sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2010-11-18 09:09 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2010-11-18 09:09 am
Entry tags:
Exquisite, Chapter 11
Title: Exquisite
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None.
Summary: Neal is finding a place for himself, both at the Bureau and in Peter and Elizabeth's life. Unraveling the mystery of the music box might ruin everything -- but that's a risk he has to take.
Chapter Ten
***
The day they caught their perp and Sara went home from witness protection, Neal in tow and dutifully carrying her file boxes, they both almost died. The real hit man Neal had been impersonating had come back, and if Sara hadn't had a gun...
Sometimes Neal thought he should start carrying. It wasn't technically illegal; he'd studied federal law on it, and his brand of white-collar fraud was exempt from the ban on ex-felons carrying guns. Even if they denied him because he was still serving time, he was pretty sure he could ask Peter for a concealed-weapons holster and Peter would find him one. On the other hand, after about ten seconds of thinking about guns Neal usually came to his senses with the vague taste of revulsion in his mouth and decided to let everyone else carry a gun instead.
But he was grateful to Sara for defending them. That was legitimate. If his other motives were less than pure, well, she didn't need to know that.
When they got back to Federal Plaza, Neal told Peter he'd be up in half an hour, and strolled around the corner to a florist's. They didn't have tiger lilies, like he wanted, but they did have calla lilies in beautiful bright colors: red and gold and yellow, like Sara's hair. He bought enough to be just shy of indecent, wrote Welcome back to the land of the living on the card, and then after a hesitation added, Thanks for keeping me there too. That was nice -- a little romantic and yet completely innocent. He signed it, NC, and tucked it into the bouquet.
"Here's the address -- by six today," Neal told the attendant, and added a generous tip to the total.
Sara called him at half past six. He was sitting on the terrace with June, enjoying the spring evening.
"Sara," he said, sitting back and dropping June a wink. "Isn't this a surprise."
"I got your flowers," she said, but she sounded annoyed. "Cute, Neal."
"Hey, I like to say thank you to people who save me from being shot in the head," Neal replied, refusing to tense up over whatever her deal was. "You like lilies?"
"Yes, they're very beautiful," she answered, a trifle impatient.
"You're not allergic or anything?"
"No."
"Because you sound like you're angry," Neal told her, keeping his tone light. June, eavesdropping shamelessly, gave him a thumbs-up.
"What's your game, Neal? We closed the case. I'm out of your life, for now. I don't get your angle," she said.
"No angle," Neal told her. "I wanted to say thank you. I promise they're not bugged," he added.
"I know, I swept them," she said. Which was very sexy.
"You gotta let people like you sometimes," Neal told her.
"Plenty of people like me. When con men like me, that's when I worry," she said.
"Reformed and rehabilitated," he told her.
"Where's the Raphael?"
"I wish I could tell you," he said, half meaning it. She sighed.
"They're beautiful, Neal," she said, a little more sincere now. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"Now, no more surprise presents unless it's the Raphael."
"I'll keep an eye out for it," he said, and she hung up. June looked at him, amused. He grinned. "Flowers never fail to get a reaction."
"Perhaps not always the one you hoped," June replied.
"In this case, I was taking anything I could get." Neal set the phone on the table. "Byron ever send you flowers?"
June smiled nostalgically. "One of Byron's...associates...went out every week and bought me roses from him while he was in prison. After he got out, it was tulips. And of course, corsages for me and boutonnieres for him when we were courting. He liked a nice orchid blossom on his chest. So did I," she added. "Did I ever tell you about the carnation con he ran?"
Neal leaned his chin on his hands. "No."
"Well, it was my idea. He was counterfeiting small bills -- it was so much easier, back then -- out of a bar he used to own. The police couldn't get a warrant, but they were definitely watching the bar. Anyone who left with a briefcase or a large bag got searched..." June sighed. "That was much easier back then too. But the police weren't watching the flower shop next door. So I said to Byron, sweetheart, why don't you send me some flowers?"
Neal grinned. "June, what did you do?"
"Almost nothing! Byron's the one who knocked a hole in the wall between the shop and the bar and passed the bills through. The florist was happy enough to sell so many flowers. They stuffed half the vases in the shop with the money, filled them up with carnations, and delivered a whole truckload to the little cafe where I was waitressing."
"You unpacked the vases, laundered the money through the cafe -- "
"And the bookstore across the street," June said. "And every table in the cafe had a lovely spray of carnations that day. It brightened up the place considerably."
"That is sneaky," Neal said.
"Why, thank you," June replied, beaming.
"Was Byron doing the forging himself?"
"Oh, no. He had an art student who did all that for him. Very much like yourself, I imagine. Bright young man. I think we have one of his paintings hanging in the east guestroom." June pushed back from the table a little and stood up. "But that's enough corrupting of youth for one night," she said, patting him on the shoulder. "Good luck with your flower girl."
"Thanks," Neal said, turning in his seat. "June -- "
"Yes, dear?"
"Would you like a painting? From me?" he asked. June frowned. Just a small frown, though, as if she were considering...not the question, but himself.
"Of course," she said. "I'd love one, Neal."
"I'll paint you something," he promised.
***
Neal Caffrey
American, 1980 -
The Carnation Girl
Tempera on wood panel, 2010
Temporary Loan
Caffrey's particular, almost eccentric blend of realism and impressionism is seen clearly in this early work. The dark tones of the café interior are powerfully evocative of a sepia photograph, and the detail on the wall paneling, the café patrons, and the central figure of the waitress is careful and controlled. It could be considered nostalgic, a Hopper-esque snapshot of an older era, if not for the striking contrast with the vivid carnations adorning every table in the image.
Recalling Monet's style and subject matter, the carnations are painted almost carelessly, seeming to pop out of the picture in vibrant red shades. The juxtaposition is rendered less startling by the use of warm tones for both the cafe setting and the flowers, uniting the image with the deliberate use of color for which Caffrey is well known.
***
After Mozzie broke into Sara's apartment to steal the package from the FAA with Kate's tape in it, it took less than twenty-four hours for Sara to notice she'd been robbed, gather up her equipment, and drop down on Neal like an incredibly fashionable ton of bricks.
Neal could understand her anger. She'd been telling both him and herself that he was trying to play her and she was too smart to fall for it, but clearly on some level the flowers had gotten to her. She was angry she'd been robbed, but she was more angry that she'd been right about Neal just when she was starting to think she'd been wrong about him.
There was a sort of brilliant challenge in trying to salvage the situation. Just how fast could fast-talker Caffrey talk? He felt as if he would have won some kind of prize if he'd managed to take her from "Please submit to the voice-stress analysis lie detection test" to "Yes, I will have dinner with you tonight" but Sara was single-minded.
He wondered if she ever dreamed about the Raphael. He had, when he'd been setting up the theft.
He'd never met a woman who served a warrant on his home before, either (even Peter had never tossed his place before arresting the hell out of him). If this kept up, maybe he could get her to put some handcuffs on him. The idea was oddly alluring.
It was a detective with the NYPD who put the cuffs on when they found the package, which was much less sexy. Neal tried to stay calm, because this was a minor setback -- well, okay, maybe more than minor. This was a going-back-to-prison-sized setback. Still, Neal and June both had contingency plans in place for things like this, and while they were searching his place the maid downstairs was calling June, June's lawyer, and the FBI. Peter would get him out of this, because Peter needed him for the takedown they were planning for that evening.
Neal was already being put into a transport car when Sara appeared behind the detectives. "Guys?" she said, and they crowded around her, out of earshot. After a minute, looking disgruntled, they stayed where they were while she walked up to the car and leaned on the door.
"Burke sprang you," she told him. "Stand up."
Neal scrambled to his feet and presented his wrists. The cuffs snicked open. He turned around, rubbing where they'd already left faint marks.
"I only let people I really like put cuffs on me," he said, smiling, careful not to make it too smug.
"Shut up and listen to me," she said. "Peter explained to me what's going on. I'm dropping the charges. I swear to God if you break into my house again -- "
"I didn't break into your house," he interrupted. "Look, I'll send you the tracking data."
"You're lying," Sara snapped.
"I didn't know anyone was going to break in," Neal said. One of the first rules of getting out of crap like this was keeping people talking. "I swear I didn't. I didn't do it, I didn't know it was going to happen."
"How am I supposed to believe a word you say?" she asked.
"Because I'm better than that. If I broke in, if I stole that package, you wouldn't know I'd done it," he said. It was the truth.
"That's not at all creepy and violating," Sara told him. He opened his mouth and she shut him up with a look. "You get a walk this time because Burke needs you. If this package goes missing again, or someone else breaks into my home, it's game over, Neal. And I won't come after you. I'll come after Burke."
The threat worked, but he was damned if he'd let her see it. "Good luck with that. Peter's cleaner than you are."
"I'm not screwing around."
"Neither am I."
She snicked the cuffs shut on nothing, tapping one against her lips.
"What's in this package, Neal?" she asked. "What's got you stealing from me and the FAA?"
Neal kept his silence. He saw her fingers tighten fractionally on the evidence bag that held the package.
"Go, save this kid," she said finally, gesturing with the handcuffs. Neal saw, beyond her, Peter standing on the steps of June's house. "Get the hell out of my sight."
He moved past her, but stopped at her shoulder and dropped his head slightly, whispering in her ear. "Thank you, Sara."
"I think we have different definitions of that phrase," she said.
"You'd be surprised," he told her, and went to see how badly Peter was going to kick his ass for this.
"Sit," Peter said, when Neal reached the steps. Neal sat obediently on the retaining wall. Peter sat across from him, eyes beyond him, watching Sara and the NYPD detectives leave. When they were gone, Peter turned back to him.
"Let me see your wrists," he said. Neal, perplexed, held out his hands, palms up, shooting his sleeves so his wrists were visible. The marks from the handcuffs were already fading.
"We're gonna take this," Peter said, examining them, "and file it under stupid bullshit you pulled in the name of Kate, and not talk about it."
"Okay," Neal said warily.
"I want you on your game for tonight. This isn't pause; this is rewind and erase. It never happened," Peter continued. He cupped Neal's left hand in his, turning it over. "That said, I have some orders for you. Stay away from Sara. You or Mozzie or anyone else you know goes near her again, I don't care what op we're running, I'll let them lock you up." He looked up, still holding onto Neal's wrist. "I am the only one who puts cuffs on you. Your part of that deal is keeping out of trouble so no one else has to. You get me?"
Neal nodded. "Got it," he said.
"Okay. Let's head back," Peter said, and the storm clouds drifted out of his eyes, and by the time they got to Federal Plaza it was done -- done and forgotten. Peter even wished him good luck on the op, with a genuine smile.
