Exquisite, Ch. 3

[sam_storyteller]

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

Chapter Two

***

Peter parked the car outside his house and looked up at the windows, checking to see if the bedroom light on the second floor was lit. All dark; El was probably asleep.

He had no idea what had just happened. Well, other than the obvious, but he was literally clueless as to how he'd allowed it to happen. He'd been nervous and confused and kinda turned on, not just by the presence of a couple of beautiful women (and anyone who liked women would have been) but by the thrill of the quasi-legal, of doing something that could gain them everything but that was probably not strictly something the Bureau would approve of. If Neal felt like that after every con, no wonder he'd pulled so many. He'd felt high, despite his anger with Neal, and then Neal had looked at him like he was drowning and the next thing Peter knew he was getting a blowjob in a car from his pet felon.

He tried to list all the ways in which he was screwed. One, he was going to have to figure out how and if to tell El. Two, it was a breach of his personal responsibility for Neal as his handler. Three, it was technically a breach of FBI non-fraternization policy. Four, the FBI frowned on men who were unfaithful to their wives. Five, no cop in the world would believe Neal wasn't doing him for money if they'd happened to glance into the car. Six, he'd lost control --

He'd lost control, because what had happened hadn't really been about him. It had been about Neal needing something, wanting something so much Peter could feel it in the air when Neal looked at him. He'd rewarded Neal, and he was almost positive he shouldn't have.

God, this was fucked up.

One thing at a time. Of the list, some were problems only if Neal made them problems, and he wouldn't; some were problems with Neal directly, but that couldn't be dealt with until morning and perhaps wouldn't be dealt with at all, knowing Neal. Some were irrelevant, speculation born of increased anxiety.

Which just left the question of One: Elizabeth.

He'd have to tell her. She knew when he was lying, and it was the right thing to do. And if he had to tell her, then -- well, he should tell her tonight, but he suspected the last thing any woman wanted was to be woken up so her husband could confess he'd just let another guy blow him.

He let himself into the house, still trying to figure out what he should do. Satchmo, asleep on his pillow in the living room, didn't stir. Peter shed his coat and shoes and climbed the stairs slowly, pulling off his tie.

In the bedroom, El was awake -- propped on one elbow, brushing hair out of her eyes. "Hey, sweetie."

Shit.

"Hey," he said, bending over to kiss her. "I thought you'd be asleep."

"Mm, I almost was, but I heard the door," she told him, while he took off his shirt and trousers, pulling a pair of pyjama pants on. He felt as if he must smell like Neal, who always smelled just a little bit like turpentine and dust. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at his hands.

"Something wrong?" she asked, sitting up and resting her chin on his shoulder.

"Neal and I had a thing," he said. There.

"Yeah, how'd the stakeout go?" she asked.

He inhaled. "No, I mean -- it went -- badly. Kind of."

"Is Neal okay?" El sounded concerned -- of course she was. She liked Neal. Everybody liked Neal.

"Yeah," he snorted, rubbing his face. "Neal's fine. We. El, that's not what I meant, there was this thing -- "

El leaned around his shoulder and cocked an eyebrow at him. "Do I get more than 'thing'?"

"After the stakeout, we -- there was a thing."

El laughed a little at him. God, he was the biggest asshole in the world.

"Peter, you and Neal have had some kind of thing since you started chasing him," she told him. He looked at her, startled. She tilted her head. "What happened?"

"Just, after the stakeout, it wasn't -- good, I..." he fumbled for how to tell her, because he could feel his marriage crashing around his ears and he had fucked up the best thing in his life and maybe that was what Neal had intended.

"Honey, calm down. Shh," El said, coming to kneel next to him. He turned and rested his forehead on her shoulder. "I think I get it. That kind of thing. Nothing else would upset you this much."

"I didn't mean..." he trailed off, waiting for her to push him away. She was still and quiet for a little while, but she didn't move.

"Was it hot?" she asked, finally.

"El, I'm so sorr -- " he stopped when the words registered. He leaned back. "What?"

"Sweetie, obviously you're sorry," El said, looking at him like he was an idiot. "If I was going to be jealous of Neal Caffrey I'd have left you five years ago. Like I said. You and Neal have always had a thing. So. Did you kiss him? Was it hot?"

Peter blinked at her.

"Is that relevant?" he asked, when it was obvious she wasn't going to spend any more time explaining why she hadn't already found something to stab him with.

"Well." She sat back, pulling her knees up and resting her chin on them, grinning at him. "You tell me about all your cases. I think the least you can do is give me a vicarious thrill. Peter, no, come on," she said, catching him by the arm when he tried to stand. "I'm serious, honey. It doesn't matter to me."

"Why not?" he asked, still confused. More confused, perhaps, than he had been.

"Well, you're not packing your bags and moving in with him, are you?" she asked, smiling. "Besides, I like Neal. Now, are you really going to get mad I'm not mad? Because then I might be annoyed. I bet it was hot," she added, her grin widening.

He turned again and rested an arm across her knees, his forehead touching hers.

"I don't know," he murmured. "El, I'm turned around. I don't know."

"Poor confused boy." She kissed him. "Come to bed, I'm tired. We'll talk about it more in the morning."

He was confused, more than confused; he'd told her everything (well, okay, almost nothing, but enough) and she'd laughed at him and told him to come to bed, and now she was curled up against him, sleeping as if she didn't have a care in the world. Peter tightened his arm around her until she protested sleepily, then closed his eyes and tried to sleep himself. It was a long time coming.

***

"Okay, so, I have a plan," Neal said, before Peter even had time to say hello the next morning. He didn't get to order his own coffee, either; Neal handed him one of the two cups he was carrying and watched nervously as he sipped it. "I have a story."

"Good morning," Peter said. Neal ignored him.

"Lemme talk to Elizabeth," Neal said. "It's the least I can do."

"No, the least you can do is nothing," Peter replied, as Neal took off walking towards HQ. "Which is exactly what you will do."

"It's my fault," Neal told him, though he didn't sound terribly repentant.

"No," Peter said. "I don't need you to lie to my wife." Please don't lie to my wife, especially since I've already told her the truth.

