White Collar Fic - Old Haunts
Oct. 20th, 2013 08:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: Old Haunts
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Mozzie, Reese Hughes
Spoilers: 2.11 – Burke's Seven, 4.12 – Brass Tacks, 4.16 – In the Wind, S5.01 – At What Price
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~4200
Beta Credit: None. Please forgive any mistakes and typos. I am sure there are plenty.
Summary: Wraps up the story begun in Kinship Analysis. Reese Hughes gets the results of the DNA analysis. His brother is out there and even though there’s little more than a name, he knows just where to find him.
Author’s Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
run_the_con, Round 3, for the wonderful hoosierbitch's prompt, "Full Moon". Also, the next October blue moon (second full moon in a calendar month) actually falls on Halloween, 2020.
My dear friend,kanarek13 created cover art for this story for ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fandom_stocking 2013. It’s under the cut.
__________________
“It’s a full moon tonight.”
Neal looks up from the painting he’s working on, an outsized version of Mary Cassatt’s Child in a Straw Hat. “Huh?”
“A blue moon, too.”
“What are you talking about, Moz?”
“Tonight, it’s the second full moon in the month. That makes it a blue moon.”
“Ah. And this excerpt from The Farmer’s Almanac is relevant for a reason?”
“It’s also Halloween.”
Neal is still puzzled. Moz isn’t one to follow a calendar. “Okay.”
“Lots of strange things will happen tonight. Mark my words. Strange and terrible things will happen tonight.”
Exasperated from the interruption, Neal puts down his paintbrush and turns to his friend. “Have you been at the absinthe again?”
Moz shrugs, a gesture that could mean yes or no.
Neal decides to play along. “What sort of strangeness?”
“The wall between the worlds will thin. Present will become past, past will become present. We’ll be haunted by those we left behind. Or those who left us behind.”
Neal stares at Moz and tries not to rub the back of his neck. The hair was standing up in an atavistic response.
Mozzie blinks, shakes himself, and smiles. “Well, I’m off. Places to go, people to see, things to do.”
Neal just nods. He’s too creeped out to do much else.
Moz lets himself out and Neal turns his attention back to the painting on the easel. He tried to recapture the spirit of the moment before Mozzie’s strange utterance. He fails.
So he rinses off his brushes, puts his paints away, and pours himself a glass of a decent Shiraz – a little treat after Mozzie’s “trick.” As late in October as it is, the early afternoon is still warm, the sun is bright, the sky a perfect endless blue, and the terrace was still a pleasant place to spend a few hours. The moon won’t rise for hours yet.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
There’s a cold bite in the air and Reese shivers. He’s probably getting old, he thinks. A mob of small children in all manner of costumes rush past him, laughing and shouting. He knows he’s getting old and takes small comfort in the knowledge that the alternative is a much less pleasant prospect.
Not that anyone would really miss him.
His friends are of the workplace variety and he’s been out of work for quite a while now. Peter’s sitting in his chair, doing an excellent job of things. But Peter has his own life, a wife and friends and family that he can call upon to spend an evening with. Reese has no family.
No, that isn’t necessarily true. He might have someone. There once was a brother out there, but it’s been nearly forty-five years and there’s a likelihood that the man he shares his DNA with is no longer amongst the living. He might not have survived his childhood. Orphans are a particularly vulnerable group, what with substandard medical attention, no parents to nurture a boy’s dreams, exposure to all sorts of people who prey on the helpless.
Reese shakes his head and tries to dismiss these thoughts. He might have a brother, he might be alive, but the odds were slim that they’d ever meet.
Another herd of children approach, their laughter is the sound of innocence and if anything, it makes Reese feel older. Was he ever that young? That innocent?
Probably, but he can’t remember that far back.
Thoughts of age and time and people long dead flit through his mind like so many leaves loosened from their arboreal moorings. The sun is warm but the wind gives lie to that and Reese turns the corner and finds himself at an old haunt. It’s a bar – a place that time hasn’t so much forgotten, but simply passed by. It’s the type of place that caters to the locals, the nine-to-five crowd that have no place they want to go after the day ends. The liquor isn’t good, but it’s not rotgut and the barflies tend to have most of their teeth.
The place, which has no name, is nearly empty at two PM. He orders a scotch, neat, takes a seat in one of the booths near the back and waits.
He doesn’t wait too long. A shadow coalesces in his peripheral vision and he slides a hand under his jacket. He may be retired, but he isn’t stupid.
“This is what you asked for.” An envelope drops onto the table. “Take care of yourself.” The shadow drifts away.
Reese takes a sip of his scotch and contemplates what was left for him. For the first time in a long while, he feels a sense of excitement. A sense of dread. The adrenaline rush makes his hands shake, he’s sweating under his jacket.
Reese picks up the envelope. There’s no mark on it, nothing to indicate who handled it, where it came from. Just as it should be.
He may be retired, but he carries a gun. He also carries a knife, a spring-loaded blade that’s technically illegal, but since he once carried a badge, he never worries about those kinds of technicalities. He uses the blade to open the envelope and puts it away.
The glass, still half full of the very mediocre scotch, is set to one side. Reese takes a deep breath and slides out the contents.
The report is depressingly thin. But at least it’s more than a single page. He scans the kinship analysis report. Of course, his name is left off the header; it wasn’t on the DNA sample he submitted.