So Neal took a hundred thousand dollars, cashed it in for chips, put his game face on, and played some high-stakes poker.
He'd always wanted to. In the various casino towns he'd been in, he'd been too broke to play with the whales or too deep in some other con to want to draw attention to himself, but he'd seen plenty of big games. He'd been a croupier for one in Vegas once, laundering forged chips into the game while his accomplice served drinks in the background. Now, playing with the Bureau's money, it was every bit as exciting as he'd thought it would be. Better, even.
There was nothing like the con game. Nothing. You might spend months working up a plan, you might spend days working your ass off to make it function, but in the moment when you put it into action it was all pleasure and greed and pride and instant gratification, and you got to take a couple of hits of all that before you ran. When Donovan turned over his cards in the final round, the roaring started in Neal's ears; when he turned over his own cards it was so loud he couldn't hear anything else.
He got through the end of the game, the cash-out, and the congratulations all on pure instinct. He didn't remember having them wire the money to Nick Halden's one active bank account, but he must have done it; they gave him a receipt. He knew he could taste champagne in his mouth as he left the club, walked around the corner, and leaned against the wall to put his head between his knees.
Jones got to him first. "Caffrey? Hey, you okay?"
"Fine," Neal said, not lifting his head, waving a hand vaguely, trying to get himself steady.
"What happened?" Diana's voice; Neal could see her shoes.
"He won," Peter said, and a warm hand rested on the back of his neck, holding him there. "Easy. Deep breaths."
Neal nodded and inhaled a few more times. That kind of high didn't usually hit until at least a couple of hours after he was safely away from the con.
"You won?" Diana asked. "The whole thing?"
"Yeah, I killed," Neal breathed, waiting for the world to stop spinning. "Oh my God."
He heard Jones whisper to Peter. "Why's he freaking out?"
"Let me handle it," Peter said. "Bring the van."
"I'm good," Neal announced, maybe a little louder than he had to. He straightened slowly, and Peter's hand fell away. Everything was bright and sharp. Oooh, endorphins and adrenaline. "I am very good."
Diana laughed. "Come on, Caffrey, you can sleep it off in the van."
He stumbled back to the van somehow, got inside and fell into a chair.
"Are you coherent?" Peter asked him, as the van began to move.
"Mostly," he replied. Jones was sitting unnecessarily close -- oh, propping him up. He straightened a little. "Yeah, I'm, I got it. Whoa," he added, exhaling.
"Tell me what happened," Peter said. Neal focused on his face.
"I had to get Donovan out of the game, but he played hard," Neal said, hoping he was making sense. "We got down to him and me."
"Holy crap," Diana said.
"Yeah!" Neal agreed. "But I won. I kicked his ass. Hey, where's my hat?" he added, looking around suddenly. Peter reached up, took it off his head, and put it in his hands. "Oh."
Diana grinned at him. "Take it easy."
"It's okay, this happens. It just doesn't usually hit this fast," Neal told her. He started laughing, because it really was funny. "This one time -- you are not allowed to arrest me for this," he added, turning to Peter. Peter held up his hands innocently. "This one time, we did a job, we were in Florence, and I thought okay, I'm getting old, I'm getting used to this, because it didn't hit me for two days. And we're walking along eating gelato and all of a sudden bam. The Antioch Manuscripts. I got to hold the Antioch Manuscripts in my hands."
"He talks about those when he's out of his mind," Peter said to Diana and Jones.
"I went over flat on the sidewalk. Kate thought I was having a seizure, she kept trying to hold my tongue down," Neal continued, still laughing. "Gelato went everywhere, and like three minutes later we hear an ambulanza coming and we had to run from the EMTs. Run! It's healthcare!" he added, and dissolved into extremely embarrassing giggles.
"Wow," Diana said. "Should we be filming this?"
"Good blackmail," Jones added. Neal wheezed, sitting up, wiping the corners of his eyes.
"I'm gonna take him home," Peter announced, which jolted a whole new chemical surge through Neal's body. "You guys go home, get some rest."
Neal realized the van had stopped moving; when Peter pulled him up by his arm and guided him out, they were in the parking garage. He made it through saying goodnight at least semi-coherently and found himself in Peter's car, staring out at the lights of New York City as they scrolled past.
"You're a wreck," Peter told him, but he looked sort of affectionate anyway. "What happened?"
"Mm," Neal said, leaning back and closing his eyes. "After big scores, you know. It hits you. Never did a score this big for the feds before. Well." He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Peter, who was for once concentrating on the road. "When we got the music box, you just weren't around to see that. I try not to be in public. People think I'm drunk. Or stroking out."
"Yeah, it crossed my mind," Peter said. "Feeling better?"
"Takes a while. I'll be fine in the morning. Oh, man," he added, as his stomach made itself known. "I'm starving."
"Just a couple more minutes. I have some leftover Thai," Peter said.
"Your place?" Neal asked.
"Yup."
"Elizabeth home yet?"
"Not for another few days. Why, tired of my company?" Peter asked, grinning. Neal drifted a hand past Peter's shoulder, reached up to brush his knuckles over Peter's cheek. Peter ducked his head away. "Not in the car, Caffrey. Christ, you are high."
Neal folded his hands in his lap and closed his eyes again. He could hear everything -- cars passing, people talking on street corners, Peter's breathing, the pistons in the car's motor.
When they got home, Satchmo was practically bursting; Peter shoved Neal in the direction of the stairs and herded the dog towards the back door. Neal stood indecisively on the bottom step, trying to remember what the hell he was supposed to be doing. Eventually, he tossed his hat on the knob at the bottom of the railing and climbed the stairs. In the bedroom he looked around again, caught sight of the little bowl on the mantel that El had put there for his things, and managed to fumble his cuff links off and into the bowl. He tried to take off his tie, got it caught in the tie bar holding it to his shirt, fussed with the bar until that came out, pulled the tie off, and then got his shirt unbuttoned. That was better; breathing a little easier now. He pulled off the shirt and struggled out of his shoes, flopping backwards onto the bed.
Downstairs a couple of doors slammed, one after another, and then Peter was looming over him. "Up," Peter ordered, so Neal pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed; Peter sat down next to him on the bed and offered Neal a carton of food and a fork.
"Eating on the bed," Neal pointed out. "No art in bed, you said."
"This is food. I'll wash the cover," Peter replied. Neal shrugged and dug in. Oh, shrimp. Yum. "Feeling less insane?"
Neal nodded, stuffing his mouth with noodles.
"Chew," Peter ordered. Guiltily, Neal stopped trying to eat the whole carton at once and chewed. After he'd swallowed, Peter put out a hand and stopped him from taking another bite. "Okay. Slow down and take me through the whole thing."
They sat there on the bed, eating cold Thai food, and Neal took him step by step through the game -- every hand, almost every bet. Peter listened and occasionally asked a question, but mostly he just let Neal talk. He was aware he was talking fast, but the closer he got to the last hand the calmer he felt.
Normally, when they pulled a job this big and the hit finally came, Neal would be in some safe house or hotel room with Kate. She used to give him wine, which helped too. She loved to see him like that, or at least he thought she had. It was so hard to know, now.
He stopped talking abruptly when Kate's name fell out of his mouth, and looked up at Peter guiltily.
"It's fine," Peter said. Neal wondered how long he'd been talking about her. He'd eaten all his food, and there was a half-empty bottle of water in his hand. He took a long drink and then let Peter take it away from him; Peter was gone for a while and then came back and bent over Neal, hands working at his belt. Neal lifted his head to kiss him.
"Nuh-uh," Peter said. "Sleep."
Neal looked down. Peter was undressing him and he wasn't even hard. Peter wasn't either.
"Okay," he agreed, and stood up long enough to get out of most of his clothes. He crawled under the blankets and up against the pillows while Peter did something in the background and then eased into bed next to him, breath warm on his shoulder, an arm secure around his waist from behind.
"I miss Elizabeth," Neal said quietly.
"Me too," Peter told him. "She's going to be sorry she missed this."
Neal laughed. "My break with reality?"
"Yup." Peter was warm and still, and his breathing was already slowing. Neal swung between taut nervous energy and a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. He wondered if Peter really understood, or if Neal just seemed like a crazy fucker who was finally cracking.
He took a breath, let it out slowly.
"The game is good," he said. "You get that, right?"
Peter must still be awake; his arm tightened slightly. "Mmhm."
"And you play it because you love it," Neal continued. "I know I look crazy but it's just...that good."
"You don't look crazy," Peter mumbled.
"It's right there," Neal continued. "It's so good. If you love the game you have to play it. But you can't leave it. It goes on all the time, every hour, every day. Once you're in, it's what you think about before you go to sleep. You talk about it while you eat. You go for a walk, you scout marks. Sex turns into a con game. Everything you do is about the con."
"And they call me an obsessive," Peter said.
"You don't even realize it," Neal said. "I played it and I was good at it, I mean really good."
"Yeah, I do know that part," Peter sighed.
"No, you don't get how good I was. It was a point of pride. I never ripped off someone else's con. Every job I set up I invented start to finish."
"I know that too," Peter said, surprising him. "I studied you, I wasn't fucking around those three years I was after you."
Neal laughed a little. "Yeah, but there's still stuff you don't know. You know the job at SFMOMA I supposedly may have been involved in?"
Peter kissed his shoulder. "It's in the files. What was that, '05? After the Raphael."
"Yeah. I was -- "
"Twenty-four. It was a hell of a heist. Solid work. One of your last before I caught you," Peter reminded him.
"I invented that con when I was eighteen. I did the groundwork when I was sixteen. I just never got around to going to California until I was twenty-four. If I'd been in California when I was eighteen, I'd've done it then."
"You miss it," Peter said, which was the entire point of what Neal was saying.
"I feel like I'm selling out. I'm a good cop, Peter."
Peter laughed.
"I am. You know it. What else are you going to call it?" Neal asked. "But I was a great thief. I get a high like tonight, I wonder sometimes why I settle for being a good cop. Whether this is my bid for mediocrity."
Peter was silent so long Neal thought maybe he'd fallen asleep. Finally, he moved, exhaling a little, sliding his hand down. Neal froze, uncertain what was going on, until Peter cupped his hand around Neal's soft cock, through his briefs. Not a caress, more of...an enclosure.
"How many people got this close to you, Neal?" he asked.
"I don't keep track of the people I sleep with -- "
"Not what I asked," Peter rumbled in his ear. His hand was still there, unmoving, a warm but faintly threatening presence. "How many got as close to you as I did?"
"No one. Not even the Marshals."
"Mmhm. And how many people would you let do to you what Elizabeth and I do?"
