![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: We Rise Where Shadows Fall – Part Two
Artist: Nioell
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Mitchell, Mozzie, Clinton Jones, Lauren Cruz, Kyle Bancroft, Original Characters; Peter/Neal, past Neal/Adler, past Peter/Elizabeth (marriage of convenience), Peter-Elizabeth friendship
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~41,000
Beta Credit:coffeethyme4me, miri_thompson, theatregirl7299
Summary: Neal, a former employee of Vincent Adler – and the only person from Adler’s organization to serve jail time – has agreed to help the FBI find Adler. Peter Burke, the case agent assigned to the Adler case, is worried about Neal’s safety and doesn’t trust the Marshals, so he’s keeping him close at hand. The attraction between the two men grows as they learn about each other and everything comes to a head when Neal finally shares a devastating secret.
Title from the Oysterband song, “Rise Above”.
Written for Round One of the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wc_reverse_bb.
__________________
__________________
Peter was worried. Not about the case – those concerns would have to wait for tomorrow. He left messages with Interpol, but it was already after midnight in Paris and he wouldn’t hear back until Monday at the earliest, if he knew the French.
No, he was worried about Neal.
He was also worried about himself. Mostly because he was so worried about the other man. In less than twenty-four hours he’d gone from being Neal Caffrey, a witness with a puzzling backstory, to Neal, someone he cared about.
Peter paced the length of his office, watching Neal and Mozzie, wondering what they were talking about. Moz didn’t seem to be trying to convince Neal of the evils of cooperating with the FBI, and Neal, for his part, seemed, well, okay.
Which was the most worrisome thing of all. Not an hour ago, he told Neal that his apartment building had blown up. Peter had thought that the man would be shattered at the knowledge that everything he owned was lost, but he wasn’t. He was upset – that was obvious, but he wasn’t devastated. Maybe Neal was good at hiding his feelings and would break down in privacy. Peter made a mental note to give him all the time and space he needed, within the confines of his own apartment.
Peter went out to the balcony, hoping his presence there would somehow encourage Moz to get going. It seemed to have worked when the little guy got into the elevator without so much as a dirty look.
Neal sauntered back into the bullpen, hands in his pockets, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He seemed a lot more at ease with his surroundings than most people stuck in an FBI office would be. Then he remembered Neal’s long ago ambitions and how sad he’d been as he told him about getting turned down for the Academy, after his hopes had been so strongly encouraged.
Peter was going to call Neal upstairs, have him camp out for another couple of hours in his office, but Jones took him over to his desk, fetched them both coffee and talked with him.
He had to smile. Jones was usually the most no-nonsense member of his team, but he also had a way of getting people to open up to him. Peter headed back to his office and sent Clinton a message, asking him to keep Neal occupied for a while. He pushed aside the pile of routine paperwork that defined most of his day and called an old friend, one who had the right connections with the right agencies and just might be willing to help him.
“Reese, it’s Peter. How are you?”
“Good – and it’s good to hear from you.”
They chatted for a few minutes, catching up on inconsequentialities. His old boss hadn’t taken kindly to the forced retirement, but kept himself busy. He had friends, the kind who appreciated his experience and were happy to let him play in their sandbox.
“I gather this isn’t a call just to see how I’m enjoying my retirement.”
Peter smiled. “No, not really.”
“Maybe it might be better if we met for coffee?”
Peter looked out over the bullpen. Neal was still talking with Jones. Price and Cruz had joined in and everyone was smiling. “Don’t suppose you’d like to head over to the coffee shop on Chambers and Reade?” Peter was referring to one of those nameless hole-in-the-wall places that were favored by white collar office workers during the day and blue collar delivery men after hours. It was the type of place that Starbucks and its corporate coffee culture would never be able to eradicate. He and Reese had met there a number of times over years since his mentor’s ‘retirement’.
“Just so happens that I’m in that very neighborhood. See you in twenty.” Reese didn’t wait for Peter to hang up before he ended the call. Typical.
He put on his suit jacket, but didn’t bother with his holster and gun, even though he felt a bit naked without them. Peter knew that if Reese was going to take him out, he’d never have the chance to draw his weapon. He’d never see it coming.
Peter paused before he got to Clinton’s desk, enjoying the sight of Neal smiling. This might be the first time he’d seen the man in such unselfconscious good humor and he hated to interrupt. Neal looked up and saw him. If anything, his smile broadened. “Just corrupting your agents. Trying to teach them how to juggle.” Neal had – of all things – Lauren’s precious rubber band ball, Price’s badge, and Jones’ wallet. With a wink at Peter, he set them all in motion. Peter watched as Neal’s hands moved faster than his eyes could follow, keeping all of the items aloft. And suddenly, the ball, badge and wallet were deftly returned to their rightful owners.
“Very good – do I need to keep an eye on my most precious possessions?” Peter deliberately put a hand over his breast pocket, as if to protect his wallet. Then he realized that he was also covering his heart and dropped his hand.
Neal didn’t seem to notice. He just rocked back on his heels and held his hands up. “I’m not a thief.” His smile dimmed. “Despite what the government said.”
Cruz and Price melted away and Jones looked at his watch, as if he needed to be somewhere in a hurry.
Peter told Neal, “Listen – I have to head out for a bit – but I’ll be back within the hour. Clinton will keep an eye on you.”
From the way he grimaced, Neal didn’t like that. “No offense, Agent Jones, but I really don’t need a manny.”
Jones, for his part, took the instructions and Neal’s demurral in stride. “I know, but we can’t let you just roam around lower Manhattan, not with a target on your back.”
Neal shoved his hands back in his pockets and shrugged, looking resigned and a little lost. “Yeah, right. Okay. Do you have anything to read?”
Jones grinned, “That’s something I can help you with. How do you feel about Fifty Shades of Gray?”
Peter didn’t bother to restrain a shout of laughter. He’d forgotten about Clinton’s terrible taste in literature.
By the time he got to the coffee shop, Hughes was waiting for him in a booth at back and was wringing out a tea bag. Peter was shocked at how old his friend looked. It had been a few months since he’d seen Reese, but the man looked like he’d aged years.
Reese looked up and huffed out a sigh of annoyance at the expression he must have had on his face. “Yeah, I know. You don’t have to say anything. In fact, I wish you wouldn’t.”
If this was the way Reese wanted to play it, then Peter had no choice. He didn’t comment and he tried his best not to worry at the deep circles and pallor that had replaced his friend’s normally healthy complexion.
A waitress came by with a cup and a pot of coffee and asked him if he wanted to see a menu. Eager to get her out of hearing range, Peter shook his head, telling her that the coffee was all he needed. The woman left without comment.
“So, what can you tell me about Vincent Adler?” On the walk over here, Peter played out several scenarios – the CIA’s involvement in this investigation was still sub rosa and once Reese retired, his clearance should have been retired, too. Of course, Peter knew that his friend still had access to some highly sensitive information. It was going to be all about how the questions were asked and the direction of the information.
It seemed that all his care was for nothing. “You mean Claude Ballatin? International arms trader, currently based in Paris, allegedly the city of his birth? Suspected of selling chemical weapons to the Syrian government? That Vincent Adler?”
Peter choked on the coffee he’d just sipped. Of course Reese would get right to the point. “Um, yes.”
Reese smiled, obviously amused at Peter’s reaction. But his smile dropped. “He’s dangerous, Peter.”
“I know, but headquarters has tossed a case into my lap. They have a sighting and want us to arrest him.”
“Ah. I wondered when the FBI was going to get dragged into this mess.”
“The French aren’t cooperating and I need to find someone who can positively identify Adler – or Ballatin – if that’s his real name.”
Reese sipped his tea, made a face, and dumped three packets of sugar in it. “That might be a problem. Whatever name he goes under, the man has done an excellent job of keeping out of the public eye. ”
“And yet your friends know just who he is and where he is. Odd, don’t you think?” He leaned back against the booth, wondering how Reese was going to answer that.
“Subtlety doesn’t suit you, Peter.”
Peter didn’t comment and just let the moment draw out. He could be subtle when the moment called for it.
Reese tipped his head, acknowledging the well-played hand. “My friends have been keeping tabs on him, but their work lacks … hmmm … how shall I put it, credibility?”
Peter’s response was a bit dry, “That’s usually the problem with illegally gathered evidence. The Fourth Amendment exists for a reason.”
His old friend ignored the dig. “Regardless, you have your work cut out for you. Remember, I told you that man’s dangerous.”
“I know all about that.” Peter grinned and tapped the gold shield on his belt. “Besides, you taught me well.”
“True, true. So you know all about Adler’s inner circle? That they’re all dead?”
“Yeah, except for one.” Peter was reluctant to utter Neal’s name, even though he doubted anyone had ears on this place.
Reese nodded. “True. And I’ve been lead to believe that you won’t get much cooperation from that quarter.”
Peter didn’t have to wonder how Reese came by that information, but he wanted to know who was the mole in his office. Instead, he just blandly commented “He was reluctant, but he’s helping now.”
Reese gave him a considering look, one tinged with a bit of something that looked like admiration. “Peter?”
“What?”
“You’re not … ?”
Peter had no clue what Reese was asking and why he was being so damn evasive. “I’m not … what?”
“You know…”
The man’s prevarication was getting annoying. “No, Reese, actually, I don’t know.”
Reese stared into his cup and a flush climbed over his cheeks.
Comprehension hit him like a Mack truck. Peter couldn’t believe, of all people, that Reese would think this of him. He opened and shut his mouth like a gasping fish. “I’m not – I wouldn’t – How could you even think that?” But to his own ears, his outrage sounded a little forced. It wasn’t that he would use sex to convince Neal Caffrey to help the FBI, it was that he wanted to have sex with Neal Caffrey, full stop.
“Okay, sorry. I probably shouldn’t have thought that – it’s just that he’s, well, ...”