Yes, a ninety-eight percent match for full-blooded male sibling was found. Reese heart begins to race. His brother is in the system. But that doesn’t mean anything.
He flips to the next page and closes his eyes. Like a child, he’s afraid to look. Afraid that he’s come this close and he’ll still have nothing, he still have no one.
But Reese Hughes is not a coward and if he has no one, he’s no worse off than he was ten minutes ago, ten days ago, ten years ago. Nothing will have changed.
He reads the report. And then reads it again.
He has to laugh. Of all the improbable things in this world, the identity of his brother is the most improbable one of all.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The clocks don’t go back for another few days, but darkness comes early. From his vantage point, Neal can see the last glow of daylight and the full moon as it rises above the canyons of New York. He thinks about Mozzie’s strange little speech about the moon, and how the walls between the worlds are thin tonight.
It is All Hallows Eve, a night for spirits to walk.
Neal drains the last of the wine in his glass and dismisses the thought. He’s not superstitious or religious or given to any sort of magical thinking. But if he was …
He shakes his head, ridding himself of that foolishness, and goes back inside, where it’s warm and bright.
The painting on the easel annoys him right now. He’s not in the mood for realism. Truthfully, he’s not in the mood for painting.
Once upon a time, he might have hopped into a cab and headed over to a certain house in Brooklyn. Whiled away the hours, helping Peter and Elizabeth give the entire neighborhood a sugar rush.
But Brooklyn, at least Warren Street in Cobble Hill, is off-limits now. An ASAC now, Peter has little time and less need for a CI and he’s made it clear that he needs a new perspective on their relationship. Neal is an artist, he knows that the only way to get perspective is through distance.
That thought chases another thought. And another and Neal decides he’d be better off drawing than painting, because in the mood he’s in, he just might recreate Pieter Breugel’s Fight Between Carnival and Lent, or worse, Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights, and wouldn’t that be a pisser?
He reaches for his sketchpad and looks around the room; his eyes land on something he should have gotten rid of ages ago – the model of the Empire State Building. But it’s perfect. His ruler is handy, he find the vanishing point, and begins to draw.
This is easy, lines and angles and nothing more creative than a small art deco flourish. It doesn’t satisfy him at all, but it stops him from thinking about everything he’s lost.
A knock on the door interrupts his concentration. Neal tries to quell his disappointment. It doesn’t sound like Peter’s knock. It’s definitely not Mozzie’s knock, when he actually bothers to do so. It’s not June’s, either.
Neal can’t imagine who’s there. He waits and whoever is on the other side of the door knocks again. Not for the first time, Neal regrets the lack of a peephole, and he has to ask, “Who is it.”
The answer shocks him.
“Reese Hughes, I need to talk to you.”
Neal doesn’t open the door right away. Why the hell would Peter’s former boss be here? What could he possibly need from him? Unless he …
Neal panics, thinking that maybe Hughes knows about the recording and Hagen and every lie he’s told for the past few months. He flings open the door, hoping there aren’t Marshals waiting for him.
No, there aren’t any Marshals. It is just Hughes wearing, most improbably, the same suit he wore on the day he left the office for the last time. Neal has a moment of deja vu, of Peter arresting him at day in the storage locker, and four years later, Peter standing over him in the abandoned apartment, wearing the same ugly, ill-fitting, off-the-rack suit.
“Can I come in?” Hughes sounds nervous.
“Please, please.” He steps back, letting him into the apartment.
Both men stand there, awkward and ill at ease until Neal remembers his manners. “Can I get you something to drink? Beer? Wine?” There’s still a few bottles of Peter’s favorite beer left in his refrigerator, and they’ll probably stay there until they go bad. Peter’s never coming back, or if he does, it won’t be for beer and brainstorming.
Hughes nods. “A beer will be fine.” He looks around and Neal wonders what he sees, what all of this adds up to in that steel trap of a brain. He hands him the beer and makes no move to get something for himself. He’s already had too much to drink today.
The silence become oppressive and Neal can’t take any more of it. “Is everything all right?”
Hughes nods, but doesn’t say anything. He seems completely absorbed by the label peeling off of the bottle. Neal resigns himself to waiting.
“Your friend.” That’s all he says to Neal.
“My friend?”
“Yeah – you know who I’m talking about. The one with the odd name.”
Worry is like a rock in Neal’s stomach. What the hell does Reese Hughes want with Moz? “Yeah?” He tries to sound noncommittal.
Hughes chips off the label and brushes the scraps of damp foil into a pile. “I – I need to talk to him.”
“Is he in trouble?” Neal has to ask, not that he expects an honest answer. He needs to know if he has to signal Moz to run. They’ve planned for this. Oh, not specifically this. But something similar.
“No – why would you ask that?”
Neal just tilts his head and stares at Hughes. To his astonishment, Hughes smiles at him. The expression doesn’t really soften his face, but it warms his eyes.
“Your friend has nothing to worry about. I really just need to talk to him. On a … personal matter.”
Neal can’t imagine how these two men’s lives could possibly intersect and debates whether or not to give Moz the signal. But Neal is a con man, a social engineer without equal and he knows how to read someone. There is no guile there, and Hughes’ next words confirm this.
“Neal, please. I really need to see him.”
Reese Hughes, the man who called him a son of a bitch that last day, is pleading him.
“Okay, I’ll talk to him. But I can’t make any promises.” Neal dials one of a half-dozen numbers that he has for his friend. The man goes through burners like most people go through tissues. He gets lucky; Moz picks up on the first one he tries.