Neal struggled not to pull away. "Just you."
"You never asked anyone else to cuff you?" Peter asked.
"No."
"Never begged like you beg me?"
"No," Neal repeated, voice strained. This was hot, he should be getting off on it, but his body was resolutely uninterested. Given Peter's grip, it might be just as well.
"Easy," Peter told him, kissing his neck. "Never wanted anyone else to?"
Neal shook his head, confused.
"Good," Peter said, and Neal realized this was as much for Peter as it was for him, because what he'd said sounded an awful lot like a prelude to a jailbreak. "You belong here. The game might be a high, but you can't have this and the game together. You can't be a good man and be in the game."
"Tonight was good," Neal said.
"Yeah, tonight was good, but it was legal good. You're better here," Peter added, sliding his hand back up to Neal's stomach, warm and settling under his shirt. Neal relaxed a little, relieved. "You know you are. You could go back, but you'd always know what you gave up. This makes you happy."
"Happy?" Neal asked, a little incredulous.
"Tell me I'm wrong," Peter said.
Neal shook his head. "I...worry about being happy. I worry about being content."
"That's because you're messed up," Peter told him, "and you spent half your life being miserable and telling yourself you weren't. Now," he added, in a voice that brooked no disobedience, "Go to sleep."
Exhaustion overtook adrenaline; he was full of food and warm and safe, and he'd hauled in nine hundred grand and nobody was going to arrest him for it. Yeah, so. That was okay. Neal slept.
***
When Peter woke the next morning, Neal was gone.
He had a brief oh-shit moment, but even before he was out of bed he caught sight of a large white object on the bedside table. It was a crane, folded out of a piece of printer paper that had been ripped along one edge to square it. He picked it up and unfolded it carefully. Neal had left a note inside the crane.
Took off early, had some banking to do.
Stole the last bagel, also a shirt. Caught a cab.
Don't worry, I'm sane.
Peter reflected that when someone had to tell you they were sane, you were probably in over your head.
Neal was in good spirits that morning when he arrived at the office -- cheerful, energetic and charming, but lacking in the slightly desperate edge he'd had the night before. It was hard to characterize Neal's behavior as "natural", because who knew what went on in his head sometimes, but it was at least his usual con-everyone game, nothing more sinister.
Peter's phone rang halfway through the day; Sara was calling. He rubbed his face, glanced at Neal to check for any traces of guilt, and then picked it up.
"Sara," he said.
"Peter," she answered.
"Please tell me Neal didn't try to weasel that package out of you again."
She laughed a little, but it was a shaky laugh. "No. I have it. That's why I'm calling you. This package -- did you know what was in it?"
He leaned back. "I could make a guess. Documents about an airplane explosion?"
"Not exactly. I did a little digging. I didn't realize..." she hesitated. "I didn't realize Kate Moreau was killed. I didn't even know she'd been involved in the explosion. I have the explosion in my files, because of Neal, but...the newspapers didn't say much. The FAA and Homeland Security, getting information out of them is like banging your head against a wall."
"Yeah," Peter said. "The plane was on the tarmac, she was inside it -- "
"And you were there."
"How do you know that?" he asked. Through the glass wall of his office, he could see Neal juggling paperweights lifted from three different agents' desks. He caught Jones's eye and tipped his head.
"The package is a copy of the black box recording," Sara said.
"How the hell did Neal get his hands on it?" Peter demanded, sitting forward.
"I don't know. I don't know why he sent it to me, I don't know why he had to steal it from me. I think I was just a drop. I'm not sure that matters." She took a deep breath.
"What does it say?" Peter asked. Outside, Jones caught one of the paperweights and held it under Neal's nose, warningly.
"You don't know?" Sara asked.
"I was involved. I can't officially participate in the investigation, and it's Homeland Security's deal anyway. They're working with our Counterterrorism guys, but if I go poking around I could get in a lot of trouble."
"But you are anyway," Sara surmised.
"I'm following a few outside leads," Peter admitted. "Can you hear me on the black box? I wasn't even on the tarmac."
"No. It's Kate. She calls someone, and says that you're there, she doesn't know why you're there. Then she asks if this changes some plan...then nothing." Sara inhaled again. "What were you doing there?"
Peter looked up through the glass wall again. Neal was talking easily with Jones now, grinning, making a joke. The paperweights had vanished.
"Trying to stop Neal from getting on the plane," he said. "He and Kate cut a deal with one of our offices. They were getting out. I thought Neal should stay. So, I went and told him he should."
"He was there?" she asked. "He was actually there when it blew?"
"Yeah. We both saw it."
"He saw her die," Sara said, almost to herself.
"He saw enough," Peter replied. She was silent. "Look, Sara, you shouldn't have that and I shouldn't know about it."
"How far do you trust Neal?" she asked. "Really. Being honest with yourself. How far?"
Peter sighed. "The problem with Neal is that how far you should trust him is directly related to how far he trusts you. I caught him, I got him out of prison, I'm his handler. I can afford to trust him. You? I don't know, Sara. I know he likes you. He's got a thing for your hair."
She laughed. "What?"
"It's an artist thing, I don't dig too deep. If you don't want to give the recording to him, don't. He has to learn to live with his mistakes, which is turning out to be a very long process for me. But he likes you. I think he'd like you a lot more -- "
" -- if I got off his ass about the Raphael."
"I'm not saying you should. Part of the reason he trusts me is that I caught him. He knows I'm better than him; if you nail him for the Raphael...I don't want him going back to prison for it. But I do wish you good luck in the chase."
"Do you think I should give the recording to him?" she asked.
"It's your decision, Sara. If it were me, I would," Peter said. "On the other hand -- "
"You're his friend," she finished.
"And I saw what the explosion did to him. I think he might say he wants to catch Kate's killer, but at bottom what he really wants is to hear her voice again."
"Jesus, Peter, you know how to tell a sad story."
"Thanks, it's a hobby. Besides, you could always double-con him," Peter added. "Get far enough inside his defenses, he might hand over the Raphael to you without a fight."
She hmmed thoughtfully into the phone.
"Can I make an inappropriate and sexist suggestion?" he asked.
"It wouldn't be the first I've heard," she replied.
"If you give it back to him, wear something orange. He likes you in orange."
"He's never seen me in orange," Sara pointed out.
"Trust me."
"Yeah. Okay. Thanks," she said. "I get the feeling this probably won't be the last time we talk."
"Take care, Sara," he said. She hung up.
The next morning, Neal was subdued and thoughtful, paging idly through cold cases and shrugging off Diana's invitation to lunch. Peter watched, made sure he wasn't running himself into the ground, and let him be.
***
After Sara brought Neal back the package, he spent a little time in shock. It was the most humane thing any relative stranger had done for him in a long time, especially a stranger who saw through the game. He drifted through work that day grateful that they had no case and that Peter left him alone; that night he played the recording, and grief pushed away everything else.
Still, he had been grieving for months, and now he knew how to go about it so that it didn't encroach on his work. He walled it away and the next morning he was clear-headed enough to realize -- well, first, that he needed to be on for work, or Peter really would find some way to prod him into talking, and second, that he owed Sara. She ought to know he was grateful.
He went back to the flower shop where he'd bought the first bouquet for her and bought a single orange calla lily. This time the note was more genuine: It is the duty of the living to remember the dead. Thank you. NC. She didn't call to acknowledge it, but when he got back from lunch that day there was a single white lily in reply, sitting in a narrow vase on his desk, no note.
White lily. A mourning flower.
Neal hadn't been allowed out of prison to attend Kate's funeral. Peter had gone; he'd told him about it during one of their visits, stumbling over his words even after Neal reassured him that he wanted to hear about it, wanted to know. But Neal hadn't been able to pay her his final respects, and that hit him sharply when he saw the flower.
He chewed on the inside of his lip, telling himself to cowboy up and not have a Moment in front of the entire FBI. The feeling passed; he sat down at his desk and got to work.
About an hour later his phone rang, which was frankly surprising; the phone on his desk never rang, and he had taken to treating it like a prop, like maybe it wasn't even connected. He frowned at it and then answered it to amuse himself: "Neal Caffrey, White Collar crime."
"Mr. Caffrey, this is Deputy Daniel Braddock with the US Marshals," said a voice on the other end of the line. Neal immediately lifted his leg and checked his ankle, but the tracker's light was green.
"How can I help the Marshals?" Neal asked carefully.
"Did Agent Burke make you aware of our recent intel regarding Shane Barlowe?"
"Yeah," Neal said, perplexed. Jones drifted over to his desk, looking curious. "Barlowe's trying to run things from the pen, and our guy Clive was marked a flight risk."
"Well, he flew," Braddock said. "Someone tried to nail him and he took off."
"Clive, you idiot," Neal groaned.
"We're on his trail now, but he did a good job disappearing. We're letting Burke know as well. If he tries to contact you -- "
"Believe me, I'm going to grab him by the ear and drag him back to you," Neal said. "I don't need Shane Barlowe trying to kill either one of us."
"We're putting surveillance on your address; if you want additional measures, just let us know."
Neal rubbed his eyes. "Hey, listen, I'm not the only person living there. Keep it subtle, okay? There's kids at that house all the time, and Clive's not a violent guy."
"Do you think it's likely he'll try to contact you?"
"Not especially," Neal drawled. "He's too smart to run for New York. I'll keep an eye out, though."
"We appreciate the courtesy, Caffrey. We'll be in touch," Braddock said, and hung up. In his office, Peter was hanging up as well.
"Neal!" He yelled across the bullpen. "Diana!"
"Yeah, I heard," Neal yelled back, but he hurried across and up the stairs. "The US Marshals just called my desk phone. I didn't think that thing even worked."
"I gave them your number," Peter said distractedly. Diana arrived in the doorway right after Neal. "Diana?"
"Yep," she said. "What can I do, boss?"
Peter gave her a small grin. "This is your case, you're the lead."
"The Marshals want me to go help them search," she said.
"So? Up to you if you do. Where were they keeping Clive?"
"Chicago," she said. Neal groaned again. "What?"
"It's the transit capital of the country," he said. "It's got two airports, Amtrak's major hub, a local city-to-suburb rail network, and a giant lake. If they were keeping him in an actual airplane he would have been less of a flight risk."
"You gonna go to Chicago?" Peter asked. Diana looked down at the file.
"You think we can track where he went from there?"
"Yeah, you? You probably can. Congratulations," Peter added. "You've got your very own Neal Caffrey to chase."
"Great," Diana sighed.
"Hey!" Neal gave her an offended look. She patted his arm.
"I want you to do a write-up," she said. "Everywhere you think a kid like him would go. You think he's coming here?"
