sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2010-08-14 08:35 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2010-08-14 08:35 am
Entry tags:
Exquisite, Ch. 4
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 Three
***
Elizabeth Burke was unused to abetting felons. It just wasn't something she did.
Once in a while, since the...thing, whatever it was that had happened between Peter and Neal, she stopped and tried to examine herself for jealousy or anger, but she never found any. She felt like there ought to be some; she would never tolerate being second to anyone in Peter's life. But she loved Peter, too, and didn't see why some 'thing' should upset the life they had together, especially since it was Neal. She liked Neal a lot, but in her mental filing system he was marked under 'Peter's Work' which was a vague, handwavey sort of area that she didn't pry into very often. He told her about cases, of course, but she told him about her work too, and it wasn't like he ended up fascinated by prosciutto-wrapped melon balls.
So it wasn't that she minded helping Neal flee from the law and reach a safe place where he could talk to Peter. Neal mattered, and Peter was being an idiot about him. It was just that she wasn't used to it.
Neal had given her a signal -- two rings on their home phone and then a hangup -- and when he gave the signal she knew what she had to do. She took a plate of cookies and a jug of milk and some glasses out to the car where two agents were sitting, watching her home. She made conversation about the weather, about crap surveillance details (Peter had done enough of those in his time) and other things for almost half an hour. She didn't see Neal, and she was beginning to wonder what had happened, but when she finally gave up and went back inside to the kitchen he was there, head in the fridge, a pile of food already out on the counter.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Hi! I was starting to worry about you," he said, giving her the biggest grin she'd ever seen. Neal was good at those. "What took you so long?"
"I was watching for you," she said.
"I'm stealthy," he told her, pulling a very sober face. "Do you have any Gruyere?"
"Who wants to know?" she asked, putting a hand on her hip. "Seriously, Neal, what are you doing?"
"Making you dinner," Neal said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Because that's what you do, isn't it, when you're a fugitive from justice hiding out in the kitchen of your chief pursuer. You make dinner. "Well, you and Peter. And Satchmo!" he crooned, as the dog pushed into the kitchen to see what the fuss was about. He bent over and ruffled the dog's ears lovingly. "Yes, Satchmo likes soufflé, don't you Satchmo?"
"You're making a soufflé," Elizabeth said.
"Yeah, it's like the one thing I can cook," Neal told her, releasing Satchmo and turning back to the eggs sitting on the counter.
"The one thing you can cook is a soufflé?"
"Well, and soup. Girls love soufflé," Neal said, hands drifting over the food as if he were going down a mental checklist.
"I can imagine," El said sardonically. "Gruyere's in the deli drawer."
"Great. So," Neal added, as he rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands, "how's life?"
"Oh, you know," she said, waving a hand. "Work. Book club. Accessory to...what is it they call this, anyway?"
"Escape and Other Offenses Related to Custody," Neal told her, digging in a cupboard for a bowl. "Actually in this case it might be Absconding. Either way, you're not an accessory."
"What am I?" she asked. Neal shot her a smile over his shoulder.
"Hindering Prosecution."
"This soufflé had better be mind-blowing," she told him. Neal winked at her, loading measuring cups into the bowl.
"It will be. Besides, you've got Peter on your side. He wouldn't let you go to jail." Neal dropped the bowl on the counter -- less gracefully than he meant to, she thought -- and rested a hand on the rim. He looked, suddenly, very shaken and very young. She opened her mouth to say something, but before she could he was turning away, measuring milk out into a glass cup and pouring it into a saucepan on the stove.
"Aren't you going to ask me if I did it?" he asked lightly, switching the burner on.
"You're not that dumb," El told him. Neal looked up. "On the one hand, I guess it would be funny to pull a big heist right under Peter's nose."
"But?" he asked.
"But you're not that dumb," she repeated. "Why risk everything you have for something boring like a diamond? You don't need the money and you don't need the thrill. If you were going to pull something, you'd have a reason beyond greed, and you'd set it up outside Manhattan."
Neal looked down at the saucepan. "Peter thinks I did it. I knew too much about it, sounded like I'd been studying it. Should've played dumb."
"Peter doesn't have the luxury of trusting you that much," she replied.
"And you do?" he asked. "After everything?"
"Well, you're not my consultant," she said, deliberately misinterpreting. "I wouldn't trust you alone in a room with a Van Gogh, but I trust you not to be a bonehead. Peter would too, if he had his head on straight."
That got a smile out of him, which was pleasing. Neal was handsome when he smiled -- well, he was handsome all the time, but she especially liked it when he smiled. In the pan, the milk began to hiss.
"So where'd you learn to cook soufflé?" she asked. "Paris?"
"Y...." he paused. "No. Though it's a good story, isn't it? Some old man in Paris taught me. That's what I told Kate," he added, looking vaguely guilty.
"What's the truth?"
"Boring," Neal said. "I was stuck in a safe house in Lake Tahoe for two weeks with a French cookbook and nothing better to do. I never went to Paris until after I met Kate. We weren't there long. I liked it, though."
He was quiet for a while. El cleared her throat.
"Peter said you jumped out of a fourth floor window," she said. "Onto the awning of a bakery."
"The Greatest Cake," he murmured, grinning.
"He said he saw you do it."
Neal nodded. It looked like he enjoyed the idea.
"He said it was the most terrifying thing he'd ever seen," El said.
Neal flinched, his hand knocking against the milk-pan. "Ow, fuck," he said, shaking it. El rolled her eyes. "What?"
"Misdirection doesn't work on me, I've been married to a fed for ten years," she said. Neal looked sheepish. "You scared him, Neal."
"He didn't look scared," Neal said. "He looked pissed."
"Because he was scared. Maybe you are kinda dumb," she told him.
"Hey!"
"I don't think he really believes you did it," she continued. "He's trying to catch you with wanted posters."
Neal didn't reply, momentarily busy adding butter and pepper to the pan. When he was done, he carried it to the bowl, dumped out the remaining measuring cups, and began mixing other ingredients into it.
"You think he'll listen to me?" he asked as he stirred -- brisk, efficient, practiced.
"Depends on whether you tell him the truth," she replied. Satchmo, who had been watching the cooking with interest, now inched back towards El and whined softly. "I need to take Satch out. Stay here and try not to steal anything."
"Scout's honor," he told her. She was almost through the door when he added, "Elizabeth."
She turned.
"Thank you. This means a lot to me."
"What was I going to do, turn you in?" she asked, smiling.
***
It was, without a doubt, the most ridiculous goddamn dinner of Peter's existence.
Neal hadn't stolen the diamond, which was a relief. Fowler or some of his goons had been in Peter's house, which was incredibly creepy and violating. Neal had cooked them dinner, which was just weird. It was the most amazing soufflé Peter had ever eaten, which was a whole different area of weird.
But all that aside, it was disturbing to be sitting at his dining room table, with his wife, eating this amazing food, while Neal sat on the floor and ate with his back to the book-case, occasionally fending off an inquisitive Satchmo. Peter had told him to get up and come to the table, but Neal said he didn't want to take any more risks than necessary, and he wasn't in eyeline of any of the windows where he was. He looked like possibly the corner of the dining room was the only place he felt safe, so eventually Peter left him to it.
Neal talked, though. In a whisper, but he talked. He talked about Lake Tahoe, where he'd been hiding out after some heat came down on his alleged crew for allegedly forging poker chips in Las Vegas. He asked El about the event she was working when he interrupted her day. He argued with Peter about where Jones and Cruz should look next on the Codex case, which kept hitting dead ends.
And, once dinner was done, he sat there and poured his fucking heart out, which made Peter feel like a complete dick for thinking Neal could have stolen the diamond. Neal had been trying to find the woman he loved, he was finally admitting to Peter just how hard he'd been trying, and Peter wished at once that he could apologize and that he could shake Neal till his teeth rattled.
It wasn't like Peter couldn't relate. If someone took Elizabeth from him, he'd start shooting and he wouldn't stop until he found her. It was just that Peter felt unaccountably as if Kate didn't deserve that much devotion, when for all he knew she was a perfectly nice woman and Neal had every reason to be insane when it came to her. Still...if Elizabeth were kidnapped and held for ransom against some unknown mystery object, Peter was also relatively confident Elizabeth would be at least halfway to saving herself by the time she heard him shooting.
Could it be so simple, that Fowler was crooked and Fowler had Kate? Fowler was undoubtedly crooked, but Peter had a hard time believing that all the little puzzle pieces came together to form that picture. Besides, why would Neal have anything a bent Fed would want? There were much easier ways for men in Fowler's position to make money than extorting it out of art forgers.
When this was over...not until then, not until Neal was safely back at the Bureau, exonerated and under his eye for good...then he would make a few inquiries. Fowler was slick but sloppy. It was entirely possible he was using Bureau resources to hide Kate.
He'd deal with that later. Now, Neal had gone off to wherever he was hiding, and it was time to sleep. There would be time tomorrow to kick a little ass.
"Where's Neal?" El asked, when Peter walked into the bedroom. She was sitting up, working on her laptop; he leaned over it to give her a kiss.
"Gone. He'll be in touch," he said, holding up the burner phone Neal had given him.
"You boys work everything out?"
Peter nodded. "He's been chasing Kate. More than I thought. Do you ever -- " he started, and then stopped. El looked up.
"Do I ever what?" she asked.
"Neal should've stayed here tonight. I almost asked him; I can keep him safe. Do you ever think maybe I tell you too much? You're in this deep now too, El."
She cocked her head. "You think he didn't stay because he thought it would be dangerous for me?"
"I think I didn't ask him to because I thought it would be dangerous for you."
"That's very sweet, and a little bit not your business," she told him. "If I wanted Neal out of the house I'd have said so."
"I should've left him in supermax," Peter grumbled.
"Think how much less interesting life would be without Neal," El said. "Besides, I kinda liked having a hot guy cook me dinner."
"A hot -- !" Peter glared at her. "What am I?"
"Hmm," she said, tugging him close with two fingers in the collar of his shirt. "When was the last time you cooked me dinner? Not something over open flame."
She had a point.
"Soon as this case is over, four courses," he said.
"Liar."
"Hand to God." Peter slid into the bed, shoving her over. She laughed.
"I'm going to make you invite Neal," she said. "I want witnesses. Neal and Yvonne. They'd make a cute couple, I think."
"Yvonne's a catering specialist. You think she goes for convicted felons?"
"You think anyone's immune to those big blue eyes?"
Peter closed her laptop, reaching across her to set it on the bedside table. He leaned into her, kissing her temple.
"Jealous?" she asked, but one of her hands was already resting on the back of his head, rubbing circles in his scalp. Peter kept kissing her, and didn't reply.
***
They beat Fowler, of course. Neal knew Peter didn't like to call it "winning", and nobody ever really won against OPR apparently, but Neal counted it as a win. Neal always won. The only time he hadn't won was the time Peter caught him, and since he was working with Peter, he figured they always would win. Nice to know the only guy in the room who was better than you had your back. Besides, Peter had only been better than him twice. (Catching someone who was wearing a tracking anklet didn't count.) Neal had been better than Peter like fifteen times.
He was still high on the win two days later, working leads with Jones and Cruz on the Codex, when Peter pulled him aside, into his office.
"Okay, four things," Peter said. Neal frowned. "One, I'm cooking dinner for El tomorrow night and you have to come because two, El told me you had to. Three, her friend Yvonne is going to be there but four, it was not my idea to set you up with Yvonne so just go and play nice and I promise I will make it up to you."
"I think that was five things," Neal said, but his heart stopped racing quite so hard. Usually when Peter talked that fast it was because one or both of them was in trouble.
"Neal!"
"Fine, okay, dinner," Neal said, holding up his hands. "Jeez, a home-cooked meal with people I like, twist my arm already. Wait, can you cook?"