"You gonna do it yourself?" Neal asked, and Peter almost told him that this whole discussion was a moot point. Not that he felt he and Elizabeth were totally sorted; she'd been gone when he woke up, which didn't bode well. On the other hand, she'd left him a note like she always did when she had a breakfast load-in for the company, and the I love you at the bottom was a good sign.

Still, why go easy on Neal? Let him work for it for a little while, and see what it was like to worry.

"No," he said.

"The truth! Peter, bold choice," Neal said, but he sounded scared. Before Peter could continue, Neal had poured out an entire fake backstory for the evening, talking unusually fast. "See, I would tell her that I wouldn't stop complaining about the car so you let me go into the nightclub and you witnessed the suspect enter after me and had no choice but to follow."

Peter glanced at him. "It's almost the truth."

Neal was definitely scared. "It's better than alimony."

"It's not necessary," Peter told him. Neal's eyes widened a fraction. "I told her."

"You what?"

Peter gave him a small, tight smile. "I told her. Last night. Lying now would be kind of pointless."

"What did she say?" Neal asked.

Peter blew air through his lips. "She asked if it was hot."

He had the rare pleasure of seeing Neal taken completely by surprise. Neal sputtered. Peter's phone rang.

"This conversation? Not over. Put on pause. Everything that happened after nine o'clock last night is put on pause," Peter told him, and answered his phone.

It was Jones, calling with the news that Dorsett had gotten away from the hotel, leaving behind a couple of pairs of skimpy women's underwear, an empty hidden frame, and a distinct lack of money or painting.

"Is Caffrey with you?" Jones asked.

"Yeah, why?"

"Don't let on when I tell you this, but there's something else you should see," Jones said. "Your eyes only."

Peter's interest was piqued, but he had bigger problems to deal with. Neal was standing on the sidewalk watching him, rocking back and forth from foot to foot like an overeager dog.

"Dorsett escaped," Peter told him, after he'd hung up with Jones.

"This is bad," Neal said.

"Yeah, this is bad," Peter agreed.

"What did you say?" Neal asked.

"What?" Peter asked.

"When she asked you, what'd you say?"

"Pause," Peter told him.

"But -- "

"Neal, I swear to God, if you say one more word before I tell you to speak I will put you back in an orange jumpsuit," Peter snapped. Neal opened his mouth, then closed it again and nodded, casting his eyes downward. It wasn't the first time he'd done that, the immediate obedience over unimportant matters, but Peter didn't have time to be spooked by it today.

When they arrived at the office, Hughes was livid and a handful of agents from a hastily-opened inquiry into the stolen cash were loitering outside Peter's office. Jones was waving for his attention; Cruz was barking orders at file clerks.

"You, speak only when spoken to," Peter said to Neal, then turned to Jones. "You, in my office when I'm done with Hughes. Cruz!" he yelled.

"Yeah boss!" she yelled back, running up to him.

"Stop trying to make us look more efficient than we are," he told her. "I want a report on everything we know once I get done with Jones. You two, keep an eye on Caffrey," he added. Neal looked insulted. "Nobody pesters him, nobody asks him any questions unless one of you is standing next to him looking threatening. Everyone clear?"

"Yes, boss." "Yes, boss."

Peter looked at Neal.

"The job comes first," Neal said, shrugging. Peter nodded and went to get his ass kicked by Hughes.

This was probably karmic revenge for the brutal half-hour bawling-out he'd given Jones and Cruz after Neal was shot, but it was how these things worked. As the boss, when something went wrong, you took it out on the person who was closest to the disaster when it happened. Jones and Cruz weren't to blame for Neal getting shot any more than Peter was for a bust gone wrong, but someone had to pay.

It was one of Hughes' better performances, if a little over the top so the boys from the inquiry would hear. Peter took his chastisement easily -- it wasn't his first by any means -- and made all the proper promises. They'd get the money back. He had leads.

"Jones, please to God tell me we have a lead," Peter said, once he'd been banished from Hughes's sight and slunk back to his own office in shame.

"Yeah, we do," Jones said. "But you're not gonna like it."

He passed Peter the official case log for the Haustenberg theft. Peter opened it, noticing that Jones was blocking easy visibility from the rest of the office with his body.

Clipped to the inside of the file was a yellow origami butterfly.

"What the hell is this?" Peter asked.

"Something I did not log into evidence," Jones told him. Peter raised an eyebrow. "Found it in the empty frame where the Haustenberg used to be."

Peter fingered the butterfly thoughtfully. "Neal," he sighed.

"You think he was in on it with Dorsett?"

"Neal wouldn't spit on Dorsett if he was on fire," Peter said. Jones grinned. "No, this was..."

Last night, he realized. Neal had taken the painting last night, while he was being mobbed by Brigitte and her friend, and left Dorsett a calling card. What the hell had he done with it? Where had he put it?

Peter thought about Neal carrying his jacket out of the hotel, tossing it in the backseat of the car, and -- oh, shit. That had been...what, a distraction?

But he'd already gotten away with it. Peter was already distracted. So why...

"What d'you want me to do?" Jones asked. Peter shook his head and closed the log.

"Don't tell Caffrey. If he's got the painting it doesn't really matter. We still gotta catch Dorsett with the cash and we're a lot more likely to do that if Neal's working with us," Peter decided. "There's a chance Dorsett'll try to come after the painting. Might be able to float it as bait."

"Without letting Caffrey know you know he took it?" Jones raised an eyebrow.

"One thing at a time. Today, we're all about processing evidence and tracking Dorsett. We make no headway today, tomorrow we'll reopen this. Does Cruz know?"

"Yeah, but she's fine with it."

"I'm training up a pair of delinquents," Peter said, grinning. "If I ever catch you not logging something into evidence again, I'll have your ass."

"Yessir," Jones said, and left Peter alone with his thoughts.

They spent the day in paperwork and phone calls -- receipts from the hotel room, local traffic cameras, interviewing hotel staff. However Dorsett had slipped away had been good work; Neal might not like the guy but he was resourceful when he wanted to be.

Neal came up to him around four o'clock, and Peter looked at him and said, "Pause," and Neal went away again, looking like Peter had kicked a kitten in front of him. He felt bad, but it was just that by the end of the day all he wanted was dinner with Elizabeth and to forget about Neal's existence for a little while.

Only of course he couldn't do that. Because he and El were going to talk about Neal. It was probably going to be a very long talk full of very awkward things.

