White Collar Fic - An Escalating Madness
Dec. 18th, 2014 03:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elrhiarhodanTitle: An Escalating Madness
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Matthew Keller, Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Mozzie, OMC; Past Neal/Keller, Peter/Elizabeth, suggestion of Peter/Neal, Peter/Elizabeth/Neal,
Spoilers: None for current seasons. Spoilers for S1.11 – Bottlenecked, S2.14 – Payback, S3.10 – Countdown, S3.11 – Checkmate.
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Murder, kidnapping (canonical and non-canonical), homicidal ideation, erotomanic behavior, suggestion of non-consensual sexual relationships, actually non-consensual sexual encounter.
Word Count: ~8100
Beta Credit:theatregirl7299
Summary: Money has never been Matthew Keller's motivation.
A/N: Written for Day Three of Fic-Can-Ukah, for the prompt thatsinfulslasher asked for: "What is underneath good intentions" and the pairing of Neal/Keller. Mildly canon non-compliant for Bottlenecked, canon divergent for Checkmate.
__________________
Paris – Spring, 2003
In Matthew Keller's world, there were only three kinds of people who mattered: competitors, marks and tools.
And by rights, Neal Caffrey was all three.
Two years ago, he'd been a mark, a seemingly wealthy playboy with too much money and not enough sense, playing all the right games with the beautiful people in Monaco. Keller had planned on relieving him of his fortune, but it hadn't taken long to figure out that Caffrey was playing a con – working the angles on some late middle-aged Italian countess with enough jewels to stock a branch of Tiffany's. That meant he was a competitor, but Keller knew he couldn't muscle Caffrey out of that score. He didn't have the looks, the charm, the Cary Grant-like savoir-faire to carry it off. That was fine, because what he did have was something just as good – the ability to see the holes that others missed.
One afternoon, he sidled up to Caffrey and let him know that the Contessa's son was back in town, and the man was getting suspicious of his mother's latest amour. "George Devore" wasn't going to be able to withstand a very hard look and if he wanted to get what he was working for and get out with his skin intact, then he'd do well to listen to his new best friend.
He was kind of shocked that Caffrey did listen. Keller had expected a sneer and a cold shoulder, but what he got was a warm, bright smile that might have hit him in the heart, if he had one. That's when Caffrey became a tool – as useful and as versatile as a Swiss army knife.
They'd relieved the Contessa of a fair portion of her baubles, used some of the proceeds to fund a nice run at the backgammon tables, and took off for Paris.
Caffrey's skills continued to astound him. If it involved art, was nothing he couldn't do, especially reproducing masterpieces stroke for stroke. These weren't fifty-footers, designed to fool the tourists looking from behind some velvet rope. The works could stand up to all but the strictest scrutiny. The kid had some kind of weird, almost supernatural artistic powers. Combined with his other gifts – his facile charm and stunning good looks – the two of them could rule the world.
But there was a problem with Neal Caffrey. It seemed that he actually had a conscience. Scruples. A bizarre – almost unfathomable – need not to hurt people. The man could never understand the necessity of collateral damage, that when you're a con man, you hurt people. It was as much a by-product of a con man's existence as nitrogen was of breathing. Caffrey might love all the finer things that the life of a successful conman could offer, but he was unwilling to take what he wanted if it meant actually harming someone.
It was really quite charming and Keller was prepared to tolerate it until it got in the way of a score.
He'd often thought, given a different set of circumstances, that Neal Caffrey should have been a cop with a heart of gold, a crusading lawyer fighting for the freedom of the wrongfully accused, or even a priest working with the poor and downtrodden, fighting against the system to better the lives of those who didn't have the power to help themselves. Well, not a priest – at least not one for a religion that required celibacy as a condition of service. Because while Neal had a strange set of morals when it came to his criminal activities, the man also had the sex drive of a Viagra addict.
Which was fine by him. Although he didn't let his dick rule his life, Matthew liked sex with Neal. He liked making Neal think he was in control. He enjoyed it whenever he could get it, provided it didn't interfere with the job at hand. That was one of the differences between him and Caffrey. Neal was literally up for it at any time. Especially right after they had pulled some insanely complicated con. And unlike him, Neal was a risk junkie with the impulse control of a three year old.
Like tonight. They'd just broken into the Musée d'Orsay and relieved it of a small and somewhat "minor" Monet and made a clean getaway. It was midnight and they were walking across the pont de Solférino. He was on point, looking out for any sign that they'd tripped an alarm when they'd made the switch. Neal was a few steps behind, supposedly watching his back. The small canvas, removed from the frame, but still on its stretchers, was strapped to Neal's shoulders, under his jacket. As planned, they were behaving like Parisians – not completely immune to the city's beauty, but they weren't stopping to gawk at the moonlight reflecting on the Seine.
The footbridge was far from deserted – this part of Paris at midnight was almost as busy as Paris at noon. There were plenty of other people even on the lower deck, some walking faster, some slower and maybe there was someone behind Neal who pushed him a little, which caused him to bump into Matthew.
The first time it happened, Matthew hadn't been quite sure that he felt what he felt. But the second time, that was definitely Caffrey's prick poking him in the ass. They had barely made it across the bridge and over the gate into the Tuileries Gardens before Neal had pounced on him – dragging him off the path and into some well-manicured underbrush.
"You're a sex maniac, Caffrey – you know that?"
"And you like it." Neal fumbled at his belt and trousers, panting hard against his neck as he dragged Matthew's cock out into the cool night air. He was already half-hard – from the rush of the job, of course, but from Neal's shenanigans, too. Neal's palm, smooth as a baby's butt, but hard and knowing, stroked him. He tried not to moan, to let Neal know just how much he loved this, but his hips spoke the words his mouth refused to say and rocked back and forth into the caress.
"Should I fuck you here?"
Keller ached for it, he wanted it so damn bad, even here – just yards from a public footpath. The gardens might be closed, but there was security, there were always people around and while getting caught in flagrante delicto with his pants around his ankles would normally result in a misdemeanor and a summons, there was still the matter of the Monet strapped to Caffrey's back. That would be rather hard to explain.
He panted, "No – not here. Let's stick with the plan."
"You sure?" Neal chuckled and licked a dirty stripe along his neck. "You and your plans." He stroked him from tip to base and back, his thumb scraping against the edge of his frenum. Keller bit his lip hard and resisted the need to come.
"Yeah, I'm sure."
Neal stood up and loomed over him. In the moonlight, Keller could see him smirking, and he wanted to kiss the bastard as much as he wanted to punch him in the face. He did neither, shoved his aching dick back in his pants and zipped up. "See you in a few hours, sweetheart."
Neal gave him a jaunty, two-fingered salute before disappearing into the darkness.
Alex, the fence who was moving the Monet, didn't like him. And to tell the truth, Keller didn't like her either. He didn't like that there was history between her and Neal. He tried not to admit it, but it made him sick to think of the two of them fucking. Caffrey had let it slip quite casually that they'd met when he'd been trying to pull the con of a lifetime on Vincent Adler and ended up in bed together. It was bad enough that Neal was occasionally longing for that dimwit, Kate. But Alex was a sharp-eyed broad if ever he met one and he knew that if she spent any time with him, she'd see everything he was trying to hide.
It didn't take much to antagonize her. Keller knew he wasn't naturally charming, at least compared with Caffrey – who just had to breathe to have men and women flock to him – but he could have whoever he wanted if he wanted to make an effort. It was more his nature, though, to turn people off. A few innuendo-laden suggestions, a hand going where it hadn't been invited, and the lovely Ms. Hunter made it quite clear that if she was to do business with them, she'd only work with Neal. If he showed up, she'd walk.
Caffrey, being Caffrey, couldn't understand why he'd behaved like such a shite, but accepted Alex's strictures, nonetheless. He was now on his way to meet with Alex to fence the Monet – she had a buyer lined up who was paying in cash. A lot of cash.
Ordinarily, Keller wouldn't dream of letting anyone handle a transaction of such magnitude without his direct and very personal participation, but Neal – for a con man, forger and thief, he was as honest as they came. Neal Caffrey would soon as slap his granny as cheat him.
Keller made his way back to the fourth floor walk-up in Montmartre he and Caffrey shared. Neal, of course, loved the area for its history, its romantic links to the Lost Generation, to the artists and ex pats who drank and drugged themselves to death. Personally, he couldn't care less about such things. The apartment was furnished, spacious and cheap. Cheap as in free. He knew the man who owned the place and once they had a little discussion about what would happen if the man's wife found out how much he enjoyed getting blowjobs from random men in public lavatories …
He paced the length of the apartment, wound up and nervy, a state that he wasn't accustomed to. He had balls of ice, and not because he didn't mind taking risks. Just the opposite – he didn't take risks because planned for every possible contingency. He worked a dozen, two dozen moves ahead and he wasn't afraid to sacrifice his queen if it meant winning the game. Which was why this agitation made no sense. They'd just pulled off a heist of unimaginable difficulty – getting into one of the most well-guarded museums in the world, replacing a painting worth millions with a fairly credible forgery, and walked out without tripping a single alarm. Neal's clever reproduction could hang there for a generation before anyone realized it wasn't the real thing.
But he was nervous. His hands were shaking, his palms sweaty, and there was a sick, scared feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hadn't felt like this since – since, never. Matthew gave into the nerves for just a second, pulled out his cell phone and called up Neal's number. But he didn't complete the call. There was nothing wrong; there was no reason to be worried.