"Find out," Peter told him.
Peter could cook, of course he could cook, because it was Peter. It wasn't the four-course meal that Elizabeth claimed he'd promised, but it was good and there was a lot of food. Neal put on his best behavior: brought wine, wore one of Byron's more subdued suits, complimented Elizabeth, charmed Yvonne. It wasn't hard. Yvonne was nice. While Peter was clearing the plates away and Elizabeth was getting the coffee, he ended up sitting at the dining room table, head bent close to Yvonne's, explaining the intricacies of inventory fraud. Which, as an events planner, was something she should know in case someone tried to pull it on her, or in case she ever needed the extra cash.
"If you try it on Elizabeth, though, she'll sic Peter on you," he added. Yvonne laughed.
"And he caught you, right?" she asked, as Peter elbowed through the kitchen door, carrying coffee cups. Neal glanced up at him.
"Yeah, he did," he said. Peter lifted an eyebrow, but he was distracted by Satchmo, scratching at the back door.
"I'll take him out," Neal volunteered, giving Yvonne a grin and standing up. He unlatched the door, stepped outside into the crisp chilly air, and shoved his hands in his pockets while Satchmo gave the garden what was apparently a ritual nightly once-over. After a few minutes, Peter stepped out too.
"El wanted to gossip with Yvonne," he said, by way of explanation.
"This is very 1950's dinner party," Neal told him.
"I thought you liked the Rat Pack."
"I do," Neal said, grinning. "Thanks."
"We're glad you came. You and Yvonne seemed to hit it off," Peter added.
"Sure, why not? Makes the evening more fun. And it's not you shoving me off on a gallery agent this time," Neal added. Peter looked like he was fighting a grin. Neal leaned against his shoulder, companionably.
"You enjoying the downtime after the diamond heist?" Peter asked.
"Yeah, I guess I am," Neal said. "It was weird."
"Being in prison again?"
"Nah, after that...I get so used to knowing that you know where I am," Neal said. He really should have some of his coffee, the wine was clearly making him stupid. "When the anklet was off, it felt strange. I felt cut loose."
"But you didn't run."
Neal snorted. "Where the hell would I run?"
"Lake Tahoe," Peter told him solemnly. Neal laughed and pressed his forehead to Peter's shoulder. "You shoulda stayed here that night."
"You should've asked."
"I thought it would be dangerous for El."
"What'd she say to that?" Neal asked. Peter smelled...really, so good.
"She said it wasn't any of my business, and if she wanted you out of the house she'd tell me so."
Neal inhaled, leaning closer. "I could stay tonight."
He could feel Peter tense, but otherwise he didn't move. Neal nuzzled against his throat, under his ear. "You'd know where I am. I'd belong somewhere -- "
Peter moved suddenly, not violently but quick -- he stepped aside, caught Neal from stumbling by the shoulder, and got his other hand up against Neal's chin. His fingers were spread across Neal's throat, thumb pressing into the soft space under his jawbone. No pressure, just presence.
"No," Peter said.
Neal didn't move. He didn't dare. The chain had just snapped very, very tight.
"My wife is fifteen feet away," Peter said, still holding him, lifting his chin just slightly with pressure from his thumb. Neal fought down a whine. "There are a million reasons this is a bad idea and she's the first thousand."
"She could -- " Neal started, but Peter's thumb pressed again and he snapped his jaw shut.
"You can't make what we do about this, Neal," he said. "I know where you are. You do belong somewhere. You have to be happy with that."
He let go, slowly. Neal lowered his chin -- lowered his eyes, looked down at where Satchmo was snuffling the back wall of the garden.
"I know all the reasons," he said.
"Good," Peter said.
"I think it'd be easier if you just said you didn't swing that way," Neal told him, feeling sullen. For a moment he'd felt complete -- happy -- in that empty-headed peaceful place...
But, he realized, it hadn't been the brief second that Peter had let him take a liberty. It had been that first beautiful moment when Peter's hand had closed gently around his throat.
Oh, he was so screwed.
"Get some air," Peter told him. "I'll be inside."
Neal nodded, watching him go.
***
The next morning, it was as if nothing had happened, which Neal was catching onto now: new day, new case, clean slate. He'd taken his licks for trying to take advantage, and that was that. It was a relief, because he didn't want to rehash what he'd done, and he was perhaps more ashamed of what he'd implicitly admitted. The plan had always been to get Kate safe and then bolt, but with the cover of darkness and the excuse of too much wine he'd in essence told Peter that he wanted -- that he craved -- some place to belong.
He'd never wanted to belong anywhere. Or rather, he'd never seen anywhere he'd found worth sticking to, unless you counted Kate. Or...
He leaned back at his desk, chewing on the end of his pen. Or he'd just assumed there was nowhere meant for him, so why bother looking.
But Peter had told him he already belonged --
"Caffrey?"
He looked up; Cruz was waving a hand in front of his face.
"Yeah, what?" he said, looking back and forth from her to Jones. "What'd I miss, what?"
"Detention for daydreaming," Jones told him, shaking his head.
"Aw, cut me some slack, I'm hung over," Neal said, tipping his head back, playing it up for sympathy.
"Nice for some," Cruz replied, utterly unsympathetic. "Look, all our leads are dead-ends and I got nowhere else to dig. You sure you don't know anyone who could have done the Codex?"
"I told you, none of the people I know do this kind of work," Neal said, snapping his chair forward and leaning over the high-res print of the Codex on his desk.
"What if it's someone new?" Jones asked.
"Then we're up shit creek," Cruz said.
Neal shook his head. "This isn't a practice piece. Nobody's this good their first time out. This guy's had training."
"Where do you learn this kind of thing?" Cruz asked. "Art history? Classics programs?"
"What, you're gonna canvass every art history department in the country?" Jones said. Cruz shrugged.
"Not the kind of thing you learn in school," Neal murmured thoughtfully. An idea was cracking open in his head. He nudged at it. "This is the kind of thing you learn by doing. We're looking at this wrong," he said, turning the page sideways as if that was going to help. "Shouldn't have looked at content. It's always style..."
"How do you mean?" Jones asked.
"Newly discovered document says he didn't want to steal the original, or set up a fake grab and claim he'd swapped a forgery for the real thing," Neal said, more to himself than to them. "Meticulous work, but the smear where we caught him says he gets sloppy towards the end. Not as much discipline as he'd like to think. Sale to a cheap private collector with no visible middleman says he has no contacts. Fabricated text says he likes to get creative. I told you, no discipline," he repeated, looking up at Jones and Cruz. They both looked faintly puzzled. "You're right, he's new, but he's had a good teacher."
"So we're looking for, what, an apprentice?" Cruz asked.
"Kinda," Neal agreed. "And this won't be the only thing he's done since. Lemme check around. I know a few people who might call this their style. I'll see if any of them have been taking on students lately."
"Less work for us," Jones said. "You need anything?"
"Just time," Neal said absently, pulling the keyboard close.
He was halfway through a new workup before he realized he'd just voluntarily done paperwork. Before calling Moz or going to any of his other sources, he'd sat at his desk and written a profile so that when he did go to Moz his report would be square in the database.
"So screwed," he muttered to himself.
***
Still, time passed, and cases came and went. They landed a couple of big fish, which was actually pretty satisfying. Neal liked solving cases, or at least he liked figuring out the other guy's angle.
What he didn't like was feeling like a mark, and the more time he spent chasing the Music Box the more like a mark he felt. He spent more time than he should have deliberately not thinking about Kate. He ended up talking a lot with June, who always looked tired now because Samantha was getting sicker. Frankly they made a hell of a pair, but it was nice to sit with someone who understood -- both his life and his inability to fix the broken things in it.
Which was probably the reason she eventually brought her problem to him: she knew he understood, and knew he'd try to help. She also knew Neal would be as furious as she was that someone had kicked Samantha off the donor list and then tried to extort a hundred thousand dollars from her for a kidney. June had a hundred grand easy, but June didn't like being scammed. It was a con thing.
All of this seemed important to him at one time. Obviously it had been important enough to make him break into a medical clinic looking for records of the scam. It had seemed important right up to the moment they tied him down and shot him full of sedatives, and then for a while nothing at all was very important.
There was something he was supposed to be doing, he was sure of that. He was definitely supposed to be doing something. Somewhere. Wasn't he? Only the last time he'd been on a gurney, he'd been shot, not shot up, but it was almost the same, right? Then Peter had told him not to worry, that Peter was taking care of things, so maybe this time Peter would take care of things. Peter was good at that.
He lay there, drifting, fingers idly picking the restraints on the bed. Easier than handcuffs. Peter had handcuffs. Not for Neal, though, 'cause Peter knew he could pick them. Sometime, somewhere, Peter had yelled at him about something and put zipties on his wrists. Those hurt. These didn't hurt. Nothing hurt.
Someone was singing, somewhere. That was nice.
He tried thinking about Kate, and even that didn't hurt, though every time he grabbed the strand of his thoughts about her it slipped away again. He'd been thinking about something. Kate? Didn't hurt. What had he been --
"Neal?"
Neal, with great effort, tipped his head up. Peter. Well, naturally. Peter took care of things.
"Hi!" Neal said, gleeful. He'd just been thinking about something, but Peter was here now -- Peter wanted him out of the restraints, and fortunately Neal was all over that. It paid to be prepared!
Peter kept trying to pick him up off the bed, which was nice, and Neal felt he had to make an observation about it because wow, Peter was strong. But he could definitely walk on his own, right up to the point where he tried to take a step and the floor smacked him in the face. Didn't hurt, though.
It was kind of hazy, but he found himself in some...big...room, listening with a detached sort of horror as Peter told him he was about to go back inside. That made sense. He'd been on the surveillance tapes. Never get caught on tape. Learned that one from Tulane with the diamond heist and the...big...puzzle thing.
Prison had sucked so bad. He'd only been allowed to see Kate once a week and if he went back in Peter would never ever come to see him. It was suddenly vital that before he never saw Peter again, Peter should know. Peter should understand, like really get it, that this whole thing wasn't a long con, that he really had meant everything he'd ever said, but all that came out of his mouth was, "You're the only one."
"The only one what?" Peter asked. His head was kind of...floating, which was unpleasantly reminiscent of the one time Neal had tried absinthe.
"The only person in my life I trust," Neal blurted.
Peter was quiet, really really quiet, and he just petted Neal on his head and didn't say anything. Well, he said "Don't pick this!" when he cuffed Neal to a chair.
Neal figured Peter was leaving him there for them to find. That was good. Peter shouldn't go down for this, it wasn't his fault. This always happened, he went outside his radius, the radius in Peter's head, and he got in trouble and this time Peter was going to send him back inside for it.
Man, prison sucked.
The next thing he remembered with any clarity at all was being dumped on a sofa that smelled like dog. Or maybe it was just that his face was pressed limply into it. There were voices. He was almost positive they didn't have sofas or dogs in prison. Not the prison they were gonna put him in, anyway. Did they have voices?
He lifted his head and caught sight of a face -- long black hair, dark eyeliner, so, so pretty -- and for a moment he tensed up. Kate. Shit. He had to take care of her, he was supposed to rescue her...
"Neal! Neal! Stop!" Kate said, except it wasn't Kate, it was Elizabeth. He stopped trying to get up and just stared at her. Her hair was so goddamn shiny.
She grinned at him. "Feeling no pain, huh?"
"Did I say that out loud?" he asked.
"Just -- stay there," Elizabeth said, pushing his shoulder so he was lying back on the sofa. Funny how much prison looked like Peter's living room.
"You're beautiful," he told her. Not that it had never occurred to him before, but he wasn't sure he'd ever said it. She smiled.