Still, when he walked in the door that evening, El met him with a kiss and an admonition to check on the roast in the slow-cooker and see if it was done, because she had two quick phone calls to make about a charity auction she was handling. Then, when she was off the phone, she wanted to know about the case, and the whole story sort of poured out: Dorsett escaping, the painting and cash going missing, the butterfly, the fact that he knew Neal took the painting. And the fact that if they didn't catch Dorsett, he'd have to turn Neal in, and Neal would go back to prison.

He was aware that in some sense they were dancing around the real problem, even though Neal was the real problem. El didn't seem nervous or upset. She didn't even seem like she was anticipating anything.

"Honey, about last night," he began, because he didn't think he could sit through a whole dinner without bringing this up and he was sure if he could he wouldn't enjoy it. "This thing with Neal."

"Oh, the thing," she said, looking amused.

"It was just, we'd come off the...recovery," he said, lips twisting, "And Neal was practically throwing sparks, he was so full of energy, and -- "

"Sweetie," Elizabeth said, pouring the wine. "Stop talking for a minute."

Peter watched her meticulously fill the wine glasses.

"When you took Neal's case, back when you were chasing him, you looked like you were having fun," she said, setting the bottle aside. "And then, okay, you got a little obsessed -- "

"I did not -- " Peter paused. "Fine. A little. Not much."

"And I thought, this is what they warned me would happen. This is when I lose him to the job," El said. Peter frowned.

"Who warned you?" he demanded.

"Honey, everyone warned me. Everyone we know has seen way too many TV shows about determined cops who lose their wives because they can't leave their job at the door," she told him. "But you still came home every night, and we still had dinner and watched TV and went out for drinks and had our life. So I thought, if I have to leave you alone once in a while with this...Caffrey man you were going to catch, that was okay. Everyone does it; you did it for me when I was getting the company off the ground. I think there was one month we almost never saw each other awake."

"I..." Peter felt like he'd been slapped. He'd noticed that he was bringing his work home more than he should, and he'd tried not to, but he didn't know El had been so...aware of it.

"I'm not giving you a guilt trip. I'm saying, I'm used to sharing with Neal Caffrey," she told him. "Especially now. I like Neal. I've got you, and sometimes he needs you, and I'm okay with that. I can give him a little bit of you. Which isn't to say that I won't kill you both if it happens again," she added, taking the lid off the roast. "Because I will."

"It's not gonna happen again," Peter assured her hastily. She gave him an eyebrow. "What? It's not."

"Make sure it doesn't," she told him. "Anyway, you never answered my question."

"What...question...?"

"Was it hot?" she asked, giving him a sly smile.

"Now, um. I'm gonna have to plead the fifth on that," he told her, and she laughed.

"Fair enough. I'll get it out of you eventually," she said, but apparently that was the end of it. At least, for now.

Peter thought he might have the most amazing wife in New York. Possibly in the whole country.

***

In a way, it was a relief when Neal answered his phone that night and Dorsett was on the other end of the line.

Peter had ignored him all day, but the promise of the conversation they hadn't yet had was gnawing at Neal. Peter wasn't going to ignore him forever, and when he stopped ignoring him, it was probably going to be ugly. This was the kind of situation that Neal normally bolted from -- he'd bolted from Alex when the thing with Kate happened -- but Peter could find him anywhere, even if he cut his tracker.

He gnawed on a thumbnail, pacing. Peter would certainly stop ignoring him if he brought him the painting. He'd put him back in prison, but at least it'd be over. Or Neal could give the painting back to Julianna and forge a copy for them to "find", and then at least they'd have the painting back, if not the money. Or he could --

Which was when the phone rang, and down the line Dorsett told Neal that if he didn't get the painting back, Taryn would suffer.

So, in the end, he did what he should have done at the start: he went to Peter.

He called Cruz when he was already in the cab, and a certain amount of abject pleading and promises of many favors to come convinced her to call and have his tracker authorized to leave his radius.

"I'm following you," she said, when she took him off call waiting. "I've got a map right here."

It was 90% probable she was lying, but Neal played along. "Then you can log off when you see me stop at Peter's place."

"What's this all about, anyway?"

"Workin' on the case," he told her, and hung up.

He was banking on Peter answering the door when he rang the bell. He heard Satch barking in the house and Peter swearing at him to shut up, but when the door opened it was Elizabeth standing there on the threshold.

Neal was sure she could read every line of guilt in his face and every totally unrepentant thought in his head. She looked like she knew exactly what he'd done and why he'd done it. Suddenly, what he'd done with Peter seemed small and pathetic and kind of stupid.

"Elizabeth," he said, swallowing. "I need to talk to Peter."

She gave him a small smile. "Come on in, Neal. Peter's in the kitchen."

Peter was emerging from the kitchen, in fact, arms crossed over his chest.

"You're outside your radius again," he said.

"I got Cruz to approve it," Neal told him.

"You couldn't call me?"

"Element of surprise?" Neal tried.

"Well, I was surprised," Elizabeth said.

"It's about the case," Neal continued hurriedly. "There's...this thing's...happened."

He heard Elizabeth stifle a giggle, though he wasn't sure why what he'd said was so funny. Peter looked annoyed.

"Sit," he ordered, pointing to the dining room table. Neal sat and waited until Peter had joined him, watching him warily. "This better be good."

Neal inhaled, looking away from Peter's stare. "I took the painting."

Peter groaned. "Dammit, Neal."

"I wasn't gonna -- " Neal stopped when Peter held a hand up, then tried another tack. "I did it for -- "

Peter held up a finger. Neal bit his lip.

"We can use it to catch Dorsett, he doesn't know I work for you," he said in a rush. Peter seemed to consider it. He looked tired. "He called me. He said if I didn't give the painting back he'd hurt Taryn."

That got Peter's attention. Neal glanced at Elizabeth, still standing near the door.

"We'll set it up tomorrow," Peter said. "Now get the hell out of my house."

Neal stood, but he paused when he pushed the chair back in, leaning on it with both hands.

"Are we ever gonna -- " he began. Peter silenced him with a look. Even standing, leaning over Peter, Neal couldn't disobey.

