-out grin. "How's it going with Sara?"
"Not this well," Neal told him. "I did treat her to a lovely rooftop dinner."
"And?"
"And she told me I smiled for a living," Neal replied.
"No guns this time."
"Baby steps," Neal agreed.
Mozzie fixed him with a look. "What does the Suit say about you wooing the Shroud?"
Neal raised an eyebrow. "The Shroud?"
"Dead Suit," Mozzie said.
"That's a little sick, Moz."
Mozzie pointed at him. "You're evading."
"Peter's fine with it," Neal said firmly. "He thinks it might be good for me."
"This whole thing is so -- "
"Anais Nin, I know," Neal groaned. "Look, if I have to woo to get the package, I will. That's all it is."
Mozzie made a skeptical noise but he didn't push, just changed the subject to Neal's wine collection and what he ought to buy next.
***
Chapter Eleven
References:
Villa of the Mysteries at Pompeii
Example of a Gorgon's-head bowl
Bodhisattva, 6th century, at the Met
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Dayum.
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(Anonymous) 2010-11-17 07:23 pm (UTC)(link)(from cat-i-th-adage @ LJ)
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Also, the Shroud. Dead Suit. YES. /canon/
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I LOVE art stuff to bits, and Neal drawing in bed and Elizabeth knowing secrets was awesome.
Seriously. This is making my week awesome. Thank you.
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(Anonymous) 2011-12-03 06:26 pm (UTC)(link)As an artist myself, I think you do a dang good job talking about art. :) It's one of the things I love about Neal - the man knows how to admire art.
Lovin' this fic. <3