"Thank you, sweetie, but maybe you should just lie quietly for a while, okay?" she said. A thought occurred to him with glacial slowness.
"Where's Peter?" he asked.
"He's upstairs. He'll be down soon," she promised.
"He's taking care of it?" Neal slurred.
"Taking care of what?"
"It. Everything. He's taking care of it?"
Elizabeth stroked his hair. Peter had done that. Maybe his hair was shiny too. He'd have to check, later.
"Yeah, Peter's taking care of it. Just rest, okay?" she said. Neal nodded and closed his eyes. Everything went kind of dark for a while.
***
His first thought, on waking, was that someone was stabbing him in the head. His second thought was that someone was also blinding him. He managed to get his arms to cooperate enough to cover his eyes, and then he groaned, because it seemed like about all he could manage.
"Don't do drugs," said a deep, amused voice from nearby. Neal uncovered a fraction of one eye enough to make out a fuzzy Peter-shaped object sitting in a chair next to the sofa.
"Have I been beaten?" Neal asked. "Were there sticks?"
"No," Peter said, as Neal managed to uncover one whole eye. "You were drugged. Remember?"
Thinking hurt. So did his face. Still, he reeled his mind backwards far enough to --
"Oh, Jesus," he said, horrified. "Did I tell you about the Antioch Manuscripts?"
"I won't hold it against you," Peter assured him.
"I think I told Elizabeth her hair was shiny," Neal added.
"Yeah, you did. She definitely won't hold that against you."
Another memory surfaced. Neal wanted to disappear into the couch. Peter reached out and put his index finger on Neal's lips, which also hurt.
"Yes," Peter said, because obviously he knew what Neal was remembering. "You did. I'm going to assume you were playing a sympathy card."
Neal tipped his head a little, and Peter pulled his hand back.
"I wasn't," he said. "I mean -- God, my head -- yeah, I didn't want to say that. Yeah, let's forget it. But it wasn't a con, Peter."
Peter studied him. "I'll get you some ice," he said, and disappeared into the kitchen. Neal closed his eyes and tried to find a place that didn't hurt, but even his ego was bruised.
At the end of everything, though, when they finished the case, at least his suffering had been worth it. Samantha wasn't any less sick, but she was back on the donor list; the scam was shut down, and Neal got to help arrest the asshole who'd shot him full of drugs and made him say embarrassing things -- okay, more embarrassing things -- to Peter.
Neal swore to himself he'd live a clean life. No booze. Definitely no heavy-grade sedatives. Absolutely no hitting on his partner or his partner's wife. He'd been in the game since he was fourteen, more than half his life; he should have more self-control than this.
He was as good as his word, too, for almost three months.
Okay, two months. But one of those involved Peter moving into his suite for days on end, so it felt like three.
***
Working for the FBI was hard. Peter knew that. Running with the big dogs could wear a person down, and even in White Collar they rarely got to see the more pleasant side of the human condition. Plenty of people with more training and fewer raw nerves than Neal Caffrey burned out quickly. And yet, Peter thought, Neal was thriving -- not as breakable as he had suspected, but rather bending to the job, fitting himself to the moment, becoming what was necessary. Still...he wasn't an agent.
Neal wanted to please -- but he needed to learn.
"Explain to me why we're here again?" Neal asked, peeling the corner of the label nervously from his beer bottle. He was jumpy, and wasn't bothering to hide it. Not that he didn't have good reason; the bar they were in was covered in photos of guys in uniform, and full of men and women who looked like they should be in uniform. It was a cop bar, and Neal knew it.
"You gotta learn how these things work," Peter said. "Departmental politics are important."
"I thought Feds hated LEOs. I'm pretty sure LEOs hate Feds. I think once or twice that worked in my favor while you were chasing me," Neal said.
"Will you calm down already? Nobody here is going to arrest you."
"I'm in a bar full of cops," Neal hissed. "Excuse me for watching my back."
"Off-duty cops who haven't got the faintest clue who you are," Peter replied. "Besides, you're with me."
"Yeah, one Fed against a jillion cops, that's totally making me feel safe," Neal answered.
"Hey, you want safe -- "
"Augh, don't say it," Neal groaned. "Fine. Whatever. Am I supposed to go make friends or what?"
"Nope," Peter said, grinning. "Don't worry, friends will find you."
He had his eye on the door, where Mike Shattuck had just come in. Mike spotted him, waved, and stopped at the bar on the way over.
"Neal Caffrey, Captain Mike Shattuck, NYPD," Peter said, when Mike pulled up a chair to the little bar table. "Mike, Neal Caffrey, CI."
"So you're the infamous consultant, huh?" Mike asked, offering Neal his hand. To his credit, when faced with a cop one-on-one, Neal's charm didn't fail him.
"I'm infamous now? I like the sound of that," Neal said, grinning and shaking Mike's hand. "Peter mentions you all the time. Well. Shouts at someone to get you on the phone, mostly."
"Yeah, he only calls when he wants something," Mike said. "How ya been, Peter?"
"Apparently ungrateful," Peter drawled. Mike laughed.
"Ballsy of you bringing a guy like him here," he said to Peter.
"Neal's on our side," Peter replied, and Neal looked pleased.
"You mean the fuckin' Fed side," Mike said.
"Hey, fuckin' Fed," Peter reminded him.
"As stimulating as this conversation is, do we need me here for it?" Neal asked pointedly.
"You asked if LEOs hate Feds," Peter reminded him.
"No, I said I was sure they did," Neal retorted. Mike chuckled.
"Departmental politics is a delicate thing," Peter said. "Officially we don't have much to do with each other. A lot of times it's a jurisdictional issue. We all want credit for a collar. It makes us competitive."
"Yeah, but it screws the little guy," Mike said. "We can't do our jobs if our bosses are busy duking it out with their bosses."
Neal looked like he was already a step ahead of them. It was entirely possible he was. "So you get an inside guy. You're Peter's inside guy. And he's yours?"
"When shit heats up, you need someone who isn't going to wait for the boss to give the ok. When things aren't so busy, you pass information," Mike said.
"How does it work?" Neal asked, which was after all the great question of Neal Caffrey's life. How do things work? He was already treating this relationship like a con he could disassemble, study, and re-create.
"Mike and I were rookies together," Peter said, because Mike looked like he was about to tell tales out of school. "He was a patrol cop when I was a probie. Things happened too fast on the street for much fighting about who took credit."
"We used to get lunch together from that tiny roach coach with the paprikash bowls, you remember that?" Mike said. "Just sit and shoot the shit about all the crap we had to put up with."
Neal was watching like an anthropologist taking notes on a foreign culture. He knew how to charm a civilian, and he knew how to sweet-talk a cop, but he obviously didn't know how cops talked to other cops. Which was, after all, why they were here.
Because Neal was like a cop -- well, okay, Neal wasn't like any cop ever, but he was in the same situation, asked to perform some of the same duties and face the same danger. But he didn't have any of the defenses a cop got: no gun, no cuffs, no authority. No fraternity of officers for Neal. Peter wanted to fix at least some of that.
"There was this one time," Mike said, launching right into a story, " -- this was when I was on the operations team -- anyway, we had a bust together and Burke ran this pimp down like a cheetah, I mean they ran for blocks, and we're listening in on the radio and sending squad cars and throwing everything we have at this guy, but no dice. So Burke finally gets him in a blind alley and he's got him in cuffs, and this pimp is just stunned. Like, how did this fed in a suit catch him? He's swearing at Burke and calling him every name under the sun, honest to God I learned a few new words myself. And finally he says, man, who the fuck are you? Who the fuck are you?"
Peter allowed himself a smile. It was a pretty good story.
"And Burke, clear as day on the radio, says Who do you think? I'm J. Fucking Edgar Hoover, asshole."
"No," Neal said, looking at Peter.
"Hughes heard that," Peter replied, the length of years taking away the embarrassment he'd felt when he got back to the team. Hughes had said, Hey J. Edgar, a moment? and then ripped him a new one in front of everyone. It had been worth every second.
"It was cool though, the guys on the squad loved it. J. Fucking Edgar Hoover," Mike said, relishing it.
"I'm seeing a whole new side of you," Neal informed Peter.
"We were wild ones," Mike laughed. "Come on, I'll introduce you to the guys. Peter?"
"I'm good," Peter said, tipping his bottle at the game on the TV in the corner.
He did keep an eye on the game, but mostly he watched Mike and Neal -- watched Neal do what he always did, join in the crowd and fast-talk his way into everyone's graces. Neal glanced at him occasionally, but he looked less nervous, and by the time Peter had finished his beer Neal was rolling up his sleeve to show off the thin raised line on his shoulder, the scar from where Carruthers had winged him before Peter shot Carruthers off the fire escape. From some of his gestures, he could tell Neal was recounting the story.
Eventually, Mike drifted back to the table, both of them now watching Neal show a crowd of cops how to palm a shot glass.
"Where the hell did you turn him up?" Mike asked.
"Supermax," Peter replied.
"No shit. What was he in for?"
"Bond forgery."
"In supermax?" Mike asked.
"Neal's...not someone who likes prison," Peter said, tactfully. "Took him a month and a half to break out, when he finally got around to it."
Mike whistled. "And you trust him?"
Peter shrugged. "He's got a tracking anklet, and he's smart. Too smart, but then -- "
"So were we," Mike finished. Peter nodded. Mike cleared his throat. "How you been? Never see you unless one of us is in the middle of an arrest."
"Good. Working. Clearing cases."
"How's El?"
"She's fine. Her business is really picking up," Peter said. "You?"
"More desk work," Mike said with a grimace. "On the other hand, less getting shot at. Makes Deke happy."
"How's he?"
"Fucking insane, as usual. I can't go on busts, but he runs into burning buildings?" Mike took a sip of his beer. "It's good though."
Peter was about to say something comforting about how firefighters were insane as a rule, but Neal was working his way back to the table, a wide grin on his face.
"Not so jumpy anymore, huh?" Peter asked.
"Hey, it turns out cops are people too. Who knew?" Neal said.
"Ready to go?"
"Yeah. Listen, thank you," Neal said, shaking Mike's hand again.
"No problem. Keep your heads down," Mike replied, taking them both in. Neal made for the door, but Mike stopped Peter with a hand on his arm. "I mean that. I know what goes on in this town, Peter. Your name's up way too often on the squad reports lately. Don't get shot."
"Do my best," Peter said. "You too."
"And keep an eye on that one!" Mike called after him. Peter laughed as he stepped out of the bar and joined Neal on the sidewalk, already waving for a taxi.
***
Neal, to his surprise, genuinely liked Mike Shattuck. He liked most of the cops Mike had introduced him to. He'd rarely been on the same side as the cops, though he'd posed as one briefly a couple of times. Now, known as one of Shattuck's Fed buddies, he found he could understand their position a little better. They were definitely a lot nicer to him, anyway.
He was grateful, too, for the connections, because a week later he had reason to pull some NYPD files on a small-time museum heist too minor for the FBI to get involved in. Neal had been tipped off that it was Matthew Keller's work, but even if he hadn't he'd have seen Keller's fingerprints all over it, which was why he didn't want to get Peter involved yet -- didn't want Peter involved at all if he could work it alone.
He called a Sergeant named Calhoun at the NYPD, who couldn't help him but introduced him to Smith, who knew how to pull the files he wanted and courier them over on an FBI expense account. The NYPD's suspect was an obvious mark named Campos, who was dead by noon the day Neal started his investigation. Which made Neal's subterfuge a little pointless, since when Campos was murdered he had to give Peter the whole story anyway, but even pointless subterfuge could be pleasurable.