“Neal? What’s doing?”
“Hey, can you come over?”
“Sure, but why?”
Moz is clearly suspicious. They don’t normally ask for each other’s company like this. “I’m having a problem. I’d rather not discuss it in such an unsecured manner.” Neal catches Hughes’ eye and they both smile.
“Okay. But is this a problem with the monkey on your back?”
It would have been easier if Neal said yes, but Moz might burst in with some incriminating comment on his lips. “No, something else entirely. Just come over and we’ll talk, please?”
“No problem, but you’ll owe me. It’s Halloween, you know.”
“I’ve got a whole box of the chocolate you like from Jacques Torres. Is that enough?”
“More than enough. See you in a few.”
Neal ends the call and can’t help but sigh in relief. Moz can be worse than a cat sometimes, doing the opposite of what you want just because he knows it will piss you off.
He tells Hughes, “He’ll be here soon.”
“Thanks. I appreciate this.”
Neal doesn’t know what’s going on, and he’s not sure he wants to know. But what he is certain of is that whatever is going to go down, he’s probably going to need help mopping up. Six months ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated, but the last time he asked for Peter’s assistance, Peter ended up in prison and almost lost everything.
But it’s Hughes, who’s Peter’s friend. And Mozzie’s his friend.
“Excuse me – I need to – ” He points to the bathroom and palms his phone. Hughes nods and Neal heads to his bathroom. He turns on the water for no good reason and quickly sends Peter a text. He’s not certain that Peter will come, but he has to try.
He rejoins Hughes in his apartment. It’s been less than two minutes, but Neal knows just how long it can take a determined snooper to find something that shouldn’t be found. Not that he still has anything incriminating here – he’s learned his lessons well.
“Another beer?” There are two more bottles left.
“No, but thank you.”
It’s weird, sitting at his dining table with someone who has intimidated him, both pretending that nothing important is going on. Neal tries to make small talk. “Are you enjoying retirement?”
Hughes shrugs. “It’s … not bad.”
Neal has to smile. “There’s a whole universe between ‘good’ and ‘not bad’.”
“That’s true, Caffrey. How are you doing with your new handler?”
Shit. Of course Hughes would know about that. “He’s okay.”
“But he’s not Peter.”
What the hell is he supposed to say to that? “No, but Peter has other responsibilities now.”
The look Hughes gives him is better than money in the bank. He’s about to say something, but is interrupted by a knock. In iambic pentameter.
Mozzie, thank god.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Moz isn’t sure why Neal asked him to come over. They had spent most of last night trying to unravel the latest mess Hagen had cooked up for him. Unless the bastard reached out and decided to complicate things further. But Neal clearly told him it isn’t about Hagen.
Which means only one thing. It’s the Suit.
Moz isn’t quite sure what to feel about Neal’s new relationship with Peter. He’s hurting, that’s obvious. And Mrs. Suit has been strangely unkind of late, particularly to Neal. He chalks that down to the Suit’s six-week stay at the local Club Fed and Neal’s own role in that “vacation.”
He’s not unhappy with the recent developments. Moz knows that once the Suit’s goes to DC, Neal will be all his again. No petty urges to do good deeds, to help people. No mistaken desire to stay on the straight and narrow. The new handler might be sharp, but he’s no Peter Burke.
And yet, Moz is kind of sad at the thought of the Suit’s pending relocation. Despite his unfortunate choice of careers, Peter’s a good man and Moz has always thought it a pity he couldn’t be corrupted.
Neal’s request for his company tonight is troubling. Maybe it’s the rising blue moon, or his indulgence with the Green Fairy earlier, but all sorts of alarm bells are ringing. But it’s Neal, and if Neal needs him, he can’t refuse.
June’s housekeeper lets him in, even though he’s had a key for years. It’s just a little more polite at this hour. The alarm bells are like air raid sirens now, but he can’t turn back.
Normally he’d just go into the apartment, but the butterflies in his stomach are doing their best jackhammer imitation and he knocks, if just to buy a little time.
Neal answers the door a little too quickly. Moz tries to read the expression on his face – it’s not panic, it’s not fear, it’s something else entirely. So he makes a joke – “Trick or treat.”
Neal gives him a tight, almost airless chuckle and lets him in.
He’s not alone and of all the people in the world he expects to find in Neal’s apartment, the Old Gray Suit is the last on that list.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Reese stands when Neal goes to answer the door. It’s instinct, particularly since this isn’t his territory. Neal’s friend is shorter than he expected. Rounder, too.
He looks at the man and sees nothing of himself. Except maybe the eyes – deeply set behind thick glasses, they are the same pale blue as his own. That will have to be enough.
“What’s he doing here?” The man’s voice rises in panic.
“Moz – ” Neal tries to placate him. But that’s not Neal’s job.
“I asked him if I could talk to you.” Reese doesn’t use the man’s name, he’s not even sure what to call him.
“You?” Moz turns to Neal. “What’s going on?”
Caffrey shakes his head. “I’m not sure – but …” He goes over to the wine rack, pulls out a bottle and pours a generous glass before handing it over.
The wine seems to give him – Moz – courage, and he stalks over, leading with his chin. “Well, what do you want?”