"What happened last night doesn't ever happen again," Peter told him. Neal looked sidelong at Elizabeth, but she was watching Peter. "You didn't have the right to take that liberty. I shouldn't have let you. I have a responsibility to you and to the government for you. I have a wife, Neal, whom I love."

"Yeah, I know, she's standing..." Neal fell silent when El shook her head at him.

"So I'm not going to let it happen, and you can either get on board or fight me on this and then it's harder on both of us. We understand each other?" Peter asked, looking up at him.

"Yes," Neal said, straightening. "I get it."

"Okay. I'll pick you up tomorrow. Get out."

Neal went, hurrying past Elizabeth but making sure he took the time to wish her goodnight. She caught his arm, rubbed it briefly, gave him a genuine smile, and let him go.

Out on the street he turned to look up at the windows, and saw enough through the drapes to know she'd moved over to where Peter was sitting.

He'd fucked it up. Not Peter and Elizabeth, obviously they'd reached an understanding. He'd fucked up his own friendship with Peter, the chance to be welcome in their home, the chance for Peter's approval. He'd stolen a painting and he'd taken a little bit of what didn't belong to him from Peter, and now he was being punished, and punishment hurt.

Peter said he'd pick him up in the morning, but as he walked to the corner to hail a cab Neal thought what that probably meant was that the Marshals would pick him up in the morning.

Mozzie was still there when he got back to June's place.

"So what'd the Suit say?" he asked, as Neal went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water.

"Mozzie, if I ran tonight, how much could we liquidate immediately?" Neal asked.

"That good, huh?" Moz leaned in the doorway.

"No. Nevermind, whatever," Neal said. "He said we could set up another sting tomorrow."

He glanced at the wall safe where the Haustenberg lay, wrapped in soft felt.

"I got work to do," he continued. "You want to hang out while I copy the Haustenberg?"

***

Neal was unusually tractable the next day, still and quiet in the car, cradling the leather bag with the Haustenberg in it with both hands. Peter felt like he was getting a lot of furtive looks, but he ignored them.

"So what happens if it goes off today?" Neal asked, finally. "We get Dorsett, we get the money back. What happens?"

Peter glanced at him. "The bureaucrats get off my back for losing it, the painting goes back to the Channing, and we close the case."

"What happens to me?" Neal asked.

"What do you think? I'm not buying you a steak dinner," Peter said. Neal seemed uneasy now. "We go home, get some sleep, tomorrow we come back and do it all again."

"I'm not..." Neal pressed his lips together, and Peter could almost hear him thinking. "How tenuous is my probation?"

"It's pretty thin," Peter said. "We need this one."

"It's simple, right?"

"Yeah, so don't make it complicated," Peter warned him. "Take Dorsett down quickly."

"If I get him, will you trust me again?" Neal asked, so quickly Peter almost didn't understand the words.

He glanced at Neal. Neal, king of no-consequences, who had spent most of his adult life (and his adult life had started young) in a game where any single misstep meant he had to run, but running meant he never had to pay for the mistakes he made. Neal, who had probably grown up being punished for things he hadn't done.

Now he was learning, and he didn't look like he was enjoying it at all. Still, there was something to be said for consistency. That was part of the lesson too.

"Yeah," Peter said. "When we close the case, we start fresh. New work, clean slate."

There was a little huff of breath from Neal's side of the car, surprised and pleased, and Peter smiled to himself as he pulled into the parking structure at Federal Plaza.

For once, the bust went perfectly. Dorsett showed up, Neal gave the signal, the team went in, and Neal walked away. Peter had a tense moment when they handed the Haustenberg over to the Channing, but if the Channing's guy wasn't going to make a fuss, neither was Peter. He didn't actually know that Neal had forged anything, after all -- hints and suspicions weren't the FBI's business. Proof and testimony was.

***

Neal was becoming acclimated to the fact that Kate did not dominate his every waking moment.

He told himself this was logical; he had to put her out of his head sometimes so that he could survive and find her. She wasn't a direct part of his work for Peter and he didn't want her to be, because when he finally found her they were going to run far away from all this (somehow). He lived in two worlds, an old world and a new one. When he could keep the two spheres from touching, he did.

He made up for it by giving her all his thoughts, when he did have the time and reason to think of her. It felt a little bipolar, but at the same time kind of...good. When he was searching for her, he was singleminded in his quest, and then when he'd done all he could he'd slip back into the new world of Peter and the FBI. He could work easily in the knowledge that after work he could give Kate all of his time. And he could use the self-imposed divide to explain to himself, if no one else, why he sometimes didn't think of her when he should: when he was recovering after the Carruthers shooting, or on the heels of a particularly clever case, or sometimes when he thought about the way Peter had sounded, the night he stole the Haustenberg.

In the moment, when he was thinking of Kate, he was thinking only of Kate. The rest of the time, for his own sanity, he couldn't. At least, that was what he told himself.

He felt like he was following a trail being built only a few feet ahead of him, between the wine bottle map and the letter it led to and the phone call that the letter had warned him to expect. Standing on a windblown street in front of Grand Central Station, he picked up a ringing public phone and found Kate on the other end, and she sounded so perfect and wonderful -- startlingly good to his ears, as if they'd never been apart at all.

Neal was less than an hour out from the Haustenberg case, and he wanted to blurt it all out to her because it was the kind of story she'd like, but of course there were many more important things to say. That he loved her, that he'd save and protect her, that --

Kate wanted to know where his cache was.

"What?" he asked, because he couldn't believe what she was asking.

"The money, the bonds, the art, all of it," she said.

"Why?" he replied, bewildered.

"He wants something," she told him, like he was being stupid. "Something you took, something you hid."

Oh this was fucking ridiculous. There was a code of honor even among his kind of thief and he was pretty sure one of the unwritten rules was that you didn't take someone's girl hostage because you wanted a damn painting. In their world, if you weren't good enough to steal the painting yourself, tough luck to you.

"I hid a lot of things," he said, and could hear how hard his voice was, and hated it.

"Well, then, give him everything!" Kate said. "If he gets what he wants, he'll let me come back to you."

"Who is he?" Neal asked. Because when he found this guy he was going to rip his throat out.

"I can't tell you, it's too dangerous for you," Kate said, and she did sound genuinely regretful -- though Kate was smart enough to have given him some kind of code or sign, so why hadn't she? Unless he was missing something.