Keller poured a glass of wine and stared at the chessboard. There was a game in progress and Neal was playing – inevitably, obviously, white. There were a dozen different moves that could be made, permutations of classic attack and defense strategies. But Neal Caffrey wasn't a predictable player and that's what made playing against him such a challenge. He let himself get lost in the game, visualizing all of the possible gambits and lost all track of time. When he finally emerged from his mental calculations, the sky was beginning to lighten.
It was dawn, Neal hadn't come back and Keller was sure if he should be worried or furious. He was just about to go look for the little bastard when the door opened. He was about to flay Caffrey alive – figuring that he'd spent the evening "celebrating" with Alex – when he noticed Neal's unusually disheveled appearance. And the blood.
"What the hell happened?" Keller felt himself grow cold, ice coursing through his veins.
Neal pulled a thick packet out of the back of his pants. "We got one million, U.S., less Alex's ten percent."
"That doesn't answer my question. What happened?"
Neal grimaced. "After I left Alex's place, the buyer decided he'd rather have the painting and the cash. I objected, most strenuously."
"Did you kill him?" Keller didn't know how he wanted Neal to answer.
"No – of course not!"
Yeah, how could he even think of that possibility? "So?"
"The man's bodyguard pulled a knife and cut me. I screamed like Jamie Lee Curtis in the original "Prom Night", punched him in the face and kept screaming until the police came. Then I ran."
Something about Neal's story didn't make sense - the timing was off. "Where have you been?"
"Hiding in the catacombs. I didn't know what the son of a bitch told the police and I didn't want to get picked up, so I laid low until I thought it was safe."
Keller let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Lift up your shirt, let me see."
Neal demurred, "It's fine – nothing more than a scratch."
"There's a lot of blood on you if it's just a scratch."
Neal's lips twitched. "I might have broken the bodyguard's nose."
"So much for your professed distaste for violence." Keller didn't wait for Neal to take off his shirt; he did it for himself, and didn't like what he saw. "That's not a scratch, sweetheart."
The cut was about the length of his spread hand – across the entire right side of his ribcage – and deep enough that it was still oozing blood several hours after it had been inflicted. Keller touched it carefully and Neal hissed.
He muttered, "I'll kill the bastard. I'll hunt him down and slice him to pieces for doing this … " Realizing what he'd almost revealed, Keller bit his lip.
Neal didn't seem to notice, and just brushed off the injury. "It's okay – I heal quickly."
"That's not the point. You had a deal – what type of idiot is Alex Hunter to broker a sale with someone who tries shit like this? Or maybe she's not such an idiot – maybe she helped set the ambush up. I think I need to have a little talk with your oh-so-pretty fence."
Neal pushed his hands away, his face hard, stubborn. "No, Alex had nothing to do with this. If it was going to go bad, it would have at the meet, not blocks away. You leave her alone."
Keller sensed that he was approaching a line with Neal, one that he shouldn't cross. Not if he wanted to keep this man in his life. And when did that become so paramount? "Okay, fine. But there's no more of this going alone – Alex Hunter will put up with my presence or we'll find someone else."
"Well, maybe if you tried to be a little nicer, Alex wouldn’t be so difficult."
Keller rocked back on his heels and looked at Neal. Despite the exhaustion, humor glowed from his eyes, from the slightly sardonic twist to his lips.
"Yeah, Caffrey – that's the ticket. I'll just tear a page out of your playbook and be 'a little nicer'." Keller led Neal towards the bathroom. That cut needed to be cleaned and taped shut. He worked quickly, enjoying the heat and silk of Neal's smooth skin – there wasn't a damn thing about this man that wasn't perfect. Almost against his will, his fingers lingered.
Neal took his hand and moved it a little north, so it rested on his nipple. "What do you say we finish what we started?"
"Hmm, what?"
Neal let go of his hand and threaded his fingers through his hair. "We started something in the Tuileries. You made me wait. I'm done with waiting." Those fingers got aggressive and dragged him up towards his mouth. Neal kissed like he did everything, with impeccable, flawless skill and Keller let himself fall just a little deeper into something that might just be …
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
London – Late Summer, 2004
"Shit, I think I left my passport behind."
Keller ground his teeth and turned around. Kenny Archer was their front man – a bit of an upper class English twit – and a necessary piece of the three-man job they'd just pulled. He hadn't wanted to use him, but Neal pointed out that the people they were going to con wouldn't be fooled by Neal's imitation posh boarding school accent. It was one of the few times that Neal admitted that he couldn't carry off a particular con.
Kenny, born Kenneth Archibald Sawyer Forstescue-Archer, grandson of a duke, was a graduate of Eton, as Head Boy, even. But somewhere along the line, he got bent and was tossed out of the family tree. He and Neal had crossed paths a few times over the last year or so, much to Keller's distaste. When this particular opportunity came up, Neal suggested that good old Kenny play the role he'd been born to.
Keller despised Kenny. He was tall and fit and blond, features as chiseled as the Apollo Belvedere, his eyes more green than blue – the perfect specimen of noble English manhood. Everything that Matthew Keller, a steelworker's son from Glasgow City wasn't. This particular job needed a front man with the perfect aristocratic lineage, which Kenny had. It also required some basic intelligence, which he seemed to lack.
He had also spent much of the last two weeks trying to get into Neal's pants, and that was his most objectionable characteristic of all.
In the dimly lit but still genteel alley, near Marylebone Road and Park Crescent, Matthew Keller pulled out a snub-nosed .22 and shot Kenny Archer in the back of his head.
Neal stood there, shock making his face go slack. "Why did you kill him?"
"He was a liability, Caffrey."
Neal bent over the body and patted down the late Kenny Archer's body. When he straightened up, he had the man's passport in his hand. "You couldn't wait for him to check? Just two seconds? You didn't have to kill him."
"Listen, sweetheart, you don't let liabilities like that cling to you. Not if you want to keep your skin intact."
Neal stood there, an expression on his face that Keller had never seen before. It looked like disgust.
"Let's get moving – unless you want to get caught standing over a dead body."
Neal didn't say a word as he took off into the dark greenery of Regent's Park. Keller followed, a few steps behind, never losing sight of Neal as he kept to the shadows. The parkland came to an abrupt end and his eyes tracked Neal as he headed into the Great Portland Street tube station. They were supposed to meet up in three days in Barcelona and split the profits from the rare coin collection they'd just stolen – which Neal was carrying.
But Keller wasn't leaving things to chance – not this time. He didn't think that Neal would cheat him. Even if Neal never showed up in Spain, he'd get his share to him. It was that he knew that he'd just crossed the line and if he let Neal out of his sight, he'd never see him again.
Just as the doors were closing, Keller hopped on the train – the same car that Neal was on – and hid himself behind a bevy of Sloane Rangers out for a night of slumming. The car swayed back and forth and between one moment and the next, Neal disappeared. Keller pushed his way into the next car, but Neal was on to him, and was already through the far door. Two more cars and the train pulled to a halt at Baker Street and Keller lost him in the crush.
Three days later, he was waiting for Neal in the Plaça Reial, a chessboard set up and waiting for white to make the first move. It was noon – the appointed time, the appointed place. But there was no sign of Caffrey.
Someone sat down across from him. It wasn't Neal, but it wasn't a stranger. "Hello, Mozzie. Where's Neal?"
"He's not coming."
"That's stating the obvious."
"Don't try to find him. He doesn't want to see you again, ever."
"And he's not man enough to tell me that to his face?"
"After what you did?"
Keller took a deep breath. "Caffrey has nothing to fear from me."
"You'll have to forgive him if he doesn't believe that." Mozzie stood and dropped a newspaper on board, scattering the pieces. "I hope our paths never cross again."
Keller gave Moz a good, hard stare. "You should live so long."
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
New York, Winter, 2009
He'd been watching Neal for a few weeks, observing the changes that time and prison had wrought. The boyish beauty had been honed into something sharp and dangerous, something that made his gut twist with desire and anger. But the rest of Neal seemed unchanged – he was still impetuous, still inclined to leap before looking.
And still a white knight at heart. So eager to save all the damsels in distress.
Oh, it was a joy to watch Neal Caffrey in action. Using all of his talents, but now, in the service of the FBI. In a way, it made the challenge all the more interesting. The Feds had Caffrey on a leash and that was something he could use.
That and Neal's jealousy. He wouldn't touch Kate Moreau with a ten-foot pole. She was not his type, but he could understand her appeal for a man like Caffrey. A few choice words and Neal would be seething, seeing red and charging like an enraged bull.
He laid out a trail of breadcrumbs – first the postcards, then using Campos to steal the elements for forging the Franklin bottle – and killing him had been strangely dissatisfying – then planting the book at the wine brokerage. It amused him to see Neal scurrying about, always one step behind.
It was also arousing, too. He still wanted Neal, wanted that smooth skin, that perfect hair, those smiles, the heat of that body warming him through the night. He wanted Neal in ways he'd never wanted anyone else. And he'd have him back.
It was going to be a long con and he needed to get the Russian mob off his back if he was going to see it through. He'd badly miscalculated with the Russians – letting them finance the Stockholm airport robbery. He should have figured that they wouldn't take kindly to getting ripped off. The Franklin bottle would go a long way to getting them out of his hair – but only if he could drive the price high enough.
Wine collectors were a strange crowd – they'd spend tens of thousands of dollars to have the only example of something, even if the contents were little more than vinegar. And a bottle with such historical pedigree as the Franklin bottle would attract a well-heeled group of bidders. He needed more than a couple of hundred grand, though. He needed at least a million, after the brokerage and auction fees. So he had to stir the pot in the right direction, generating a little drama, a little tension. Just enough, but not too much, he didn't want to scare the punters off.