Reese takes a deep breath. “I – ” He’s come to the sticking point and he’s not sure if he can do this. Caffrey’s standing in front of the door, blocking his escape. The only other way out is through the French doors and over the balcony. It’s a pity he left his grappling hook at home.
He can’t find the words so he pulls out the report and hands it over. Actually, it’s only half the report. He’s still holding onto the kinship analysis. There’s still time for that.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Read it.” And he adds an unfamiliar word. “Please.”
The information on the page he hands Moz is brief, just two lines:
He has to give the man credit. He doesn't blink, he doesn't falter. “And what, you want me to find this ‘Ivan Bliminse’ for you?”
Reese smiles. “I think I’ve already found him.”
It’s interesting to watch the facade break and panic spread across the man’s face. But it’s also interesting that the man doesn’t deny or deflect. “No one was supposed to know.” Moz looks back over to Caffrey.
And Caffrey just shrugs.
Reese isn’t a cruel man. “Peter told me – he had to. It’s not in any official reports, or in any unofficial reports, for that matter.”
“But how did my – ” Moz stops, winces as he realizes what he just admitted, and then soldiers on. “DNA get into a database?”
It’s Reese’s turn for speaking looks.
And Moz is sharp. “Ah, and the less said on that, the better?”
“Exactly.”
They move over to the table and sit down. At least he and Moz do. Caffrey continues to stand by the door, observing, protecting.
Moz takes a sip of his wine and pushes the paper back to him. “So, you’re here to tell me that my DNA is in the system? Why?”
“Because of this.” He takes out the first page of the report, the results of the kinship analysis and hands it to Moz. Reese holds his breath and waits. All afternoon, he’s prepared himself for rejection. He doesn’t know much about the man sitting in front of him – the bits and pieces that Peter’s told him over the years – that Caffrey’s friend is a paranoid and a genius. That he’s been invaluable, an unofficial asset, and it’s best to keep his name out of the official files.
It’s quite possible that he’s going to rabbit, he’s going to get up and walk out. Reese is prepared for that. He’s willing to walk away if this man – his brother – doesn’t want to acknowledge the connection.
But so far, he doesn’t. He finishes reading and looks at him. “I don’t understand. There’s someone out there with a DNA match to me?” Moz cuts himself off and looks over to Caffrey. “I – ” He waves the paper at him. “Neal?”
Caffrey looks at him and Reese nods, giving him permission to read. He watches Neal’s face – it swiftly goes from puzzlement to joy to shock. But he doesn’t look at him; he’s focused on his friend. “Moz – you have a brother.”
“I know – I know!” Moz gets up and paces. “Wait – a brother? Not a sister?” He stops and stares at Reese. It’s as if the light’s just gone on. “You?”
He nods, afraid to say anything. It feels like every moment of his life since finding that set of papers in his father’s files has lead up to this.
“You’re a Suit.”
“I was.”
“You were a spook, too.”
Reese doesn’t admit to that.
“You’re my brother.” Moz’s tone is accusatory. Reese understands.
“Yes, I am.” He stands up, not sure what to do, what else to say.
Moz stands there, too. “How did this happen?” The hurt and confusion in his voice is that of a small child.
“It’s a long story.”
“I have time.” Moz is belligerent, but not without reason.
They both sit back down and Reese struggles to find the words, the right place to begin. Caffrey puts a wine bottle and a second glass on the table and retreats, giving them privacy.
“There was a man, a Russian spy called Viktor Arshenskiy…”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
There’s a sharp wind blowing. It’s pulling the leaves off the trees and sending them rushing down the street. Even four floors up, Neal can hear them skittering, en masse, along the pavement. The sound doesn’t compete, however, with the laughter of children and adults as they parade down Riverside Drive, looking for welcoming houses and plenty of candy.
Neal doesn’t really hear them. He’s focused on the tableau playing out inside his apartment. Of all the improbably, impossible things to happen. He can’t help but wonder at Mozzie’s prescience, didn’t he tell him, “Present will become past, past will become present. We’ll be haunted by those we left behind. Or those who left us behind” ?
He watches the by-play between the two men. Hughes isn’t much different than he was at the office, formal, cautious but focused. Mozzie is being Mozzie – excited, voluble, questioning everything. He can hear a little of story that Hughes tells. A Russian spy seduced by an American one, a child given up for adoption. Twelve years later, there’s another child – but that one’s left behind in a orphanage. One becomes a cop, the other a criminal. And in the end, they are reunited through the unlikeliest of circumstances.
It’s a story worthy of Charles Dickens.
He doesn’t have to wonder if there will be a happy ending to this tale. Moz has dreamed of his family for a lifetime. He’d sooner cut off his hand than reject his brother.
As Neal watches, Moz gets up, stares at Hughes like he’s about to hit him. Instead, he wraps his arms around the man. Hughes is stiff, unmoving – but just for a moment. He wraps his own arms around Moz and they cling to each other.
There’s a small, petty, mean part of Neal that writhes in jealousy as he watches them. He’ll never have this. James is gone forever; Neal’s burned any bridge he might have used to return in order to save Peter. And Peter’s as good as gone, too.
His phone buzzes with an incoming text. Of course, it’s from Peter, whose timing is impeccable. Neal responds, telling him that he misread a situation and he doesn’t need his help. They’ll talk in the morning.
There’s nothing more he can say, is there?
Fin
The Unusual Relations series continues in Hope for the Future.