Peter didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to know how his old boss knew that Neal Caffrey was just his type. And then he was smacked by that proverbial clue-stick again. “How do you know about him? And so much about him?” And more to the point, how the hell did Reese know that Neal Caffrey was gay?
His old friend sighed. “If I said, you’re better off not knowing, would you let it drop?”
“No.” There was no need to elaborate.
“All I can tell you is that the man’s been on the government’s radar for a few years.”
“Why?” Peter was almost afraid of the answer.
“Let’s just say his family has some history with us.”
That wasn’t what Peter expected to hear. “His family?” Peter remembered the story Neal told him, about his father’s involvement with organized crime. None of this made any sense.
Reese scrubbed at his face. “That’s all I can tell you, Peter. Leave it be. If he’s cooperating out of his own free will, good. Use it, run with it, catch that bastard and bring him back in chains. What Claude Ballatin has done makes Vincent Adler’s crimes look like a street corner game of Three-Card Monte.”
Peter wasn’t sure he could leave it be. The inconsistencies made the back of his neck itch and his gut ache. There was something going on and he didn’t like being kept in the dark. But he’d play nicely for the moment. Reese was a friend and his help was invaluable. “All right. Do you have any other advice for me?”
“I’ll make sure that the intel on Ballatin stays current and fed to you. And as for advice, make sure your passport is current. I see a trip to Paris in your future.” At that, Reese stood, pulled out his wallet and dropped a five dollar bill on the table. “Take care of yourself, Peter.”
Peter got up, too, and they walked out together. He had a horrible feeling that this might be the last time he saw Reese. “Thank you. For everything.”
Reese’s lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. “I’ll be fine, so stop looking like I just kicked your dog. We’ll talk when you get back. I’ll want all the gory details.” He clapped Peter on the shoulder and left him standing there.
He watched as Reese made his way up Chambers Street and disappeared into the bright sunshine of an early October afternoon, but his thoughts really weren’t on his old friend’s health. The puzzles surrounding Neal Caffrey were consuming him. They were like those Russian nesting dolls – just when you figured that you’d reached the last one, you discovered there was another secret hiding inside.
Peter turned and was going to head back to the office when he passed a small art supply store. He didn’t think twice before going in. The shop was dim and he blinked as his eyes adjusted.
“Can I help you?”
The ancient wooden floors creaked as a young man came out from behind the counter. Peter blinked again, this time not so sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. The clerk’s hair was little more than a buzz cut, alternately dyed black and bleached white, like a chess board. His face was tattooed with horrendously realistic muscles and bones, like something out of an anatomy textbook. Even worse, to Peter, were his ears – they were pierced so many times it looked like the outer lobes were made of solid metal. There were more piercings on the man’s lips and brows and through his nose. Peter tried not to shudder. The sight of all those tattoos and piercings triggered his almost phobic fear of needles.
“Sir?”
“Okay, yeah.” Peter took a deep breath and focused at a point just past the guy’s shoulder. “I’m looking for a sketchbook and some good pencils.”
“Yeah, we’ve certainly got those.” The clerk cheerfully produced an array of pads and books and rhapsodized about the quality of each one. “I’d get this one – it’s German-made, has a sewn-in binding and will lay flat. The paper is acid free, one hundred pound weight, and a super smooth vellum finish. It’s perfect for pencil work. You can’t go wrong with it.”
Peter discreetly looked at the price – forty-five bucks. “And pencils?”
“Well, you’ve got your mechanicals and your wooden ones. Incense-balsam wood is the only type I’d recommend. There’s also solid graphite, but those are kind of hard to use. And then you have colored pencils …”
Peter’s head was spinning and by the time he’d finished, he’d bought enough drawing supplies to stock a small studio. The clerk handed him the receipt and his credit card. “Come back anytime.”
Walking back to the office, Peter tried hard not to think about his reasons for this little shopping spree. He tried to convince himself that he simply felt sorry for Neal. He’d lost everything and was stuck in an office all day with nothing to do.
But that really didn’t explain why he just dropped three hundred dollars to keep him happy and occupied.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal didn’t make it past the first fifty pages of Fifty Shades of Gray. It wasn’t because the writing sucked, and it did. It wasn’t that the story took a rigidly heteronormative view of interpersonal relationships, something only slightly less annoying than the crappy writing. It was that the author was simply clueless about the power exchange that formed the core of any D/s relationship. He returned the book to the good-natured Agent Jones with a wink and went back to the conference room to wait for Peter’s return.
He looked over the few books on the credenza and figured that they were there more for show than any serious research. One was a seven-year old copy of the Generally Accepted Accounting Principles handbook, something Neal had memorized for the hell of it during his B-school days. He had no interest in refreshing his memory.
There was also a book about J. Edgar Hoover. It was billed as the “official biography” and Neal had to figure that there wouldn’t be any mention of the legendary pink chiffon in it. The last book was a thick tome on warrant law. Neal picked it up and started reading. It was the best of the three choices, and certainly better than Fifty Shades, which wasn’t all that hard, to be honest.
He found the textbook surprisingly interesting, but given the revelations on the government’s spying on its own citizens, he had to wonder just how much of the law was observed in its breach. Neal was so engrossed in the intricacies of the exigent circumstances exception that he didn’t hear Peter come into the conference room until the man dropped a heavy brown paper shopping bag on the table.
“Huh?” Neal looked up. “What’s this?”
Peter mumbled, “For you – got you something.” He pushed the bag closer. “Hope you like them. I didn’t know what you preferred, so I got you a bit of everything.”
Neal blinked. Peter was actually blushing. He reached into the bag and pulled out a box of Prismacolor pencils – the complete color range. Another one of just shades of gray. Neal almost laughed – there were, indeed – fifty shades in the box. A third box contained a set of graphite core pencils in varying hardnesses. There was a set of erasers, and not one, but two self-contained sharpeners that wouldn’t have looked out of place in an exhibit on Art Deco.
Neal looked up at Peter and he muttered something about not using the same sharpener on graphite and colored pencils.
The last item in the back was a sketchbook, just one. But what a sketchbook it was. German-made with a supple leather cover, hand-stitched leaves. The paper was like a dream. Leagues beyond the cheap pads he picked up at the dollar store.
“Peter – ” He licked his lips. “It’s too much.”
“Nah. I’m keeping you under lock and key. Can’t really give you access to any computers here at the office, and I don’t think that,” Peter tilted his head and looked at what he’d been reading, “Warrant Law is going to hold your attention for much longer.”
Neal grinned. “Don’t know about that. This exigent circumstances thing is pretty nifty – you use it much? But seriously, this is way too much.”
Peter laughed and ignored Neal’s question. “It’s the least I could do. Enjoy them.”
Neal touched the boxes of pencils, the sketchbook, even the erasers and sharpeners, with reverence. Back in the day, when money was no object, these were what he’d have bought for himself, if he had the time to indulge in a hobby. “Oh, I will, I will.”
“I’ve got a few more things I have to do before we can get out of here. If you want, we can stop at Macy’s, you can pick a few things to tide you over.” Peter made a vague gesture at him.
Neal tried not to wince. His finances were tight and a visit to Macy’s would probably tap him dry. “Honestly, I’m more of a thrift store kind of guy.”
That got a reaction from Peter. “Really?”
“Yeah, really. Pretty much everything but my underwear came from Goodwill.”
Peter didn’t comment, but his frown spoke volumes. “Look, if you need a loan, it’s not a problem. And I can probably get you some money from the crime victim’s fund.”
Neal’s stomach gave a little twist. Not at the idea of taking charity, but at Peter’s generosity. “No – a thrift store will be fine. But thanks.”
Peter sighed and nodded, looking unhappy, but not willing to push the issue. “I think there’s a consignment shop in my neighborhood. Tomorrow’s Saturday, I’ll take you there.”
Neal wasn’t sure that Peter understood the difference between thrift store and consignment shop, but he wasn’t going to educate him. At least not now. Tomorrow would be soon enough.
Peter left him alone, but Neal was quick to note how the connecting door between his office and the conference room was carefully left ajar, and Peter had his chair tilted to keep him in his line of sight.
He should have felt a little oppressed by the man’s intense regard, much the way he had during his early days in prison, when he discovered what living in a fishbowl really meant. But he didn’t. Peter’s watchful eye was different. The guards didn’t care about him – he was a number, a statistic. The other cons on the cell block were only interested in what he could do for them.
Okay, Peter might need him, but when Neal touched the sketchbook again, he knew – beyond any doubt – that he cared about him, too.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Five o’clock, and if it wasn’t full dark, it was pretty close to it, especially in the caverns of lower Manhattan. Peter maneuvered through the side streets to the West Side Highway, and despite the usual Friday night bumper to bumper traffic, it was still the fastest way to get home.
Neal was quiet, much like he’d been during this morning’s drive downtown. The car interior was dim, at least until they reached the highway, where the setting sun – clear of any skyscrapers – glided Neal’s profile like an illuminated manuscript. Peter was struck again by the man’s beauty, made all the more stunning by his unconscious grace. The light, though, didn’t hide any flaws; picking out the lines of strain radiating from the corner of his eyes, the threads of silver at his temple and even in the scruff of his beard. Time hadn’t been cruel to Neal Caffrey, but it hadn’t been all that benevolent either.
“What’s the matter?” Neal spoke for the first time since they pulled out of the Federal Building garage.
“Nothing. Why?”
“Well, you keep staring at me.”
Peter bit his lip, a little embarrassed that his regard had been so obvious. “Sorry. I guess I’m a little worried about you.”
“Worried? How come?”
Taking advantage of a break in the traffic, Peter concentrated on changing lanes. It bought him a few seconds to come up with an explanation that didn’t make him sound like a teenaged girl. “Well, I guess if I found out that I just lost all of my worldly possessions, I’d be a little less …” He searched for the right word, “copasetic about it.”