And the payoff would be Neal. Humiliated and ripe for the plucking.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
New York – Barksdale Federal Correctional Facility – Summer, 2010
He could almost learn to like prison. The guards were infinitely corruptible and he could get anything he wanted for a reasonable price. He also had enough of a reputation as a badass that the other cons left him alone. Prison also gave him plenty of time to think and plot and plan.
The clock was slowly ticking on his long con. It would keep ticking, and he was in no rush to move to an endgame. He'd have what he wanted, but he needed to get out of here, first.
That was going to take some doing. His lawyer was good, she should have been, given how much he was paying her – but she wasn't perfect. He was going to be moved to a super max for the duration, and getting out of that sort of facility might strain his resources. So he put a second game in play and it started paying dividends almost immediately.
Seeing Neal, smug and gorgeous, was almost too much for him. The thin orange prison uniform they'd issued wasn't going to hide his arousal. So he focused on the Fed, instead.
Peter Burke.
He'd built quite a dossier on the man since their first encounter, and he was – he had to admit – impressed. Ivy League grad, star athlete who almost made it to the Majors, top of his class at Quantico and one of the FBI's most decorated and respected agents. Keller supposed he had to be good, if he captured Neal Caffrey, not once, but twice.
He also had a spotless record – at least until he'd taken on Neal as his CI. That was when the gloss started to wear off. The target of an internal investigation, suspended for punching another agent in the mouth, then shooting the same agent when he was chasing after Neal, who'd finally gotten his hands on that misbegotten piece of Russian history.
That stuck in his craw – Neal risking everything for Kate, a woman who wasn't worth the ground Neal walked on. Kate Moreau was faithless, stupid and boring, and for the life of him, Keller couldn't understand Neal's obsession with her. But she was dead now, and she no longer mattered.
But Agent Peter Burke mattered. Neal might have loved and adored Kate, but he respected Burke. He looked at the man like the sun and moon rose out of his ass. That was intolerable.
They were fucking each other, of course. He'd dug deep enough to discover that Agent Burke had ecumenical tastes, provided they were blue-eyed brunettes. His extraordinarily hot wife could have been Neal's sister.
Keller would have paid a fortune to see the three of them in action. And then he'd kill both Burkes because no one touched what was his.
But not here, not now, not when his freedom was at stake. So he played the good little prisoner, willing to offer up a choice morsel to set the board in motion.
Everything played out just as he'd planned. Lang, that idiot, got Burke. And Neal came back, so sweetly predictable. He almost came in his pants when Neal shoved him against his cell wall. Just the feel of Caffrey's body so close to his, so close he could smell him, he could practically taste him, made everything that led up to this moment worth it.
But if he kissed Caffrey, if he went to his knees and took out that beautiful cock and sucked him deep, then offered himself up just like the old days, he'd ruin the game. He'd give away too much, too soon. He was in it for the long con – there were still too many moves to make before the end was in sight. But it was hard not to. It had been more than half a decade since Neal disappeared into the London night. More than half a decade since anyone touched him with love and pleasure. Sometimes he wondered if anyone would touch him like that again.
Keller shook himself like a wet dog. No point in getting maudlin. Not with his freedom on the line. Let Caffrey think that his beloved pet Fed was a heartbeat away from death. Lang might kill Burke, but he probably wouldn't – the twerp couldn't hit a man three feet in front of him with a full magazine. He was living proof of that. Besides, Burke was a hell of a lot smarter than Lang and would likely figure out a way to get himself free. He'd lay money on it.
He played Neal, though. Sent him running for the ring he once planned to put on Kate's finger. If things went according to plan, it would probably end up in some FBI evidence storeroom. Or better yet, Neal would continue to be afflicted by his conscience and arrange for its return to Scotland.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
In another lifetime, Matthew Keller might have liked Sara Ellis. Maybe if she'd been more of a criminal and a little less gullible. But he had to admit, she had a set of brass ones, to dump Caffrey the way she did. It was a pity he was going to have to kill her.
No one touched what was his.
She was someone – one of the many someones – he'd have to take care of after his game with Neal was over. But now, he needed to focus on the next few moves and he couldn't allow himself to be distracted.
Mozzie had surprised him. He didn't think that little worm had the balls to take a hit out on him. If he was a real man, though, he'd have done it himself and done the job right.
Just another someone who'd eventually need to be taken care of. When Keller thought about Mozzie, he wasn't even sure why he'd let him live this long. Maybe because he knew that Mozzie wasn't bumping uglies with Neal, and before now, his death wouldn't have accomplished anything important, like bringing Neal back into his arms.
Keller put thoughts of Mozzie aside. It was time to take care of Elizabeth and Peter Burke, in a way to cause the maximum amount of pain to both of them.
He listened to the sickeningly sweet conversation between husband and wife. What a pair of lovebirds. It amazed him that Burke had room in his life for Neal. And that made him angry. Neal deserved better than being a third wheel, someone's piece on the side, a bit of strange to enliven up an otherwise stale sex life.
Keller let himself in the back door and startled the lovely Mrs. Burke. The pan she was holding landed on the floor; the spattered contents looked like blood.
"What a pity. That sauce looked rather tasty."
She turned an interesting shade of red. "Get out – whoever you are, get out of my house."
He smiled and introduced himself. "My name is Matthew Keller. You may have heard of me – I had your husband kidnapped. And now I'm kidnapping you." Keller stepped aside and let Grant, another stupid flunky, grab Mrs. Burke. Pity that he got in the way of the Burke's dog, who was doing a credible imitation of a Doberman Pinscher and bit Grant on the hand. Grant kicked the beast and sent him scurrying away in pain. For that, Keller decided, when this was over, Leonard Grant was going to die. Neal liked that dog.
A pillowcase and a roll of duct tape secured Mrs. Burke and they carried her out the back and into the waiting van. It was stolen, and so were the plates. It paid to be cautious.
Of course, Mrs. Burke fought them. She didn't beg, she didn't plead, she didn't threaten. She just let loose a stream of invective that would put a sailor on shore leave to shame. He had Grant take her up to the apartment he'd had kitted out for just this occasion. Shatter-proof glass, magnetic locks, light colored carpet that would show blood spatter so nicely. All the amenities one needed to keep a captive happy until her usefulness came to an end.
He had a phone call to make.
It was interesting watching Neal's pet Feds scramble. He'd laid out a dozen false trails and it was a matter of waiting to see which line they started tugging on.
Getting the U-boat treasure was a nice cover. And a profitable one, too. It amused him to think about how angry Burke was when he told him about Neal's involvement. They certainly had a twisted relationship – with Neal wearing a tracking anklet – a modern day equivalent of a slave collar. It wasn't like Neal could say no to Burke, not with the threat of prison hanging over his head.
Or maybe Neal did say no and Burke just kept coming at him, taking what he wanted without any consideration for Neal's wants and desires.
The world turned red as Keller thought about the pain and degradation Burke was repeatedly inflicting on Neal. Before this moment, he'd planned on simply shooting the Fed. A single bullet to the temple. But now, now – that was too easy, too quick. There was not enough pain in the world that he could inflict on Peter Burke that would make him suffer for what he was doing to Neal.
He'd start with the wife. He'd hurt her until she wished for death and he'd record everything. Then he'd send the tape to Burke. And maybe put it out on the Internet, too – so all the world's perverts could get off watching Mrs. Burke die slowly and painfully. Every few days, he'd send a link and a few snippets to the bastard, to keep reminding him of his sins. Maybe he'd never actually show the moment of Mrs. Burke's death – just to give the man some hope.
It was a pity he couldn't hang around and watch him suffer.
But that was for later. He had to keep control of himself now, the endgame was just a few moves away and he couldn't afford to risk a single misstep.
Keller figured that the Fed and Neal and that little twerp, Mozzie, were going to try to fob him off with some excuse - that they couldn't get to the treasure without alerting someone. He was kind of surprised that they took him right to it – it seemed, if just for an instant – that Burke was prepared to pay the ransom. And wouldn't that bollocks things up?
But no – they had some carefully crafted scheme going on. It was quite byzantine in its complexity and Keller could appreciate that. Two rather hapless old con men stumbling into something, a mysterious (or maybe not so mysterious) call to the police, and voila! No treasure for him (not just yet), but plenty of quality time with Neal.
"Just like the good old days, you and me." He tried a smile on, one that radiated sincerity. It was warm in the hidden compartment in the back of the truck. He could smell Neal – the woodsy scent of his expensive cologne, the darker, richer odor of his sweat. It took all of his willpower not to push Neal onto the floor of the truck and lick him from head to toe.
Neal's words were like a bucket of ice water. "What has happened to you?"
"What do you mean?"
"When we met – you weren't like this." In the flickering glow from his lighter, Neal's face took on a grieving cast.
"People change, Neal."
Neal shook his head. "Or maybe I didn't see what was staring me in the face all the time."
Keller wanted to ask what that was, but the truck came to a halt. He listened as Burke let loose on the idiot cop, telling him just where to put the vehicle. The man was crazy, but in a way that Keller could appreciate. It almost made him regret the pain he was going to inflict on him.
He heard Burke and Mozzie walk away and soon enough, someone climbed into the front and the truck started moving. It didn't go far – probably just to the spot marked "X". The cab door slammed shut and he could feel Neal grinning at him. Yes, this was just like old times.
They waited for a few more moments and then scoped out the scene, only to find a bunch of cops still working instead of stuffing their faces. "We should have brought guns." Keller knew that comment was pointless. Caffrey was still as much a devotee of non-violence as the Mahatma Gandhi as ever. But he did have a point. There were a lot of cops and only two of them. And given Neal's distaste for firearms, the odds weren't too good that he'd be able to account for every single cop without getting himself killed. Or worse, getting Neal killed.