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Mozzie, Reese Hughes
Spoilers: 2.11 – Burke's Seven, 4.12 – Brass Tacks, 4.16 – In the Wind, S5.01 – At What Price
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~4200
Beta Credit: None. Please forgive any mistakes and typos. I am sure there are plenty.
Summary: Wraps up the story begun in Kinship Analysis. Reese Hughes gets the results of the DNA analysis. His brother is out there and even though there’s little more than a name, he knows just where to find him.
Author’s Notes: Written for
run_the_con, Round 3, for the wonderful hoosierbitch's prompt, "Full Moon". Also, the next October blue moon (second full moon in a calendar month) actually falls on Halloween, 2020.My dear friend,
kanarek13 created cover art for this story for fandom_stocking 2013. It’s under the cut.“It’s a full moon tonight.”
Neal looks up from the painting he’s working on, an outsized version of Mary Cassatt’s Child in a Straw Hat. “Huh?”
“A blue moon, too.”
“What are you talking about, Moz?”
“Tonight, it’s the second full moon in the month. That makes it a blue moon.”
“Ah. And this excerpt from The Farmer’s Almanac is relevant for a reason?”
“It’s also Halloween.”
Neal is still puzzled. Moz isn’t one to follow a calendar. “Okay.”
“Lots of strange things will happen tonight. Mark my words. Strange and terrible things will happen tonight.”
Exasperated from the interruption, Neal puts down his paintbrush and turns to his friend. “Have you been at the absinthe again?”
Moz shrugs, a gesture that could mean yes or no.
Neal decides to play along. “What sort of strangeness?”
“The wall between the worlds will thin. Present will become past, past will become present. We’ll be haunted by those we left behind. Or those who left us behind.”
Neal stares at Moz and tries not to rub the back of his neck. The hair was standing up in an atavistic response.
Mozzie blinks, shakes himself, and smiles. “Well, I’m off. Places to go, people to see, things to do.”
Neal just nods. He’s too creeped out to do much else.
Moz lets himself out and Neal turns his attention back to the painting on the easel. He tried to recapture the spirit of the moment before Mozzie’s strange utterance. He fails.
So he rinses off his brushes, puts his paints away, and pours himself a glass of a decent Shiraz – a little treat after Mozzie’s “trick.” As late in October as it is, the early afternoon is still warm, the sun is bright, the sky a perfect endless blue, and the terrace was still a pleasant place to spend a few hours. The moon won’t rise for hours yet.
There’s a cold bite in the air and Reese shivers. He’s probably getting old, he thinks. A mob of small children in all manner of costumes rush past him, laughing and shouting. He knows he’s getting old and takes small comfort in the knowledge that the alternative is a much less pleasant prospect.
Not that anyone would really miss him.
His friends are of the workplace variety and he’s been out of work for quite a while now. Peter’s sitting in his chair, doing an excellent job of things. But Peter has his own life, a wife and friends and family that he can call upon to spend an evening with. Reese has no family.
No, that isn’t necessarily true. He might have someone. There once was a brother out there, but it’s been nearly forty-five years and there’s a likelihood that the man he shares his DNA with is no longer amongst the living. He might not have survived his childhood. Orphans are a particularly vulnerable group, what with substandard medical attention, no parents to nurture a boy’s dreams, exposure to all sorts of people who prey on the helpless.
Reese shakes his head and tries to dismiss these thoughts. He might have a brother, he might be alive, but the odds were slim that they’d ever meet.
Another herd of children approach, their laughter is the sound of innocence and if anything, it makes Reese feel older. Was he ever that young? That innocent?
Probably, but he can’t remember that far back.
Thoughts of age and time and people long dead flit through his mind like so many leaves loosened from their arboreal moorings. The sun is warm but the wind gives lie to that and Reese turns the corner and finds himself at an old haunt. It’s a bar – a place that time hasn’t so much forgotten, but simply passed by. It’s the type of place that caters to the locals, the nine-to-five crowd that have no place they want to go after the day ends. The liquor isn’t good, but it’s not rotgut and the barflies tend to have most of their teeth.
The place, which has no name, is nearly empty at two PM. He orders a scotch, neat, takes a seat in one of the booths near the back and waits.
He doesn’t wait too long. A shadow coalesces in his peripheral vision and he slides a hand under his jacket. He may be retired, but he isn’t stupid.
“This is what you asked for.” An envelope drops onto the table. “Take care of yourself.” The shadow drifts away.
Reese takes a sip of his scotch and contemplates what was left for him. For the first time in a long while, he feels a sense of excitement. A sense of dread. The adrenaline rush makes his hands shake, he’s sweating under his jacket.
Reese picks up the envelope. There’s no mark on it, nothing to indicate who handled it, where it came from. Just as it should be.
He may be retired, but he carries a gun. He also carries a knife, a spring-loaded blade that’s technically illegal, but since he once carried a badge, he never worries about those kinds of technicalities. He uses the blade to open the envelope and puts it away.
The glass, still half full of the very mediocre scotch, is set to one side. Reese takes a deep breath and slides out the contents.
The report is depressingly thin. But at least it’s more than a single page. He scans the kinship analysis report. Of course, his name is left off the header; it wasn’t on the DNA sample he submitted.
Yes, a ninety-eight percent match for full-blooded male sibling was found. Reese heart begins to race. His brother is in the system. But that doesn’t mean anything.
He flips to the next page and closes his eyes. Like a child, he’s afraid to look. Afraid that he’s come this close and he’ll still have nothing, he still have no one.