"There's no way he's dumb enough to come back to New York," Neal said. "He knows I'd just kick him back to the Marshals."
"Great. Can you work up a profile on where he'd go?" she asked.
"Yes, boss," he said. She grinned.
"Good," she told him. "Email me when you're done, or if you need access to the case files. I'm gonna go pack a bag. Peter?"
"Go. I'll handle the Marshals," Peter said, which was cryptic. Neal eyed him as Diana left. "Come on, we have to make some calls."
"On who?" Neal asked, following him out.
"Clive ran because someone made a try for him," Peter said, hurrying down the stairs. "Jones! Taking Neal, we got work to do. Call me if anything exciting happens."
"I live for desk work," Jones called back. Peter snorted.
"You think the Marshals have a leak?" Neal asked. "I mean, if you want to find someone there are plenty of ways."
"Let's lock down the Marshals. If Barlowe found Clive, he might find us next. Which is why," Peter added, "we have a stop to make first."
***
The stop turned out to be the FBI seizure and evidence warehouse.
"Hey, Brian," Peter said, as he checked his gun and showed his badge at the front desk.
"Agent Burke," the man behind the desk said. "Back for more caviar and booze?"
Peter grinned. "Not this time. I need to fit out Caffrey here."
"Fit out?" Neal asked, alarmed.
"No problem. Off the books?"
"If that works for you."
"Sure," Brian said.
"And I need lockbox 10-22," Peter added.
"I'll send someone to grab it." Brian passed him a pair of keys. "Have fun. Bring me the tags, I'll take care of it."
"Off the books?" Neal asked, as Peter opened the door to the warehouse. "Fit me out? Are we having me killed?"
Peter shook his head. "Nope. Come on."
He led Neal down the first aisle, stopping at a large chain-link cage set back in the wall. Neal stared at the huge rack of guns on the other side of the wire.
"You want a gun?" Peter offered, as he unlocked the cage door. Neal shook his head. "Yeah, didn't think so."
Neal followed him in, edging carefully past the guns. Peter walked to a second rack, where a series of batons hung on pegs.
"Ever use one of these?" he asked, taking down a slim, short, vicious-looking baton.
"I saw Sara use hers," Neal said. "Hers was thicker," he added.
Peter swung his arm down, flicking his wrist slightly. The baton telescoped, whistling in the air. Neal stepped back instinctively.
"Yours is longer," Peter said, passing it over. Neal took it between two fingers. "Barlowe's not screwing around. You don't want a gun, and I don't want you carrying; ergo, you get an asp."
Neal pushed the end of the baton back into its housing, carefully pointing it away from himself and Peter. "And you think I'm somehow not going to kill myself with this?"
"They're not hard to use. There's YouTube videos," Peter waved a hand, already digging in a set of drawers below the batons. He came out with what looked very much like some kind of nylon bondage harness.
"Uh," Neal said.
"It's a wrist holster," Peter told him drily. "I'll show you how to rig it later," he added, tossing it to Neal.
"Are we allowed to take this stuff?" Neal asked.
"Agents get some leeway," Peter said. "It's not illegal for you to carry it. If you kill someone with it, I might get my ass kicked. Otherwise we're good."
"What's lockbox 10-22?" Neal asked, as Peter dug in yet another drawer, coming up with a Taser. "Come on, I'm not going to Tase someone."
"You don't have to," Peter said. "You just have to look like you will."
"10-22?" Neal repeated.
"Elizabeth's gun," Peter answered, taking the baton and holster back and ripping off the ID tags tied to them.
"Elizabeth has a gun?" Neal demanded, following him out.
"She's married to an FBI agent, you better believe she has a gun," Peter said. "Gun, lockbox, license, and training. She doesn't like having it in the house, so we keep it here. When I think she might need it, I grab it and we keep it at home."
Neal's blood chilled. "Has she ever needed it?"
"She's never aimed it at anyone, no," Peter replied. "First time for everything, though."
He tossed the tags on the counter; Brian took them and tucked them in an envelope, filing it in a drawer. He looked approvingly at the asp and Taser, then hoisted a small plastic crate onto the counter. Inside was a handgun lockbox and a cleaning kit.
"Thanks," Peter said, dumping his treasure into the crate.
"Keep safe," Brian told him, tossing off a sarcastic salute. Peter grinned and dropped the crate into Neal's arms, leading him back out to the car.
"I'm having issues picturing Elizabeth with a gun," Neal said, setting the crate on the backseat and closing the lid, tucking away all the firepower inside it.
"So does she. So do I. But the bad guys are armed and they sometimes like coming after families," Peter said, settling himself in the driver's seat. He crossed his wrists on the steering wheel and turned to Neal. "You remember the Cosi job?"
"Allegedly, I might," Neal said cautiously.
"That was what, '04? I spent a month trying to lock you down."
"Lock someone down," Neal corrected.
"I was in Denver for a month," Peter continued. He started the car. "A month without my wife."
"Hey, you coulda let...the suspect...walk," Neal said.
"I did, when the suspect sent my wife flowers and a note of apology that her husband was detained," Peter told him. Neal grinned nostalgically; the grin dropped away when he saw the expression on Peter's face. "The suspect knew where I lived. He was sending gifts to my wife. These things? They throw up flags."
"Peter, I didn't -- "
"I know that, and you know that," Peter said, pulling out of the warehouse parking lot. "I knew that then. You never pulled violent jobs. But I couldn't take that chance, not with Elizabeth. That's why I left Denver before we could nail you down."
Neal stared at him. "You seriously thought I was a danger to her? Was she scared?"
"Of you? No. Of the people you ran with? Yeah, a little."
"Jesus, Peter, I didn't know," Neal said. "I wasn't trying to freak her out. I just thought it was funny."
Peter gave him a sidelong look. "So did she," he admitted. "I was unamused."
"I'm sorry," Neal said, genuinely distressed that he'd scared Elizabeth, that he'd upset Peter enough that Peter had made her keep a gun in the house. He'd just been playing a game, messing around.
"Well." Peter tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. "You can make it up to her next time she's home. Not with flowers," he added.
A thought occurred to Neal, a very unhappy thought. "Um."
Peter turned to him. "Neal, what did you do?"
"I sent Sara flowers," Neal said. "Just to say thank you! For me not getting shot."
"I think Sara is aware that you know where she lives," Peter said drily. "Also, it's a little late not to piss her off, and she seems very at home with firearms, so you probably don't need to worry."
Neal rubbed his head. "You know, it's occurring to me that you might actually be better at girls than I am, and that's really sad."
Peter was smiling. "For a start, calling them women helps a lot. It's amazing what you learn about them when you don't spend all your time flirting with them. I told you: don't come after me until you've tried to keep a beautiful woman happy for ten years. And," he added, "this discussion is over, because we are about to walk into the U.S. Marshals' office and wave my badge around like it's a target. You need to keep quiet and behave."
"Hey, you're the one who hauled me along," Neal pointed out. "Quiet in a room full of Marshals, I can do that."
He did, too; he sat in an alcove off Braddock's office while Peter steamrolled the Marshals into letting him see their documentation and talk to their people to find out if there was a leak in the New York office. Peter brought him Clive's case file to study and a cup of coffee that was only superior to the FBI's coffee because it was more than lukewarm. Neal had never really understood how someone could ruin coffee until he'd started working for Peter; considerations of grind and roast aside, ordinary coffee wasn't that hard to make. You put the grounds in the basket, poured in the water, and pushed the button. Somehow the federal government had still managed to mangle it.
Mostly he listened -- listened for what he could hear through the wall, while Peter talked to people on the other side. Listened to Braddock give orders on his phone whenever Peter wasn't using the room. And he listened to Peter and Braddock change his tracker information.
"Am I getting a new radius?" he asked, when Peter walked into the room. He'd been working on a sketch, having run out of other things to do -- he was going for a photo-realistic drawing of Peter's Glock 23, but he was having a hard time remembering the exact shape of the ribbing on the grips. "Two miles is so last year."
"New alert level," Peter told him, sitting down. "You were on code three. Now you're on code one."
"I feel special," Neal said, shuffling the sketch under some other paperwork. "What's code one?"
"Your tracker gets cut or unlocked or you put a foot outside your radius without a permit on the logs, and I get an alert on my phone," Peter said. "If I don't respond within a minute, both Hughes and I get a call. If neither of us responds, a BOLO goes out to every NYPD radio and a team scrambles to your last known location. You lose the hardware or leave your radius and cops are on you within five minutes, guaranteed. Do not leave without warning me first," he said.
"What's the point of this?" Neal asked, leaning back.
"For them? You try to take Clive out of the city, you get caught. For us? If Barlowe's guys come after you, our response time has just dropped from fifteen minutes to five."
Neal nodded. "So. Done here for now?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I think so. You hear anything that set off alarms?"
Neal looked at him, startled.
"What, you think I put you in there to read paperwork?" Peter asked. "Don't tell me you weren't listening the whole time."
"Didn't hear much that pinged me weird," Neal replied. "If the leak's here they're pretty cool about it."
"Yeah. Might be in Chicago. Makes our job easier, nobody there knows who we are," Peter said. "Come on. You have a write-up to do for Diana, and Jones can teach you how to use the asp."
***
Chapter Twelve
References:
The SFMOMA job referenced here was written up by Anya, one of my betas, in the fanfic Profile. It's gorgeous, and you should check it out!
Some types of white collar felons can indeed carry firearms under Federal law, US Code 18 U.S.C. 921(a)(20)(A). I'm not certain if Neal counts, but as I understand it there is some wiggle room in the language. The NRA has also worked to rearm convicted felons under the Relief From Disability program. (Please note -- the article linked to contains citations regarding homicide and assault that may be triggery. Read at your own risk.)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None.
Summary: Neal is finding a place for himself, both at the Bureau and in Peter and Elizabeth's life. Unraveling the mystery of the music box might ruin everything -- but that's a risk he has to take.
Chapter Ten
***
The day they caught their perp and Sara went home from witness protection, Neal in tow and dutifully carrying her file boxes, they both almost died. The real hit man Neal had been impersonating had come back, and if Sara hadn't had a gun...
Sometimes Neal thought he should start carrying. It wasn't technically illegal; he'd studied federal law on it, and his brand of white-collar fraud was exempt from the ban on ex-felons carrying guns. Even if they denied him because he was still serving time, he was pretty sure he could ask Peter for a concealed-weapons holster and Peter would find him one. On the other hand, after about ten seconds of thinking about guns Neal usually came to his senses with the vague taste of revulsion in his mouth and decided to let everyone else carry a gun instead.