They did find a way and the morons in blue actually bought their cover – never looking beyond the windbreakers with NYPD stenciled on them.
He played along; actually enjoying the thought of all that treasure and the security it could buy. It wouldn't take much to settle with the Russians – there were billions in stolen loot in that cargo container, and he owed them about three and a half million now. Compound interest was a bitch.
The rest of the treasure, sold through carefully vetted channels, would ensure their security for the rest of their lives.
The beefy sergeant was giving them all kinds of hassle now about warrants and crap like that. He was also giving Neal the eye – the same kind of eye that the late, unlamented Kenny Archer used to give Neal. The same kind of eye that the soon-to-be-broken Agent Burke gave Neal. All the more reason to get rid of him.
A convenient piece of wire left behind by the former occupants of this facility was about to make an excellent garrote. The cop was solid muscle but the element of surprise would balance that out. A swift tug to break the man's windpipe was all it would take.
Except that Caffrey stopped him. He pulled out his phone and made a call, likely to Burke, and handed it to the almost-dead man.
The little shit pulled him to one side while the man chatted with Peter about warrants and orders. Neal hissed, "What part of 'no killing' do you keep forgetting?"
Keller shrugged. "Finding a dead body could take hours. This lie can fall apart any second."
"Peter will take care of it."
He swallowed against the nausea that the affection in Neal's tone brought and snapped, "You really have gone native, haven't you?"
Caffrey just shook his head and went to stand next to the cop. Sure enough, Burke came through and the boys in blue turned exceedingly cooperative. Seventeen crates were transferred to the truck, and to his amusement, Neal tried to stand behind him, as if he was afraid.
The cops scattered, probably looking for coffee and donuts, leaving him alone with Neal and the treasure. Neal circled back around the truck, double checking for who knows what reason, and as he turned back Keller struck hard and fast.
He'd imagined this moment for years. Planned it down to the second. It took a little bit of effort, but he got Neal under the tarp covering their hidden compartment. The cops didn't even notice that he was by himself when he drove away.
Caffrey wouldn't stay out for long. Keller drove for a few miles through a stretch of deserted Brooklyn waterfront and pulled into abandoned lot, overgrown with scrub. He lifted the tarp, and sure enough, Neal was beginning to stir. A quick injection in the neck with the syringe he'd been carrying took care of that. Neal quieted and Keller bound his hands and feet with duct tape. He rolled Neal onto his side and didn't tape his mouth – that was too dangerous. He didn't want anything to happen to Neal, he was too precious to him.
Keller pressed a swift kiss against Neal's brow, licked the blood from the cut on his face, and dropped the tarp, tying it securely. The road ahead was long and dangerous, their enemies would soon be aware that their own plans had gone awry. First he'd get Neal to safety, then he'd return to take care of Mrs. Burke. And Mozzie. And everyone else who'd gotten in his way.
His endgame was going to be rather blood soaked.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal woke with a splitting headache, a parched mouth and jumbled memories of constant motion – of rumbling engines and waves and air turbulence. He opened his eyes, not surprised to find only darkness. But he was surprised that he wasn't moving, that he was in a real bed, and that he was all but naked.
He didn't move. There was someone else in the room. He could hear the deep, even breaths of someone sleeping. But thankfully, not in the bed next to him.
Neal didn't move, he didn't want to wake his companion – and it was no mystery who that companion was.
Matthew Keller.
He couldn't begin to understand why Keller took him. He had the treasure, he had Elizabeth…
At the thought of Elizabeth, Neal couldn't stifle a moan. He hoped against all hope that Keller had kept his promise and released her.
A light snapped on and Neal winced as the brightness stabbed his eyes.
"Welcome back to the land of the living."
Neal resisted the urge to pepper Keller with questions. He didn't have a complete understanding the situation yet. Best to play dumb. He rubbed his eyes and licked his lips before croaking, "Water."
Keller went away for an all-too-brief moment and came back with a glass. "Here you go, just take small sips. You've been out for quite a while and I wouldn't want you to get sick." Keller sat down on the bed next to him, a disturbingly fond expression on his face had replaced the customary sneer. Neal did his best not to recoil as Keller stroked his head.
"These should help with your headache – sorry about that, but it was necessary." Keller dropped two white pills into his hand.
Neal made no move to take them.
"Just aspirin, Caffrey. You're home now, no need to drug you anymore."
Home? The word sent a deep chill through him. "What's going on?"
Keller smiled, as bright and guileless as a boy. "I've rescued you. You're where you belong now, back with me. There's no one and nothing to keep us apart now."
Neal blinked. Keller's sincerity was terrifying.
"Take the aspirin, you'll feel better."
Neal took the pills and pretended to swallow them. He gave Keller what he hoped was a credible smile. "Where are we?"
Bounding off the bed, Keller went to the window and flung open the curtains. "I call it 'The Fortress of Solitude'. We're completely off the grid – a small water-powered turbine for electricity, a geo-thermal system for heat and hot water. No internet or phones to distract us. We'll want for nothing. I've stocked us up with enough food for fifteen years – there's a whole industry devoted to this kind of lifestyle, did you know that?"
Before him was a vast lake, surrounded by an endless forest. The scene was beautiful, serene and very desolate. There wasn't another building in sight. And there were iron bars across the window.
Keller opened all of the curtains; the room had a three-hundred-sixty degree view, which was the same from every angle. And every window was covered by narrowly spaced bars.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
Neal took a deep breath and carefully considered his words. "But I always thought you were an urban creature. Bright lights, big cities, plenty of action."
"People change."
Keller held out a hand for him and Neal got out of bed. He felt extremely vulnerable, wearing just a pair of cotton boxers – not even his own. "Who else is here?" Neal didn't know what to expect.
"It's just the two of us, sweetheart. No need for anyone else. I've been planning this for years. Have every detail accounted for."
Neal didn't doubt that. Matthew Keller was a master planner. "So, this place is yours?"
"Ours, Neal – this is our place." Keller stood behind him and Neal fought not to cringe. "Everything I've done, every move, every play since you left me, has been for this moment."
"Everything?" Neal couldn't wrap his head around that.
"Everything. The Stockholm heist was what I used to fund this. The Belmont bond forgery was supposed to pay off the Russians, but Lang was a fucking idiot. I've poured all my resources into this place – a home for the both of us. No more running, no more struggles. Just the two of us."
Keller pressed a kiss against the back of his neck and Neal wanted to vomit. "And the treasure?"
"That was a good play, wasn’t it? A diversion so I could capture the real prize."
And he was, apparently, that prize.
Keller continued with the chess metaphors. "It was a nice combination, wasn't it? Got Mozzie out of the way, took care of the Burkes, paid off the Russians. Eliminated all of our opponents in one fell swoop." Neal hoped that Keller was speaking metaphorically about Peter and Elizabeth.
"So Kidnapping Elizabeth Burke wasn't really about the treasure?"
"Nah – she was just a pawn to be eliminated."
Fear was like a cold boulder in his belly. "Eliminated? You didn't kill her, did you?" Neal turned around – he needed to see Keller's eyes, to read the truth there.
And Keller didn't answer him, and his expression was difficult to read. "You love her? She matters to you?"
At least he used the present tense.
Neal kept choosing his words with care. "She's a good person, she helped me when it counted."
Keller's voice got hard. "How?"
Neal thought quickly, wishing that his head didn't hurt so much. "She helped soften Peter up, when things got … difficult."
"Difficult? How?"
Neal shrugged, pretending nonchalance. "You know, when I went off the reservation. When I caused problems for Peter."
"Burke didn't hurt you, did he?"
"No, of course not. He got me out of jail, he covered for me." And just so that Keller didn't think that Neal cared too much, "He was useful."
Keller nodded, apparently satisfied. "Good. That's good to hear."
Neal probably shouldn't have pressed the issue, but he had to. "Elizabeth? You let her go, right?"
And Keller still didn't answer the question. "What would you say to a nice hot shower and a bite to eat. Afterwards, we can finally finish that chess match."
Neal nodded and let Keller lead him into a luxuriously appointed bathroom. He waited for Keller to leave, but he didn't. He just stood there, watching Neal like a smiling cobra.
"Could I have a little privacy?"
"You don't have anything I haven't seen."
Neal tilted his head towards the toilet. "I've got some business to take care of."
Keller shrugged. "Go right ahead."
Neal reminded himself that he'd spent four years in prison and did his business without any privacy every day of those four years. He finished and found Keller still watching him with an unblinking stare. "What about that shower."
Keller's lips twisted into a smile. "Sure thing, sweetheart."
Maybe it was the headache, or the absolute lack of privacy, or the knowledge that he was trapped like a rat in a cage, but Neal snapped, "Don't call me that."
The expression on Keller's face turned ugly, his fists clenched and Neal realized that at that moment, he was as close to death as he'd ever been. Neal remembered his early days in prison, and all the tricks he needed to stay safe and alive. He forced a smile to his lips and brushed his fingers down Keller's cheeks. "Sorry … It's just that you call everyone 'sweetheart'. Like it doesn't mean anything. I thought I was more than that. Especially since you went to so much trouble to build a home for … us." Neal kept smiling and took Keller's hand. He raised it to his lips and pressed a soft kiss into his palm. "Matthew."
Keller blinked and the rage was gone as if it never was. "It's going to be so good, Neal. Like we were never apart." He stepped back and started to strip.
Neal watched as Keller stood proudly naked before him, hands on his hips. He hadn't changed much from the man he'd remembered – compact, muscular, the tiniest bit of softness at the belly. And Neal blinked, and blinked again. There was now a tattoo on the smooth flesh between his hips, below his navel and just above the line of pubic hair, and it terrified Neal like nothing had before.