Right up until the moment Campos died, Neal had cherished the admittedly delusional hope that this might be fun. Squaring off against Keller always had been in the past; working with him, too. Keller had taught Neal how to counterfeit poker chips, palm anything smaller than a baseball, and snaplight a Zippo. He'd also been the first boy Neal had ever kissed, though kissing was the least they'd done.
He honestly couldn't remember whether Keller had ditched him or he'd run off first. Connections were so tenuous in those days and people drifted in and out of each others' spheres, disappearing for days at a time on a job and reappearing when you least expected it. Keller had taken him under his wing for a couple of months, and they'd had a good time, and somehow Neal had ended up on a cruise ship to the Keys and Keller had ended up a fucking psychopath. He'd always been a sneaky son of a bitch who made sure he had the upper hand -- even in Monaco, Keller had made it about games he could win against other cons, and later on the rare occasions they encountered each other he'd done the same to Neal -- but that was just nastiness, it wasn't murder. The fact that Keller killed a man and didn't care caught Neal somewhere in his ribcage. He'd liked Keller, once. Even when they were on opposite sides, he'd respected him.
Putting Keller away felt so good. For about ten minutes.
Then Neal went home and got very, very drunk.
He threw Mozzie out around the fourth glass of scotch, when Moz wouldn't shut up about getting in touch with Alex and the music box and finally made a remark about how maybe Neal should slow down a little with the booze. He guessed Moz probably called Peter, which was a big leap for Mozzie, but if he did either Peter was still at work or felt he should leave Neal alone for the night (wise man). So instead, when the unasked-for cavalry did arrive, it was Elizabeth.
She didn't bother knocking; Neal heard someone on the stairs and was prepared to wait until they went away again, but the door simply opened quietly and Elizabeth slipped in.
Neal was sitting at the table, arms crossed on the smooth wood, head resting sideways on them, staring at the latest glass of scotch (number seven).
"Hey," he said.
Elizabeth took off her scarf. "Hi, Neal."
"You want a drink?" Neal asked, nudging the glass with two fingers, not moving his head. Elizabeth's hand closed around the glass and she set it aside, sitting down in his eyeline. She studied him for a moment, then leaned forward and mirrored his pose, arms crossed, chin resting on her wrists.
"You never seem to see me at my best," Neal added.
"Well, as I understand it, your best generally involves being in the middle of some complicated heist," she replied. "So I'm okay with that."
Neal grunted. Elizabeth just watched him.
"Peter says you got a guy for murder today," she said finally.
"Matty Keller," Neal told her. "He and I used to run together."
"I thought you were more like competitors."
He smiled. "Yeah. For a while. When I was a kid we did some jobs, though."
"Is that why the drinking?" she asked.
"Why the drinking," Neal echoed. "Why the drinking. No. Why the drinking is that a guy I used to run with went up for murder today, and my girlfriend might be evil. And Alex got really...hard, while I was in prison. And I'm worried I make people around me be insane."
"Well, you drive Peter a little nuts."
"No, no," he said, shaking his head against his arm. "Like I'm cursed. I literally make people worse than they were."
Elizabeth gave him a slight sympathetic pout. "What about Mozzie?"
Neal waved a hand. "He was already insane when we met. I don't want to curse June evil, Elizabeth. Or you or Peter."
She smiled at that. Neal smiled back. Elizabeth seemed to like it when he smiled.
"Did you ever think maybe it's the company you kept?" she asked. "You didn't have the best taste in friends. And I haven't noticed you casting an evil spell on Peter or Lauren, or Clinton. Or June."
"Give it time," Neal said. Elizabeth rubbed his wrist with one hand, soothing. "No, it'll be okay. I can do this. I can do all of it."
"All of what?" she asked softly.
"I can be one of the good guys and help Moz out and save Kate, and protect her, and make Peter happy, and put cons away, and get Alex to help me somehow, and keep June safe, and keep out of trouble -- "
"God, Neal," Elizabeth interrupted. "Is that what's going through your head on a daily basis?"
Neal closed his eyes. "Pretty much."
"I'd have started drinking a lot sooner."
Neal snorted.
"Sweetheart, you don't have to be white knight of the universe," Elizabeth told him. "You don't have to solve every problem. Especially without asking the other people involved."
"Who else will?" Neal said, aware he was slurring a little. "Peter would, but there's stuff he can't do. I gotta do it."
"This guy really hit you where you live, didn't he?"
Neal turned his face into his arms. Elizabeth was still rubbing his wrist, gentle circles.
"Matty taught me a lot of stuff, Elizabeth," he said, into the soft, airless little place between arms and table. "I thought he was an asshole, but I didn't think he was a murderer."
"Was he one of the Vegas crew?" she asked.
"No, this was before Vegas. Monaco. Have Peter show you the file sometime."
She laughed a little. "You must've been young."
"Seventeen," Neal said, and then, before he could stop himself, "I can't believe I ever slept with him."
Elizabeth's hand stilled, but she didn't pull away. Neal turned his head again, to see her reaction. She looked...thoughtful, more than anything.
"I shouldn't have said that," he said.
"So you didn't just put away someone you knew," she said. "You put away a...what, ex-boyfriend?"
Neal shook his head. "Nothing that formal."
"Fling?"
"Nothing that casual. Aw, Jesus." He sat up, leaning back, pulling away. "Don't tell Peter."
"I won't," she said. "He wouldn't care, though."
"We don't ask, we don't care," Neal sighed.
"Well, there's that. But I think he'd understand. I think if you told him, he'd be able to..."
"Help?" Neal asked. "How, exactly?"
"Sometimes understanding is enough."
"I know you love him and all, but I don't think he'd get it."
Elizabeth inched closer, leaning forward, elbows on her knees now. "He'd get it."
Neal frowned. "I'm missing subtext, aren't I?"
"A little bit." Elizabeth sighed. "Before Peter met me, he dated Mike Shattuck for about a year."
Neal sat forward so fast the legs of the chair banged on the floor. "Captain Shattuck?"
Elizabeth grinned. "It's not a secret. Well. It was at the time, the Bureau used to be a little more uptight. NYPD still is, but it's probably the worst kept secret on the force. Peter didn't tell you?"
"Straight, basketball-playing Peter Burke, ten-years-married Peter Burke dated Shattuck?"
Elizabeth laughed. "What, you can't play basketball if you're sleeping with a guy?"
"Peter Burke -- "
"Has a lot of history you don't know about," Elizabeth said. "You think I'm the only person he ever went out with? Have a look at the man, Neal. He's gorgeous. Totally inept around women -- and men too, sometimes -- but he never had any shortage of offers from anyone. And I know you know that, because you made him an offer too."
Neal dropped his eyes. Elizabeth ruffled his hair.
"I don't care, Neal. It's the past. I knew about Peter's old flames before we got married, and he knew about mine. I've had a lot of time to get used to the ex-boyfriends as well as the ex-girlfriends. Anyway, you both know where you stand now. Besides," she added, lifting his chin a little with one hand, "Peter wouldn't tell me if it was as hot as I think it was. Bet you will."
She was grinning. Neal gave her an uncertain smile.
"I don't really think..." he trailed off.
"Yeah, fine. You boys and your secrets," she sighed. "Just...remember that Peter existed before you met him, Neal. He's more than what you know about him. Stop drinking, go to bed, and talk to him about it tomorrow."
"Why'd you come here tonight?" Neal asked, staring at her.
"Because I was worried about you," Elizabeth said. "Because I care about you."
"Why?"
"Oh, sweetie," Elizabeth said. She stood up, kissed his forehead, and gathered up her purse. "Take your time and work that one out, okay?"
She was at the door before he found his voice again. "Elizabeth!"
"Yeah?" she asked, turning.
"It was hot. It was really good," Neal said. "You're lucky, you're so lucky."
"I know," she said quietly, with the same private kind of smile Peter got when he talked about her. "Goodnight, Neal."
"Night, Elizabeth," he said.
After the door closed behind her, he glanced at the still-full glass of scotch on the table.
Then, with a sigh, he got up and did as he was told -- undressed, climbed into bed, and slept.
Neal probably would have followed Elizabeth's orders to the letter, though he wouldn't have liked it. He could have faced Peter, a Peter who suddenly had a past he knew nothing about, and told him about what really happened in Monaco when he was seventeen. He could have, he was sure he could have. And he was sure that she was right: somehow, Peter could have helped.
But he woke up with a hangover, and he got a message from Moz that Alex was on her way, and then he had to fucking bargain with Alex over the music box and whether he could get his tracker off. Alex probably hated him as much as Keller did. She probably had reason.
So by the time he got to the office that day he was late, Peter was pissed, he was still hung over, and then before he had time to take a deep breath he'd been passed off to another department. Chasing Ryan Wilkes, who had once tried to kill him, and who had kidnapped the daughter of the man whose bonds he'd ripped off and gone to prison over.
Great.
Chapter 5
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 Three
***
Elizabeth Burke was unused to abetting felons. It just wasn't something she did.
Once in a while, since the...thing, whatever it was that had happened between Peter and Neal, she stopped and tried to examine herself for jealousy or anger, but she never found any. She felt like there ought to be some; she would never tolerate being second to anyone in Peter's life. But she loved Peter, too, and didn't see why some 'thing' should upset the life they had together, especially since it was Neal. She liked Neal a lot, but in her mental filing system he was marked under 'Peter's Work' which was a vague, handwavey sort of area that she didn't pry into very often. He told her about cases, of course, but she told him about her work too, and it wasn't like he ended up fascinated by prosciutto-wrapped melon balls.
So it wasn't that she minded helping Neal flee from the law and reach a safe place where he could talk to Peter. Neal mattered, and Peter was being an idiot about him. It was just that she wasn't used to it.
Neal had given her a signal -- two rings on their home phone and then a hangup -- and when he gave the signal she knew what she had to do. She took a plate of cookies and a jug of milk and some glasses out to the car where two agents were sitting, watching her home. She made conversation about the weather, about crap surveillance details (Peter had done enough of those in his time) and other things for almost half an hour. She didn't see Neal, and she was beginning to wonder what had happened, but when she finally gave up and went back inside to the kitchen he was there, head in the fridge, a pile of food already out on the counter.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Hi! I was starting to worry about you," he said, giving her the biggest grin she'd ever seen. Neal was good at those. "What took you so long?"
"I was watching for you," she said.
"I'm stealthy," he told her, pulling a very sober face. "Do you have any Gruyere?"
"Who wants to know?" she asked, putting a hand on her hip. "Seriously, Neal, what are you doing?"
"Making you dinner," Neal said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Because that's what you do, isn't it, when you're a fugitive from justice hiding out in the kitchen of your chief pursuer. You make dinner. "Well, you and Peter. And Satchmo!" he crooned, as the dog pushed into the kitchen to see what the fuss was about. He bent over and ruffled the dog's ears lovingly. "Yes, Satchmo likes soufflé, don't you Satchmo?"
"You're making a soufflé," Elizabeth said.
"Yeah, it's like the one thing I can cook," Neal told her, releasing Satchmo and turning back to the eggs sitting on the counter.
"The one thing you can cook is a soufflé?"
"Well, and soup. Girls love soufflé," Neal said, hands drifting over the food as if he were going down a mental checklist.
"I can imagine," El said sardonically. "Gruyere's in the deli drawer."
"Great. So," Neal added, as he rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands, "how's life?"
"Oh, you know," she said, waving a hand. "Work. Book club. Accessory to...what is it they call this, anyway?"
"Escape and Other Offenses Related to Custody," Neal told her, digging in a cupboard for a bowl. "Actually in this case it might be Absconding. Either way, you're not an accessory."
"What am I?" she asked. Neal shot her a smile over his shoulder.
"Hindering Prosecution."
"This soufflé had better be mind-blowing," she told him. Neal winked at her, loading measuring cups into the bowl.