“What, you wanted to see me cry?” Neal sounded like he was laughing at him.
“Well, nothing quite so dramatic. You just don’t you seem very distressed. You don’t have to bury your feelings. I’m honestly not one for endless displays of stoicism, believe me. I won’t be embarrassed if you get upset.”
“Ah.” Neal let that single syllable hang there.
“‘Ah?’ Just ‘ah’? That’s it?”
Now Neal was laughing, but there wasn’t a lot of good humor in that sound. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
“No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”
Neal gave a heartfelt sigh. “When I was three, my father was killed. My mother told me that he ‘went away’ and would never come back. The last thing I can remember about him was that it was the morning and he was leaving for work. He told me to be a good boy and listen to my mother and he’d have something special for me when he got home. I waited and waited but he never came home. A few days later, my mother put me in the car and we drove for what felt like days. I had to leave all my toys behind and I couldn’t cry about that because I was a big boy now and needed to be strong for mommy.”
“Neal – ”
“That was the first time I had lost everything – but it was okay. It’s how I ended up with Ellie – Elizabeth. I was three and she was five and we became best friends. My mother and hers were first cousins and they’d stayed close despite the distance between D.C. and Illinois. So we settled down in a tiny little house a few blocks from where El’s family lived. I grew up and went to school. And when I wasn’t in school, I was pretty much living at Ellie’s place, and her parents were my Aunt Donna and Uncle Allen and my life was wonderful.”
Elizabeth had told him just this morning that Neal had disappeared when she was twelve, but Peter wanted to hear the story from Neal and hoped he’d tell him. “What happened?”
Neal took a deep breath and continued. “I was ten years old. It was probably late August, I’d been playing all day with Ellie and the kids in the neighborhood. Stickball, hide and go seek, or maybe one of those games that only the kids who played knew the rules, I don’t really remember and it’s not important. It wasn’t that late when I got home but my mother was crying – she did that a lot – and she pulled me inside. The house was dark and the windows shut and the curtains were drawn. There were two men and a woman in the living room and next thing I knew I was given a small bag with some clothes, told I could pick one toy and then I had to leave. I couldn’t say goodbye to anyone and I was never supposed to call or write to anyone from the neighborhood, or talk about them. My name wasn’t Neal Caffrey but Danny Brooks and I had to remember that or I’d be in big trouble.”
Peter said nothing, letting Neal tell his story at his own pace.
“I guess you figured it out.”
“It isn’t hard. You and your mother were put into WitSec.”
“Yeah. Something to do with my father." Neal didn't dwell on that. "I hated being called Danny, and when I went to school, I made sure everyone called me Neal. I told everyone that it was my middle name and I wouldn’t answer to ‘Danny’. By the time I was in high school, I was registered as Neal Caffrey and it was as if Danny Brooks never existed. Which he didn’t.”
Peter wasn’t sure what to say about that. The Marshals weren’t doing their job if they let that happen.
“I know it was stupid, but you have to understand, no one told me what was going on and I’d lost everything for the second time. I wasn’t going to let them take my name, too.”
“What about your mother?”
Neal shrugged. “What about her? She spent most of the time crying and sleeping. Or pretending that nothing was wrong. I took care of myself.”
“The Marshals didn’t keep track of you?”
“I don’t remember seeing them after we’d settled in St. Louis. But that doesn’t mean anything; they could have been there when I wasn’t home. I spent years trying to figure it out, but I can’t understand why we were put into WitSec. Until I saw my father’s case file, I had thought maybe he was a hero or something and there were people who wanted revenge. But he wasn’t – he was criminal of the worst kind. A murderer and a drug dealer. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Then Peter remembered what Reese told him this afternoon – about the government’s interest in his family. In the context of Neal’s revelations last night, Reese’s information didn’t make sense either.
Neal sighed. “Do you now understand why I’m really not upset about losing my stuff and that apartment? It’s happened to me before – I’ve lost a hell of a lot more than a handful of shirts and a couple of pair of chinos. I’ve lost everything so many times that I can’t even imagine what it’s like to have anything worth holding onto. ”
Peter just nodded. He understood. He didn’t like it, but he understood.
The trip continued in relative silence. Neal asked if he could turn on the radio and Peter gave him leave with the wave of a hand. Neal tuned in an oldies station. The DJ cheerfully announced that he was playing drive-time hits from way back when – the best of the late Seventies and early Eighties. Billy Joel was singing “Only the Good Die Young” and Peter felt way too old. He remembered when this song came out, watching a performance on a episode of Saturday Night Live when he was a kid.
The music cut out when his cellphone started to ring, the Bluetooth connection cutting out the radio. It was Elizabeth, and he hit the answer button on the steering wheel.
“Hey hon.” They might have been divorced for six years, but they never lost their own affectionate shorthand.
“Hey, where are you?”
“Stuck in traffic, a little north of the Boat Basin. What’s up?”
“Nothing much. Just checking in. How’s Neal?”
“He’s sitting right next to me, so he can answer for himself.”
“Yes, he can. Neal, how are you doing?”
Peter snuck a glance at his passenger. Neal sat up and donned a bright smile, as if Elizabeth could see him. “I’m doing just fine. Peter hasn’t slapped the cuffs on me or threatened me with an iron shackle. At least, not yet.”
El’s amusement was audible. “If he does, let me know – we can sic Mozzie on him.”
Peter interrupted. “I’m quaking in my boots.”
“I’m sure you are, mister! But seriously, Neal. Are you okay?”
“Seriously, Elizabeth, I’m fine. You have the Corelli’s anniversary party tonight, right?”
“Yeah, and I’m on my way there. If Brad wasn’t so demanding, I would have had Yvonne handle it and come over.”
Neal laughed. “I think she’d quit if you even suggested that.”
Peter listened to Neal and Elizabeth’s chatter about the various events she had lined up for the next few days. The conversation made him a bit nostalgic. It felt like ages since he’d talked like that with El. Their lives, once deeply intertwined, now seemed so separate. How he allowed his ambition to get in the way of what really mattered?
“Okay, sweetie, I’ve got to run, but I’m free on Sunday and I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer. I’m coming over on Sunday. I want to see both of you.”
He sighed. This was as unavoidable as a train wreck. There was no way of dissuading Elizabeth when she was this adamant so he might as well give in with grace. “Brunch?”
“Okay – I’ll bring the food, you just make sure you’ve got enough Stoli for the Bloody Marys.”
Peter didn’t even blink. “Your wish is my command.” The exit he needed was coming up and he cut hard across three lanes of traffic, ignoring the screeching tires and car horns from irate drivers. “See you then.”
“Can’t wait.”
Neal chimed in, “See you, Ellie. And tell Brad that there’s a reason why six-foot ice bears are only four feet tall.”
Peter had to wonder at Elizabeth’s reaction to Neal’s use of a diminutive. She was very particular about her name, and as far as he knew, he was the only one allowed to call her ‘El’. But she didn’t seem to mind. Family had privileges, he guessed.
Neal reached over to the console and pressed the disconnect button. “She saved my life, you know. She gave me a home and a purpose. She held on tight when all I wanted to do was let go.”
“She said you found her right after you’d gotten out of prison.”
“Yeah. I was desperate. I had nothing but the clothes on my back. I didn’t have a place to stay and no money. It wasn’t bad the first few nights, sleeping outside. Being able to see the stars, the moon. Hearing the birds sing. You miss that in prison.”
“But you couldn’t live on the streets forever.”
“No. I went to the library and used a computer to track Ellie down. It’s funny. When I went into prison, they took my wallet. I hadn’t left any money in it – pretty much didn’t have any left anyway. I wasn’t so stupid to leave credit cards in there, either. It was just my driver’s license and of all things, my New York Public Library access card. It was still valid and I was still linked to a bunch of databases from my days with Adler.”
“So, you looked her up?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t believe that she was living in New York, and had been in New York for so long.”
“El moved here right after college.”
“That’s what she told me. So much time we lost. Do you know we actually lived about three blocks from each other at one point? I had a condo on Prince Street when she was living on Greene. And we never crossed paths.”
His apartment building loomed in front of him. Peter turned into the residents-only parking lot and turned the car off. “Elizabeth is a good woman.”
“A good person. She always was, even when we were kids. I’d sooner go back to prison than hurt her.”
Peter didn’t doubt that.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal felt sorry for Peter, who was probably more accustomed to listening to the replay of last night’s ballgame on the drive home than the life story of a down-and-out former felon. Peter told him to get comfortable while he took care of dinner: the remains of last night’s pizza. Neal took himself and the bag of art supplies into the guest room. He still didn’t know what to make of the extravagant gift. Peter cared about him, as odd as that seemed, but he was sure about the nature of that caring.
He wasn’t stupid and he wasn’t blind when he looked in the mirror. Men liked what they saw when they looked at him, and for a while – a stretch of four years – he wasn’t averse to using that to get what he needed. It was nothing he was ever going to be ashamed of. He looked at it as a simple commercial transaction, nothing more, nothing less.
He also knew that when Peter looked at him, he liked what he saw. Hell, Neal looked at the man and liked what he saw, too.
But Neal didn’t want to be anyone’s project, or worse, a pet. He liked Peter Burke enough not to want to use him and he respected him enough that he wanted to be considered – or at least treated – like an equal.
The scent of melting cheese and tomato sauce teased him out of the bedroom. Peter had changed from his suit into some extremely casual clothes – an old Harvard sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that might have been new when Peter was a freshman. Neal licked his lips, suddenly hungry for something more than reheated pizza.
“Beer or wine?”
“Wine with pizza?”
“Well, you had wine with your sandwiches at lunch… And for the record, the U.S. Government frowns on the consumption of alcoholic beverages on its property, bars on military bases notwithstanding.”
“If I told you that Mozzie doesn’t trust anything that wasn’t bottled in a certain volcanic region in Piedmont, Italy, would you accept that as an excuse?”