Neal Caffrey & Matthew Keller – 2001 to ∞
Together in Life and in Death
No One Shall Come Between Us and Survive
Neal swallowed and hoped the horror he felt wasn't reflected on his face. "Thank you, Matthew. Thank you."
Keller chuckled. "It hurt like hell to get it, but it was all worth it." He walked past Neal and went to the enormous shower and turned it on. The room quickly filled with hot steam. Keller held out his hand and led Neal into the shower. The water cascaded over both of them and Neal remained passive, allowing Keller to wash him from head to toe in a sick parody of loving care.
And when Keller fell to his knees and took Neal's cock in his mouth, Neal was grateful for the water. It hid his tears.
He'd never be clean again.
FIN
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Matthew Keller, Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke, Elizabeth Burke, Mozzie, OMC; Past Neal/Keller, Peter/Elizabeth, suggestion of Peter/Neal, Peter/Elizabeth/Neal,
Spoilers: None for current seasons. Spoilers for S1.11 – Bottlenecked, S2.14 – Payback, S3.10 – Countdown, S3.11 – Checkmate.
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Murder, kidnapping (canonical and non-canonical), homicidal ideation, erotomanic behavior, suggestion of non-consensual sexual relationships, actually non-consensual sexual encounter.
Word Count: ~8100
Beta Credit:
theatregirl7299 Summary: Money has never been Matthew Keller's motivation.
A/N: Written for Day Three of Fic-Can-Ukah, for the prompt that
sinfulslasher asked for: "What is underneath good intentions" and the pairing of Neal/Keller. Mildly canon non-compliant for Bottlenecked, canon divergent for Checkmate.Paris – Spring, 2003
In Matthew Keller's world, there were only three kinds of people who mattered: competitors, marks and tools.
And by rights, Neal Caffrey was all three.
Two years ago, he'd been a mark, a seemingly wealthy playboy with too much money and not enough sense, playing all the right games with the beautiful people in Monaco. Keller had planned on relieving him of his fortune, but it hadn't taken long to figure out that Caffrey was playing a con – working the angles on some late middle-aged Italian countess with enough jewels to stock a branch of Tiffany's. That meant he was a competitor, but Keller knew he couldn't muscle Caffrey out of that score. He didn't have the looks, the charm, the Cary Grant-like savoir-faire to carry it off. That was fine, because what he did have was something just as good – the ability to see the holes that others missed.
One afternoon, he sidled up to Caffrey and let him know that the Contessa's son was back in town, and the man was getting suspicious of his mother's latest amour. "George Devore" wasn't going to be able to withstand a very hard look and if he wanted to get what he was working for and get out with his skin intact, then he'd do well to listen to his new best friend.
He was kind of shocked that Caffrey did listen. Keller had expected a sneer and a cold shoulder, but what he got was a warm, bright smile that might have hit him in the heart, if he had one. That's when Caffrey became a tool – as useful and as versatile as a Swiss army knife.
They'd relieved the Contessa of a fair portion of her baubles, used some of the proceeds to fund a nice run at the backgammon tables, and took off for Paris.
Caffrey's skills continued to astound him. If it involved art, was nothing he couldn't do, especially reproducing masterpieces stroke for stroke. These weren't fifty-footers, designed to fool the tourists looking from behind some velvet rope. The works could stand up to all but the strictest scrutiny. The kid had some kind of weird, almost supernatural artistic powers. Combined with his other gifts – his facile charm and stunning good looks – the two of them could rule the world.
But there was a problem with Neal Caffrey. It seemed that he actually had a conscience. Scruples. A bizarre – almost unfathomable – need not to hurt people. The man could never understand the necessity of collateral damage, that when you're a con man, you hurt people. It was as much a by-product of a con man's existence as nitrogen was of breathing. Caffrey might love all the finer things that the life of a successful conman could offer, but he was unwilling to take what he wanted if it meant actually harming someone.
It was really quite charming and Keller was prepared to tolerate it until it got in the way of a score.
He'd often thought, given a different set of circumstances, that Neal Caffrey should have been a cop with a heart of gold, a crusading lawyer fighting for the freedom of the wrongfully accused, or even a priest working with the poor and downtrodden, fighting against the system to better the lives of those who didn't have the power to help themselves. Well, not a priest – at least not one for a religion that required celibacy as a condition of service. Because while Neal had a strange set of morals when it came to his criminal activities, the man also had the sex drive of a Viagra addict.
Which was fine by him. Although he didn't let his dick rule his life, Matthew liked sex with Neal. He liked making Neal think he was in control. He enjoyed it whenever he could get it, provided it didn't interfere with the job at hand. That was one of the differences between him and Caffrey. Neal was literally up for it at any time. Especially right after they had pulled some insanely complicated con. And unlike him, Neal was a risk junkie with the impulse control of a three year old.
Like tonight. They'd just broken into the Musée d'Orsay and relieved it of a small and somewhat "minor" Monet and made a clean getaway. It was midnight and they were walking across the pont de Solférino. He was on point, looking out for any sign that they'd tripped an alarm when they'd made the switch. Neal was a few steps behind, supposedly watching his back. The small canvas, removed from the frame, but still on its stretchers, was strapped to Neal's shoulders, under his jacket. As planned, they were behaving like Parisians – not completely immune to the city's beauty, but they weren't stopping to gawk at the moonlight reflecting on the Seine.
The footbridge was far from deserted – this part of Paris at midnight was almost as busy as Paris at noon. There were plenty of other people even on the lower deck, some walking faster, some slower and maybe there was someone behind Neal who pushed him a little, which caused him to bump into Matthew.
The first time it happened, Matthew hadn't been quite sure that he felt what he felt. But the second time, that was definitely Caffrey's prick poking him in the ass. They had barely made it across the bridge and over the gate into the Tuileries Gardens before Neal had pounced on him – dragging him off the path and into some well-manicured underbrush.
"You're a sex maniac, Caffrey – you know that?"
"And you like it." Neal fumbled at his belt and trousers, panting hard against his neck as he dragged Matthew's cock out into the cool night air. He was already half-hard – from the rush of the job, of course, but from Neal's shenanigans, too. Neal's palm, smooth as a baby's butt, but hard and knowing, stroked him. He tried not to moan, to let Neal know just how much he loved this, but his hips spoke the words his mouth refused to say and rocked back and forth into the caress.
"Should I fuck you here?"
Keller ached for it, he wanted it so damn bad, even here – just yards from a public footpath. The gardens might be closed, but there was security, there were always people around and while getting caught in flagrante delicto with his pants around his ankles would normally result in a misdemeanor and a summons, there was still the matter of the Monet strapped to Caffrey's back. That would be rather hard to explain.
He panted, "No – not here. Let's stick with the plan."
"You sure?" Neal chuckled and licked a dirty stripe along his neck. "You and your plans." He stroked him from tip to base and back, his thumb scraping against the edge of his frenum. Keller bit his lip hard and resisted the need to come.
"Yeah, I'm sure."
Neal stood up and loomed over him. In the moonlight, Keller could see him smirking, and he wanted to kiss the bastard as much as he wanted to punch him in the face. He did neither, shoved his aching dick back in his pants and zipped up. "See you in a few hours, sweetheart."
Neal gave him a jaunty, two-fingered salute before disappearing into the darkness.
Alex, the fence who was moving the Monet, didn't like him. And to tell the truth, Keller didn't like her either. He didn't like that there was history between her and Neal. He tried not to admit it, but it made him sick to think of the two of them fucking. Caffrey had let it slip quite casually that they'd met when he'd been trying to pull the con of a lifetime on Vincent Adler and ended up in bed together. It was bad enough that Neal was occasionally longing for that dimwit, Kate. But Alex was a sharp-eyed broad if ever he met one and he knew that if she spent any time with him, she'd see everything he was trying to hide.
It didn't take much to antagonize her. Keller knew he wasn't naturally charming, at least compared with Caffrey – who just had to breathe to have men and women flock to him – but he could have whoever he wanted if he wanted to make an effort. It was more his nature, though, to turn people off. A few innuendo-laden suggestions, a hand going where it hadn't been invited, and the lovely Ms. Hunter made it quite clear that if she was to do business with them, she'd only work with Neal. If he showed up, she'd walk.
Caffrey, being Caffrey, couldn't understand why he'd behaved like such a shite, but accepted Alex's strictures, nonetheless. He was now on his way to meet with Alex to fence the Monet – she had a buyer lined up who was paying in cash. A lot of cash.
Ordinarily, Keller wouldn't dream of letting anyone handle a transaction of such magnitude without his direct and very personal participation, but Neal – for a con man, forger and thief, he was as honest as they came. Neal Caffrey would soon as slap his granny as cheat him.
Keller made his way back to the fourth floor walk-up in Montmartre he and Caffrey shared. Neal, of course, loved the area for its history, its romantic links to the Lost Generation, to the artists and ex pats who drank and drugged themselves to death. Personally, he couldn't care less about such things. The apartment was furnished, spacious and cheap. Cheap as in free. He knew the man who owned the place and once they had a little discussion about what would happen if the man's wife found out how much he enjoyed getting blowjobs from random men in public lavatories …
He paced the length of the apartment, wound up and nervy, a state that he wasn't accustomed to. He had balls of ice, and not because he didn't mind taking risks. Just the opposite – he didn't take risks because planned for every possible contingency. He worked a dozen, two dozen moves ahead and he wasn't afraid to sacrifice his queen if it meant winning the game. Which was why this agitation made no sense. They'd just pulled off a heist of unimaginable difficulty – getting into one of the most well-guarded museums in the world, replacing a painting worth millions with a fairly credible forgery, and walked out without tripping a single alarm. Neal's clever reproduction could hang there for a generation before anyone realized it wasn't the real thing.