"It will be. Besides, you've got Peter on your side. He wouldn't let you go to jail." Neal dropped the bowl on the counter -- less gracefully than he meant to, she thought -- and rested a hand on the rim. He looked, suddenly, very shaken and very young. She opened her mouth to say something, but before she could he was turning away, measuring milk out into a glass cup and pouring it into a saucepan on the stove.
"Aren't you going to ask me if I did it?" he asked lightly, switching the burner on.
"You're not that dumb," El told him. Neal looked up. "On the one hand, I guess it would be funny to pull a big heist right under Peter's nose."
"But?" he asked.
"But you're not that dumb," she repeated. "Why risk everything you have for something boring like a diamond? You don't need the money and you don't need the thrill. If you were going to pull something, you'd have a reason beyond greed, and you'd set it up outside Manhattan."
Neal looked down at the saucepan. "Peter thinks I did it. I knew too much about it, sounded like I'd been studying it. Should've played dumb."
"Peter doesn't have the luxury of trusting you that much," she replied.
"And you do?" he asked. "After everything?"
"Well, you're not my consultant," she said, deliberately misinterpreting. "I wouldn't trust you alone in a room with a Van Gogh, but I trust you not to be a bonehead. Peter would too, if he had his head on straight."
That got a smile out of him, which was pleasing. Neal was handsome when he smiled -- well, he was handsome all the time, but she especially liked it when he smiled. In the pan, the milk began to hiss.
"So where'd you learn to cook soufflé?" she asked. "Paris?"
"Y...." he paused. "No. Though it's a good story, isn't it? Some old man in Paris taught me. That's what I told Kate," he added, looking vaguely guilty.
"What's the truth?"
"Boring," Neal said. "I was stuck in a safe house in Lake Tahoe for two weeks with a French cookbook and nothing better to do. I never went to Paris until after I met Kate. We weren't there long. I liked it, though."
He was quiet for a while. El cleared her throat.
"Peter said you jumped out of a fourth floor window," she said. "Onto the awning of a bakery."
"The Greatest Cake," he murmured, grinning.
"He said he saw you do it."
Neal nodded. It looked like he enjoyed the idea.
"He said it was the most terrifying thing he'd ever seen," El said.
Neal flinched, his hand knocking against the milk-pan. "Ow, fuck," he said, shaking it. El rolled her eyes. "What?"
"Misdirection doesn't work on me, I've been married to a fed for ten years," she said. Neal looked sheepish. "You scared him, Neal."
"He didn't look scared," Neal said. "He looked pissed."
"Because he was scared. Maybe you are kinda dumb," she told him.
"Hey!"
"I don't think he really believes you did it," she continued. "He's trying to catch you with wanted posters."
Neal didn't reply, momentarily busy adding butter and pepper to the pan. When he was done, he carried it to the bowl, dumped out the remaining measuring cups, and began mixing other ingredients into it.
"You think he'll listen to me?" he asked as he stirred -- brisk, efficient, practiced.
"Depends on whether you tell him the truth," she replied. Satchmo, who had been watching the cooking with interest, now inched back towards El and whined softly. "I need to take Satch out. Stay here and try not to steal anything."
"Scout's honor," he told her. She was almost through the door when he added, "Elizabeth."
She turned.
"Thank you. This means a lot to me."
"What was I going to do, turn you in?" she asked, smiling.
***
It was, without a doubt, the most ridiculous goddamn dinner of Peter's existence.
Neal hadn't stolen the diamond, which was a relief. Fowler or some of his goons had been in Peter's house, which was incredibly creepy and violating. Neal had cooked them dinner, which was just weird. It was the most amazing soufflé Peter had ever eaten, which was a whole different area of weird.
But all that aside, it was disturbing to be sitting at his dining room table, with his wife, eating this amazing food, while Neal sat on the floor and ate with his back to the book-case, occasionally fending off an inquisitive Satchmo. Peter had told him to get up and come to the table, but Neal said he didn't want to take any more risks than necessary, and he wasn't in eyeline of any of the windows where he was. He looked like possibly the corner of the dining room was the only place he felt safe, so eventually Peter left him to it.
Neal talked, though. In a whisper, but he talked. He talked about Lake Tahoe, where he'd been hiding out after some heat came down on his alleged crew for allegedly forging poker chips in Las Vegas. He asked El about the event she was working when he interrupted her day. He argued with Peter about where Jones and Cruz should look next on the Codex case, which kept hitting dead ends.
And, once dinner was done, he sat there and poured his fucking heart out, which made Peter feel like a complete dick for thinking Neal could have stolen the diamond. Neal had been trying to find the woman he loved, he was finally admitting to Peter just how hard he'd been trying, and Peter wished at once that he could apologize and that he could shake Neal till his teeth rattled.
It wasn't like Peter couldn't relate. If someone took Elizabeth from him, he'd start shooting and he wouldn't stop until he found her. It was just that Peter felt unaccountably as if Kate didn't deserve that much devotion, when for all he knew she was a perfectly nice woman and Neal had every reason to be insane when it came to her. Still...if Elizabeth were kidnapped and held for ransom against some unknown mystery object, Peter was also relatively confident Elizabeth would be at least halfway to saving herself by the time she heard him shooting.
Could it be so simple, that Fowler was crooked and Fowler had Kate? Fowler was undoubtedly crooked, but Peter had a hard time believing that all the little puzzle pieces came together to form that picture. Besides, why would Neal have anything a bent Fed would want? There were much easier ways for men in Fowler's position to make money than extorting it out of art forgers.
When this was over...not until then, not until Neal was safely back at the Bureau, exonerated and under his eye for good...then he would make a few inquiries. Fowler was slick but sloppy. It was entirely possible he was using Bureau resources to hide Kate.
He'd deal with that later. Now, Neal had gone off to wherever he was hiding, and it was time to sleep. There would be time tomorrow to kick a little ass.
"Where's Neal?" El asked, when Peter walked into the bedroom. She was sitting up, working on her laptop; he leaned over it to give her a kiss.
"Gone. He'll be in touch," he said, holding up the burner phone Neal had given him.
"You boys work everything out?"
Peter nodded. "He's been chasing Kate. More than I thought. Do you ever -- " he started, and then stopped. El looked up.
"Do I ever what?" she asked.
"Neal should've stayed here tonight. I almost asked him; I can keep him safe. Do you ever think maybe I tell you too much? You're in this deep now too, El."
She cocked her head. "You think he didn't stay because he thought it would be dangerous for me?"
"I think I didn't ask him to because I thought it would be dangerous for you."
"That's very sweet, and a little bit not your business," she told him. "If I wanted Neal out of the house I'd have said so."
"I should've left him in supermax," Peter grumbled.
"Think how much less interesting life would be without Neal," El said. "Besides, I kinda liked having a hot guy cook me dinner."
"A hot -- !" Peter glared at her. "What am I?"
"Hmm," she said, tugging him close with two fingers in the collar of his shirt. "When was the last time you cooked me dinner? Not something over open flame."
She had a point.
"Soon as this case is over, four courses," he said.
"Liar."
"Hand to God." Peter slid into the bed, shoving her over. She laughed.
"I'm going to make you invite Neal," she said. "I want witnesses. Neal and Yvonne. They'd make a cute couple, I think."
"Yvonne's a catering specialist. You think she goes for convicted felons?"
"You think anyone's immune to those big blue eyes?"
Peter closed her laptop, reaching across her to set it on the bedside table. He leaned into her, kissing her temple.
"Jealous?" she asked, but one of her hands was already resting on the back of his head, rubbing circles in his scalp. Peter kept kissing her, and didn't reply.
***
They beat Fowler, of course. Neal knew Peter didn't like to call it "winning", and nobody ever really won against OPR apparently, but Neal counted it as a win. Neal always won. The only time he hadn't won was the time Peter caught him, and since he was working with Peter, he figured they always would win. Nice to know the only guy in the room who was better than you had your back. Besides, Peter had only been better than him twice. (Catching someone who was wearing a tracking anklet didn't count.) Neal had been better than Peter like fifteen times.
He was still high on the win two days later, working leads with Jones and Cruz on the Codex, when Peter pulled him aside, into his office.
"Okay, four things," Peter said. Neal frowned. "One, I'm cooking dinner for El tomorrow night and you have to come because two, El told me you had to. Three, her friend Yvonne is going to be there but four, it was not my idea to set you up with Yvonne so just go and play nice and I promise I will make it up to you."
"I think that was five things," Neal said, but his heart stopped racing quite so hard. Usually when Peter talked that fast it was because one or both of them was in trouble.
"Neal!"
"Fine, okay, dinner," Neal said, holding up his hands. "Jeez, a home-cooked meal with people I like, twist my arm already. Wait, can you cook?"
"Find out," Peter told him.
Peter could cook, of course he could cook, because it was Peter. It wasn't the four-course meal that Elizabeth claimed he'd promised, but it was good and there was a lot of food. Neal put on his best behavior: brought wine, wore one of Byron's more subdued suits, complimented Elizabeth, charmed Yvonne. It wasn't hard. Yvonne was nice. While Peter was clearing the plates away and Elizabeth was getting the coffee, he ended up sitting at the dining room table, head bent close to Yvonne's, explaining the intricacies of inventory fraud. Which, as an events planner, was something she should know in case someone tried to pull it on her, or in case she ever needed the extra cash.
"If you try it on Elizabeth, though, she'll sic Peter on you," he added. Yvonne laughed.
"And he caught you, right?" she asked, as Peter elbowed through the kitchen door, carrying coffee cups. Neal glanced up at him.
"Yeah, he did," he said. Peter lifted an eyebrow, but he was distracted by Satchmo, scratching at the back door.
"I'll take him out," Neal volunteered, giving Yvonne a grin and standing up. He unlatched the door, stepped outside into the crisp chilly air, and shoved his hands in his pockets while Satchmo gave the garden what was apparently a ritual nightly once-over. After a few minutes, Peter stepped out too.
"El wanted to gossip with Yvonne," he said, by way of explanation.
"This is very 1950's dinner party," Neal told him.
"I thought you liked the Rat Pack."
"I do," Neal said, grinning. "Thanks."
"We're glad you came. You and Yvonne seemed to hit it off," Peter added.
"Sure, why not? Makes the evening more fun. And it's not you shoving me off on a gallery agent this time," Neal added. Peter looked like he was fighting a grin. Neal leaned against his shoulder, companionably.
"You enjoying the downtime after the diamond heist?" Peter asked.
"Yeah, I guess I am," Neal said. "It was weird."
"Being in prison again?"
"Nah, after that...I get so used to knowing that you know where I am," Neal said. He really should have some of his coffee, the wine was clearly making him stupid. "When the anklet was off, it felt strange. I felt cut loose."
"But you didn't run."
Neal snorted. "Where the hell would I run?"
"Lake Tahoe," Peter told him solemnly. Neal laughed and pressed his forehead to Peter's shoulder. "You shoulda stayed here that night."
"You should've asked."
"I thought it would be dangerous for El."
"What'd she say to that?" Neal asked. Peter smelled...really, so good.
"She said it wasn't any of my business, and if she wanted you out of the house she'd tell me so."
Neal inhaled, leaning closer. "I could stay tonight."
He could feel Peter tense, but otherwise he didn't move. Neal nuzzled against his throat, under his ear. "You'd know where I am. I'd belong somewhere -- "
Peter moved suddenly, not violently but quick -- he stepped aside, caught Neal from stumbling by the shoulder, and got his other hand up against Neal's chin. His fingers were spread across Neal's throat, thumb pressing into the soft space under his jawbone. No pressure, just presence.
"No," Peter said.
Neal didn't move. He didn't dare. The chain had just snapped very, very tight.