But he was grateful to Sara for defending them. That was legitimate. If his other motives were less than pure, well, she didn't need to know that.
When they got back to Federal Plaza, Neal told Peter he'd be up in half an hour, and strolled around the corner to a florist's. They didn't have tiger lilies, like he wanted, but they did have calla lilies in beautiful bright colors: red and gold and yellow, like Sara's hair. He bought enough to be just shy of indecent, wrote Welcome back to the land of the living on the card, and then after a hesitation added, Thanks for keeping me there too. That was nice -- a little romantic and yet completely innocent. He signed it, NC, and tucked it into the bouquet.
"Here's the address -- by six today," Neal told the attendant, and added a generous tip to the total.
Sara called him at half past six. He was sitting on the terrace with June, enjoying the spring evening.
"Sara," he said, sitting back and dropping June a wink. "Isn't this a surprise."
"I got your flowers," she said, but she sounded annoyed. "Cute, Neal."
"Hey, I like to say thank you to people who save me from being shot in the head," Neal replied, refusing to tense up over whatever her deal was. "You like lilies?"
"Yes, they're very beautiful," she answered, a trifle impatient.
"You're not allergic or anything?"
"No."
"Because you sound like you're angry," Neal told her, keeping his tone light. June, eavesdropping shamelessly, gave him a thumbs-up.
"What's your game, Neal? We closed the case. I'm out of your life, for now. I don't get your angle," she said.
"No angle," Neal told her. "I wanted to say thank you. I promise they're not bugged," he added.
"I know, I swept them," she said. Which was very sexy.
"You gotta let people like you sometimes," Neal told her.
"Plenty of people like me. When con men like me, that's when I worry," she said.
"Reformed and rehabilitated," he told her.
"Where's the Raphael?"
"I wish I could tell you," he said, half meaning it. She sighed.
"They're beautiful, Neal," she said, a little more sincere now. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"Now, no more surprise presents unless it's the Raphael."
"I'll keep an eye out for it," he said, and she hung up. June looked at him, amused. He grinned. "Flowers never fail to get a reaction."
"Perhaps not always the one you hoped," June replied.
"In this case, I was taking anything I could get." Neal set the phone on the table. "Byron ever send you flowers?"
June smiled nostalgically. "One of Byron's...associates...went out every week and bought me roses from him while he was in prison. After he got out, it was tulips. And of course, corsages for me and boutonnieres for him when we were courting. He liked a nice orchid blossom on his chest. So did I," she added. "Did I ever tell you about the carnation con he ran?"
Neal leaned his chin on his hands. "No."
"Well, it was my idea. He was counterfeiting small bills -- it was so much easier, back then -- out of a bar he used to own. The police couldn't get a warrant, but they were definitely watching the bar. Anyone who left with a briefcase or a large bag got searched..." June sighed. "That was much easier back then too. But the police weren't watching the flower shop next door. So I said to Byron, sweetheart, why don't you send me some flowers?"
Neal grinned. "June, what did you do?"
"Almost nothing! Byron's the one who knocked a hole in the wall between the shop and the bar and passed the bills through. The florist was happy enough to sell so many flowers. They stuffed half the vases in the shop with the money, filled them up with carnations, and delivered a whole truckload to the little cafe where I was waitressing."
"You unpacked the vases, laundered the money through the cafe -- "
"And the bookstore across the street," June said. "And every table in the cafe had a lovely spray of carnations that day. It brightened up the place considerably."
"That is sneaky," Neal said.
"Why, thank you," June replied, beaming.
"Was Byron doing the forging himself?"
"Oh, no. He had an art student who did all that for him. Very much like yourself, I imagine. Bright young man. I think we have one of his paintings hanging in the east guestroom." June pushed back from the table a little and stood up. "But that's enough corrupting of youth for one night," she said, patting him on the shoulder. "Good luck with your flower girl."
"Thanks," Neal said, turning in his seat. "June -- "
"Yes, dear?"
"Would you like a painting? From me?" he asked. June frowned. Just a small frown, though, as if she were considering...not the question, but himself.
"Of course," she said. "I'd love one, Neal."
"I'll paint you something," he promised.
***
Neal Caffrey
American, 1980 -
The Carnation Girl
Tempera on wood panel, 2010
Temporary Loan
Caffrey's particular, almost eccentric blend of realism and impressionism is seen clearly in this early work. The dark tones of the café interior are powerfully evocative of a sepia photograph, and the detail on the wall paneling, the café patrons, and the central figure of the waitress is careful and controlled. It could be considered nostalgic, a Hopper-esque snapshot of an older era, if not for the striking contrast with the vivid carnations adorning every table in the image.
Recalling Monet's style and subject matter, the carnations are painted almost carelessly, seeming to pop out of the picture in vibrant red shades. The juxtaposition is rendered less startling by the use of warm tones for both the cafe setting and the flowers, uniting the image with the deliberate use of color for which Caffrey is well known.
***
After Mozzie broke into Sara's apartment to steal the package from the FAA with Kate's tape in it, it took less than twenty-four hours for Sara to notice she'd been robbed, gather up her equipment, and drop down on Neal like an incredibly fashionable ton of bricks.
Neal could understand her anger. She'd been telling both him and herself that he was trying to play her and she was too smart to fall for it, but clearly on some level the flowers had gotten to her. She was angry she'd been robbed, but she was more angry that she'd been right about Neal just when she was starting to think she'd been wrong about him.
There was a sort of brilliant challenge in trying to salvage the situation. Just how fast could fast-talker Caffrey talk? He felt as if he would have won some kind of prize if he'd managed to take her from "Please submit to the voice-stress analysis lie detection test" to "Yes, I will have dinner with you tonight" but Sara was single-minded.
He wondered if she ever dreamed about the Raphael. He had, when he'd been setting up the theft.
He'd never met a woman who served a warrant on his home before, either (even Peter had never tossed his place before arresting the hell out of him). If this kept up, maybe he could get her to put some handcuffs on him. The idea was oddly alluring.
It was a detective with the NYPD who put the cuffs on when they found the package, which was much less sexy. Neal tried to stay calm, because this was a minor setback -- well, okay, maybe more than minor. This was a going-back-to-prison-sized setback. Still, Neal and June both had contingency plans in place for things like this, and while they were searching his place the maid downstairs was calling June, June's lawyer, and the FBI. Peter would get him out of this, because Peter needed him for the takedown they were planning for that evening.
Neal was already being put into a transport car when Sara appeared behind the detectives. "Guys?" she said, and they crowded around her, out of earshot. After a minute, looking disgruntled, they stayed where they were while she walked up to the car and leaned on the door.
"Burke sprang you," she told him. "Stand up."
Neal scrambled to his feet and presented his wrists. The cuffs snicked open. He turned around, rubbing where they'd already left faint marks.
"I only let people I really like put cuffs on me," he said, smiling, careful not to make it too smug.
"Shut up and listen to me," she said. "Peter explained to me what's going on. I'm dropping the charges. I swear to God if you break into my house again -- "
"I didn't break into your house," he interrupted. "Look, I'll send you the tracking data."
"You're lying," Sara snapped.
"I didn't know anyone was going to break in," Neal said. One of the first rules of getting out of crap like this was keeping people talking. "I swear I didn't. I didn't do it, I didn't know it was going to happen."
"How am I supposed to believe a word you say?" she asked.
"Because I'm better than that. If I broke in, if I stole that package, you wouldn't know I'd done it," he said. It was the truth.
"That's not at all creepy and violating," Sara told him. He opened his mouth and she shut him up with a look. "You get a walk this time because Burke needs you. If this package goes missing again, or someone else breaks into my home, it's game over, Neal. And I won't come after you. I'll come after Burke."
The threat worked, but he was damned if he'd let her see it. "Good luck with that. Peter's cleaner than you are."
"I'm not screwing around."
"Neither am I."
She snicked the cuffs shut on nothing, tapping one against her lips.
"What's in this package, Neal?" she asked. "What's got you stealing from me and the FAA?"
Neal kept his silence. He saw her fingers tighten fractionally on the evidence bag that held the package.
"Go, save this kid," she said finally, gesturing with the handcuffs. Neal saw, beyond her, Peter standing on the steps of June's house. "Get the hell out of my sight."
He moved past her, but stopped at her shoulder and dropped his head slightly, whispering in her ear. "Thank you, Sara."
"I think we have different definitions of that phrase," she said.
"You'd be surprised," he told her, and went to see how badly Peter was going to kick his ass for this.
"Sit," Peter said, when Neal reached the steps. Neal sat obediently on the retaining wall. Peter sat across from him, eyes beyond him, watching Sara and the NYPD detectives leave. When they were gone, Peter turned back to him.
"Let me see your wrists," he said. Neal, perplexed, held out his hands, palms up, shooting his sleeves so his wrists were visible. The marks from the handcuffs were already fading.
"We're gonna take this," Peter said, examining them, "and file it under stupid bullshit you pulled in the name of Kate, and not talk about it."
"Okay," Neal said warily.
"I want you on your game for tonight. This isn't pause; this is rewind and erase. It never happened," Peter continued. He cupped Neal's left hand in his, turning it over. "That said, I have some orders for you. Stay away from Sara. You or Mozzie or anyone else you know goes near her again, I don't care what op we're running, I'll let them lock you up." He looked up, still holding onto Neal's wrist. "I am the only one who puts cuffs on you. Your part of that deal is keeping out of trouble so no one else has to. You get me?"
Neal nodded. "Got it," he said.
"Okay. Let's head back," Peter said, and the storm clouds drifted out of his eyes, and by the time they got to Federal Plaza it was done -- done and forgotten. Peter even wished him good luck on the op, with a genuine smile.
So Neal took a hundred thousand dollars, cashed it in for chips, put his game face on, and played some high-stakes poker.
He'd always wanted to. In the various casino towns he'd been in, he'd been too broke to play with the whales or too deep in some other con to want to draw attention to himself, but he'd seen plenty of big games. He'd been a croupier for one in Vegas once, laundering forged chips into the game while his accomplice served drinks in the background. Now, playing with the Bureau's money, it was every bit as exciting as he'd thought it would be. Better, even.
There was nothing like the con game. Nothing. You might spend months working up a plan, you might spend days working your ass off to make it function, but in the moment when you put it into action it was all pleasure and greed and pride and instant gratification, and you got to take a couple of hits of all that before you ran. When Donovan turned over his cards in the final round, the roaring started in Neal's ears; when he turned over his own cards it was so loud he couldn't hear anything else.
He got through the end of the game, the cash-out, and the congratulations all on pure instinct. He didn't remember having them wire the money to Nick Halden's one active bank account, but he must have done it; they gave him a receipt. He knew he could taste champagne in his mouth as he left the club, walked around the corner, and leaned against the wall to put his head between his knees.