But he was nervous. His hands were shaking, his palms sweaty, and there was a sick, scared feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hadn't felt like this since – since, never. Matthew gave into the nerves for just a second, pulled out his cell phone and called up Neal's number. But he didn't complete the call. There was nothing wrong; there was no reason to be worried.
Keller poured a glass of wine and stared at the chessboard. There was a game in progress and Neal was playing – inevitably, obviously, white. There were a dozen different moves that could be made, permutations of classic attack and defense strategies. But Neal Caffrey wasn't a predictable player and that's what made playing against him such a challenge. He let himself get lost in the game, visualizing all of the possible gambits and lost all track of time. When he finally emerged from his mental calculations, the sky was beginning to lighten.
It was dawn, Neal hadn't come back and Keller was sure if he should be worried or furious. He was just about to go look for the little bastard when the door opened. He was about to flay Caffrey alive – figuring that he'd spent the evening "celebrating" with Alex – when he noticed Neal's unusually disheveled appearance. And the blood.
"What the hell happened?" Keller felt himself grow cold, ice coursing through his veins.
Neal pulled a thick packet out of the back of his pants. "We got one million, U.S., less Alex's ten percent."
"That doesn't answer my question. What happened?"
Neal grimaced. "After I left Alex's place, the buyer decided he'd rather have the painting and the cash. I objected, most strenuously."
"Did you kill him?" Keller didn't know how he wanted Neal to answer.
"No – of course not!"
Yeah, how could he even think of that possibility? "So?"
"The man's bodyguard pulled a knife and cut me. I screamed like Jamie Lee Curtis in the original "Prom Night", punched him in the face and kept screaming until the police came. Then I ran."
Something about Neal's story didn't make sense - the timing was off. "Where have you been?"
"Hiding in the catacombs. I didn't know what the son of a bitch told the police and I didn't want to get picked up, so I laid low until I thought it was safe."
Keller let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Lift up your shirt, let me see."
Neal demurred, "It's fine – nothing more than a scratch."
"There's a lot of blood on you if it's just a scratch."
Neal's lips twitched. "I might have broken the bodyguard's nose."
"So much for your professed distaste for violence." Keller didn't wait for Neal to take off his shirt; he did it for himself, and didn't like what he saw. "That's not a scratch, sweetheart."
The cut was about the length of his spread hand – across the entire right side of his ribcage – and deep enough that it was still oozing blood several hours after it had been inflicted. Keller touched it carefully and Neal hissed.
He muttered, "I'll kill the bastard. I'll hunt him down and slice him to pieces for doing this … " Realizing what he'd almost revealed, Keller bit his lip.
Neal didn't seem to notice, and just brushed off the injury. "It's okay – I heal quickly."
"That's not the point. You had a deal – what type of idiot is Alex Hunter to broker a sale with someone who tries shit like this? Or maybe she's not such an idiot – maybe she helped set the ambush up. I think I need to have a little talk with your oh-so-pretty fence."
Neal pushed his hands away, his face hard, stubborn. "No, Alex had nothing to do with this. If it was going to go bad, it would have at the meet, not blocks away. You leave her alone."
Keller sensed that he was approaching a line with Neal, one that he shouldn't cross. Not if he wanted to keep this man in his life. And when did that become so paramount? "Okay, fine. But there's no more of this going alone – Alex Hunter will put up with my presence or we'll find someone else."
"Well, maybe if you tried to be a little nicer, Alex wouldn’t be so difficult."
Keller rocked back on his heels and looked at Neal. Despite the exhaustion, humor glowed from his eyes, from the slightly sardonic twist to his lips.
"Yeah, Caffrey – that's the ticket. I'll just tear a page out of your playbook and be 'a little nicer'." Keller led Neal towards the bathroom. That cut needed to be cleaned and taped shut. He worked quickly, enjoying the heat and silk of Neal's smooth skin – there wasn't a damn thing about this man that wasn't perfect. Almost against his will, his fingers lingered.
Neal took his hand and moved it a little north, so it rested on his nipple. "What do you say we finish what we started?"
"Hmm, what?"
Neal let go of his hand and threaded his fingers through his hair. "We started something in the Tuileries. You made me wait. I'm done with waiting." Those fingers got aggressive and dragged him up towards his mouth. Neal kissed like he did everything, with impeccable, flawless skill and Keller let himself fall just a little deeper into something that might just be …
London – Late Summer, 2004
"Shit, I think I left my passport behind."
Keller ground his teeth and turned around. Kenny Archer was their front man – a bit of an upper class English twit – and a necessary piece of the three-man job they'd just pulled. He hadn't wanted to use him, but Neal pointed out that the people they were going to con wouldn't be fooled by Neal's imitation posh boarding school accent. It was one of the few times that Neal admitted that he couldn't carry off a particular con.
Kenny, born Kenneth Archibald Sawyer Forstescue-Archer, grandson of a duke, was a graduate of Eton, as Head Boy, even. But somewhere along the line, he got bent and was tossed out of the family tree. He and Neal had crossed paths a few times over the last year or so, much to Keller's distaste. When this particular opportunity came up, Neal suggested that good old Kenny play the role he'd been born to.
Keller despised Kenny. He was tall and fit and blond, features as chiseled as the Apollo Belvedere, his eyes more green than blue – the perfect specimen of noble English manhood. Everything that Matthew Keller, a steelworker's son from Glasgow City wasn't. This particular job needed a front man with the perfect aristocratic lineage, which Kenny had. It also required some basic intelligence, which he seemed to lack.
He had also spent much of the last two weeks trying to get into Neal's pants, and that was his most objectionable characteristic of all.
In the dimly lit but still genteel alley, near Marylebone Road and Park Crescent, Matthew Keller pulled out a snub-nosed .22 and shot Kenny Archer in the back of his head.
Neal stood there, shock making his face go slack. "Why did you kill him?"
"He was a liability, Caffrey."
Neal bent over the body and patted down the late Kenny Archer's body. When he straightened up, he had the man's passport in his hand. "You couldn't wait for him to check? Just two seconds? You didn't have to kill him."
"Listen, sweetheart, you don't let liabilities like that cling to you. Not if you want to keep your skin intact."
Neal stood there, an expression on his face that Keller had never seen before. It looked like disgust.
"Let's get moving – unless you want to get caught standing over a dead body."
Neal didn't say a word as he took off into the dark greenery of Regent's Park. Keller followed, a few steps behind, never losing sight of Neal as he kept to the shadows. The parkland came to an abrupt end and his eyes tracked Neal as he headed into the Great Portland Street tube station. They were supposed to meet up in three days in Barcelona and split the profits from the rare coin collection they'd just stolen – which Neal was carrying.
But Keller wasn't leaving things to chance – not this time. He didn't think that Neal would cheat him. Even if Neal never showed up in Spain, he'd get his share to him. It was that he knew that he'd just crossed the line and if he let Neal out of his sight, he'd never see him again.
Just as the doors were closing, Keller hopped on the train – the same car that Neal was on – and hid himself behind a bevy of Sloane Rangers out for a night of slumming. The car swayed back and forth and between one moment and the next, Neal disappeared. Keller pushed his way into the next car, but Neal was on to him, and was already through the far door. Two more cars and the train pulled to a halt at Baker Street and Keller lost him in the crush.
Three days later, he was waiting for Neal in the Plaça Reial, a chessboard set up and waiting for white to make the first move. It was noon – the appointed time, the appointed place. But there was no sign of Caffrey.
Someone sat down across from him. It wasn't Neal, but it wasn't a stranger. "Hello, Mozzie. Where's Neal?"
"He's not coming."
"That's stating the obvious."
"Don't try to find him. He doesn't want to see you again, ever."
"And he's not man enough to tell me that to his face?"
"After what you did?"
Keller took a deep breath. "Caffrey has nothing to fear from me."
"You'll have to forgive him if he doesn't believe that." Mozzie stood and dropped a newspaper on board, scattering the pieces. "I hope our paths never cross again."
Keller gave Moz a good, hard stare. "You should live so long."
New York, Winter, 2009
He'd been watching Neal for a few weeks, observing the changes that time and prison had wrought. The boyish beauty had been honed into something sharp and dangerous, something that made his gut twist with desire and anger. But the rest of Neal seemed unchanged – he was still impetuous, still inclined to leap before looking.
And still a white knight at heart. So eager to save all the damsels in distress.
Oh, it was a joy to watch Neal Caffrey in action. Using all of his talents, but now, in the service of the FBI. In a way, it made the challenge all the more interesting. The Feds had Caffrey on a leash and that was something he could use.
That and Neal's jealousy. He wouldn't touch Kate Moreau with a ten-foot pole. She was not his type, but he could understand her appeal for a man like Caffrey. A few choice words and Neal would be seething, seeing red and charging like an enraged bull.
He laid out a trail of breadcrumbs – first the postcards, then using Campos to steal the elements for forging the Franklin bottle – and killing him had been strangely dissatisfying – then planting the book at the wine brokerage. It amused him to see Neal scurrying about, always one step behind.
It was also arousing, too. He still wanted Neal, wanted that smooth skin, that perfect hair, those smiles, the heat of that body warming him through the night. He wanted Neal in ways he'd never wanted anyone else. And he'd have him back.