He barely heard the rest of the conversation. He barely remembered running, trying to get up to the promenade she was calling him from before she vanished, but of course he was too late. Either someone had taken her away or Kate had gone, and she was good at melting into the shadows.

When Mozzie reached him, he was sitting with his back against the promenade railing, fingers laced behind his neck, thinking.

"Well, that was melodramatic," Mozzie said. "Full points for commitment. If you don't win the Emmy you'll have been robbed."

"Shut up, Moz," Neal said.

"No, I mean it, I haven't seen someone do something that stupid since the last time you did something stupid," Moz continued. "You've really got a knack for it. Did it not occur to you that whoever's doing this could be standing nearby with a gun?"

"I don't care," Neal said, aware he sounded petulant. "I was so close. She was right here. Maybe she left a message -- "

"Neal, she didn't leave a message," Moz said, and Neal knew he was right. Kate wouldn't leave evidence behind.

"Fine," he said, and pushed himself to his feet. "No new intel is bad intel."

"Man, you sound like a fed," Moz told him, as they walked away. Neal shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Bad influence," he announced.

"I keep telling you. Next thing you'll be covering up evidence of aliens and telling me you know where Saddam's weapons of mass destruction are," Moz replied. "It's not healthy."

"It's what I gotta do, Moz," Neal replied. He took out his phone, considered it, and then flipped through the address book for Peter's number.

"I thought I told you to take the rest of the day off," Peter said, by way of greeting.

"Yeah, I am," Neal told him, which was mostly true. "I got a question for you, though."

"You don't get a reward for this one, Neal."

"No, I know. I gotta ask -- does the FBI have a log of the things I allegedly stole and/or forged?"

Silence down the line. "Do I want to know why you're asking?"

"Probably not," Neal admitted.

"We have a partial list. I don't even pretend to call it complete."

"Who has access to that?"

"Me, the team, anyone legitimately requesting it for a case investigation," Peter told him.

"What about civilians?"

"Listen, if you want to see your casefile so you can laugh at us -- "

"No, Peter, it's serious," Neal said. "I just need to know who else knows what I may or may not have taken."

Another pause, and then Peter's voice, unamused. "A lot of people know what you took, Neal. Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"No," Neal said, heart sinking a little. "No, I'm not in trouble. Just curious."

"Why -- " Peter began, but then there was a scuffling noise and Neal could hear Peter's voice, much fainter now, call El! in remonstration.

"Hi, Neal," Elizabeth said, and Neal smiled a little. "Bored already?"

"I just like to bug him," Neal told her.

"Yeah, I noticed. Hey, we're having a celebration dinner tonight because Peter didn't get fired for losing a hundred thousand dollars. You want to come over? Peter's grilling."

"Guess I'm off probation, huh?"

"What?"

"Nothing. I can't," Neal said, because it wasn't really...right, and because he needed to think about Kate right now.

"You sure? We've got cheesecake."

How did she know he liked -- oh, of course. Peter knew everything. He'd probably found the cheesecake box in the trash after Neal and Kate skipped out early during the gallery scam in '05.

"Thanks, but some other time. I have some business to take care of."

"Bad business?" Elizabeth asked.

"No, just business."

"Well, be good," she told him.

"I always am."

"Slightly worrying," she replied. "Bye, Neal."

"Bye, Elizabeth," he said, though he could hear Peter say in the background Hey, I wasn't done talking to -- before she hung up.

Neal and Mozzie went back to June's place and spent the rest of the afternoon brainstorming; what could this invisible guy want, and did Neal even have it? Or did he just want the whole cache, and was playing a game to get it? By the time night fell they'd been going around in circles for hours, and Neal was tired.

"School night," he told Moz, finally. "I gotta get some sleep."

"That's what you get for being a tool of the Man," Moz told him. "I'll do some asking around."

"Thanks, Moz. Seeya tomorrow."

When Mozzie left, Neal took a few deep breaths. He got into bed, closed his eyes, thought of Kate -- and then slept.

And the next morning he didn't think of Kate, because they had a job to do.

***

Neal didn't think that the next case Peter took on was a punishment, exactly. After they'd cleared the air that one evening, Peter was the same as ever, as if the whole thing had never happened. So Neal was pretty sure that the mortgage fraud case wasn't some kind of subtle personal vendetta.

But god, it was so boring. It was nothing but paperwork, hours and hours of reading complicated legal documents and interview transcripts, brushing up on tax and housing law. Cruz and Jones split their time between the paperwork and the Codex case, though Jones assured him that was going nowhere fast and subtly hinted that if Neal knew anyone who could have done it, he could mention a few names.

Neal, buried in documentation, wished he could mention a few names. He didn't know any document forgers who worked pre-17th century with any regularity, and the forgers he did know who worked earlier than that were all painters. None of them had the professional grasp of Latin necessary to fake that much text. They could always have hired someone, he supposed, but that still didn't really ping any one person across his radar.

"Where'd it come from?" he asked Cruz, using a hastily concocted need for caffeine to escape the file work for a while and scuttlebutt with her at the coffee machine. "Where'd you guys find it, I mean."

"Violent Crimes," Cruz told him, pouring herself another cup. "They busted some guy for kidnapping and homicide -- he took someone across state lines and left 'em in a river. When they finally caught him, he had a room full of this stuff. No paperwork, no bills of sale. He said he burned it all."

"A whole room? Like the Codex?" Neal was impressed.

"Yeah, books and paintings mostly. It's all been authenticated now, though they caught a few fakes. Some of the stuff was on the Art Loss registry, some of it he bought legitimately. There's a couple of problem pieces. This one's ours." She gave him a cheery grin.

"Can't you just ask him where he got it?" Neal asked.

"Gee, we didn't think of that, being the feds and all," Cruz drawled. "Yeah, we wanted to, but he hanged himself before we could."

"Wow."

"Mortgage fraud doesn't seem so bad now, does it?" she asked.

"Mortgage fraud is terrible," he told her. "I've never been this bored in my life, and I spent three and a half years in prison."

She smiled. "Can't really blame Agent Burke though. I bet he's tired of people trying to shoot you."

"Not as tired as I am!" Neal protested. "Wait, you think he did this on purpose? To keep me benched?"

"Don't think of it as benched," Cruz told him. "Think of it as a breather."