But Reese Hughes is not a coward and if he has no one, he’s no worse off than he was ten minutes ago, ten days ago, ten years ago. Nothing will have changed.
He reads the report. And then reads it again.
He has to laugh. Of all the improbable things in this world, the identity of his brother is the most improbable one of all.
The clocks don’t go back for another few days, but darkness comes early. From his vantage point, Neal can see the last glow of daylight and the full moon as it rises above the canyons of New York. He thinks about Mozzie’s strange little speech about the moon, and how the walls between the worlds are thin tonight.
It is All Hallows Eve, a night for spirits to walk.
Neal drains the last of the wine in his glass and dismisses the thought. He’s not superstitious or religious or given to any sort of magical thinking. But if he was …
He shakes his head, ridding himself of that foolishness, and goes back inside, where it’s warm and bright.
The painting on the easel annoys him right now. He’s not in the mood for realism. Truthfully, he’s not in the mood for painting.
Once upon a time, he might have hopped into a cab and headed over to a certain house in Brooklyn. Whiled away the hours, helping Peter and Elizabeth give the entire neighborhood a sugar rush.
But Brooklyn, at least Warren Street in Cobble Hill, is off-limits now. An ASAC now, Peter has little time and less need for a CI and he’s made it clear that he needs a new perspective on their relationship. Neal is an artist, he knows that the only way to get perspective is through distance.
That thought chases another thought. And another and Neal decides he’d be better off drawing than painting, because in the mood he’s in, he just might recreate Pieter Breugel’s Fight Between Carnival and Lent, or worse, Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights, and wouldn’t that be a pisser?
He reaches for his sketchpad and looks around the room; his eyes land on something he should have gotten rid of ages ago – the model of the Empire State Building. But it’s perfect. His ruler is handy, he find the vanishing point, and begins to draw.
This is easy, lines and angles and nothing more creative than a small art deco flourish. It doesn’t satisfy him at all, but it stops him from thinking about everything he’s lost.
A knock on the door interrupts his concentration. Neal tries to quell his disappointment. It doesn’t sound like Peter’s knock. It’s definitely not Mozzie’s knock, when he actually bothers to do so. It’s not June’s, either.
Neal can’t imagine who’s there. He waits and whoever is on the other side of the door knocks again. Not for the first time, Neal regrets the lack of a peephole, and he has to ask, “Who is it.”
The answer shocks him.
“Reese Hughes, I need to talk to you.”
Neal doesn’t open the door right away. Why the hell would Peter’s former boss be here? What could he possibly need from him? Unless he …
Neal panics, thinking that maybe Hughes knows about the recording and Hagen and every lie he’s told for the past few months. He flings open the door, hoping there aren’t Marshals waiting for him.
No, there aren’t any Marshals. It is just Hughes wearing, most improbably, the same suit he wore on the day he left the office for the last time. Neal has a moment of deja vu, of Peter arresting him at day in the storage locker, and four years later, Peter standing over him in the abandoned apartment, wearing the same ugly, ill-fitting, off-the-rack suit.
“Can I come in?” Hughes sounds nervous.
“Please, please.” He steps back, letting him into the apartment.
Both men stand there, awkward and ill at ease until Neal remembers his manners. “Can I get you something to drink? Beer? Wine?” There’s still a few bottles of Peter’s favorite beer left in his refrigerator, and they’ll probably stay there until they go bad. Peter’s never coming back, or if he does, it won’t be for beer and brainstorming.
Hughes nods. “A beer will be fine.” He looks around and Neal wonders what he sees, what all of this adds up to in that steel trap of a brain. He hands him the beer and makes no move to get something for himself. He’s already had too much to drink today.
The silence become oppressive and Neal can’t take any more of it. “Is everything all right?”
Hughes nods, but doesn’t say anything. He seems completely absorbed by the label peeling off of the bottle. Neal resigns himself to waiting.
“Your friend.” That’s all he says to Neal.
“My friend?”
“Yeah – you know who I’m talking about. The one with the odd name.”
Worry is like a rock in Neal’s stomach. What the hell does Reese Hughes want with Moz? “Yeah?” He tries to sound noncommittal.
Hughes chips off the label and brushes the scraps of damp foil into a pile. “I – I need to talk to him.”
“Is he in trouble?” Neal has to ask, not that he expects an honest answer. He needs to know if he has to signal Moz to run. They’ve planned for this. Oh, not specifically this. But something similar.
“No – why would you ask that?”
Neal just tilts his head and stares at Hughes. To his astonishment, Hughes smiles at him. The expression doesn’t really soften his face, but it warms his eyes.
“Your friend has nothing to worry about. I really just need to talk to him. On a … personal matter.”
Neal can’t imagine how these two men’s lives could possibly intersect and debates whether or not to give Moz the signal. But Neal is a con man, a social engineer without equal and he knows how to read someone. There is no guile there, and Hughes’ next words confirm this.
“Neal, please. I really need to see him.”
Reese Hughes, the man who called him a son of a bitch that last day, is pleading him.
“Okay, I’ll talk to him. But I can’t make any promises.” Neal dials one of a half-dozen numbers that he has for his friend. The man goes through burners like most people go through tissues. He gets lucky; Moz picks up on the first one he tries.
“Neal? What’s doing?”
“Hey, can you come over?”
“Sure, but why?”