Jones got to him first. "Caffrey? Hey, you okay?"
"Fine," Neal said, not lifting his head, waving a hand vaguely, trying to get himself steady.
"What happened?" Diana's voice; Neal could see her shoes.
"He won," Peter said, and a warm hand rested on the back of his neck, holding him there. "Easy. Deep breaths."
Neal nodded and inhaled a few more times. That kind of high didn't usually hit until at least a couple of hours after he was safely away from the con.
"You won?" Diana asked. "The whole thing?"
"Yeah, I killed," Neal breathed, waiting for the world to stop spinning. "Oh my God."
He heard Jones whisper to Peter. "Why's he freaking out?"
"Let me handle it," Peter said. "Bring the van."
"I'm good," Neal announced, maybe a little louder than he had to. He straightened slowly, and Peter's hand fell away. Everything was bright and sharp. Oooh, endorphins and adrenaline. "I am very good."
Diana laughed. "Come on, Caffrey, you can sleep it off in the van."
He stumbled back to the van somehow, got inside and fell into a chair.
"Are you coherent?" Peter asked him, as the van began to move.
"Mostly," he replied. Jones was sitting unnecessarily close -- oh, propping him up. He straightened a little. "Yeah, I'm, I got it. Whoa," he added, exhaling.
"Tell me what happened," Peter said. Neal focused on his face.
"I had to get Donovan out of the game, but he played hard," Neal said, hoping he was making sense. "We got down to him and me."
"Holy crap," Diana said.
"Yeah!" Neal agreed. "But I won. I kicked his ass. Hey, where's my hat?" he added, looking around suddenly. Peter reached up, took it off his head, and put it in his hands. "Oh."
Diana grinned at him. "Take it easy."
"It's okay, this happens. It just doesn't usually hit this fast," Neal told her. He started laughing, because it really was funny. "This one time -- you are not allowed to arrest me for this," he added, turning to Peter. Peter held up his hands innocently. "This one time, we did a job, we were in Florence, and I thought okay, I'm getting old, I'm getting used to this, because it didn't hit me for two days. And we're walking along eating gelato and all of a sudden bam. The Antioch Manuscripts. I got to hold the Antioch Manuscripts in my hands."
"He talks about those when he's out of his mind," Peter said to Diana and Jones.
"I went over flat on the sidewalk. Kate thought I was having a seizure, she kept trying to hold my tongue down," Neal continued, still laughing. "Gelato went everywhere, and like three minutes later we hear an ambulanza coming and we had to run from the EMTs. Run! It's healthcare!" he added, and dissolved into extremely embarrassing giggles.
"Wow," Diana said. "Should we be filming this?"
"Good blackmail," Jones added. Neal wheezed, sitting up, wiping the corners of his eyes.
"I'm gonna take him home," Peter announced, which jolted a whole new chemical surge through Neal's body. "You guys go home, get some rest."
Neal realized the van had stopped moving; when Peter pulled him up by his arm and guided him out, they were in the parking garage. He made it through saying goodnight at least semi-coherently and found himself in Peter's car, staring out at the lights of New York City as they scrolled past.
"You're a wreck," Peter told him, but he looked sort of affectionate anyway. "What happened?"
"Mm," Neal said, leaning back and closing his eyes. "After big scores, you know. It hits you. Never did a score this big for the feds before. Well." He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Peter, who was for once concentrating on the road. "When we got the music box, you just weren't around to see that. I try not to be in public. People think I'm drunk. Or stroking out."
"Yeah, it crossed my mind," Peter said. "Feeling better?"
"Takes a while. I'll be fine in the morning. Oh, man," he added, as his stomach made itself known. "I'm starving."
"Just a couple more minutes. I have some leftover Thai," Peter said.
"Your place?" Neal asked.
"Yup."
"Elizabeth home yet?"
"Not for another few days. Why, tired of my company?" Peter asked, grinning. Neal drifted a hand past Peter's shoulder, reached up to brush his knuckles over Peter's cheek. Peter ducked his head away. "Not in the car, Caffrey. Christ, you are high."
Neal folded his hands in his lap and closed his eyes again. He could hear everything -- cars passing, people talking on street corners, Peter's breathing, the pistons in the car's motor.
When they got home, Satchmo was practically bursting; Peter shoved Neal in the direction of the stairs and herded the dog towards the back door. Neal stood indecisively on the bottom step, trying to remember what the hell he was supposed to be doing. Eventually, he tossed his hat on the knob at the bottom of the railing and climbed the stairs. In the bedroom he looked around again, caught sight of the little bowl on the mantel that El had put there for his things, and managed to fumble his cuff links off and into the bowl. He tried to take off his tie, got it caught in the tie bar holding it to his shirt, fussed with the bar until that came out, pulled the tie off, and then got his shirt unbuttoned. That was better; breathing a little easier now. He pulled off the shirt and struggled out of his shoes, flopping backwards onto the bed.
Downstairs a couple of doors slammed, one after another, and then Peter was looming over him. "Up," Peter ordered, so Neal pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed; Peter sat down next to him on the bed and offered Neal a carton of food and a fork.
"Eating on the bed," Neal pointed out. "No art in bed, you said."
"This is food. I'll wash the cover," Peter replied. Neal shrugged and dug in. Oh, shrimp. Yum. "Feeling less insane?"
Neal nodded, stuffing his mouth with noodles.
"Chew," Peter ordered. Guiltily, Neal stopped trying to eat the whole carton at once and chewed. After he'd swallowed, Peter put out a hand and stopped him from taking another bite. "Okay. Slow down and take me through the whole thing."
They sat there on the bed, eating cold Thai food, and Neal took him step by step through the game -- every hand, almost every bet. Peter listened and occasionally asked a question, but mostly he just let Neal talk. He was aware he was talking fast, but the closer he got to the last hand the calmer he felt.
Normally, when they pulled a job this big and the hit finally came, Neal would be in some safe house or hotel room with Kate. She used to give him wine, which helped too. She loved to see him like that, or at least he thought she had. It was so hard to know, now.
He stopped talking abruptly when Kate's name fell out of his mouth, and looked up at Peter guiltily.
"It's fine," Peter said. Neal wondered how long he'd been talking about her. He'd eaten all his food, and there was a half-empty bottle of water in his hand. He took a long drink and then let Peter take it away from him; Peter was gone for a while and then came back and bent over Neal, hands working at his belt. Neal lifted his head to kiss him.
"Nuh-uh," Peter said. "Sleep."
Neal looked down. Peter was undressing him and he wasn't even hard. Peter wasn't either.
"Okay," he agreed, and stood up long enough to get out of most of his clothes. He crawled under the blankets and up against the pillows while Peter did something in the background and then eased into bed next to him, breath warm on his shoulder, an arm secure around his waist from behind.
"I miss Elizabeth," Neal said quietly.
"Me too," Peter told him. "She's going to be sorry she missed this."
Neal laughed. "My break with reality?"
"Yup." Peter was warm and still, and his breathing was already slowing. Neal swung between taut nervous energy and a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. He wondered if Peter really understood, or if Neal just seemed like a crazy fucker who was finally cracking.
He took a breath, let it out slowly.
"The game is good," he said. "You get that, right?"
Peter must still be awake; his arm tightened slightly. "Mmhm."
"And you play it because you love it," Neal continued. "I know I look crazy but it's just...that good."
"You don't look crazy," Peter mumbled.
"It's right there," Neal continued. "It's so good. If you love the game you have to play it. But you can't leave it. It goes on all the time, every hour, every day. Once you're in, it's what you think about before you go to sleep. You talk about it while you eat. You go for a walk, you scout marks. Sex turns into a con game. Everything you do is about the con."
"And they call me an obsessive," Peter said.
"You don't even realize it," Neal said. "I played it and I was good at it, I mean really good."
"Yeah, I do know that part," Peter sighed.
"No, you don't get how good I was. It was a point of pride. I never ripped off someone else's con. Every job I set up I invented start to finish."
"I know that too," Peter said, surprising him. "I studied you, I wasn't fucking around those three years I was after you."
Neal laughed a little. "Yeah, but there's still stuff you don't know. You know the job at SFMOMA I supposedly may have been involved in?"
Peter kissed his shoulder. "It's in the files. What was that, '05? After the Raphael."
"Yeah. I was -- "
"Twenty-four. It was a hell of a heist. Solid work. One of your last before I caught you," Peter reminded him.
"I invented that con when I was eighteen. I did the groundwork when I was sixteen. I just never got around to going to California until I was twenty-four. If I'd been in California when I was eighteen, I'd've done it then."
"You miss it," Peter said, which was the entire point of what Neal was saying.
"I feel like I'm selling out. I'm a good cop, Peter."
Peter laughed.
"I am. You know it. What else are you going to call it?" Neal asked. "But I was a great thief. I get a high like tonight, I wonder sometimes why I settle for being a good cop. Whether this is my bid for mediocrity."
Peter was silent so long Neal thought maybe he'd fallen asleep. Finally, he moved, exhaling a little, sliding his hand down. Neal froze, uncertain what was going on, until Peter cupped his hand around Neal's soft cock, through his briefs. Not a caress, more of...an enclosure.
"How many people got this close to you, Neal?" he asked.
"I don't keep track of the people I sleep with -- "
"Not what I asked," Peter rumbled in his ear. His hand was still there, unmoving, a warm but faintly threatening presence. "How many got as close to you as I did?"
"No one. Not even the Marshals."
"Mmhm. And how many people would you let do to you what Elizabeth and I do?"
Neal struggled not to pull away. "Just you."
"You never asked anyone else to cuff you?" Peter asked.
"No."
"Never begged like you beg me?"
"No," Neal repeated, voice strained. This was hot, he should be getting off on it, but his body was resolutely uninterested. Given Peter's grip, it might be just as well.
"Easy," Peter told him, kissing his neck. "Never wanted anyone else to?"
Neal shook his head, confused.
"Good," Peter said, and Neal realized this was as much for Peter as it was for him, because what he'd said sounded an awful lot like a prelude to a jailbreak. "You belong here. The game might be a high, but you can't have this and the game together. You can't be a good man and be in the game."
"Tonight was good," Neal said.
"Yeah, tonight was good, but it was legal good. You're better here," Peter added, sliding his hand back up to Neal's stomach, warm and settling under his shirt. Neal relaxed a little, relieved. "You know you are. You could go back, but you'd always know what you gave up. This makes you happy."
"Happy?" Neal asked, a little incredulous.
"Tell me I'm wrong," Peter said.