"My wife is fifteen feet away," Peter said, still holding him, lifting his chin just slightly with pressure from his thumb. Neal fought down a whine. "There are a million reasons this is a bad idea and she's the first thousand."
"She could -- " Neal started, but Peter's thumb pressed again and he snapped his jaw shut.
"You can't make what we do about this, Neal," he said. "I know where you are. You do belong somewhere. You have to be happy with that."
He let go, slowly. Neal lowered his chin -- lowered his eyes, looked down at where Satchmo was snuffling the back wall of the garden.
"I know all the reasons," he said.
"Good," Peter said.
"I think it'd be easier if you just said you didn't swing that way," Neal told him, feeling sullen. For a moment he'd felt complete -- happy -- in that empty-headed peaceful place...
But, he realized, it hadn't been the brief second that Peter had let him take a liberty. It had been that first beautiful moment when Peter's hand had closed gently around his throat.
Oh, he was so screwed.
"Get some air," Peter told him. "I'll be inside."
Neal nodded, watching him go.
***
The next morning, it was as if nothing had happened, which Neal was catching onto now: new day, new case, clean slate. He'd taken his licks for trying to take advantage, and that was that. It was a relief, because he didn't want to rehash what he'd done, and he was perhaps more ashamed of what he'd implicitly admitted. The plan had always been to get Kate safe and then bolt, but with the cover of darkness and the excuse of too much wine he'd in essence told Peter that he wanted -- that he craved -- some place to belong.
He'd never wanted to belong anywhere. Or rather, he'd never seen anywhere he'd found worth sticking to, unless you counted Kate. Or...
He leaned back at his desk, chewing on the end of his pen. Or he'd just assumed there was nowhere meant for him, so why bother looking.
But Peter had told him he already belonged --
"Caffrey?"
He looked up; Cruz was waving a hand in front of his face.
"Yeah, what?" he said, looking back and forth from her to Jones. "What'd I miss, what?"
"Detention for daydreaming," Jones told him, shaking his head.
"Aw, cut me some slack, I'm hung over," Neal said, tipping his head back, playing it up for sympathy.
"Nice for some," Cruz replied, utterly unsympathetic. "Look, all our leads are dead-ends and I got nowhere else to dig. You sure you don't know anyone who could have done the Codex?"
"I told you, none of the people I know do this kind of work," Neal said, snapping his chair forward and leaning over the high-res print of the Codex on his desk.
"What if it's someone new?" Jones asked.
"Then we're up shit creek," Cruz said.
Neal shook his head. "This isn't a practice piece. Nobody's this good their first time out. This guy's had training."
"Where do you learn this kind of thing?" Cruz asked. "Art history? Classics programs?"
"What, you're gonna canvass every art history department in the country?" Jones said. Cruz shrugged.
"Not the kind of thing you learn in school," Neal murmured thoughtfully. An idea was cracking open in his head. He nudged at it. "This is the kind of thing you learn by doing. We're looking at this wrong," he said, turning the page sideways as if that was going to help. "Shouldn't have looked at content. It's always style..."
"How do you mean?" Jones asked.
"Newly discovered document says he didn't want to steal the original, or set up a fake grab and claim he'd swapped a forgery for the real thing," Neal said, more to himself than to them. "Meticulous work, but the smear where we caught him says he gets sloppy towards the end. Not as much discipline as he'd like to think. Sale to a cheap private collector with no visible middleman says he has no contacts. Fabricated text says he likes to get creative. I told you, no discipline," he repeated, looking up at Jones and Cruz. They both looked faintly puzzled. "You're right, he's new, but he's had a good teacher."
"So we're looking for, what, an apprentice?" Cruz asked.
"Kinda," Neal agreed. "And this won't be the only thing he's done since. Lemme check around. I know a few people who might call this their style. I'll see if any of them have been taking on students lately."
"Less work for us," Jones said. "You need anything?"
"Just time," Neal said absently, pulling the keyboard close.
He was halfway through a new workup before he realized he'd just voluntarily done paperwork. Before calling Moz or going to any of his other sources, he'd sat at his desk and written a profile so that when he did go to Moz his report would be square in the database.
"So screwed," he muttered to himself.
***
Still, time passed, and cases came and went. They landed a couple of big fish, which was actually pretty satisfying. Neal liked solving cases, or at least he liked figuring out the other guy's angle.
What he didn't like was feeling like a mark, and the more time he spent chasing the Music Box the more like a mark he felt. He spent more time than he should have deliberately not thinking about Kate. He ended up talking a lot with June, who always looked tired now because Samantha was getting sicker. Frankly they made a hell of a pair, but it was nice to sit with someone who understood -- both his life and his inability to fix the broken things in it.
Which was probably the reason she eventually brought her problem to him: she knew he understood, and knew he'd try to help. She also knew Neal would be as furious as she was that someone had kicked Samantha off the donor list and then tried to extort a hundred thousand dollars from her for a kidney. June had a hundred grand easy, but June didn't like being scammed. It was a con thing.
All of this seemed important to him at one time. Obviously it had been important enough to make him break into a medical clinic looking for records of the scam. It had seemed important right up to the moment they tied him down and shot him full of sedatives, and then for a while nothing at all was very important.
There was something he was supposed to be doing, he was sure of that. He was definitely supposed to be doing something. Somewhere. Wasn't he? Only the last time he'd been on a gurney, he'd been shot, not shot up, but it was almost the same, right? Then Peter had told him not to worry, that Peter was taking care of things, so maybe this time Peter would take care of things. Peter was good at that.
He lay there, drifting, fingers idly picking the restraints on the bed. Easier than handcuffs. Peter had handcuffs. Not for Neal, though, 'cause Peter knew he could pick them. Sometime, somewhere, Peter had yelled at him about something and put zipties on his wrists. Those hurt. These didn't hurt. Nothing hurt.
Someone was singing, somewhere. That was nice.
He tried thinking about Kate, and even that didn't hurt, though every time he grabbed the strand of his thoughts about her it slipped away again. He'd been thinking about something. Kate? Didn't hurt. What had he been --
"Neal?"
Neal, with great effort, tipped his head up. Peter. Well, naturally. Peter took care of things.
"Hi!" Neal said, gleeful. He'd just been thinking about something, but Peter was here now -- Peter wanted him out of the restraints, and fortunately Neal was all over that. It paid to be prepared!
Peter kept trying to pick him up off the bed, which was nice, and Neal felt he had to make an observation about it because wow, Peter was strong. But he could definitely walk on his own, right up to the point where he tried to take a step and the floor smacked him in the face. Didn't hurt, though.
It was kind of hazy, but he found himself in some...big...room, listening with a detached sort of horror as Peter told him he was about to go back inside. That made sense. He'd been on the surveillance tapes. Never get caught on tape. Learned that one from Tulane with the diamond heist and the...big...puzzle thing.
Prison had sucked so bad. He'd only been allowed to see Kate once a week and if he went back in Peter would never ever come to see him. It was suddenly vital that before he never saw Peter again, Peter should know. Peter should understand, like really get it, that this whole thing wasn't a long con, that he really had meant everything he'd ever said, but all that came out of his mouth was, "You're the only one."
"The only one what?" Peter asked. His head was kind of...floating, which was unpleasantly reminiscent of the one time Neal had tried absinthe.
"The only person in my life I trust," Neal blurted.
Peter was quiet, really really quiet, and he just petted Neal on his head and didn't say anything. Well, he said "Don't pick this!" when he cuffed Neal to a chair.
Neal figured Peter was leaving him there for them to find. That was good. Peter shouldn't go down for this, it wasn't his fault. This always happened, he went outside his radius, the radius in Peter's head, and he got in trouble and this time Peter was going to send him back inside for it.
Man, prison sucked.
The next thing he remembered with any clarity at all was being dumped on a sofa that smelled like dog. Or maybe it was just that his face was pressed limply into it. There were voices. He was almost positive they didn't have sofas or dogs in prison. Not the prison they were gonna put him in, anyway. Did they have voices?
He lifted his head and caught sight of a face -- long black hair, dark eyeliner, so, so pretty -- and for a moment he tensed up. Kate. Shit. He had to take care of her, he was supposed to rescue her...
"Neal! Neal! Stop!" Kate said, except it wasn't Kate, it was Elizabeth. He stopped trying to get up and just stared at her. Her hair was so goddamn shiny.
She grinned at him. "Feeling no pain, huh?"
"Did I say that out loud?" he asked.
"Just -- stay there," Elizabeth said, pushing his shoulder so he was lying back on the sofa. Funny how much prison looked like Peter's living room.
"You're beautiful," he told her. Not that it had never occurred to him before, but he wasn't sure he'd ever said it. She smiled.
"Thank you, sweetie, but maybe you should just lie quietly for a while, okay?" she said. A thought occurred to him with glacial slowness.
"Where's Peter?" he asked.
"He's upstairs. He'll be down soon," she promised.
"He's taking care of it?" Neal slurred.
"Taking care of what?"
"It. Everything. He's taking care of it?"
Elizabeth stroked his hair. Peter had done that. Maybe his hair was shiny too. He'd have to check, later.
"Yeah, Peter's taking care of it. Just rest, okay?" she said. Neal nodded and closed his eyes. Everything went kind of dark for a while.
***
His first thought, on waking, was that someone was stabbing him in the head. His second thought was that someone was also blinding him. He managed to get his arms to cooperate enough to cover his eyes, and then he groaned, because it seemed like about all he could manage.
"Don't do drugs," said a deep, amused voice from nearby. Neal uncovered a fraction of one eye enough to make out a fuzzy Peter-shaped object sitting in a chair next to the sofa.
"Have I been beaten?" Neal asked. "Were there sticks?"
"No," Peter said, as Neal managed to uncover one whole eye. "You were drugged. Remember?"
Thinking hurt. So did his face. Still, he reeled his mind backwards far enough to --
"Oh, Jesus," he said, horrified. "Did I tell you about the Antioch Manuscripts?"
"I won't hold it against you," Peter assured him.
"I think I told Elizabeth her hair was shiny," Neal added.
"Yeah, you did. She definitely won't hold that against you."
Another memory surfaced. Neal wanted to disappear into the couch. Peter reached out and put his index finger on Neal's lips, which also hurt.
"Yes," Peter said, because obviously he knew what Neal was remembering. "You did. I'm going to assume you were playing a sympathy card."
Neal tipped his head a little, and Peter pulled his hand back.
"I wasn't," he said. "I mean -- God, my head -- yeah, I didn't want to say that. Yeah, let's forget it. But it wasn't a con, Peter."
Peter studied him. "I'll get you some ice," he said, and disappeared into the kitchen. Neal closed his eyes and tried to find a place that didn't hurt, but even his ego was bruised.
At the end of everything, though, when they finished the case, at least his suffering had been worth it. Samantha wasn't any less sick, but she was back on the donor list; the scam was shut down, and Neal got to help arrest the asshole who'd shot him full of drugs and made him say embarrassing things -- okay, more embarrassing things -- to Peter.
Neal swore to himself he'd live a clean life. No booze. Definitely no heavy-grade sedatives. Absolutely no hitting on his partner or his partner's wife. He'd been in the game since he was fourteen, more than half his life; he should have more self-control than this.
He was as good as his word, too, for almost three months.
Okay, two months. But one of those involved Peter moving into his suite for days on end, so it felt like three.
***
Working for the FBI was hard. Peter knew that. Running with the big dogs could wear a person down, and even in White Collar they rarely got to see the more pleasant side of the human condition. Plenty of people with more training and fewer raw nerves than Neal Caffrey burned out quickly. And yet, Peter thought, Neal was thriving -- not as breakable as he had suspected, but rather bending to the job, fitting himself to the moment, becoming what was necessary. Still...he wasn't an agent.