Moz is clearly suspicious. They don’t normally ask for each other’s company like this. “I’m having a problem. I’d rather not discuss it in such an unsecured manner.” Neal catches Hughes’ eye and they both smile.
“Okay. But is this a problem with the monkey on your back?”
It would have been easier if Neal said yes, but Moz might burst in with some incriminating comment on his lips. “No, something else entirely. Just come over and we’ll talk, please?”
“No problem, but you’ll owe me. It’s Halloween, you know.”
“I’ve got a whole box of the chocolate you like from Jacques Torres. Is that enough?”
“More than enough. See you in a few.”
Neal ends the call and can’t help but sigh in relief. Moz can be worse than a cat sometimes, doing the opposite of what you want just because he knows it will piss you off.
He tells Hughes, “He’ll be here soon.”
“Thanks. I appreciate this.”
Neal doesn’t know what’s going on, and he’s not sure he wants to know. But what he is certain of is that whatever is going to go down, he’s probably going to need help mopping up. Six months ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated, but the last time he asked for Peter’s assistance, Peter ended up in prison and almost lost everything.
But it’s Hughes, who’s Peter’s friend. And Mozzie’s his friend.
“Excuse me – I need to – ” He points to the bathroom and palms his phone. Hughes nods and Neal heads to his bathroom. He turns on the water for no good reason and quickly sends Peter a text. He’s not certain that Peter will come, but he has to try.
He rejoins Hughes in his apartment. It’s been less than two minutes, but Neal knows just how long it can take a determined snooper to find something that shouldn’t be found. Not that he still has anything incriminating here – he’s learned his lessons well.
“Another beer?” There are two more bottles left.
“No, but thank you.”
It’s weird, sitting at his dining table with someone who has intimidated him, both pretending that nothing important is going on. Neal tries to make small talk. “Are you enjoying retirement?”
Hughes shrugs. “It’s … not bad.”
Neal has to smile. “There’s a whole universe between ‘good’ and ‘not bad’.”
“That’s true, Caffrey. How are you doing with your new handler?”
Shit. Of course Hughes would know about that. “He’s okay.”
“But he’s not Peter.”
What the hell is he supposed to say to that? “No, but Peter has other responsibilities now.”
The look Hughes gives him is better than money in the bank. He’s about to say something, but is interrupted by a knock. In iambic pentameter.
Mozzie, thank god.
Moz isn’t sure why Neal asked him to come over. They had spent most of last night trying to unravel the latest mess Hagen had cooked up for him. Unless the bastard reached out and decided to complicate things further. But Neal clearly told him it isn’t about Hagen.
Which means only one thing. It’s the Suit.
Moz isn’t quite sure what to feel about Neal’s new relationship with Peter. He’s hurting, that’s obvious. And Mrs. Suit has been strangely unkind of late, particularly to Neal. He chalks that down to the Suit’s six-week stay at the local Club Fed and Neal’s own role in that “vacation.”
He’s not unhappy with the recent developments. Moz knows that once the Suit’s goes to DC, Neal will be all his again. No petty urges to do good deeds, to help people. No mistaken desire to stay on the straight and narrow. The new handler might be sharp, but he’s no Peter Burke.
And yet, Moz is kind of sad at the thought of the Suit’s pending relocation. Despite his unfortunate choice of careers, Peter’s a good man and Moz has always thought it a pity he couldn’t be corrupted.
Neal’s request for his company tonight is troubling. Maybe it’s the rising blue moon, or his indulgence with the Green Fairy earlier, but all sorts of alarm bells are ringing. But it’s Neal, and if Neal needs him, he can’t refuse.
June’s housekeeper lets him in, even though he’s had a key for years. It’s just a little more polite at this hour. The alarm bells are like air raid sirens now, but he can’t turn back.
Normally he’d just go into the apartment, but the butterflies in his stomach are doing their best jackhammer imitation and he knocks, if just to buy a little time.
Neal answers the door a little too quickly. Moz tries to read the expression on his face – it’s not panic, it’s not fear, it’s something else entirely. So he makes a joke – “Trick or treat.”
Neal gives him a tight, almost airless chuckle and lets him in.
He’s not alone and of all the people in the world he expects to find in Neal’s apartment, the Old Gray Suit is the last on that list.
Reese stands when Neal goes to answer the door. It’s instinct, particularly since this isn’t his territory. Neal’s friend is shorter than he expected. Rounder, too.
He looks at the man and sees nothing of himself. Except maybe the eyes – deeply set behind thick glasses, they are the same pale blue as his own. That will have to be enough.
“What’s he doing here?” The man’s voice rises in panic.
“Moz – ” Neal tries to placate him. But that’s not Neal’s job.
“I asked him if I could talk to you.” Reese doesn’t use the man’s name, he’s not even sure what to call him.
“You?” Moz turns to Neal. “What’s going on?”
Caffrey shakes his head. “I’m not sure – but …” He goes over to the wine rack, pulls out a bottle and pours a generous glass before handing it over.
The wine seems to give him – Moz – courage, and he stalks over, leading with his chin. “Well, what do you want?”
Reese takes a deep breath. “I – ” He’s come to the sticking point and he’s not sure if he can do this. Caffrey’s standing in front of the door, blocking his escape. The only other way out is through the French doors and over the balcony. It’s a pity he left his grappling hook at home.