Neal shook his head. "I...worry about being happy. I worry about being content."
"That's because you're messed up," Peter told him, "and you spent half your life being miserable and telling yourself you weren't. Now," he added, in a voice that brooked no disobedience, "Go to sleep."
Exhaustion overtook adrenaline; he was full of food and warm and safe, and he'd hauled in nine hundred grand and nobody was going to arrest him for it. Yeah, so. That was okay. Neal slept.
***
When Peter woke the next morning, Neal was gone.
He had a brief oh-shit moment, but even before he was out of bed he caught sight of a large white object on the bedside table. It was a crane, folded out of a piece of printer paper that had been ripped along one edge to square it. He picked it up and unfolded it carefully. Neal had left a note inside the crane.
Took off early, had some banking to do.
Stole the last bagel, also a shirt. Caught a cab.
Don't worry, I'm sane.
Peter reflected that when someone had to tell you they were sane, you were probably in over your head.
Neal was in good spirits that morning when he arrived at the office -- cheerful, energetic and charming, but lacking in the slightly desperate edge he'd had the night before. It was hard to characterize Neal's behavior as "natural", because who knew what went on in his head sometimes, but it was at least his usual con-everyone game, nothing more sinister.
Peter's phone rang halfway through the day; Sara was calling. He rubbed his face, glanced at Neal to check for any traces of guilt, and then picked it up.
"Sara," he said.
"Peter," she answered.
"Please tell me Neal didn't try to weasel that package out of you again."
She laughed a little, but it was a shaky laugh. "No. I have it. That's why I'm calling you. This package -- did you know what was in it?"
He leaned back. "I could make a guess. Documents about an airplane explosion?"
"Not exactly. I did a little digging. I didn't realize..." she hesitated. "I didn't realize Kate Moreau was killed. I didn't even know she'd been involved in the explosion. I have the explosion in my files, because of Neal, but...the newspapers didn't say much. The FAA and Homeland Security, getting information out of them is like banging your head against a wall."
"Yeah," Peter said. "The plane was on the tarmac, she was inside it -- "
"And you were there."
"How do you know that?" he asked. Through the glass wall of his office, he could see Neal juggling paperweights lifted from three different agents' desks. He caught Jones's eye and tipped his head.
"The package is a copy of the black box recording," Sara said.
"How the hell did Neal get his hands on it?" Peter demanded, sitting forward.
"I don't know. I don't know why he sent it to me, I don't know why he had to steal it from me. I think I was just a drop. I'm not sure that matters." She took a deep breath.
"What does it say?" Peter asked. Outside, Jones caught one of the paperweights and held it under Neal's nose, warningly.
"You don't know?" Sara asked.
"I was involved. I can't officially participate in the investigation, and it's Homeland Security's deal anyway. They're working with our Counterterrorism guys, but if I go poking around I could get in a lot of trouble."
"But you are anyway," Sara surmised.
"I'm following a few outside leads," Peter admitted. "Can you hear me on the black box? I wasn't even on the tarmac."
"No. It's Kate. She calls someone, and says that you're there, she doesn't know why you're there. Then she asks if this changes some plan...then nothing." Sara inhaled again. "What were you doing there?"
Peter looked up through the glass wall again. Neal was talking easily with Jones now, grinning, making a joke. The paperweights had vanished.
"Trying to stop Neal from getting on the plane," he said. "He and Kate cut a deal with one of our offices. They were getting out. I thought Neal should stay. So, I went and told him he should."
"He was there?" she asked. "He was actually there when it blew?"
"Yeah. We both saw it."
"He saw her die," Sara said, almost to herself.
"He saw enough," Peter replied. She was silent. "Look, Sara, you shouldn't have that and I shouldn't know about it."
"How far do you trust Neal?" she asked. "Really. Being honest with yourself. How far?"
Peter sighed. "The problem with Neal is that how far you should trust him is directly related to how far he trusts you. I caught him, I got him out of prison, I'm his handler. I can afford to trust him. You? I don't know, Sara. I know he likes you. He's got a thing for your hair."
She laughed. "What?"
"It's an artist thing, I don't dig too deep. If you don't want to give the recording to him, don't. He has to learn to live with his mistakes, which is turning out to be a very long process for me. But he likes you. I think he'd like you a lot more -- "
" -- if I got off his ass about the Raphael."
"I'm not saying you should. Part of the reason he trusts me is that I caught him. He knows I'm better than him; if you nail him for the Raphael...I don't want him going back to prison for it. But I do wish you good luck in the chase."
"Do you think I should give the recording to him?" she asked.
"It's your decision, Sara. If it were me, I would," Peter said. "On the other hand -- "
"You're his friend," she finished.
"And I saw what the explosion did to him. I think he might say he wants to catch Kate's killer, but at bottom what he really wants is to hear her voice again."
"Jesus, Peter, you know how to tell a sad story."
"Thanks, it's a hobby. Besides, you could always double-con him," Peter added. "Get far enough inside his defenses, he might hand over the Raphael to you without a fight."
She hmmed thoughtfully into the phone.
"Can I make an inappropriate and sexist suggestion?" he asked.
"It wouldn't be the first I've heard," she replied.
"If you give it back to him, wear something orange. He likes you in orange."
"He's never seen me in orange," Sara pointed out.
"Trust me."
"Yeah. Okay. Thanks," she said. "I get the feeling this probably won't be the last time we talk."
"Take care, Sara," he said. She hung up.
The next morning, Neal was subdued and thoughtful, paging idly through cold cases and shrugging off Diana's invitation to lunch. Peter watched, made sure he wasn't running himself into the ground, and let him be.
***
After Sara brought Neal back the package, he spent a little time in shock. It was the most humane thing any relative stranger had done for him in a long time, especially a stranger who saw through the game. He drifted through work that day grateful that they had no case and that Peter left him alone; that night he played the recording, and grief pushed away everything else.
Still, he had been grieving for months, and now he knew how to go about it so that it didn't encroach on his work. He walled it away and the next morning he was clear-headed enough to realize -- well, first, that he needed to be on for work, or Peter really would find some way to prod him into talking, and second, that he owed Sara. She ought to know he was grateful.
He went back to the flower shop where he'd bought the first bouquet for her and bought a single orange calla lily. This time the note was more genuine: It is the duty of the living to remember the dead. Thank you. NC. She didn't call to acknowledge it, but when he got back from lunch that day there was a single white lily in reply, sitting in a narrow vase on his desk, no note.
White lily. A mourning flower.
Neal hadn't been allowed out of prison to attend Kate's funeral. Peter had gone; he'd told him about it during one of their visits, stumbling over his words even after Neal reassured him that he wanted to hear about it, wanted to know. But Neal hadn't been able to pay her his final respects, and that hit him sharply when he saw the flower.
He chewed on the inside of his lip, telling himself to cowboy up and not have a Moment in front of the entire FBI. The feeling passed; he sat down at his desk and got to work.
About an hour later his phone rang, which was frankly surprising; the phone on his desk never rang, and he had taken to treating it like a prop, like maybe it wasn't even connected. He frowned at it and then answered it to amuse himself: "Neal Caffrey, White Collar crime."
"Mr. Caffrey, this is Deputy Daniel Braddock with the US Marshals," said a voice on the other end of the line. Neal immediately lifted his leg and checked his ankle, but the tracker's light was green.
"How can I help the Marshals?" Neal asked carefully.
"Did Agent Burke make you aware of our recent intel regarding Shane Barlowe?"
"Yeah," Neal said, perplexed. Jones drifted over to his desk, looking curious. "Barlowe's trying to run things from the pen, and our guy Clive was marked a flight risk."
"Well, he flew," Braddock said. "Someone tried to nail him and he took off."
"Clive, you idiot," Neal groaned.
"We're on his trail now, but he did a good job disappearing. We're letting Burke know as well. If he tries to contact you -- "
"Believe me, I'm going to grab him by the ear and drag him back to you," Neal said. "I don't need Shane Barlowe trying to kill either one of us."
"We're putting surveillance on your address; if you want additional measures, just let us know."
Neal rubbed his eyes. "Hey, listen, I'm not the only person living there. Keep it subtle, okay? There's kids at that house all the time, and Clive's not a violent guy."
"Do you think it's likely he'll try to contact you?"
"Not especially," Neal drawled. "He's too smart to run for New York. I'll keep an eye out, though."
"We appreciate the courtesy, Caffrey. We'll be in touch," Braddock said, and hung up. In his office, Peter was hanging up as well.
"Neal!" He yelled across the bullpen. "Diana!"
"Yeah, I heard," Neal yelled back, but he hurried across and up the stairs. "The US Marshals just called my desk phone. I didn't think that thing even worked."
"I gave them your number," Peter said distractedly. Diana arrived in the doorway right after Neal. "Diana?"
"Yep," she said. "What can I do, boss?"
Peter gave her a small grin. "This is your case, you're the lead."
"The Marshals want me to go help them search," she said.
"So? Up to you if you do. Where were they keeping Clive?"
"Chicago," she said. Neal groaned again. "What?"
"It's the transit capital of the country," he said. "It's got two airports, Amtrak's major hub, a local city-to-suburb rail network, and a giant lake. If they were keeping him in an actual airplane he would have been less of a flight risk."
"You gonna go to Chicago?" Peter asked. Diana looked down at the file.
"You think we can track where he went from there?"
"Yeah, you? You probably can. Congratulations," Peter added. "You've got your very own Neal Caffrey to chase."
"Great," Diana sighed.
"Hey!" Neal gave her an offended look. She patted his arm.
"I want you to do a write-up," she said. "Everywhere you think a kid like him would go. You think he's coming here?"
"There's no way he's dumb enough to come back to New York," Neal said. "He knows I'd just kick him back to the Marshals."
"Great. Can you work up a profile on where he'd go?" she asked.
"Yes, boss," he said. She grinned.
"Good," she told him. "Email me when you're done, or if you need access to the case files. I'm gonna go pack a bag. Peter?"
"Go. I'll handle the Marshals," Peter said, which was cryptic. Neal eyed him as Diana left. "Come on, we have to make some calls."
"On who?" Neal asked, following him out.
"Clive ran because someone made a try for him," Peter said, hurrying down the stairs. "Jones! Taking Neal, we got work to do. Call me if anything exciting happens."
"I live for desk work," Jones called back. Peter snorted.
"You think the Marshals have a leak?" Neal asked. "I mean, if you want to find someone there are plenty of ways."
"Let's lock down the Marshals. If Barlowe found Clive, he might find us next. Which is why," Peter added, "we have a stop to make first."
***
The stop turned out to be the FBI seizure and evidence warehouse.