Neal wanted to please -- but he needed to learn.
"Explain to me why we're here again?" Neal asked, peeling the corner of the label nervously from his beer bottle. He was jumpy, and wasn't bothering to hide it. Not that he didn't have good reason; the bar they were in was covered in photos of guys in uniform, and full of men and women who looked like they should be in uniform. It was a cop bar, and Neal knew it.
"You gotta learn how these things work," Peter said. "Departmental politics are important."
"I thought Feds hated LEOs. I'm pretty sure LEOs hate Feds. I think once or twice that worked in my favor while you were chasing me," Neal said.
"Will you calm down already? Nobody here is going to arrest you."
"I'm in a bar full of cops," Neal hissed. "Excuse me for watching my back."
"Off-duty cops who haven't got the faintest clue who you are," Peter replied. "Besides, you're with me."
"Yeah, one Fed against a jillion cops, that's totally making me feel safe," Neal answered.
"Hey, you want safe -- "
"Augh, don't say it," Neal groaned. "Fine. Whatever. Am I supposed to go make friends or what?"
"Nope," Peter said, grinning. "Don't worry, friends will find you."
He had his eye on the door, where Mike Shattuck had just come in. Mike spotted him, waved, and stopped at the bar on the way over.
"Neal Caffrey, Captain Mike Shattuck, NYPD," Peter said, when Mike pulled up a chair to the little bar table. "Mike, Neal Caffrey, CI."
"So you're the infamous consultant, huh?" Mike asked, offering Neal his hand. To his credit, when faced with a cop one-on-one, Neal's charm didn't fail him.
"I'm infamous now? I like the sound of that," Neal said, grinning and shaking Mike's hand. "Peter mentions you all the time. Well. Shouts at someone to get you on the phone, mostly."
"Yeah, he only calls when he wants something," Mike said. "How ya been, Peter?"
"Apparently ungrateful," Peter drawled. Mike laughed.
"Ballsy of you bringing a guy like him here," he said to Peter.
"Neal's on our side," Peter replied, and Neal looked pleased.
"You mean the fuckin' Fed side," Mike said.
"Hey, fuckin' Fed," Peter reminded him.
"As stimulating as this conversation is, do we need me here for it?" Neal asked pointedly.
"You asked if LEOs hate Feds," Peter reminded him.
"No, I said I was sure they did," Neal retorted. Mike chuckled.
"Departmental politics is a delicate thing," Peter said. "Officially we don't have much to do with each other. A lot of times it's a jurisdictional issue. We all want credit for a collar. It makes us competitive."
"Yeah, but it screws the little guy," Mike said. "We can't do our jobs if our bosses are busy duking it out with their bosses."
Neal looked like he was already a step ahead of them. It was entirely possible he was. "So you get an inside guy. You're Peter's inside guy. And he's yours?"
"When shit heats up, you need someone who isn't going to wait for the boss to give the ok. When things aren't so busy, you pass information," Mike said.
"How does it work?" Neal asked, which was after all the great question of Neal Caffrey's life. How do things work? He was already treating this relationship like a con he could disassemble, study, and re-create.
"Mike and I were rookies together," Peter said, because Mike looked like he was about to tell tales out of school. "He was a patrol cop when I was a probie. Things happened too fast on the street for much fighting about who took credit."
"We used to get lunch together from that tiny roach coach with the paprikash bowls, you remember that?" Mike said. "Just sit and shoot the shit about all the crap we had to put up with."
Neal was watching like an anthropologist taking notes on a foreign culture. He knew how to charm a civilian, and he knew how to sweet-talk a cop, but he obviously didn't know how cops talked to other cops. Which was, after all, why they were here.
Because Neal was like a cop -- well, okay, Neal wasn't like any cop ever, but he was in the same situation, asked to perform some of the same duties and face the same danger. But he didn't have any of the defenses a cop got: no gun, no cuffs, no authority. No fraternity of officers for Neal. Peter wanted to fix at least some of that.
"There was this one time," Mike said, launching right into a story, " -- this was when I was on the operations team -- anyway, we had a bust together and Burke ran this pimp down like a cheetah, I mean they ran for blocks, and we're listening in on the radio and sending squad cars and throwing everything we have at this guy, but no dice. So Burke finally gets him in a blind alley and he's got him in cuffs, and this pimp is just stunned. Like, how did this fed in a suit catch him? He's swearing at Burke and calling him every name under the sun, honest to God I learned a few new words myself. And finally he says, man, who the fuck are you? Who the fuck are you?"
Peter allowed himself a smile. It was a pretty good story.
"And Burke, clear as day on the radio, says Who do you think? I'm J. Fucking Edgar Hoover, asshole."
"No," Neal said, looking at Peter.
"Hughes heard that," Peter replied, the length of years taking away the embarrassment he'd felt when he got back to the team. Hughes had said, Hey J. Edgar, a moment? and then ripped him a new one in front of everyone. It had been worth every second.
"It was cool though, the guys on the squad loved it. J. Fucking Edgar Hoover," Mike said, relishing it.
"I'm seeing a whole new side of you," Neal informed Peter.
"We were wild ones," Mike laughed. "Come on, I'll introduce you to the guys. Peter?"
"I'm good," Peter said, tipping his bottle at the game on the TV in the corner.
He did keep an eye on the game, but mostly he watched Mike and Neal -- watched Neal do what he always did, join in the crowd and fast-talk his way into everyone's graces. Neal glanced at him occasionally, but he looked less nervous, and by the time Peter had finished his beer Neal was rolling up his sleeve to show off the thin raised line on his shoulder, the scar from where Carruthers had winged him before Peter shot Carruthers off the fire escape. From some of his gestures, he could tell Neal was recounting the story.
Eventually, Mike drifted back to the table, both of them now watching Neal show a crowd of cops how to palm a shot glass.
"Where the hell did you turn him up?" Mike asked.
"Supermax," Peter replied.
"No shit. What was he in for?"
"Bond forgery."
"In supermax?" Mike asked.
"Neal's...not someone who likes prison," Peter said, tactfully. "Took him a month and a half to break out, when he finally got around to it."
Mike whistled. "And you trust him?"
Peter shrugged. "He's got a tracking anklet, and he's smart. Too smart, but then -- "
"So were we," Mike finished. Peter nodded. Mike cleared his throat. "How you been? Never see you unless one of us is in the middle of an arrest."
"Good. Working. Clearing cases."
"How's El?"
"She's fine. Her business is really picking up," Peter said. "You?"
"More desk work," Mike said with a grimace. "On the other hand, less getting shot at. Makes Deke happy."
"How's he?"
"Fucking insane, as usual. I can't go on busts, but he runs into burning buildings?" Mike took a sip of his beer. "It's good though."
Peter was about to say something comforting about how firefighters were insane as a rule, but Neal was working his way back to the table, a wide grin on his face.
"Not so jumpy anymore, huh?" Peter asked.
"Hey, it turns out cops are people too. Who knew?" Neal said.
"Ready to go?"
"Yeah. Listen, thank you," Neal said, shaking Mike's hand again.
"No problem. Keep your heads down," Mike replied, taking them both in. Neal made for the door, but Mike stopped Peter with a hand on his arm. "I mean that. I know what goes on in this town, Peter. Your name's up way too often on the squad reports lately. Don't get shot."
"Do my best," Peter said. "You too."
"And keep an eye on that one!" Mike called after him. Peter laughed as he stepped out of the bar and joined Neal on the sidewalk, already waving for a taxi.
***
Neal, to his surprise, genuinely liked Mike Shattuck. He liked most of the cops Mike had introduced him to. He'd rarely been on the same side as the cops, though he'd posed as one briefly a couple of times. Now, known as one of Shattuck's Fed buddies, he found he could understand their position a little better. They were definitely a lot nicer to him, anyway.
He was grateful, too, for the connections, because a week later he had reason to pull some NYPD files on a small-time museum heist too minor for the FBI to get involved in. Neal had been tipped off that it was Matthew Keller's work, but even if he hadn't he'd have seen Keller's fingerprints all over it, which was why he didn't want to get Peter involved yet -- didn't want Peter involved at all if he could work it alone.
He called a Sergeant named Calhoun at the NYPD, who couldn't help him but introduced him to Smith, who knew how to pull the files he wanted and courier them over on an FBI expense account. The NYPD's suspect was an obvious mark named Campos, who was dead by noon the day Neal started his investigation. Which made Neal's subterfuge a little pointless, since when Campos was murdered he had to give Peter the whole story anyway, but even pointless subterfuge could be pleasurable.
Right up until the moment Campos died, Neal had cherished the admittedly delusional hope that this might be fun. Squaring off against Keller always had been in the past; working with him, too. Keller had taught Neal how to counterfeit poker chips, palm anything smaller than a baseball, and snaplight a Zippo. He'd also been the first boy Neal had ever kissed, though kissing was the least they'd done.
He honestly couldn't remember whether Keller had ditched him or he'd run off first. Connections were so tenuous in those days and people drifted in and out of each others' spheres, disappearing for days at a time on a job and reappearing when you least expected it. Keller had taken him under his wing for a couple of months, and they'd had a good time, and somehow Neal had ended up on a cruise ship to the Keys and Keller had ended up a fucking psychopath. He'd always been a sneaky son of a bitch who made sure he had the upper hand -- even in Monaco, Keller had made it about games he could win against other cons, and later on the rare occasions they encountered each other he'd done the same to Neal -- but that was just nastiness, it wasn't murder. The fact that Keller killed a man and didn't care caught Neal somewhere in his ribcage. He'd liked Keller, once. Even when they were on opposite sides, he'd respected him.
Putting Keller away felt so good. For about ten minutes.
Then Neal went home and got very, very drunk.
He threw Mozzie out around the fourth glass of scotch, when Moz wouldn't shut up about getting in touch with Alex and the music box and finally made a remark about how maybe Neal should slow down a little with the booze. He guessed Moz probably called Peter, which was a big leap for Mozzie, but if he did either Peter was still at work or felt he should leave Neal alone for the night (wise man). So instead, when the unasked-for cavalry did arrive, it was Elizabeth.
She didn't bother knocking; Neal heard someone on the stairs and was prepared to wait until they went away again, but the door simply opened quietly and Elizabeth slipped in.
Neal was sitting at the table, arms crossed on the smooth wood, head resting sideways on them, staring at the latest glass of scotch (number seven).
"Hey," he said.
Elizabeth took off her scarf. "Hi, Neal."
"You want a drink?" Neal asked, nudging the glass with two fingers, not moving his head. Elizabeth's hand closed around the glass and she set it aside, sitting down in his eyeline. She studied him for a moment, then leaned forward and mirrored his pose, arms crossed, chin resting on her wrists.
"You never seem to see me at my best," Neal added.
"Well, as I understand it, your best generally involves being in the middle of some complicated heist," she replied. "So I'm okay with that."
Neal grunted. Elizabeth just watched him.
"Peter says you got a guy for murder today," she said finally.
"Matty Keller," Neal told her. "He and I used to run together."
"I thought you were more like competitors."
He smiled. "Yeah. For a while. When I was a kid we did some jobs, though."
"Is that why the drinking?" she asked.
"Why the drinking," Neal echoed. "Why the drinking. No. Why the drinking is that a guy I used to run with went up for murder today, and my girlfriend might be evil. And Alex got really...hard, while I was in prison. And I'm worried I make people around me be insane."
"Well, you drive Peter a little nuts."
"No, no," he said, shaking his head against his arm. "Like I'm cursed. I literally make people worse than they were."
Elizabeth gave him a slight sympathetic pout. "What about Mozzie?"
Neal waved a hand. "He was already insane when we met. I don't want to curse June evil, Elizabeth. Or you or Peter."