It was going to be a long con and he needed to get the Russian mob off his back if he was going to see it through. He'd badly miscalculated with the Russians – letting them finance the Stockholm airport robbery. He should have figured that they wouldn't take kindly to getting ripped off. The Franklin bottle would go a long way to getting them out of his hair – but only if he could drive the price high enough.
Wine collectors were a strange crowd – they'd spend tens of thousands of dollars to have the only example of something, even if the contents were little more than vinegar. And a bottle with such historical pedigree as the Franklin bottle would attract a well-heeled group of bidders. He needed more than a couple of hundred grand, though. He needed at least a million, after the brokerage and auction fees. So he had to stir the pot in the right direction, generating a little drama, a little tension. Just enough, but not too much, he didn't want to scare the punters off.
And the payoff would be Neal. Humiliated and ripe for the plucking.
New York – Barksdale Federal Correctional Facility – Summer, 2010
He could almost learn to like prison. The guards were infinitely corruptible and he could get anything he wanted for a reasonable price. He also had enough of a reputation as a badass that the other cons left him alone. Prison also gave him plenty of time to think and plot and plan.
The clock was slowly ticking on his long con. It would keep ticking, and he was in no rush to move to an endgame. He'd have what he wanted, but he needed to get out of here, first.
That was going to take some doing. His lawyer was good, she should have been, given how much he was paying her – but she wasn't perfect. He was going to be moved to a super max for the duration, and getting out of that sort of facility might strain his resources. So he put a second game in play and it started paying dividends almost immediately.
Seeing Neal, smug and gorgeous, was almost too much for him. The thin orange prison uniform they'd issued wasn't going to hide his arousal. So he focused on the Fed, instead.
Peter Burke.
He'd built quite a dossier on the man since their first encounter, and he was – he had to admit – impressed. Ivy League grad, star athlete who almost made it to the Majors, top of his class at Quantico and one of the FBI's most decorated and respected agents. Keller supposed he had to be good, if he captured Neal Caffrey, not once, but twice.
He also had a spotless record – at least until he'd taken on Neal as his CI. That was when the gloss started to wear off. The target of an internal investigation, suspended for punching another agent in the mouth, then shooting the same agent when he was chasing after Neal, who'd finally gotten his hands on that misbegotten piece of Russian history.
That stuck in his craw – Neal risking everything for Kate, a woman who wasn't worth the ground Neal walked on. Kate Moreau was faithless, stupid and boring, and for the life of him, Keller couldn't understand Neal's obsession with her. But she was dead now, and she no longer mattered.
But Agent Peter Burke mattered. Neal might have loved and adored Kate, but he respected Burke. He looked at the man like the sun and moon rose out of his ass. That was intolerable.
They were fucking each other, of course. He'd dug deep enough to discover that Agent Burke had ecumenical tastes, provided they were blue-eyed brunettes. His extraordinarily hot wife could have been Neal's sister.
Keller would have paid a fortune to see the three of them in action. And then he'd kill both Burkes because no one touched what was his.
But not here, not now, not when his freedom was at stake. So he played the good little prisoner, willing to offer up a choice morsel to set the board in motion.
Everything played out just as he'd planned. Lang, that idiot, got Burke. And Neal came back, so sweetly predictable. He almost came in his pants when Neal shoved him against his cell wall. Just the feel of Caffrey's body so close to his, so close he could smell him, he could practically taste him, made everything that led up to this moment worth it.
But if he kissed Caffrey, if he went to his knees and took out that beautiful cock and sucked him deep, then offered himself up just like the old days, he'd ruin the game. He'd give away too much, too soon. He was in it for the long con – there were still too many moves to make before the end was in sight. But it was hard not to. It had been more than half a decade since Neal disappeared into the London night. More than half a decade since anyone touched him with love and pleasure. Sometimes he wondered if anyone would touch him like that again.
Keller shook himself like a wet dog. No point in getting maudlin. Not with his freedom on the line. Let Caffrey think that his beloved pet Fed was a heartbeat away from death. Lang might kill Burke, but he probably wouldn't – the twerp couldn't hit a man three feet in front of him with a full magazine. He was living proof of that. Besides, Burke was a hell of a lot smarter than Lang and would likely figure out a way to get himself free. He'd lay money on it.
He played Neal, though. Sent him running for the ring he once planned to put on Kate's finger. If things went according to plan, it would probably end up in some FBI evidence storeroom. Or better yet, Neal would continue to be afflicted by his conscience and arrange for its return to Scotland.
In another lifetime, Matthew Keller might have liked Sara Ellis. Maybe if she'd been more of a criminal and a little less gullible. But he had to admit, she had a set of brass ones, to dump Caffrey the way she did. It was a pity he was going to have to kill her.
No one touched what was his.
She was someone – one of the many someones – he'd have to take care of after his game with Neal was over. But now, he needed to focus on the next few moves and he couldn't allow himself to be distracted.
Mozzie had surprised him. He didn't think that little worm had the balls to take a hit out on him. If he was a real man, though, he'd have done it himself and done the job right.
Just another someone who'd eventually need to be taken care of. When Keller thought about Mozzie, he wasn't even sure why he'd let him live this long. Maybe because he knew that Mozzie wasn't bumping uglies with Neal, and before now, his death wouldn't have accomplished anything important, like bringing Neal back into his arms.
Keller put thoughts of Mozzie aside. It was time to take care of Elizabeth and Peter Burke, in a way to cause the maximum amount of pain to both of them.
He listened to the sickeningly sweet conversation between husband and wife. What a pair of lovebirds. It amazed him that Burke had room in his life for Neal. And that made him angry. Neal deserved better than being a third wheel, someone's piece on the side, a bit of strange to enliven up an otherwise stale sex life.
Keller let himself in the back door and startled the lovely Mrs. Burke. The pan she was holding landed on the floor; the spattered contents looked like blood.
"What a pity. That sauce looked rather tasty."
She turned an interesting shade of red. "Get out – whoever you are, get out of my house."
He smiled and introduced himself. "My name is Matthew Keller. You may have heard of me – I had your husband kidnapped. And now I'm kidnapping you." Keller stepped aside and let Grant, another stupid flunky, grab Mrs. Burke. Pity that he got in the way of the Burke's dog, who was doing a credible imitation of a Doberman Pinscher and bit Grant on the hand. Grant kicked the beast and sent him scurrying away in pain. For that, Keller decided, when this was over, Leonard Grant was going to die. Neal liked that dog.
A pillowcase and a roll of duct tape secured Mrs. Burke and they carried her out the back and into the waiting van. It was stolen, and so were the plates. It paid to be cautious.
Of course, Mrs. Burke fought them. She didn't beg, she didn't plead, she didn't threaten. She just let loose a stream of invective that would put a sailor on shore leave to shame. He had Grant take her up to the apartment he'd had kitted out for just this occasion. Shatter-proof glass, magnetic locks, light colored carpet that would show blood spatter so nicely. All the amenities one needed to keep a captive happy until her usefulness came to an end.
He had a phone call to make.
It was interesting watching Neal's pet Feds scramble. He'd laid out a dozen false trails and it was a matter of waiting to see which line they started tugging on.
Getting the U-boat treasure was a nice cover. And a profitable one, too. It amused him to think about how angry Burke was when he told him about Neal's involvement. They certainly had a twisted relationship – with Neal wearing a tracking anklet – a modern day equivalent of a slave collar. It wasn't like Neal could say no to Burke, not with the threat of prison hanging over his head.
Or maybe Neal did say no and Burke just kept coming at him, taking what he wanted without any consideration for Neal's wants and desires.
The world turned red as Keller thought about the pain and degradation Burke was repeatedly inflicting on Neal. Before this moment, he'd planned on simply shooting the Fed. A single bullet to the temple. But now, now – that was too easy, too quick. There was not enough pain in the world that he could inflict on Peter Burke that would make him suffer for what he was doing to Neal.
He'd start with the wife. He'd hurt her until she wished for death and he'd record everything. Then he'd send the tape to Burke. And maybe put it out on the Internet, too – so all the world's perverts could get off watching Mrs. Burke die slowly and painfully. Every few days, he'd send a link and a few snippets to the bastard, to keep reminding him of his sins. Maybe he'd never actually show the moment of Mrs. Burke's death – just to give the man some hope.
It was a pity he couldn't hang around and watch him suffer.
But that was for later. He had to keep control of himself now, the endgame was just a few moves away and he couldn't afford to risk a single misstep.
Keller figured that the Fed and Neal and that little twerp, Mozzie, were going to try to fob him off with some excuse - that they couldn't get to the treasure without alerting someone. He was kind of surprised that they took him right to it – it seemed, if just for an instant – that Burke was prepared to pay the ransom. And wouldn't that bollocks things up?
But no – they had some carefully crafted scheme going on. It was quite byzantine in its complexity and Keller could appreciate that. Two rather hapless old con men stumbling into something, a mysterious (or maybe not so mysterious) call to the police, and voila! No treasure for him (not just yet), but plenty of quality time with Neal.
"Just like the good old days, you and me." He tried a smile on, one that radiated sincerity. It was warm in the hidden compartment in the back of the truck. He could smell Neal – the woodsy scent of his expensive cologne, the darker, richer odor of his sweat. It took all of his willpower not to push Neal onto the floor of the truck and lick him from head to toe.
Neal's words were like a bucket of ice water. "What has happened to you?"
"What do you mean?"
"When we met – you weren't like this." In the flickering glow from his lighter, Neal's face took on a grieving cast.
"People change, Neal."
Neal shook his head. "Or maybe I didn't see what was staring me in the face all the time."
Keller wanted to ask what that was, but the truck came to a halt. He listened as Burke let loose on the idiot cop, telling him just where to put the vehicle. The man was crazy, but in a way that Keller could appreciate. It almost made him regret the pain he was going to inflict on him.