Peter laughed and Neal really liked the sound of that. “Moz is, to say the least, a character. Shall I presume that you’d prefer beer?” Peter didn’t wait for an answer and handed him a cold bottle.
To tell the truth, the cold beer was perfect, and not just as an accompaniment to the pizza. It helped wash away the bitterness of his memories. Telling Peter the sad, almost pathetic story of his childhood, made it seem less like the tail that wagged the dog of his life and just another piece of the past.
Neal appreciated how Peter made an effort to keep the dinner conversation light, especially after all the heavy emotional baggage he’d dumped on him on the drive home. The pizza was actually better the second night and Neal felt safe, satisfied and possibly even happy. But he wanted to make sure that Peter understood something. “I meant what I said about Ellie – Elizabeth. I would never, ever do anything to hurt her. There’s no one who matters more to me than she does.”
“Neal, I believe you.”
He looked into Peter’s eyes and read absolute sincerity there. “We need to keep her safe and as far away from this as possible.”
Peter nodded. “I can’t keep her from coming here, but it would be best if you kept your contacts to a minimum. Don’t call or text her unless you’re at the office.”
Neal understood. “You never know who’s listening?”
Peter just raised an eyebrow at him, in silent confirmation. “On a slightly different subject, there’s something you need to know.”
The pizza and beer that had been so satisfying a few moments ago were now a leaden lump in his belly. “What?”
“I’ve asked Clinton to look into your application to the FBI and to make some inquiries about your father. There are too many inconsistencies between what you were told and what’s been going on.”
“You can’t think that my father had anything to do with Adler.”
“No, maybe not Adler. But there is something strange about your past. I don’t like the fact that you’ve been jerked around all your life, that there are people behind the scenes manipulating everything for their own satisfaction.”
Neal had to ask, “Aren’t you putting yourself at risk? If there are people who are – as you say – manipulating things, can’t they get to you?”
“Anything’s possible and it’s a chance I’m willing to take. But don’t worry about me. I’ve got my own strings to pull.” Peter grinned and Neal was uncomfortably reminded of a shark. “Anyway – I just wanted you to know.”
Neal drank the last of the beer and wiped his mouth. “Thanks, I guess.”
“You’re welcome, I guess.” Peter’s smile softened.
Peter told him to head into the living room and joined him there a few minutes later.
“So, what happens now?”
Peter shrugged. “We’ll prep an affidavit for you and you’ll sign it on Monday, but I think it’s safe to say that we’re going to get stonewalled with the French police. They don’t seem particularly interested in arresting him and I’m sure that they’ll spend the better part of a week poking holes in your identification of one of their countrymen – a fine, upstanding citizen – as the noted Ponzi schemer, Vincent Adler.”
“So, all of this is for nothing? Adler’s just going to spend the rest of his life in Paris, getting away with what he did?”
“What about ‘innocent until proved guilty’? When I first came to you, you were pretty damn adamant that Adler was innocent.”
“Call it a reflex reaction. I had little reason to cooperate with the FBI, and I’d told myself that Vincent was innocent so many times that the lie came naturally.” Neal leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. “Can we just let that be? Please?”
He felt the couch dip as Peter sat down next to him. “Yes, Neal, we can. But trust me, the FBI is not letting this go. The man in that picture is Vincent Adler and he’s going to be arrested and brought back to the States. He’s going to stand trial for his crimes and spend a good part of the rest of his life in prison.”
Neal heard the conviction in Peter’s voice, the deeply rooted belief in the powers of truth and justice, of fidelity, bravery and integrity. He also heard something else, a second truth, another story. And something else clicked. “Wait, what do you mean, ‘one of their countrymen – a fine, upstanding citizen’? Adler isn’t French, his parents were German – they emigrated to the U.S. after the war and before he was born.”
Peter flushed bright red and grimaced. He scrubbed at his face in frustration. “This is the part of the job I hate – managing all the secrets and the lies. You figured out that Adler is in Paris. What I didn’t tell you is that we’ve learned that he’s been living in France since he disappeared, apparently as a French citizen. The French government has been reluctant to cooperate; they don’t accept that the man we’ve identified as Vincent Adler is really an American citizen in hiding.”
Neal considered this information. “I guess it’s plausible. Vincent loved Paris; he used to say he conquered it during his wild youth. I thought that was a bad joke, to be honest. He was fluent in French, but German was practically his native tongue.”
“He’s probably got more than a few bureaucrats in his pocket to help maintain the fiction.”
Neal wiped at his eyes, tired of this day, of this conversation. It depressed him, made him realize how much of a fool he’d been for so long.
“Neal? You okay?”
He looked at Peter and his heart twisted at the concern on the other man’s face. He shrugged. “Once again, I’m slapped in the face with my own stupidity, how easily I was played.”
“I never met the man, but I have to imagine that he was very charismatic.”
Neal nodded. That was a good way to describe him. “There was something magnetic about his personality. It was very difficult to say no to him.” Neal tried not to bite his lip, feeling like he’d given away too much. He kept talking, hoping to put an equally truthful, but more innocent spin on his words. “I didn’t have any intention of working for Vincent. I was happy at the firm I was with. I was working hard, making more money than I could spend in a lifetime; I had no reason to go into private equity.”
“What happened?”
“I met Vincent at one of the few times he was at a semi-public event. He’d heard about me and arranged for me to attend a dinner for a foundation he’d created. I had no clue who he was but he seemed to know everything about me – at least professionally. In retrospect, I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew about my father, about WitSec. I was seated next to him at dinner at we talked about the commodities markets, some theories about competitive market strategy -”
“Your Master’s thesis?”
“Yeah, and he told me, right then and there, that he read it, too. He flattered me, said it was as groundbreaking as John Nash’s work on non-cooperative game theory. I thought he was being ridiculous, but hell, I was flattered. To be compared to a Nobel Laureate. Adler wanted me to come work for him – to be his Vice President of Acquisitions. I’d have free range to build the Adler Group, reporting only to him. He was very persuasive.” Neal could remember that evening like it was yesterday. If he closed his eyes, he could remember the dinner, the taste of the wine, the strong scent of the man’s cologne.
“How long did you hold him off?”
Neal’s jaw dropped, how in the hell did Peter know? “What?”
“How long before you took his job offer.”
Job, right. “About a week. Vincent just kept upping the offer. He’d even gone to my bosses and told them he was head-hunting me, just so there’d be no mistake. They all but pushed me out the door. Vincent later told me I was worth every penny of the million dollars he paid them.”
“Paid them?”
“To let me go without a fight. He bought me, lock, stock and barrel, but I went willingly. His offer was too good to refuse, the opportunity was too challenging to pass up.” Neal didn’t want to talk anymore. He didn’t want to think about Vincent, about his past. He wanted, more than anything, to just exist in the moment. “Is there a game on tonight?”
“Game?” Peter seemed puzzled by the abrupt change of topic.
“Yeah, basketball game. Aren't the Knicks playing or something? Hasn’t hockey season started?” There was a remote on the coffee table and Neal reached for it, and was about to turn the television on, but Peter reached for his hand. The heat from that touch almost burned him, but that simple human contact warmed the parts of his soul that had gone cold and dark.
Peter didn’t seem to realize what that did to him. “You really want to watch a ball game?”
“Why not? You’re stuck with me for the foreseeable future, why should I wreck your Friday night routine any more than I already have?”
Peter let his hand go and Neal was chilled again. “First of all, I don’t consider myself ‘stuck’ with you. If it was a problem, I’d have given you over to Jones for the night. And secondly – how do you know about my Friday night routine?”
Neal just looked at him, an eyebrow raised.
“Ah. Elizabeth.”
“Yes, Elizabeth. She’s been singing your praising to me for months.”
“She really wanted to set us up on a blind date?” Peter didn’t sound as appalled as he had last night, when Neal first told him about his ex-wife’s romantic machinations.
“Yes, she did. She's been relentless.”
Peter looked thoughtful. “Okay, at the risk of sounding like a narcissist, what did she say about me?”
Neal laughed. “Only good things, of course. Other than you’re a workaholic with very plebeian taste in food and a decided preference for certain New York sports teams. But besides those flaws, she said I’d find you funny and compassionate.”
“Funny and compassionate, really?” Peter seemed pleased at the description.
“She said you were a cross between John Stewart and Pope Francis, maybe. But better looking.”
“I guess I could do worse. So – you didn’t want to date me?” Peter actually sounded curious.
Neal couldn’t believe the direction this conversation was taking. But it was better than bearing his soul about his time with Adler. “Somehow, I didn’t think we’d be that good a fit – FBI agent and ex-con?”
Peter gave him a rueful smile. “I guess, on paper, it doesn’t sound too promising.”
“Yeah.” Neal pushed himself up and out of the couch. Of all the difficult conversations this evening, this one seemed the most dangerous of all. “You know what? I think I’m kind of tired. It’s been a really long day.” He was giving Peter the same excuse he had last night, when he turned down his offer to watch television. At least it was the truth.
“Long day is an understatement. Go get some rest and don’t worry about getting up early tomorrow. We’ll head over to that consignment store after breakfast and you can get what you need. But if you change your mind, there’s a Target a little further uptown.”
Neal nodded. Target might be doable on his budget, even more than the shop that Peter kept talking about. Riverside was not exactly a neighborhood for the Goodwill/Salvation Army set. But that was something to worry about tomorrow. He was suddenly so tired he could barely stay upright.
And he wanted nothing more than to escape into sleep.