"I don't need a breather."

"We all need breathers," she said, more serious now. "The job gets to you, even here. Besides, it'll teach you important life lessons," she added, as she turned to go.

"Like what?" he called after her.

"Like patience!" she called back. Neal fumed a little, silently, but he poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and reluctantly went back up the stairs to where Peter was still studying legal disputes.

"This is ridiculous," Neal announced. Peter looked up mildly. "All this paperwork to nail some asshole skimming money from banks."

"This is justice," Peter replied, turning back to the papers. "Sometimes the mills grind slowly -- "

" -- yet they grind exceeding small," Neal sighed. "Yeah. That was God, by the way, not Justice."

"Depends on your definition."

"Of which?"

"Both," Peter replied, setting a file folder aside. "And it was Longfellow."

"Come on, let's find a real case," Neal said.

"I don't find cases, this is the FBI. And this is a real case. Just because it's not interesting to you doesn't mean it's not worth your time."

"Come on, don't tell me you find this interesting." Neal watched for Peter's reaction.

"It's like any case. There are bits..." Peter picked up one file from an arm's-reach away, "...that fit..." he put it under the folder in front of him, "...together."

He added a third folder, and squared them with his fingers. "This is where the flaw is. Somewhere in here. Was that as cool as sneaking into the bedroom of a loan shark's girlfriend and stealing a painting? No, but it's just as important. And just as satisfying."

Neal considered him. Peter did love a puzzle.

"Are you keeping me benched?" he asked. Peter glanced up.

"You shouldn't take everything Cruz says seriously. She likes to fuck with you," he replied.

"I think I know when I'm being fucked with."

"Oh you do, do you?" Peter asked.

"Con man," Neal reminded him, though the barb hit closer than Peter intended. Not thinking about Kate right now. Work time is now, Kate time is later.

"Fine, wiseass," Peter said, and tossed the three folders across the table. "Find me the flaw and I promise the next case we take you can run all over and get shot at again to your heart's content."

"You're too good to me," Neal told him, but he took the files and stood to leave. "I'm going home, I'll review them there."

"Text me if you find anything," Peter said, head already bent back to the piles of paperwork, slowly putting them in order. Neal sighed and went to get his jacket.

***

One of the FBI's profilers had once asked Peter if he could come in on the Caffrey case for a little while, back when Neal was still at large. They had a fairly thorough idea of how Neal operated by then, but there wasn't any harm in letting some new eyes see the case, as long as it was understood that Caffrey still belonged to Peter. The profiler had gone through the casefile, studied the puzzles Neal had left, and given Peter an unreadable look when he walked into the room for the formal presentation.

The final result was a strange portrait. The profile said that Neal Caffrey styled himself a sensitive artist, but was in effect a thug; he wouldn't hesitate to use brute force when subtlety wouldn't work, and he was very likely a sociopath. He used and discarded people as needed, including close associates, and also felt free to use sex as a tool to both obtain his goals and control and dominate his partners, though he probably got little satisfaction out of it himself.

Peter didn't think Neal was a sociopath, and he knew he wasn't a thug, even then. Their association since had only proved that. Neal cared about the people in his life; Peter knew Neal's idea of Kate was a fairy-tale, but he did still really believe he loved her, and she wasn't the only person he'd stuck his neck out for. As for sex...Neal could use sex appeal to get what he wanted, but he didn't seem to treat it as either a last resort or a primary tool. The idea of Neal using sex to dominate anyone was a little funny; when he had to, Neal dominated through charm or a display of superior skill, but he wasn't actually all that interested in the idea to start with.

Later, Hughes had called Peter into his office and given him the private side of the profile: that the profiler thought Peter was dangerously co-dependent on Neal to define him as an FBI agent, that Peter was beginning to identify with his prey, and that his headlong pursuit of a relatively minor criminal was detrimental to his mental health. Hughes thought it was funny.

"Hey Burke," he grinned, as Peter studied the notes in horror. "Don't listen to the headshrinkers. They're used to serial killers. People who choose to spend their lives chasing down monsters are already unbalanced. If I think you're burning out, I'll make that call. I don't see it, though."

Four years on, Peter agreed that most of the profile was bullshit, but he was beginning to wonder about one or two things. Neal was probably detrimental to his mental health. He certainly drove him crazy.

Like calling in the middle of the night, when Peter was already half-asleep. He grabbed his phone off the bedside table, dislodging El in the process, and answered it blearily when he saw it was Neal. El reached around him to turn on the lamp.

"Very clever," Neal said, sounding only mildly annoyed.

"What's that?" Peter asked, rubbing his eyes.

"There's this old story that a kid went to his wealthy older relative and said he needed money to buy a car. The older relative gave him a Bible and said, read this Bible, and when you're done come back to me and I'll write you the check."

"Uh-huh," Peter grunted.

"So the kid goes away and doesn't read the Bible, but he comes back in a month and says okay, I read it. And his wealthy older relative says, no you didn't. Go back and read it. The kid goes away again, doesn't read it again, they go through this two more times. Finally, the older relative says, bring me the Bible. The kid gives it to him, and he opens it to the last chapter, and there's a check for the money tucked between the pages."

"I always thought that was a really annoying story," Peter told him.

"Me too," Neal drawled. "Which is why I find it perplexing that on the second to last page of the last report you gave me, there's a post-it note telling me where to look to solve this case."

Peter chuckled. "You solve it?"

"You're a smug bastard, Peter," Neal said, which meant yes.

"Keeps me entertained," Peter told him. "Neal?"

"Yeah, what?"

"Have a look at HG Wells sometime. The Lost Inheritance. Get the real story."

"Reality is just what the majority believes. Have a look at Snopes sometime. The Spurned Graduation Gift. Join the twenty-first century."

Peter smiled. "Goodnight, Neal."

"Night, Peter," Neal said, and hung up. Next to him, El rolled over and grinned.

"Neal?" she asked.

"Yep."

"He in trouble?"

"No," Peter said, stretching. "I'm making sure he stays busy."

"Sounds like you're annoying him."

"With Neal, they're sometimes the same thing," Peter told her, reaching out to turn off the bedside lamp.

***

Their next case, as Peter had promised, was everything Neal liked: intrigue, secret codes, bait-and-switches, cons to figure out, and beautiful women. He wished it had been art forgery instead of money laundering, but you couldn't have everything.