He can’t find the words so he pulls out the report and hands it over. Actually, it’s only half the report. He’s still holding onto the kinship analysis. There’s still time for that.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Read it.” And he adds an unfamiliar word. “Please.”
The information on the page he hands Moz is brief, just two lines:
DNA matched to Ivan Bliminse, admitted to Mount Sinai for GSW on July 14, 2010. Released on July 28, 2010.
No further records located.
No further records located.
He has to give the man credit. He doesn't blink, he doesn't falter. “And what, you want me to find this ‘Ivan Bliminse’ for you?”
Reese smiles. “I think I’ve already found him.”
It’s interesting to watch the facade break and panic spread across the man’s face. But it’s also interesting that the man doesn’t deny or deflect. “No one was supposed to know.” Moz looks back over to Caffrey.
And Caffrey just shrugs.
Reese isn’t a cruel man. “Peter told me – he had to. It’s not in any official reports, or in any unofficial reports, for that matter.”
“But how did my – ” Moz stops, winces as he realizes what he just admitted, and then soldiers on. “DNA get into a database?”
It’s Reese’s turn for speaking looks.
And Moz is sharp. “Ah, and the less said on that, the better?”
“Exactly.”
They move over to the table and sit down. At least he and Moz do. Caffrey continues to stand by the door, observing, protecting.
Moz takes a sip of his wine and pushes the paper back to him. “So, you’re here to tell me that my DNA is in the system? Why?”
“Because of this.” He takes out the first page of the report, the results of the kinship analysis and hands it to Moz. Reese holds his breath and waits. All afternoon, he’s prepared himself for rejection. He doesn’t know much about the man sitting in front of him – the bits and pieces that Peter’s told him over the years – that Caffrey’s friend is a paranoid and a genius. That he’s been invaluable, an unofficial asset, and it’s best to keep his name out of the official files.
It’s quite possible that he’s going to rabbit, he’s going to get up and walk out. Reese is prepared for that. He’s willing to walk away if this man – his brother – doesn’t want to acknowledge the connection.
But so far, he doesn’t. He finishes reading and looks at him. “I don’t understand. There’s someone out there with a DNA match to me?” Moz cuts himself off and looks over to Caffrey. “I – ” He waves the paper at him. “Neal?”
Caffrey looks at him and Reese nods, giving him permission to read. He watches Neal’s face – it swiftly goes from puzzlement to joy to shock. But he doesn’t look at him; he’s focused on his friend. “Moz – you have a brother.”
“I know – I know!” Moz gets up and paces. “Wait – a brother? Not a sister?” He stops and stares at Reese. It’s as if the light’s just gone on. “You?”
He nods, afraid to say anything. It feels like every moment of his life since finding that set of papers in his father’s files has lead up to this.
“You’re a Suit.”
“I was.”
“You were a spook, too.”
Reese doesn’t admit to that.
“You’re my brother.” Moz’s tone is accusatory. Reese understands.
“Yes, I am.” He stands up, not sure what to do, what else to say.
Moz stands there, too. “How did this happen?” The hurt and confusion in his voice is that of a small child.
“It’s a long story.”
“I have time.” Moz is belligerent, but not without reason.
They both sit back down and Reese struggles to find the words, the right place to begin. Caffrey puts a wine bottle and a second glass on the table and retreats, giving them privacy.
“There was a man, a Russian spy called Viktor Arshenskiy…”
There’s a sharp wind blowing. It’s pulling the leaves off the trees and sending them rushing down the street. Even four floors up, Neal can hear them skittering, en masse, along the pavement. The sound doesn’t compete, however, with the laughter of children and adults as they parade down Riverside Drive, looking for welcoming houses and plenty of candy.
Neal doesn’t really hear them. He’s focused on the tableau playing out inside his apartment. Of all the improbably, impossible things to happen. He can’t help but wonder at Mozzie’s prescience, didn’t he tell him, “Present will become past, past will become present. We’ll be haunted by those we left behind. Or those who left us behind” ?
He watches the by-play between the two men. Hughes isn’t much different than he was at the office, formal, cautious but focused. Mozzie is being Mozzie – excited, voluble, questioning everything. He can hear a little of story that Hughes tells. A Russian spy seduced by an American one, a child given up for adoption. Twelve years later, there’s another child – but that one’s left behind in a orphanage. One becomes a cop, the other a criminal. And in the end, they are reunited through the unlikeliest of circumstances.
It’s a story worthy of Charles Dickens.
He doesn’t have to wonder if there will be a happy ending to this tale. Moz has dreamed of his family for a lifetime. He’d sooner cut off his hand than reject his brother.
As Neal watches, Moz gets up, stares at Hughes like he’s about to hit him. Instead, he wraps his arms around the man. Hughes is stiff, unmoving – but just for a moment. He wraps his own arms around Moz and they cling to each other.
There’s a small, petty, mean part of Neal that writhes in jealousy as he watches them. He’ll never have this. James is gone forever; Neal’s burned any bridge he might have used to return in order to save Peter. And Peter’s as good as gone, too.
His phone buzzes with an incoming text. Of course, it’s from Peter, whose timing is impeccable. Neal responds, telling him that he misread a situation and he doesn’t need his help. They’ll talk in the morning.
There’s nothing more he can say, is there?
The Unusual Relations series continues in Hope for the Future.
no subject
Date: 2013-10-21 12:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-21 12:41 pm (UTC)And yes, Oh, Neal!