END PART TWO GO TO PART THREE
Artist: Nioell
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Mitchell, Mozzie, Clinton Jones, Lauren Cruz, Kyle Bancroft, Original Characters; Peter/Neal, past Neal/Adler, past Peter/Elizabeth (marriage of convenience), Peter-Elizabeth friendship
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~41,000
Beta Credit:
coffeethyme4me, miri_thompson, theatregirl7299 Summary: Neal, a former employee of Vincent Adler – and the only person from Adler’s organization to serve jail time – has agreed to help the FBI find Adler. Peter Burke, the case agent assigned to the Adler case, is worried about Neal’s safety and doesn’t trust the Marshals, so he’s keeping him close at hand. The attraction between the two men grows as they learn about each other and everything comes to a head when Neal finally shares a devastating secret.
Title from the Oysterband song, “Rise Above”.
Written for Round One of the
wc_reverse_bb.Peter was worried. Not about the case – those concerns would have to wait for tomorrow. He left messages with Interpol, but it was already after midnight in Paris and he wouldn’t hear back until Monday at the earliest, if he knew the French.
No, he was worried about Neal.
He was also worried about himself. Mostly because he was so worried about the other man. In less than twenty-four hours he’d gone from being Neal Caffrey, a witness with a puzzling backstory, to Neal, someone he cared about.
Peter paced the length of his office, watching Neal and Mozzie, wondering what they were talking about. Moz didn’t seem to be trying to convince Neal of the evils of cooperating with the FBI, and Neal, for his part, seemed, well, okay.
Which was the most worrisome thing of all. Not an hour ago, he told Neal that his apartment building had blown up. Peter had thought that the man would be shattered at the knowledge that everything he owned was lost, but he wasn’t. He was upset – that was obvious, but he wasn’t devastated. Maybe Neal was good at hiding his feelings and would break down in privacy. Peter made a mental note to give him all the time and space he needed, within the confines of his own apartment.
Peter went out to the balcony, hoping his presence there would somehow encourage Moz to get going. It seemed to have worked when the little guy got into the elevator without so much as a dirty look.
Neal sauntered back into the bullpen, hands in his pockets, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He seemed a lot more at ease with his surroundings than most people stuck in an FBI office would be. Then he remembered Neal’s long ago ambitions and how sad he’d been as he told him about getting turned down for the Academy, after his hopes had been so strongly encouraged.
Peter was going to call Neal upstairs, have him camp out for another couple of hours in his office, but Jones took him over to his desk, fetched them both coffee and talked with him.
He had to smile. Jones was usually the most no-nonsense member of his team, but he also had a way of getting people to open up to him. Peter headed back to his office and sent Clinton a message, asking him to keep Neal occupied for a while. He pushed aside the pile of routine paperwork that defined most of his day and called an old friend, one who had the right connections with the right agencies and just might be willing to help him.
“Reese, it’s Peter. How are you?”
“Good – and it’s good to hear from you.”
They chatted for a few minutes, catching up on inconsequentialities. His old boss hadn’t taken kindly to the forced retirement, but kept himself busy. He had friends, the kind who appreciated his experience and were happy to let him play in their sandbox.
“I gather this isn’t a call just to see how I’m enjoying my retirement.”
Peter smiled. “No, not really.”
“Maybe it might be better if we met for coffee?”
Peter looked out over the bullpen. Neal was still talking with Jones. Price and Cruz had joined in and everyone was smiling. “Don’t suppose you’d like to head over to the coffee shop on Chambers and Reade?” Peter was referring to one of those nameless hole-in-the-wall places that were favored by white collar office workers during the day and blue collar delivery men after hours. It was the type of place that Starbucks and its corporate coffee culture would never be able to eradicate. He and Reese had met there a number of times over years since his mentor’s ‘retirement’.
“Just so happens that I’m in that very neighborhood. See you in twenty.” Reese didn’t wait for Peter to hang up before he ended the call. Typical.
He put on his suit jacket, but didn’t bother with his holster and gun, even though he felt a bit naked without them. Peter knew that if Reese was going to take him out, he’d never have the chance to draw his weapon. He’d never see it coming.
Peter paused before he got to Clinton’s desk, enjoying the sight of Neal smiling. This might be the first time he’d seen the man in such unselfconscious good humor and he hated to interrupt. Neal looked up and saw him. If anything, his smile broadened. “Just corrupting your agents. Trying to teach them how to juggle.” Neal had – of all things – Lauren’s precious rubber band ball, Price’s badge, and Jones’ wallet. With a wink at Peter, he set them all in motion. Peter watched as Neal’s hands moved faster than his eyes could follow, keeping all of the items aloft. And suddenly, the ball, badge and wallet were deftly returned to their rightful owners.
“Very good – do I need to keep an eye on my most precious possessions?” Peter deliberately put a hand over his breast pocket, as if to protect his wallet. Then he realized that he was also covering his heart and dropped his hand.
Neal didn’t seem to notice. He just rocked back on his heels and held his hands up. “I’m not a thief.” His smile dimmed. “Despite what the government said.”
Cruz and Price melted away and Jones looked at his watch, as if he needed to be somewhere in a hurry.
Peter told Neal, “Listen – I have to head out for a bit – but I’ll be back within the hour. Clinton will keep an eye on you.”
From the way he grimaced, Neal didn’t like that. “No offense, Agent Jones, but I really don’t need a manny.”
Jones, for his part, took the instructions and Neal’s demurral in stride. “I know, but we can’t let you just roam around lower Manhattan, not with a target on your back.”
Neal shoved his hands back in his pockets and shrugged, looking resigned and a little lost. “Yeah, right. Okay. Do you have anything to read?”
Jones grinned, “That’s something I can help you with. How do you feel about Fifty Shades of Gray?”
Peter didn’t bother to restrain a shout of laughter. He’d forgotten about Clinton’s terrible taste in literature.
By the time he got to the coffee shop, Hughes was waiting for him in a booth at back and was wringing out a tea bag. Peter was shocked at how old his friend looked. It had been a few months since he’d seen Reese, but the man looked like he’d aged years.
Reese looked up and huffed out a sigh of annoyance at the expression he must have had on his face. “Yeah, I know. You don’t have to say anything. In fact, I wish you wouldn’t.”
If this was the way Reese wanted to play it, then Peter had no choice. He didn’t comment and he tried his best not to worry at the deep circles and pallor that had replaced his friend’s normally healthy complexion.
A waitress came by with a cup and a pot of coffee and asked him if he wanted to see a menu. Eager to get her out of hearing range, Peter shook his head, telling her that the coffee was all he needed. The woman left without comment.
“So, what can you tell me about Vincent Adler?” On the walk over here, Peter played out several scenarios – the CIA’s involvement in this investigation was still sub rosa and once Reese retired, his clearance should have been retired, too. Of course, Peter knew that his friend still had access to some highly sensitive information. It was going to be all about how the questions were asked and the direction of the information.
It seemed that all his care was for nothing. “You mean Claude Ballatin? International arms trader, currently based in Paris, allegedly the city of his birth? Suspected of selling chemical weapons to the Syrian government? That Vincent Adler?”
Peter choked on the coffee he’d just sipped. Of course Reese would get right to the point. “Um, yes.”
Reese smiled, obviously amused at Peter’s reaction. But his smile dropped. “He’s dangerous, Peter.”
“I know, but headquarters has tossed a case into my lap. They have a sighting and want us to arrest him.”
“Ah. I wondered when the FBI was going to get dragged into this mess.”
“The French aren’t cooperating and I need to find someone who can positively identify Adler – or Ballatin – if that’s his real name.”
Reese sipped his tea, made a face, and dumped three packets of sugar in it. “That might be a problem. Whatever name he goes under, the man has done an excellent job of keeping out of the public eye. ”
“And yet your friends know just who he is and where he is. Odd, don’t you think?” He leaned back against the booth, wondering how Reese was going to answer that.
“Subtlety doesn’t suit you, Peter.”
Peter didn’t comment and just let the moment draw out. He could be subtle when the moment called for it.
Reese tipped his head, acknowledging the well-played hand. “My friends have been keeping tabs on him, but their work lacks … hmmm … how shall I put it, credibility?”
Peter’s response was a bit dry, “That’s usually the problem with illegally gathered evidence. The Fourth Amendment exists for a reason.”
His old friend ignored the dig. “Regardless, you have your work cut out for you. Remember, I told you that man’s dangerous.”
“I know all about that.” Peter grinned and tapped the gold shield on his belt. “Besides, you taught me well.”
“True, true. So you know all about Adler’s inner circle? That they’re all dead?”
“Yeah, except for one.” Peter was reluctant to utter Neal’s name, even though he doubted anyone had ears on this place.
Reese nodded. “True. And I’ve been lead to believe that you won’t get much cooperation from that quarter.”
Peter didn’t have to wonder how Reese came by that information, but he wanted to know who was the mole in his office. Instead, he just blandly commented “He was reluctant, but he’s helping now.”
Reese gave him a considering look, one tinged with a bit of something that looked like admiration. “Peter?”
“What?”
“You’re not … ?”
Peter had no clue what Reese was asking and why he was being so damn evasive. “I’m not … what?”
“You know…”
The man’s prevarication was getting annoying. “No, Reese, actually, I don’t know.”
Reese stared into his cup and a flush climbed over his cheeks.
Comprehension hit him like a Mack truck. Peter couldn’t believe, of all people, that Reese would think this of him. He opened and shut his mouth like a gasping fish. “I’m not – I wouldn’t – How could you even think that?” But to his own ears, his outrage sounded a little forced. It wasn’t that he would use sex to convince Neal Caffrey to help the FBI, it was that he wanted to have sex with Neal Caffrey, full stop.
“Okay, sorry. I probably shouldn’t have thought that – it’s just that he’s, well, ...”
Peter didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to know how his old boss knew that Neal Caffrey was just his type. And then he was smacked by that proverbial clue-stick again. “How do you know about him? And so much about him?” And more to the point, how the hell did Reese know that Neal Caffrey was gay?
His old friend sighed. “If I said, you’re better off not knowing, would you let it drop?”
“No.” There was no need to elaborate.