On the other hand, multiple people pointed guns at him, and the NYPD tried to kill him. Mozzie made him watch Tiles Of Fire (and Tiles Of Fire II: Child Of The Tiles).

It was also a case with a dead body, the dead body of an FBI agent. Neal didn't know him, but that hardly mattered; he knew he'd inadvertently bought into the whole fraternity-of-officers thing when he felt sick and furious looking at Costa's body.

It could have been worse. There wasn't much sign of how he'd died. Still, Costa had been stuffed in a freezer and his body was folded the way no body should ever be. Frost on his cheeks and nose, head tilted at an unnatural angle -- Peter kept standing there staring, but Neal had to look away.

It was a hard case. They made it, and that made Peter happy, but Neal wasn't happy. Making a case didn't mean much; Meilin wouldn't give him what he really wanted, the lead on Kate, and...

And there was no triumph in putting someone away for murder. You could give a painting back if you found it, or you could stop someone from melting down priceless cultural artifacts. There was something to fix. At the end of the day, he couldn't return Mark Costa to his family. Not how they wanted him back, anyway.

Over Chinese food that night, ostensibly celebrating their win, there came a point where it was just him and Peter at the table, and Neal finally let the façade of good cheer at a good case drop just a little. Peter sat back and looked at him, fingers still toying with his fork.

"There's no easy way to say it," he said. "Neal, you got suckered."

He could have argued the point, but why bother? "Yeah, I know," Neal said.

"You got suckered by Interpol, and you're better than that."

"Peter -- "

"But," Peter continued, "Part of that's my fault."

Neal watched him. Peter carefully speared a dumpling, bit off half, and set the other half down on his plate. He swallowed and washed it down with tea.

"Most of the time we're in your world more than mine," Peter said. "You took years to learn what you know. It's good to know, it's helpful to me. This time you were playing a game with the big boys in my world and you don't know enough about it to do that."

Neal frowned. "What world are we talking?"

"Departmental politics. International criminal law. These things work on chatter and gossip and you have to have contacts."

"Doesn't sound so different from what I do," Neal pointed out.

"No...except here you have no contacts, and you don't know where to listen for the chatter."

"That's not my fault -- "

"I know that. That's what I'm telling you," Peter said. He sounded annoyed. Neal kept silent. "We weren't ready for this because I didn't know she'd be Interpol, but dammit, Neal, I can't teach you these things if you don't tell me when they happen. You want to play games with other agencies, fine, I'll back you up, it might even do the Bureau some good. But you don't play games with me."

Neal dropped his eyes to his plate. "Yeah, okay," he said quietly. He glanced up quickly; Peter was watching him. He looked down again.

"Something's bugging you about this case," Peter said, refilling their tea cups. "You think we missed something?"

Neal shook his head.

"You pissed Meilin screwed you?"

"Well, yeah," Neal drawled.

"But?"

Neal chewed on his lip.

"It's messed up, what happened to Costa," he said finally. He heard Peter's fork click against his plate. "That's all. It's messed up. I don't like murder cases."

"I don't take murder cases," Peter said. Neal rubbed his face and sat back. "We didn't know he was dead when we took it. It wouldn't have gone to us anyway if you hadn't had a good alias for it. Still, we deal with dangerous people, Neal. Sometimes people get killed. You might not like it but it's the world you picked."

"If you tell me to get used to it -- "

"No," Peter said. "You get acclimated to it. Desensitized. You never get used to it. Anyway, you never said how you got on Interpol's radar," he added. He was casually pushing food around on his plate. Peter Burke was never going to win awards for his ability to subtly change the topic.

"Well, I made a checklist," Neal said. "All the big criminal agencies. I was working my way down the list, it's my road to fame. CIA was next if you guys didn't catch me."

Peter snorted. "Neal."

"I...may, at one point, have been reported to be in Japan," Neal said. "And when I was allegedly sighted there, it may have been in the company of unsavory characters who were later suspected of smuggling stolen property out of the country."

"Huh," Peter said.

"What?"

"I hate Interpol."

"Peter, what was 'huh' about?"

Peter shrugged. "We have a file a foot thick on you. There's about fifteen months missing where you just disappeared completely. We queried other agencies, got headshakes back. Things begin to make sense. When was this?"

"Aw, Peter, come on," Neal said. "If I was there, which nobody can prove, I'd have spent most of my time on a beach on Kyushu, getting a tan."

"Uh-huh," Peter said.

"It's not important to your files," Neal told him. "I swear."

Which was true; the job had been minor. He'd gone to Japan as a favor to Alex, because some buddy of hers needed a forger onsite. They'd flown him there first class. He did the job, he got ready to go home, and then he dropped off the map without a word of warning.

Fifteen months later, by way of Hungary, France, and Ireland, he came back to the States...with Kate.

Alex had really never forgiven him for that.

Peter gave him a skeptical look, but he let the matter drop. Or rather, he let the matter drop with Neal; Neal had no doubt someone at Interpol was going to get their ass chewed for this, and pretty soon that fifteen-month gap in Peter's files would be a lot smaller.

***

It felt, after that case, like a crisis had come and gone. Neal knew where he stood with Peter, and he thought he could sketch the exact dimensions of how much he could get away with, how much leeway Peter would give him before the chain choked him back. After seeing Costa's body, Neal was grateful even for the chain. He wasn't proud of that, but it was what was true: the rules Peter laid down, that he had pushed so hard against at first, were now keeping him safe. Safe from the Bad Guys, safe from the rest of the FBI, safe from himself, at times. He still pushed just a little, now and then, mostly to fuck with Peter, perhaps a little bit to make sure Peter was still watching. Peter was always watching.

The morning that the Heart Of Earth was stolen, Neal was in a mood to screw around; he'd been brainstorming with Mozzie about who at the FBI could possibly have Kate, and he didn't feel...he didn't feel settled, he felt very unsettled, like he wasn't quite living in his own skin. Making Peter make that "I'm this close to handcuffing you to something" face would ground him, remind him of the order of his world.

"What do you know about exotic diamonds?" Peter asked, as he joined him on the streetcorner down the block from Les Joyaux Précieux.