She smiled at that. Neal smiled back. Elizabeth seemed to like it when he smiled.
"Did you ever think maybe it's the company you kept?" she asked. "You didn't have the best taste in friends. And I haven't noticed you casting an evil spell on Peter or Lauren, or Clinton. Or June."
"Give it time," Neal said. Elizabeth rubbed his wrist with one hand, soothing. "No, it'll be okay. I can do this. I can do all of it."
"All of what?" she asked softly.
"I can be one of the good guys and help Moz out and save Kate, and protect her, and make Peter happy, and put cons away, and get Alex to help me somehow, and keep June safe, and keep out of trouble -- "
"God, Neal," Elizabeth interrupted. "Is that what's going through your head on a daily basis?"
Neal closed his eyes. "Pretty much."
"I'd have started drinking a lot sooner."
Neal snorted.
"Sweetheart, you don't have to be white knight of the universe," Elizabeth told him. "You don't have to solve every problem. Especially without asking the other people involved."
"Who else will?" Neal said, aware he was slurring a little. "Peter would, but there's stuff he can't do. I gotta do it."
"This guy really hit you where you live, didn't he?"
Neal turned his face into his arms. Elizabeth was still rubbing his wrist, gentle circles.
"Matty taught me a lot of stuff, Elizabeth," he said, into the soft, airless little place between arms and table. "I thought he was an asshole, but I didn't think he was a murderer."
"Was he one of the Vegas crew?" she asked.
"No, this was before Vegas. Monaco. Have Peter show you the file sometime."
She laughed a little. "You must've been young."
"Seventeen," Neal said, and then, before he could stop himself, "I can't believe I ever slept with him."
Elizabeth's hand stilled, but she didn't pull away. Neal turned his head again, to see her reaction. She looked...thoughtful, more than anything.
"I shouldn't have said that," he said.
"So you didn't just put away someone you knew," she said. "You put away a...what, ex-boyfriend?"
Neal shook his head. "Nothing that formal."
"Fling?"
"Nothing that casual. Aw, Jesus." He sat up, leaning back, pulling away. "Don't tell Peter."
"I won't," she said. "He wouldn't care, though."
"We don't ask, we don't care," Neal sighed.
"Well, there's that. But I think he'd understand. I think if you told him, he'd be able to..."
"Help?" Neal asked. "How, exactly?"
"Sometimes understanding is enough."
"I know you love him and all, but I don't think he'd get it."
Elizabeth inched closer, leaning forward, elbows on her knees now. "He'd get it."
Neal frowned. "I'm missing subtext, aren't I?"
"A little bit." Elizabeth sighed. "Before Peter met me, he dated Mike Shattuck for about a year."
Neal sat forward so fast the legs of the chair banged on the floor. "Captain Shattuck?"
Elizabeth grinned. "It's not a secret. Well. It was at the time, the Bureau used to be a little more uptight. NYPD still is, but it's probably the worst kept secret on the force. Peter didn't tell you?"
"Straight, basketball-playing Peter Burke, ten-years-married Peter Burke dated Shattuck?"
Elizabeth laughed. "What, you can't play basketball if you're sleeping with a guy?"
"Peter Burke -- "
"Has a lot of history you don't know about," Elizabeth said. "You think I'm the only person he ever went out with? Have a look at the man, Neal. He's gorgeous. Totally inept around women -- and men too, sometimes -- but he never had any shortage of offers from anyone. And I know you know that, because you made him an offer too."
Neal dropped his eyes. Elizabeth ruffled his hair.
"I don't care, Neal. It's the past. I knew about Peter's old flames before we got married, and he knew about mine. I've had a lot of time to get used to the ex-boyfriends as well as the ex-girlfriends. Anyway, you both know where you stand now. Besides," she added, lifting his chin a little with one hand, "Peter wouldn't tell me if it was as hot as I think it was. Bet you will."
She was grinning. Neal gave her an uncertain smile.
"I don't really think..." he trailed off.
"Yeah, fine. You boys and your secrets," she sighed. "Just...remember that Peter existed before you met him, Neal. He's more than what you know about him. Stop drinking, go to bed, and talk to him about it tomorrow."
"Why'd you come here tonight?" Neal asked, staring at her.
"Because I was worried about you," Elizabeth said. "Because I care about you."
"Why?"
"Oh, sweetie," Elizabeth said. She stood up, kissed his forehead, and gathered up her purse. "Take your time and work that one out, okay?"
She was at the door before he found his voice again. "Elizabeth!"
"Yeah?" she asked, turning.
"It was hot. It was really good," Neal said. "You're lucky, you're so lucky."
"I know," she said quietly, with the same private kind of smile Peter got when he talked about her. "Goodnight, Neal."
"Night, Elizabeth," he said.
After the door closed behind her, he glanced at the still-full glass of scotch on the table.
Then, with a sigh, he got up and did as he was told -- undressed, climbed into bed, and slept.
Neal probably would have followed Elizabeth's orders to the letter, though he wouldn't have liked it. He could have faced Peter, a Peter who suddenly had a past he knew nothing about, and told him about what really happened in Monaco when he was seventeen. He could have, he was sure he could have. And he was sure that she was right: somehow, Peter could have helped.
But he woke up with a hangover, and he got a message from Moz that Alex was on her way, and then he had to fucking bargain with Alex over the music box and whether he could get his tracker off. Alex probably hated him as much as Keller did. She probably had reason.
So by the time he got to the office that day he was late, Peter was pissed, he was still hung over, and then before he had time to take a deep breath he'd been passed off to another department. Chasing Ryan Wilkes, who had once tried to kill him, and who had kidnapped the daughter of the man whose bonds he'd ripped off and gone to prison over.
Great.
Chapter 5
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Elizabeth makes me both immensely happy and immensely frustrated. There are so few women that are actually people and characters in their own right, with thoughts and motivations and strengths and flaws that aren't just a cardboard box of archetypal/stereotypical Femininity. So much yay for real people in fiction; it makes me feel better about being a real person in the world.
And she keeps un-stupiding Neal about Peter. Who is also a real person and not just a box of Masculinity, which, though the writers are good and careful, sometimes he can end up looking like.
Man oh man, this is one of those times when I both eagerly anticipate and gloomily dread the next installment because YAY NEW FICCY GOODNESS but that means it's just one step closer to being over, and I really don't want it to be over.
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I'm glad you're enjoying it :)
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"And Burke, clear as day on the radio, says Who do you think? I'm J. Fucking Edgar Hoover, asshole."
Still possibly my two favorite lines in this fic. :)
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Can't wait 'till tomorrow's addition! Yay, Elizabeth! Yay Neal! Yay Peter!
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OMFG. so this line took me from, "hey, this story is good!" to "BEST EVER ALAKDJFLKSJFD PLEASE MARRY ME RIGHT NOW OH MY GOD SO AMAZING."
J. FUCKING EDGAR HOOVER. i think i might have woken my housemates up laughing and they live on a different floor.
you rock. this is great. i am so excited for the next part!
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(Anonymous) 2010-08-14 03:16 pm (UTC)(link)No,really, Sam. That's the sort of high-pitched dolphin-like noises of glee I make over this.
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(Anonymous) 2010-08-14 03:17 pm (UTC)(link)no subject
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Souffles
Have you ever cooked a souffle? I know, this is a minor critique compared to anything really germane to the story, like plot structure, characterization, or dialogue. But it acted kinda like a pothole. You wouldn't heat milk, stir it, then add butter and pepper. You start with a roux of butter and flour, heat it until the flour cooks a bit, slowly add milk to make a white sauce, and then add in whatever ingredients constitute your flavour, eg, chedder cheese, spinach, smoked salmon, etc. Then cool the sauce -- your base -- add in the egg yolks, in a separate bowl whip the whites, fold them in, and bake.
But no heating milk and then adding butter.... that's just.... wierd.
Sorry. Now I'll go back to reading the rest of the chapter.
Re: Souffles
Re: tension. The tension is fabulous. The tension is hot. All the anticipation has me breathless.
Well done.
Re: Souffles
Re: Souffles
http://recipesmenus.groceryguide.com/2009/08/julia-childs-cheese-souffl%C3%A9.html
As you can see, a classic souffle recipe begins with a bechamel sauce as the base to capture the flavor of the main ingredient.
Sorry, I'll stop the food geekiness now. As one of the other commenters noted, each new chapter is a schizophrenic journey into delight and regret. MOAR MOAR MOAR
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eeeeee this is amazing :D
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(And also WOE, because how will I motivate myself to get things done for the rest of the day if there isn't any more of this until Sunday?)
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I find that a lot of WC fanfiction makes their less than platonic relationship feel forced or just not quite right. I totally believe whats going on here in your story. <3
I'm not making any sense, I bet. I'm basically saying I LOVE IT. :) Can't wait for the next chapter. <3
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Neal has always struck me as someone who doesn't really care about "gender" as much as he does "interesting", and there was some huge, underlying thing between him and Keller that strikes me as sexual. I kind of fell in love with the concept of Peter as an out bisexual guy, because Peter seems like the kind of man who'd have a good long look at himself for a couple of minutes, shrug, and get on with being in love with whoever he was in love with.
Mike Shattuck -- well "Captain Shattuck", no first name given -- is actually a minor recurring character on the show. We've never seen him, but there are a couple of times in a couple of different episodes where Peter yells "Get on the phone to the NYPD, CALL CAPTAIN SHATTUCK" and it made me LOL to think Shattuck is an ex-boyfriend :D
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OK, gonna go read the rest of the chapter now, xx, IT IS AWESOME SO FAR BTW.
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Also, the scene where Neal is drugged is just perfect.
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I usually don't care much for El. I know most of fandom loves her, but I just don't see it, which saddens me because I have a great love of threesomes (which I blame entirely on Jack Harkness, Ianto Jones and Gwen Cooper. Damn them). But her interactions with Neal in this fic are all very lovely (especially the one when she comes to his place after Keller), and I am very much looking forward to seeing how she'll fit with Peter and Neal and into that dynamic.
Your fic is the highlight of my day. Which sounds pathetic, but I am stuck at grandma's until Tuesday and there isn't exactly much to do here. Look forward to the next chapter.
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I have to admit to a very soft spot for El, so it's nice that even people who don't find her that appealing can get something out of this fic with regards to her :) And I was working really hard for the slow burn with Peter/Neal, so I'm glad that's working too.
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(Anonymous) 2010-08-15 07:46 am (UTC)(link)I love this story so very much. Thank you.
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I haven't read the other reviews, I haven't checked to see if this is a WIP or Completed or how much is left, nor how old this fic is but I HAD to comment here, now.
I am in love with this fic. So far all I have found in the WC fandom is pr0n or drabbles, which is lovely and all but I was really desperate for something to get lost in and this is that fic.
It's *amazing*. I adore it, it's perfectly in character, I can see them in my head, I am getting lost in your story and I just don't want to stop reading. I clicked the link from the WC community on LJ where someone had asked for a story they had read once and couldn't find again, and it was yours and I clicked hoping for some UST which is what I have been looking for because that is my 'kink' I guess. And then I found this which is 1000% better. i've been reading all evening.
The scene in this chapter, at the end of the dinner where Neal rests his head on Peter and wants him and Peter says no and holds him, and the kinda control symbolism, where Peter has it and gives Neal the boundaries and a place to belong and I'm rambling but yeah. Love it. And Neal cooking dinner and it being souffle because that's all he can cook- perfect. And then the Elizabeth/Neal conversations. I have too many favourite scenes.
Anyway, I know this wasn't very coherent but I hope you got from it that I love your fic. I'm off to read more. I will definitely try and comment again, maybe something that makes a bit more sense! :)
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(Anonymous) 2011-01-21 09:35 pm (UTC)(link)