“All I can tell you is that the man’s been on the government’s radar for a few years.”
“Why?” Peter was almost afraid of the answer.
“Let’s just say his family has some history with us.”
That wasn’t what Peter expected to hear. “His family?” Peter remembered the story Neal told him, about his father’s involvement with organized crime. None of this made any sense.
Reese scrubbed at his face. “That’s all I can tell you, Peter. Leave it be. If he’s cooperating out of his own free will, good. Use it, run with it, catch that bastard and bring him back in chains. What Claude Ballatin has done makes Vincent Adler’s crimes look like a street corner game of Three-Card Monte.”
Peter wasn’t sure he could leave it be. The inconsistencies made the back of his neck itch and his gut ache. There was something going on and he didn’t like being kept in the dark. But he’d play nicely for the moment. Reese was a friend and his help was invaluable. “All right. Do you have any other advice for me?”
“I’ll make sure that the intel on Ballatin stays current and fed to you. And as for advice, make sure your passport is current. I see a trip to Paris in your future.” At that, Reese stood, pulled out his wallet and dropped a five dollar bill on the table. “Take care of yourself, Peter.”
Peter got up, too, and they walked out together. He had a horrible feeling that this might be the last time he saw Reese. “Thank you. For everything.”
Reese’s lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. “I’ll be fine, so stop looking like I just kicked your dog. We’ll talk when you get back. I’ll want all the gory details.” He clapped Peter on the shoulder and left him standing there.
He watched as Reese made his way up Chambers Street and disappeared into the bright sunshine of an early October afternoon, but his thoughts really weren’t on his old friend’s health. The puzzles surrounding Neal Caffrey were consuming him. They were like those Russian nesting dolls – just when you figured that you’d reached the last one, you discovered there was another secret hiding inside.
Peter turned and was going to head back to the office when he passed a small art supply store. He didn’t think twice before going in. The shop was dim and he blinked as his eyes adjusted.
“Can I help you?”
The ancient wooden floors creaked as a young man came out from behind the counter. Peter blinked again, this time not so sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. The clerk’s hair was little more than a buzz cut, alternately dyed black and bleached white, like a chess board. His face was tattooed with horrendously realistic muscles and bones, like something out of an anatomy textbook. Even worse, to Peter, were his ears – they were pierced so many times it looked like the outer lobes were made of solid metal. There were more piercings on the man’s lips and brows and through his nose. Peter tried not to shudder. The sight of all those tattoos and piercings triggered his almost phobic fear of needles.
“Sir?”
“Okay, yeah.” Peter took a deep breath and focused at a point just past the guy’s shoulder. “I’m looking for a sketchbook and some good pencils.”
“Yeah, we’ve certainly got those.” The clerk cheerfully produced an array of pads and books and rhapsodized about the quality of each one. “I’d get this one – it’s German-made, has a sewn-in binding and will lay flat. The paper is acid free, one hundred pound weight, and a super smooth vellum finish. It’s perfect for pencil work. You can’t go wrong with it.”
Peter discreetly looked at the price – forty-five bucks. “And pencils?”
“Well, you’ve got your mechanicals and your wooden ones. Incense-balsam wood is the only type I’d recommend. There’s also solid graphite, but those are kind of hard to use. And then you have colored pencils …”
Peter’s head was spinning and by the time he’d finished, he’d bought enough drawing supplies to stock a small studio. The clerk handed him the receipt and his credit card. “Come back anytime.”
Walking back to the office, Peter tried hard not to think about his reasons for this little shopping spree. He tried to convince himself that he simply felt sorry for Neal. He’d lost everything and was stuck in an office all day with nothing to do.
But that really didn’t explain why he just dropped three hundred dollars to keep him happy and occupied.
Neal didn’t make it past the first fifty pages of Fifty Shades of Gray. It wasn’t because the writing sucked, and it did. It wasn’t that the story took a rigidly heteronormative view of interpersonal relationships, something only slightly less annoying than the crappy writing. It was that the author was simply clueless about the power exchange that formed the core of any D/s relationship. He returned the book to the good-natured Agent Jones with a wink and went back to the conference room to wait for Peter’s return.
He looked over the few books on the credenza and figured that they were there more for show than any serious research. One was a seven-year old copy of the Generally Accepted Accounting Principles handbook, something Neal had memorized for the hell of it during his B-school days. He had no interest in refreshing his memory.
There was also a book about J. Edgar Hoover. It was billed as the “official biography” and Neal had to figure that there wouldn’t be any mention of the legendary pink chiffon in it. The last book was a thick tome on warrant law. Neal picked it up and started reading. It was the best of the three choices, and certainly better than Fifty Shades, which wasn’t all that hard, to be honest.
He found the textbook surprisingly interesting, but given the revelations on the government’s spying on its own citizens, he had to wonder just how much of the law was observed in its breach. Neal was so engrossed in the intricacies of the exigent circumstances exception that he didn’t hear Peter come into the conference room until the man dropped a heavy brown paper shopping bag on the table.
“Huh?” Neal looked up. “What’s this?”
Peter mumbled, “For you – got you something.” He pushed the bag closer. “Hope you like them. I didn’t know what you preferred, so I got you a bit of everything.”
Neal blinked. Peter was actually blushing. He reached into the bag and pulled out a box of Prismacolor pencils – the complete color range. Another one of just shades of gray. Neal almost laughed – there were, indeed – fifty shades in the box. A third box contained a set of graphite core pencils in varying hardnesses. There was a set of erasers, and not one, but two self-contained sharpeners that wouldn’t have looked out of place in an exhibit on Art Deco.
Neal looked up at Peter and he muttered something about not using the same sharpener on graphite and colored pencils.
The last item in the back was a sketchbook, just one. But what a sketchbook it was. German-made with a supple leather cover, hand-stitched leaves. The paper was like a dream. Leagues beyond the cheap pads he picked up at the dollar store.
“Peter – ” He licked his lips. “It’s too much.”
“Nah. I’m keeping you under lock and key. Can’t really give you access to any computers here at the office, and I don’t think that,” Peter tilted his head and looked at what he’d been reading, “Warrant Law is going to hold your attention for much longer.”
Neal grinned. “Don’t know about that. This exigent circumstances thing is pretty nifty – you use it much? But seriously, this is way too much.”
Peter laughed and ignored Neal’s question. “It’s the least I could do. Enjoy them.”
Neal touched the boxes of pencils, the sketchbook, even the erasers and sharpeners, with reverence. Back in the day, when money was no object, these were what he’d have bought for himself, if he had the time to indulge in a hobby. “Oh, I will, I will.”
“I’ve got a few more things I have to do before we can get out of here. If you want, we can stop at Macy’s, you can pick a few things to tide you over.” Peter made a vague gesture at him.
Neal tried not to wince. His finances were tight and a visit to Macy’s would probably tap him dry. “Honestly, I’m more of a thrift store kind of guy.”
That got a reaction from Peter. “Really?”
“Yeah, really. Pretty much everything but my underwear came from Goodwill.”
Peter didn’t comment, but his frown spoke volumes. “Look, if you need a loan, it’s not a problem. And I can probably get you some money from the crime victim’s fund.”
Neal’s stomach gave a little twist. Not at the idea of taking charity, but at Peter’s generosity. “No – a thrift store will be fine. But thanks.”
Peter sighed and nodded, looking unhappy, but not willing to push the issue. “I think there’s a consignment shop in my neighborhood. Tomorrow’s Saturday, I’ll take you there.”
Neal wasn’t sure that Peter understood the difference between thrift store and consignment shop, but he wasn’t going to educate him. At least not now. Tomorrow would be soon enough.
Peter left him alone, but Neal was quick to note how the connecting door between his office and the conference room was carefully left ajar, and Peter had his chair tilted to keep him in his line of sight.
He should have felt a little oppressed by the man’s intense regard, much the way he had during his early days in prison, when he discovered what living in a fishbowl really meant. But he didn’t. Peter’s watchful eye was different. The guards didn’t care about him – he was a number, a statistic. The other cons on the cell block were only interested in what he could do for them.
Okay, Peter might need him, but when Neal touched the sketchbook again, he knew – beyond any doubt – that he cared about him, too.
Five o’clock, and if it wasn’t full dark, it was pretty close to it, especially in the caverns of lower Manhattan. Peter maneuvered through the side streets to the West Side Highway, and despite the usual Friday night bumper to bumper traffic, it was still the fastest way to get home.
Neal was quiet, much like he’d been during this morning’s drive downtown. The car interior was dim, at least until they reached the highway, where the setting sun – clear of any skyscrapers – glided Neal’s profile like an illuminated manuscript. Peter was struck again by the man’s beauty, made all the more stunning by his unconscious grace. The light, though, didn’t hide any flaws; picking out the lines of strain radiating from the corner of his eyes, the threads of silver at his temple and even in the scruff of his beard. Time hadn’t been cruel to Neal Caffrey, but it hadn’t been all that benevolent either.
“What’s the matter?” Neal spoke for the first time since they pulled out of the Federal Building garage.
“Nothing. Why?”
“Well, you keep staring at me.”
Peter bit his lip, a little embarrassed that his regard had been so obvious. “Sorry. I guess I’m a little worried about you.”
“Worried? How come?”
Taking advantage of a break in the traffic, Peter concentrated on changing lanes. It bought him a few seconds to come up with an explanation that didn’t make him sound like a teenaged girl. “Well, I guess if I found out that I just lost all of my worldly possessions, I’d be a little less …” He searched for the right word, “copasetic about it.”
“What, you wanted to see me cry?” Neal sounded like he was laughing at him.
“Well, nothing quite so dramatic. You just don’t you seem very distressed. You don’t have to bury your feelings. I’m honestly not one for endless displays of stoicism, believe me. I won’t be embarrassed if you get upset.”
“Ah.” Neal let that single syllable hang there.
“‘Ah?’ Just ‘ah’? That’s it?”