"Exotic isn't a classification for gemstones," Neal told him. "Weight, clarity, fire, cut...price...but not exoticism."

"The boutique says they're displaying the world's most exotic pink diamond," Peter said. Neal grinned.

"The Heart Of Earth?" he asked.

"You tell me."

"It's the name for a 42-karat platinum-set pear-cut pink diamond, supposedly mined in Canada," Neal said. "Exotic is pure marketing bullshit. It's like the Koh-i-Noor. It's got a history, so they sell the history. Would you rather see a big diamond, or an exotic one?"

Peter frowned at him. "You know a lot about it," he said.

"I ran with a...gemstone enthusiast for a while," Neal told him. "Diamonds aren't really my thing."

"They are today," Peter said, pushing open the door of the boutique.

Diamonds were good commodities and easy to move, which made them tempting targets for any thief, but when Neal handled gemstones they were either small time or fake. Big, noticeable ones like the Heart Of Earth really weren't in his line. He wouldn't mind getting his hands on the real thing just to see it, to hold it, but he wouldn't especially put himself out to do so. And the one he handled that morning wasn't real anyway. The proprietor of Les Joyaux looked horrified when he announced it; Peter looked resigned.

They left Jones and Cruz to do mop-up, interviews, alibis, the boring stuff Neal was so glad as a consultant he mostly got to avoid. In the car on the way to Federal Plaza, Peter rubbed his cheek with his thumb thoughtfully, an unconscious gesture Neal had noticed before.

"Tell me about the Heart Of Earth," he said finally. "Why's it so exotic?"

"Plenty of reasons," Neal said. "Nobody knows where it came from, not really. They think Canada, probably near the Snap Lake vein. It turned up in Canada first, anyway."

"That hardly sounds exotic," Peter drawled.

"They found it in the stomach of an unknown man who'd been shot in a bar in Yellowknife in 1902," Neal said.

"That makes it creepy, but not exotic."

"It wasn't cut then. There are photographs of it in its raw state. It was shaped like a heart. The doctor who found it decided finders-keepers and sold it for a fortune to an anonymous buyer, who sent it to Belgium to be cut," Neal said, warming to the story. "They spent a year studying it and finally cut it down to...well, that, and set it in a tiara for a famous French ballet dancer and courtesan."

"Slightly more exotic," Peter allowed.

"She wore it for years onstage and off, until she had it taken out and set in the handle of a revolver." Neal grimaced; no good for a diamond or a revolver. Peter, he saw, was thinking likewise. "She gave it to a lover, departing for Egypt, as a good luck charm."

"He must've been some lover."

"She was, by all accounts," Neal corrected. Peter lifted an eyebrow. "It disappeared for a while, along with the lover, and turned up in a private collection in South Africa. The lover never turned up."

"Not very lucky."

"It gets better. The diamond surfaces again on a list of missing items after the collector was strangled to death in a robbery. Rumor says the Italians had it during World War II, but then someone took it out of the revolver and it was found in a box of geology samples from Argentina, in a museum in China."

"How'd they know it was the same diamond?"

"There's no other 42-karat pink pear-cut in the world," Neal scoffed.

"That we know of."

"Well, assume for the sake of narrative convenience it's the same. The museum couldn't afford the security necessary for the diamond, so they offered to sell it back to the Canadian government, but the First Nations cut a deal with China first and half the fee went to the Tłįchǫ people, who own a lot of mines in the area the diamond supposedly came from."

"Say that again?"

"Tłįchǫ," Neal said. "Seriously, Peter, there's a whole country like three hours north of here -- "

"The diamond," Peter prompted.

"The diamond ends up back in Canada, having literally traveled the world, and Canada asks a Tłįchǫ jeweler to set it for display. There's some argument about what the Canadian Government wanted him to do with it but, after he set it in the platinum necklace, the government refused to pay the full commission. There was a fifteen-day showdown between the government, threatening to come in and confiscate it, and the Tłįchǫ, who said the hell you will."

"What happened?" Peter asked.

"Someone stole it," Neal said with a grin. "Or the Tłįchǫ jeweler fenced it, whatever you want to believe. The buyer held onto it for a good ten years before willing it back to the government when he died, on condition they pay the full worth of the work to the Tłįchǫ. The Canadians got their gemstone, the Tłįchǫ got paid, and the diamond ended up in the Royal Ontario Museum. From there to here...and now stolen again."

"You know an awful lot about this," Peter said, as they pulled into the parking structure.

"It's a great story. I was rooting for the Tłįchǫ, personally," Neal remarked.

"You think they might have taken it?"

"Nah. Why steal it? It's worth more to them on display, and legally they've sold it. What are they going to do with it?"

"What would you do with it?" Peter asked. Neal was silent while they waited for the elevator up to the office. Once they were in and the door shut behind them, Neal tapped a finger against his lips.

"I'd put it on and sing I Feel Pretty," he said. Peter gave him a momentarily outraged look; Neal grinned, and Peter dissolved into laughter.

"Fine, okay. Ask a stupid question. Anyway, our job is to get it back," Peter said, and began going over the case out loud. Neal didn't need the information -- he had, actually, been there for the case to date -- but sometimes Peter needed to talk, and if he didn't talk to Neal he'd probably talk to the empty elevator, which would make him look kinda crazy.

Neal felt good. He felt useful, and he loved figuring out how things like this were pulled.

And then came Garrett Fowler.

Fowler made his skin crawl on sight; he was a petty bully and he put Peter on edge. And even though Neal had been good -- he'd stayed out of trouble, he'd stayed at Peter's side like he was supposed to -- he ended up in prison.

Peter might tell him to keep quiet, he might cuff Neal's hands in front of him to save him the humiliation of perp-walking out of the building in front of his friends, and he might have trusted Neal enough to know Neal wouldn't slip or pick the cuffs. But Peter couldn't protect him from OPR, and it was a shock to suddenly find that Peter, too, was powerless in the face of some things.

He looked on it as a test. If he wanted to go back to Peter -- if he wanted the resources he needed to find Kate -- he had to have proof not only of who was after him, to satisfy Peter, but of who did the heist, to satisfy Peter's enemies.

In order to get that, he had to get out.

Chapter 4

References:
Retribution, by Longfellow
The Spurned Graduation Gift
The official website of the Tłįchǫ Nation