"Hey, Brian," Peter said, as he checked his gun and showed his badge at the front desk.
"Agent Burke," the man behind the desk said. "Back for more caviar and booze?"
Peter grinned. "Not this time. I need to fit out Caffrey here."
"Fit out?" Neal asked, alarmed.
"No problem. Off the books?"
"If that works for you."
"Sure," Brian said.
"And I need lockbox 10-22," Peter added.
"I'll send someone to grab it." Brian passed him a pair of keys. "Have fun. Bring me the tags, I'll take care of it."
"Off the books?" Neal asked, as Peter opened the door to the warehouse. "Fit me out? Are we having me killed?"
Peter shook his head. "Nope. Come on."
He led Neal down the first aisle, stopping at a large chain-link cage set back in the wall. Neal stared at the huge rack of guns on the other side of the wire.
"You want a gun?" Peter offered, as he unlocked the cage door. Neal shook his head. "Yeah, didn't think so."
Neal followed him in, edging carefully past the guns. Peter walked to a second rack, where a series of batons hung on pegs.
"Ever use one of these?" he asked, taking down a slim, short, vicious-looking baton.
"I saw Sara use hers," Neal said. "Hers was thicker," he added.
Peter swung his arm down, flicking his wrist slightly. The baton telescoped, whistling in the air. Neal stepped back instinctively.
"Yours is longer," Peter said, passing it over. Neal took it between two fingers. "Barlowe's not screwing around. You don't want a gun, and I don't want you carrying; ergo, you get an asp."
Neal pushed the end of the baton back into its housing, carefully pointing it away from himself and Peter. "And you think I'm somehow not going to kill myself with this?"
"They're not hard to use. There's YouTube videos," Peter waved a hand, already digging in a set of drawers below the batons. He came out with what looked very much like some kind of nylon bondage harness.
"Uh," Neal said.
"It's a wrist holster," Peter told him drily. "I'll show you how to rig it later," he added, tossing it to Neal.
"Are we allowed to take this stuff?" Neal asked.
"Agents get some leeway," Peter said. "It's not illegal for you to carry it. If you kill someone with it, I might get my ass kicked. Otherwise we're good."
"What's lockbox 10-22?" Neal asked, as Peter dug in yet another drawer, coming up with a Taser. "Come on, I'm not going to Tase someone."
"You don't have to," Peter said. "You just have to look like you will."
"10-22?" Neal repeated.
"Elizabeth's gun," Peter answered, taking the baton and holster back and ripping off the ID tags tied to them.
"Elizabeth has a gun?" Neal demanded, following him out.
"She's married to an FBI agent, you better believe she has a gun," Peter said. "Gun, lockbox, license, and training. She doesn't like having it in the house, so we keep it here. When I think she might need it, I grab it and we keep it at home."
Neal's blood chilled. "Has she ever needed it?"
"She's never aimed it at anyone, no," Peter replied. "First time for everything, though."
He tossed the tags on the counter; Brian took them and tucked them in an envelope, filing it in a drawer. He looked approvingly at the asp and Taser, then hoisted a small plastic crate onto the counter. Inside was a handgun lockbox and a cleaning kit.
"Thanks," Peter said, dumping his treasure into the crate.
"Keep safe," Brian told him, tossing off a sarcastic salute. Peter grinned and dropped the crate into Neal's arms, leading him back out to the car.
"I'm having issues picturing Elizabeth with a gun," Neal said, setting the crate on the backseat and closing the lid, tucking away all the firepower inside it.
"So does she. So do I. But the bad guys are armed and they sometimes like coming after families," Peter said, settling himself in the driver's seat. He crossed his wrists on the steering wheel and turned to Neal. "You remember the Cosi job?"
"Allegedly, I might," Neal said cautiously.
"That was what, '04? I spent a month trying to lock you down."
"Lock someone down," Neal corrected.
"I was in Denver for a month," Peter continued. He started the car. "A month without my wife."
"Hey, you coulda let...the suspect...walk," Neal said.
"I did, when the suspect sent my wife flowers and a note of apology that her husband was detained," Peter told him. Neal grinned nostalgically; the grin dropped away when he saw the expression on Peter's face. "The suspect knew where I lived. He was sending gifts to my wife. These things? They throw up flags."
"Peter, I didn't -- "
"I know that, and you know that," Peter said, pulling out of the warehouse parking lot. "I knew that then. You never pulled violent jobs. But I couldn't take that chance, not with Elizabeth. That's why I left Denver before we could nail you down."
Neal stared at him. "You seriously thought I was a danger to her? Was she scared?"
"Of you? No. Of the people you ran with? Yeah, a little."
"Jesus, Peter, I didn't know," Neal said. "I wasn't trying to freak her out. I just thought it was funny."
Peter gave him a sidelong look. "So did she," he admitted. "I was unamused."
"I'm sorry," Neal said, genuinely distressed that he'd scared Elizabeth, that he'd upset Peter enough that Peter had made her keep a gun in the house. He'd just been playing a game, messing around.
"Well." Peter tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. "You can make it up to her next time she's home. Not with flowers," he added.
A thought occurred to Neal, a very unhappy thought. "Um."
Peter turned to him. "Neal, what did you do?"
"I sent Sara flowers," Neal said. "Just to say thank you! For me not getting shot."
"I think Sara is aware that you know where she lives," Peter said drily. "Also, it's a little late not to piss her off, and she seems very at home with firearms, so you probably don't need to worry."
Neal rubbed his head. "You know, it's occurring to me that you might actually be better at girls than I am, and that's really sad."
Peter was smiling. "For a start, calling them women helps a lot. It's amazing what you learn about them when you don't spend all your time flirting with them. I told you: don't come after me until you've tried to keep a beautiful woman happy for ten years. And," he added, "this discussion is over, because we are about to walk into the U.S. Marshals' office and wave my badge around like it's a target. You need to keep quiet and behave."
"Hey, you're the one who hauled me along," Neal pointed out. "Quiet in a room full of Marshals, I can do that."
He did, too; he sat in an alcove off Braddock's office while Peter steamrolled the Marshals into letting him see their documentation and talk to their people to find out if there was a leak in the New York office. Peter brought him Clive's case file to study and a cup of coffee that was only superior to the FBI's coffee because it was more than lukewarm. Neal had never really understood how someone could ruin coffee until he'd started working for Peter; considerations of grind and roast aside, ordinary coffee wasn't that hard to make. You put the grounds in the basket, poured in the water, and pushed the button. Somehow the federal government had still managed to mangle it.
Mostly he listened -- listened for what he could hear through the wall, while Peter talked to people on the other side. Listened to Braddock give orders on his phone whenever Peter wasn't using the room. And he listened to Peter and Braddock change his tracker information.
"Am I getting a new radius?" he asked, when Peter walked into the room. He'd been working on a sketch, having run out of other things to do -- he was going for a photo-realistic drawing of Peter's Glock 23, but he was having a hard time remembering the exact shape of the ribbing on the grips. "Two miles is so last year."
"New alert level," Peter told him, sitting down. "You were on code three. Now you're on code one."
"I feel special," Neal said, shuffling the sketch under some other paperwork. "What's code one?"
"Your tracker gets cut or unlocked or you put a foot outside your radius without a permit on the logs, and I get an alert on my phone," Peter said. "If I don't respond within a minute, both Hughes and I get a call. If neither of us responds, a BOLO goes out to every NYPD radio and a team scrambles to your last known location. You lose the hardware or leave your radius and cops are on you within five minutes, guaranteed. Do not leave without warning me first," he said.
"What's the point of this?" Neal asked, leaning back.
"For them? You try to take Clive out of the city, you get caught. For us? If Barlowe's guys come after you, our response time has just dropped from fifteen minutes to five."
Neal nodded. "So. Done here for now?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I think so. You hear anything that set off alarms?"
Neal looked at him, startled.
"What, you think I put you in there to read paperwork?" Peter asked. "Don't tell me you weren't listening the whole time."
"Didn't hear much that pinged me weird," Neal replied. "If the leak's here they're pretty cool about it."
"Yeah. Might be in Chicago. Makes our job easier, nobody there knows who we are," Peter said. "Come on. You have a write-up to do for Diana, and Jones can teach you how to use the asp."
***
Chapter Twelve
References:
The SFMOMA job referenced here was written up by Anya, one of my betas, in the fanfic Profile. It's gorgeous, and you should check it out!
Some types of white collar felons can indeed carry firearms under Federal law, US Code 18 U.S.C. 921(a)(20)(A). I'm not certain if Neal counts, but as I understand it there is some wiggle room in the language. The NRA has also worked to rearm convicted felons under the Relief From Disability program. (Please note -- the article linked to contains citations regarding homicide and assault that may be triggery. Read at your own risk.)
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I'm really enjoying the hell out of these. I enjoyed the first 7 chapters a lot, but for some reason, I like these more... even though El is necessarily gone a lot.
Also:
[Peter: "]This makes you happy."
"Happy?" Neal asked, a little incredulous.
"Tell me I'm wrong," Peter said.
Neal shook his head. "I...worry about being happy. I worry about being content."
"That's because you're messed up," Peter told him, "and you spent half your life being miserable and telling yourself you weren't.["]
That hits awfully close to home for me. I'm absolutely rotten at being happy - I don't trust it, because I don't have much experience with it. I can make myself miserable over nothing. But I'm getting better at it; Andy helps a lot.
I like the way you're balancing everyone with canon; it works really, really well (for me, at least).
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A question though. I'm confused over the chronology in this sentence: "I invented that con when I was eighteen. I did the groundwork when I was sixteen. " Unless you accidentally reversed the ages?
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Subject-verb mismatch; the verb should be plural "come."
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There's a hilarious little irony with Peter and Neal talking about girls, with the knowledge they're wishing they could be in bed with one another and El in the next twenty-four hours, no doubt.
Sara's lily is heartbreaking. Neal didn't even get to go; that's just mean... I think it's canonically implied/true, but seeing you flesh it out and all... T.T Oh, Neal.
Then: Oh, Neal. :D Neal high off cons is HYSTERICAL and BRILLIANT. I was laughing the entire time - and then you pulled the rug out from under my feet with the happiness bit. You keep jerking my emotions all around! /glares/ Keep doing it.
Lovelovelovelovelove. /skips to ch12/
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So, I still love the art stuff. Especially the little hint that Neal's gonna end up doing FABULOUS art and being all famous. And high-off-the-con!Neal was adorable and hilarious. <3
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Wow, those are some awesome researching skillz there!
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Also, thanks for the shout-out. You wouldn't believe the sudden increase in traffic on that fic. Proud to have some little niche in the extended Exquisite canon.
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