Now Neal was laughing, but there wasn’t a lot of good humor in that sound. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
“No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”
Neal gave a heartfelt sigh. “When I was three, my father was killed. My mother told me that he ‘went away’ and would never come back. The last thing I can remember about him was that it was the morning and he was leaving for work. He told me to be a good boy and listen to my mother and he’d have something special for me when he got home. I waited and waited but he never came home. A few days later, my mother put me in the car and we drove for what felt like days. I had to leave all my toys behind and I couldn’t cry about that because I was a big boy now and needed to be strong for mommy.”
“Neal – ”
“That was the first time I had lost everything – but it was okay. It’s how I ended up with Ellie – Elizabeth. I was three and she was five and we became best friends. My mother and hers were first cousins and they’d stayed close despite the distance between D.C. and Illinois. So we settled down in a tiny little house a few blocks from where El’s family lived. I grew up and went to school. And when I wasn’t in school, I was pretty much living at Ellie’s place, and her parents were my Aunt Donna and Uncle Allen and my life was wonderful.”
Elizabeth had told him just this morning that Neal had disappeared when she was twelve, but Peter wanted to hear the story from Neal and hoped he’d tell him. “What happened?”
Neal took a deep breath and continued. “I was ten years old. It was probably late August, I’d been playing all day with Ellie and the kids in the neighborhood. Stickball, hide and go seek, or maybe one of those games that only the kids who played knew the rules, I don’t really remember and it’s not important. It wasn’t that late when I got home but my mother was crying – she did that a lot – and she pulled me inside. The house was dark and the windows shut and the curtains were drawn. There were two men and a woman in the living room and next thing I knew I was given a small bag with some clothes, told I could pick one toy and then I had to leave. I couldn’t say goodbye to anyone and I was never supposed to call or write to anyone from the neighborhood, or talk about them. My name wasn’t Neal Caffrey but Danny Brooks and I had to remember that or I’d be in big trouble.”
Peter said nothing, letting Neal tell his story at his own pace.
“I guess you figured it out.”
“It isn’t hard. You and your mother were put into WitSec.”
“Yeah. Something to do with my father." Neal didn't dwell on that. "I hated being called Danny, and when I went to school, I made sure everyone called me Neal. I told everyone that it was my middle name and I wouldn’t answer to ‘Danny’. By the time I was in high school, I was registered as Neal Caffrey and it was as if Danny Brooks never existed. Which he didn’t.”
Peter wasn’t sure what to say about that. The Marshals weren’t doing their job if they let that happen.
“I know it was stupid, but you have to understand, no one told me what was going on and I’d lost everything for the second time. I wasn’t going to let them take my name, too.”
“What about your mother?”
Neal shrugged. “What about her? She spent most of the time crying and sleeping. Or pretending that nothing was wrong. I took care of myself.”
“The Marshals didn’t keep track of you?”
“I don’t remember seeing them after we’d settled in St. Louis. But that doesn’t mean anything; they could have been there when I wasn’t home. I spent years trying to figure it out, but I can’t understand why we were put into WitSec. Until I saw my father’s case file, I had thought maybe he was a hero or something and there were people who wanted revenge. But he wasn’t – he was criminal of the worst kind. A murderer and a drug dealer. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Then Peter remembered what Reese told him this afternoon – about the government’s interest in his family. In the context of Neal’s revelations last night, Reese’s information didn’t make sense either.
Neal sighed. “Do you now understand why I’m really not upset about losing my stuff and that apartment? It’s happened to me before – I’ve lost a hell of a lot more than a handful of shirts and a couple of pair of chinos. I’ve lost everything so many times that I can’t even imagine what it’s like to have anything worth holding onto. ”
Peter just nodded. He understood. He didn’t like it, but he understood.
The trip continued in relative silence. Neal asked if he could turn on the radio and Peter gave him leave with the wave of a hand. Neal tuned in an oldies station. The DJ cheerfully announced that he was playing drive-time hits from way back when – the best of the late Seventies and early Eighties. Billy Joel was singing “Only the Good Die Young” and Peter felt way too old. He remembered when this song came out, watching a performance on a episode of Saturday Night Live when he was a kid.
The music cut out when his cellphone started to ring, the Bluetooth connection cutting out the radio. It was Elizabeth, and he hit the answer button on the steering wheel.
“Hey hon.” They might have been divorced for six years, but they never lost their own affectionate shorthand.
“Hey, where are you?”
“Stuck in traffic, a little north of the Boat Basin. What’s up?”
“Nothing much. Just checking in. How’s Neal?”
“He’s sitting right next to me, so he can answer for himself.”
“Yes, he can. Neal, how are you doing?”
Peter snuck a glance at his passenger. Neal sat up and donned a bright smile, as if Elizabeth could see him. “I’m doing just fine. Peter hasn’t slapped the cuffs on me or threatened me with an iron shackle. At least, not yet.”
El’s amusement was audible. “If he does, let me know – we can sic Mozzie on him.”
Peter interrupted. “I’m quaking in my boots.”
“I’m sure you are, mister! But seriously, Neal. Are you okay?”
“Seriously, Elizabeth, I’m fine. You have the Corelli’s anniversary party tonight, right?”
“Yeah, and I’m on my way there. If Brad wasn’t so demanding, I would have had Yvonne handle it and come over.”
Neal laughed. “I think she’d quit if you even suggested that.”
Peter listened to Neal and Elizabeth’s chatter about the various events she had lined up for the next few days. The conversation made him a bit nostalgic. It felt like ages since he’d talked like that with El. Their lives, once deeply intertwined, now seemed so separate. How he allowed his ambition to get in the way of what really mattered?
“Okay, sweetie, I’ve got to run, but I’m free on Sunday and I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer. I’m coming over on Sunday. I want to see both of you.”
He sighed. This was as unavoidable as a train wreck. There was no way of dissuading Elizabeth when she was this adamant so he might as well give in with grace. “Brunch?”
“Okay – I’ll bring the food, you just make sure you’ve got enough Stoli for the Bloody Marys.”
Peter didn’t even blink. “Your wish is my command.” The exit he needed was coming up and he cut hard across three lanes of traffic, ignoring the screeching tires and car horns from irate drivers. “See you then.”
“Can’t wait.”
Neal chimed in, “See you, Ellie. And tell Brad that there’s a reason why six-foot ice bears are only four feet tall.”
Peter had to wonder at Elizabeth’s reaction to Neal’s use of a diminutive. She was very particular about her name, and as far as he knew, he was the only one allowed to call her ‘El’. But she didn’t seem to mind. Family had privileges, he guessed.
Neal reached over to the console and pressed the disconnect button. “She saved my life, you know. She gave me a home and a purpose. She held on tight when all I wanted to do was let go.”
“She said you found her right after you’d gotten out of prison.”
“Yeah. I was desperate. I had nothing but the clothes on my back. I didn’t have a place to stay and no money. It wasn’t bad the first few nights, sleeping outside. Being able to see the stars, the moon. Hearing the birds sing. You miss that in prison.”
“But you couldn’t live on the streets forever.”
“No. I went to the library and used a computer to track Ellie down. It’s funny. When I went into prison, they took my wallet. I hadn’t left any money in it – pretty much didn’t have any left anyway. I wasn’t so stupid to leave credit cards in there, either. It was just my driver’s license and of all things, my New York Public Library access card. It was still valid and I was still linked to a bunch of databases from my days with Adler.”
“So, you looked her up?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t believe that she was living in New York, and had been in New York for so long.”
“El moved here right after college.”
“That’s what she told me. So much time we lost. Do you know we actually lived about three blocks from each other at one point? I had a condo on Prince Street when she was living on Greene. And we never crossed paths.”
His apartment building loomed in front of him. Peter turned into the residents-only parking lot and turned the car off. “Elizabeth is a good woman.”
“A good person. She always was, even when we were kids. I’d sooner go back to prison than hurt her.”
Peter didn’t doubt that.
Neal felt sorry for Peter, who was probably more accustomed to listening to the replay of last night’s ballgame on the drive home than the life story of a down-and-out former felon. Peter told him to get comfortable while he took care of dinner: the remains of last night’s pizza. Neal took himself and the bag of art supplies into the guest room. He still didn’t know what to make of the extravagant gift. Peter cared about him, as odd as that seemed, but he was sure about the nature of that caring.
He wasn’t stupid and he wasn’t blind when he looked in the mirror. Men liked what they saw when they looked at him, and for a while – a stretch of four years – he wasn’t averse to using that to get what he needed. It was nothing he was ever going to be ashamed of. He looked at it as a simple commercial transaction, nothing more, nothing less.
He also knew that when Peter looked at him, he liked what he saw. Hell, Neal looked at the man and liked what he saw, too.
But Neal didn’t want to be anyone’s project, or worse, a pet. He liked Peter Burke enough not to want to use him and he respected him enough that he wanted to be considered – or at least treated – like an equal.
The scent of melting cheese and tomato sauce teased him out of the bedroom. Peter had changed from his suit into some extremely casual clothes – an old Harvard sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that might have been new when Peter was a freshman. Neal licked his lips, suddenly hungry for something more than reheated pizza.
“Beer or wine?”
“Wine with pizza?”
“Well, you had wine with your sandwiches at lunch… And for the record, the U.S. Government frowns on the consumption of alcoholic beverages on its property, bars on military bases notwithstanding.”
“If I told you that Mozzie doesn’t trust anything that wasn’t bottled in a certain volcanic region in Piedmont, Italy, would you accept that as an excuse?”
Peter laughed and Neal really liked the sound of that. “Moz is, to say the least, a character. Shall I presume that you’d prefer beer?” Peter didn’t wait for an answer and handed him a cold bottle.
To tell the truth, the cold beer was perfect, and not just as an accompaniment to the pizza. It helped wash away the bitterness of his memories. Telling Peter the sad, almost pathetic story of his childhood, made it seem less like the tail that wagged the dog of his life and just another piece of the past.
Neal appreciated how Peter made an effort to keep the dinner conversation light, especially after all the heavy emotional baggage he’d dumped on him on the drive home. The pizza was actually better the second night and Neal felt safe, satisfied and possibly even happy. But he wanted to make sure that Peter understood something. “I meant what I said about Ellie – Elizabeth. I would never, ever do anything to hurt her. There’s no one who matters more to me than she does.”
“Neal, I believe you.”
He looked into Peter’s eyes and read absolute sincerity there. “We need to keep her safe and as far away from this as possible.”
Peter nodded. “I can’t keep her from coming here, but it would be best if you kept your contacts to a minimum. Don’t call or text her unless you’re at the office.”
Neal understood. “You never know who’s listening?”
Peter just raised an eyebrow at him, in silent confirmation. “On a slightly different subject, there’s something you need to know.”
The pizza and beer that had been so satisfying a few moments ago were now a leaden lump in his belly. “What?”
“I’ve asked Clinton to look into your application to the FBI and to make some inquiries about your father. There are too many inconsistencies between what you were told and what’s been going on.”
“You can’t think that my father had anything to do with Adler.”
“No, maybe not Adler. But there is something strange about your past. I don’t like the fact that you’ve been jerked around all your life, that there are people behind the scenes manipulating everything for their own satisfaction.”
Neal had to ask, “Aren’t you putting yourself at risk? If there are people who are – as you say – manipulating things, can’t they get to you?”
“Anything’s possible and it’s a chance I’m willing to take. But don’t worry about me. I’ve got my own strings to pull.” Peter grinned and Neal was uncomfortably reminded of a shark. “Anyway – I just wanted you to know.”
Neal drank the last of the beer and wiped his mouth. “Thanks, I guess.”
“You’re welcome, I guess.” Peter’s smile softened.
Peter told him to head into the living room and joined him there a few minutes later.
“So, what happens now?”
Peter shrugged. “We’ll prep an affidavit for you and you’ll sign it on Monday, but I think it’s safe to say that we’re going to get stonewalled with the French police. They don’t seem particularly interested in arresting him and I’m sure that they’ll spend the better part of a week poking holes in your identification of one of their countrymen – a fine, upstanding citizen – as the noted Ponzi schemer, Vincent Adler.”
“So, all of this is for nothing? Adler’s just going to spend the rest of his life in Paris, getting away with what he did?”
“What about ‘innocent until proved guilty’? When I first came to you, you were pretty damn adamant that Adler was innocent.”
“Call it a reflex reaction. I had little reason to cooperate with the FBI, and I’d told myself that Vincent was innocent so many times that the lie came naturally.” Neal leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. “Can we just let that be? Please?”
He felt the couch dip as Peter sat down next to him. “Yes, Neal, we can. But trust me, the FBI is not letting this go. The man in that picture is Vincent Adler and he’s going to be arrested and brought back to the States. He’s going to stand trial for his crimes and spend a good part of the rest of his life in prison.”
Neal heard the conviction in Peter’s voice, the deeply rooted belief in the powers of truth and justice, of fidelity, bravery and integrity. He also heard something else, a second truth, another story. And something else clicked. “Wait, what do you mean, ‘one of their countrymen – a fine, upstanding citizen’? Adler isn’t French, his parents were German – they emigrated to the U.S. after the war and before he was born.”
Peter flushed bright red and grimaced. He scrubbed at his face in frustration. “This is the part of the job I hate – managing all the secrets and the lies. You figured out that Adler is in Paris. What I didn’t tell you is that we’ve learned that he’s been living in France since he disappeared, apparently as a French citizen. The French government has been reluctant to cooperate; they don’t accept that the man we’ve identified as Vincent Adler is really an American citizen in hiding.”
Neal considered this information. “I guess it’s plausible. Vincent loved Paris; he used to say he conquered it during his wild youth. I thought that was a bad joke, to be honest. He was fluent in French, but German was practically his native tongue.”
“He’s probably got more than a few bureaucrats in his pocket to help maintain the fiction.”
Neal wiped at his eyes, tired of this day, of this conversation. It depressed him, made him realize how much of a fool he’d been for so long.
“Neal? You okay?”
He looked at Peter and his heart twisted at the concern on the other man’s face. He shrugged. “Once again, I’m slapped in the face with my own stupidity, how easily I was played.”
“I never met the man, but I have to imagine that he was very charismatic.”
Neal nodded. That was a good way to describe him. “There was something magnetic about his personality. It was very difficult to say no to him.” Neal tried not to bite his lip, feeling like he’d given away too much. He kept talking, hoping to put an equally truthful, but more innocent spin on his words. “I didn’t have any intention of working for Vincent. I was happy at the firm I was with. I was working hard, making more money than I could spend in a lifetime; I had no reason to go into private equity.”
“What happened?”
“I met Vincent at one of the few times he was at a semi-public event. He’d heard about me and arranged for me to attend a dinner for a foundation he’d created. I had no clue who he was but he seemed to know everything about me – at least professionally. In retrospect, I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew about my father, about WitSec. I was seated next to him at dinner at we talked about the commodities markets, some theories about competitive market strategy -”
“Your Master’s thesis?”
“Yeah, and he told me, right then and there, that he read it, too. He flattered me, said it was as groundbreaking as John Nash’s work on non-cooperative game theory. I thought he was being ridiculous, but hell, I was flattered. To be compared to a Nobel Laureate. Adler wanted me to come work for him – to be his Vice President of Acquisitions. I’d have free range to build the Adler Group, reporting only to him. He was very persuasive.” Neal could remember that evening like it was yesterday. If he closed his eyes, he could remember the dinner, the taste of the wine, the strong scent of the man’s cologne.
“How long did you hold him off?”
Neal’s jaw dropped, how in the hell did Peter know? “What?”
“How long before you took his job offer.”
Job, right. “About a week. Vincent just kept upping the offer. He’d even gone to my bosses and told them he was head-hunting me, just so there’d be no mistake. They all but pushed me out the door. Vincent later told me I was worth every penny of the million dollars he paid them.”
“Paid them?”
“To let me go without a fight. He bought me, lock, stock and barrel, but I went willingly. His offer was too good to refuse, the opportunity was too challenging to pass up.” Neal didn’t want to talk anymore. He didn’t want to think about Vincent, about his past. He wanted, more than anything, to just exist in the moment. “Is there a game on tonight?”
“Game?” Peter seemed puzzled by the abrupt change of topic.
“Yeah, basketball game. Aren't the Knicks playing or something? Hasn’t hockey season started?” There was a remote on the coffee table and Neal reached for it, and was about to turn the television on, but Peter reached for his hand. The heat from that touch almost burned him, but that simple human contact warmed the parts of his soul that had gone cold and dark.
Peter didn’t seem to realize what that did to him. “You really want to watch a ball game?”
“Why not? You’re stuck with me for the foreseeable future, why should I wreck your Friday night routine any more than I already have?”
Peter let his hand go and Neal was chilled again. “First of all, I don’t consider myself ‘stuck’ with you. If it was a problem, I’d have given you over to Jones for the night. And secondly – how do you know about my Friday night routine?”
Neal just looked at him, an eyebrow raised.
“Ah. Elizabeth.”
“Yes, Elizabeth. She’s been singing your praising to me for months.”
“She really wanted to set us up on a blind date?” Peter didn’t sound as appalled as he had last night, when Neal first told him about his ex-wife’s romantic machinations.
“Yes, she did. She's been relentless.”
Peter looked thoughtful. “Okay, at the risk of sounding like a narcissist, what did she say about me?”
Neal laughed. “Only good things, of course. Other than you’re a workaholic with very plebeian taste in food and a decided preference for certain New York sports teams. But besides those flaws, she said I’d find you funny and compassionate.”
“Funny and compassionate, really?” Peter seemed pleased at the description.
“She said you were a cross between John Stewart and Pope Francis, maybe. But better looking.”
“I guess I could do worse. So – you didn’t want to date me?” Peter actually sounded curious.
Neal couldn’t believe the direction this conversation was taking. But it was better than bearing his soul about his time with Adler. “Somehow, I didn’t think we’d be that good a fit – FBI agent and ex-con?”
Peter gave him a rueful smile. “I guess, on paper, it doesn’t sound too promising.”
“Yeah.” Neal pushed himself up and out of the couch. Of all the difficult conversations this evening, this one seemed the most dangerous of all. “You know what? I think I’m kind of tired. It’s been a really long day.” He was giving Peter the same excuse he had last night, when he turned down his offer to watch television. At least it was the truth.
“Long day is an understatement. Go get some rest and don’t worry about getting up early tomorrow. We’ll head over to that consignment store after breakfast and you can get what you need. But if you change your mind, there’s a Target a little further uptown.”
Neal nodded. Target might be doable on his budget, even more than the shop that Peter kept talking about. Riverside was not exactly a neighborhood for the Goodwill/Salvation Army set. But that was something to worry about tomorrow. He was suddenly so tired he could barely stay upright.
And he wanted nothing more than to escape into sleep.
Tags:
- character: bancroft,
- character: clinton jones,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: june ellington,
- character: lauren cruz,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: peter burke,
- character: reese hughes,
- character: vincent adler,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: coming out,
- genre: friendship,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: neal as artist,
- genre: pre-slash,
- genre: romance,
- genre: slash,
- genre: ust,
- pairing: neal/adler,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- wc verse: nothing will remain,
- white collar,
- written for: wcrbb,
- year: 2014
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2014-04-25 02:40 am (UTC)The character's thought patterns are character. Anticipation of where the story is going and wondering how it will go. Thankful it's being posted a chapter per day. I love being spoiled. Thank You!
no subject
Date: 2014-04-25 12:55 pm (UTC)