He heard Burke and Mozzie walk away and soon enough, someone climbed into the front and the truck started moving. It didn't go far – probably just to the spot marked "X". The cab door slammed shut and he could feel Neal grinning at him. Yes, this was just like old times.
They waited for a few more moments and then scoped out the scene, only to find a bunch of cops still working instead of stuffing their faces. "We should have brought guns." Keller knew that comment was pointless. Caffrey was still as much a devotee of non-violence as the Mahatma Gandhi as ever. But he did have a point. There were a lot of cops and only two of them. And given Neal's distaste for firearms, the odds weren't too good that he'd be able to account for every single cop without getting himself killed. Or worse, getting Neal killed.
They did find a way and the morons in blue actually bought their cover – never looking beyond the windbreakers with NYPD stenciled on them.
He played along; actually enjoying the thought of all that treasure and the security it could buy. It wouldn't take much to settle with the Russians – there were billions in stolen loot in that cargo container, and he owed them about three and a half million now. Compound interest was a bitch.
The rest of the treasure, sold through carefully vetted channels, would ensure their security for the rest of their lives.
The beefy sergeant was giving them all kinds of hassle now about warrants and crap like that. He was also giving Neal the eye – the same kind of eye that the late, unlamented Kenny Archer used to give Neal. The same kind of eye that the soon-to-be-broken Agent Burke gave Neal. All the more reason to get rid of him.
A convenient piece of wire left behind by the former occupants of this facility was about to make an excellent garrote. The cop was solid muscle but the element of surprise would balance that out. A swift tug to break the man's windpipe was all it would take.
Except that Caffrey stopped him. He pulled out his phone and made a call, likely to Burke, and handed it to the almost-dead man.
The little shit pulled him to one side while the man chatted with Peter about warrants and orders. Neal hissed, "What part of 'no killing' do you keep forgetting?"
Keller shrugged. "Finding a dead body could take hours. This lie can fall apart any second."
"Peter will take care of it."
He swallowed against the nausea that the affection in Neal's tone brought and snapped, "You really have gone native, haven't you?"
Caffrey just shook his head and went to stand next to the cop. Sure enough, Burke came through and the boys in blue turned exceedingly cooperative. Seventeen crates were transferred to the truck, and to his amusement, Neal tried to stand behind him, as if he was afraid.
The cops scattered, probably looking for coffee and donuts, leaving him alone with Neal and the treasure. Neal circled back around the truck, double checking for who knows what reason, and as he turned back Keller struck hard and fast.
He'd imagined this moment for years. Planned it down to the second. It took a little bit of effort, but he got Neal under the tarp covering their hidden compartment. The cops didn't even notice that he was by himself when he drove away.
Caffrey wouldn't stay out for long. Keller drove for a few miles through a stretch of deserted Brooklyn waterfront and pulled into abandoned lot, overgrown with scrub. He lifted the tarp, and sure enough, Neal was beginning to stir. A quick injection in the neck with the syringe he'd been carrying took care of that. Neal quieted and Keller bound his hands and feet with duct tape. He rolled Neal onto his side and didn't tape his mouth – that was too dangerous. He didn't want anything to happen to Neal, he was too precious to him.
Keller pressed a swift kiss against Neal's brow, licked the blood from the cut on his face, and dropped the tarp, tying it securely. The road ahead was long and dangerous, their enemies would soon be aware that their own plans had gone awry. First he'd get Neal to safety, then he'd return to take care of Mrs. Burke. And Mozzie. And everyone else who'd gotten in his way.
His endgame was going to be rather blood soaked.
Neal woke with a splitting headache, a parched mouth and jumbled memories of constant motion – of rumbling engines and waves and air turbulence. He opened his eyes, not surprised to find only darkness. But he was surprised that he wasn't moving, that he was in a real bed, and that he was all but naked.
He didn't move. There was someone else in the room. He could hear the deep, even breaths of someone sleeping. But thankfully, not in the bed next to him.
Neal didn't move, he didn't want to wake his companion – and it was no mystery who that companion was.
Matthew Keller.
He couldn't begin to understand why Keller took him. He had the treasure, he had Elizabeth…
At the thought of Elizabeth, Neal couldn't stifle a moan. He hoped against all hope that Keller had kept his promise and released her.
A light snapped on and Neal winced as the brightness stabbed his eyes.
"Welcome back to the land of the living."
Neal resisted the urge to pepper Keller with questions. He didn't have a complete understanding the situation yet. Best to play dumb. He rubbed his eyes and licked his lips before croaking, "Water."
Keller went away for an all-too-brief moment and came back with a glass. "Here you go, just take small sips. You've been out for quite a while and I wouldn't want you to get sick." Keller sat down on the bed next to him, a disturbingly fond expression on his face had replaced the customary sneer. Neal did his best not to recoil as Keller stroked his head.
"These should help with your headache – sorry about that, but it was necessary." Keller dropped two white pills into his hand.
Neal made no move to take them.
"Just aspirin, Caffrey. You're home now, no need to drug you anymore."
Home? The word sent a deep chill through him. "What's going on?"
Keller smiled, as bright and guileless as a boy. "I've rescued you. You're where you belong now, back with me. There's no one and nothing to keep us apart now."
Neal blinked. Keller's sincerity was terrifying.
"Take the aspirin, you'll feel better."
Neal took the pills and pretended to swallow them. He gave Keller what he hoped was a credible smile. "Where are we?"
Bounding off the bed, Keller went to the window and flung open the curtains. "I call it 'The Fortress of Solitude'. We're completely off the grid – a small water-powered turbine for electricity, a geo-thermal system for heat and hot water. No internet or phones to distract us. We'll want for nothing. I've stocked us up with enough food for fifteen years – there's a whole industry devoted to this kind of lifestyle, did you know that?"
Before him was a vast lake, surrounded by an endless forest. The scene was beautiful, serene and very desolate. There wasn't another building in sight. And there were iron bars across the window.
Keller opened all of the curtains; the room had a three-hundred-sixty degree view, which was the same from every angle. And every window was covered by narrowly spaced bars.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
Neal took a deep breath and carefully considered his words. "But I always thought you were an urban creature. Bright lights, big cities, plenty of action."
"People change."
Keller held out a hand for him and Neal got out of bed. He felt extremely vulnerable, wearing just a pair of cotton boxers – not even his own. "Who else is here?" Neal didn't know what to expect.
"It's just the two of us, sweetheart. No need for anyone else. I've been planning this for years. Have every detail accounted for."
Neal didn't doubt that. Matthew Keller was a master planner. "So, this place is yours?"
"Ours, Neal – this is our place." Keller stood behind him and Neal fought not to cringe. "Everything I've done, every move, every play since you left me, has been for this moment."
"Everything?" Neal couldn't wrap his head around that.
"Everything. The Stockholm heist was what I used to fund this. The Belmont bond forgery was supposed to pay off the Russians, but Lang was a fucking idiot. I've poured all my resources into this place – a home for the both of us. No more running, no more struggles. Just the two of us."
Keller pressed a kiss against the back of his neck and Neal wanted to vomit. "And the treasure?"
"That was a good play, wasn’t it? A diversion so I could capture the real prize."
And he was, apparently, that prize.
Keller continued with the chess metaphors. "It was a nice combination, wasn't it? Got Mozzie out of the way, took care of the Burkes, paid off the Russians. Eliminated all of our opponents in one fell swoop." Neal hoped that Keller was speaking metaphorically about Peter and Elizabeth.
"So Kidnapping Elizabeth Burke wasn't really about the treasure?"
"Nah – she was just a pawn to be eliminated."
Fear was like a cold boulder in his belly. "Eliminated? You didn't kill her, did you?" Neal turned around – he needed to see Keller's eyes, to read the truth there.
And Keller didn't answer him, and his expression was difficult to read. "You love her? She matters to you?"
At least he used the present tense.
Neal kept choosing his words with care. "She's a good person, she helped me when it counted."
Keller's voice got hard. "How?"
Neal thought quickly, wishing that his head didn't hurt so much. "She helped soften Peter up, when things got … difficult."
"Difficult? How?"
Neal shrugged, pretending nonchalance. "You know, when I went off the reservation. When I caused problems for Peter."
"Burke didn't hurt you, did he?"
"No, of course not. He got me out of jail, he covered for me." And just so that Keller didn't think that Neal cared too much, "He was useful."
Keller nodded, apparently satisfied. "Good. That's good to hear."
Neal probably shouldn't have pressed the issue, but he had to. "Elizabeth? You let her go, right?"
And Keller still didn't answer the question. "What would you say to a nice hot shower and a bite to eat. Afterwards, we can finally finish that chess match."
Neal nodded and let Keller lead him into a luxuriously appointed bathroom. He waited for Keller to leave, but he didn't. He just stood there, watching Neal like a smiling cobra.
"Could I have a little privacy?"
"You don't have anything I haven't seen."
Neal tilted his head towards the toilet. "I've got some business to take care of."
Keller shrugged. "Go right ahead."
Neal reminded himself that he'd spent four years in prison and did his business without any privacy every day of those four years. He finished and found Keller still watching him with an unblinking stare. "What about that shower."
Keller's lips twisted into a smile. "Sure thing, sweetheart."
Maybe it was the headache, or the absolute lack of privacy, or the knowledge that he was trapped like a rat in a cage, but Neal snapped, "Don't call me that."
The expression on Keller's face turned ugly, his fists clenched and Neal realized that at that moment, he was as close to death as he'd ever been. Neal remembered his early days in prison, and all the tricks he needed to stay safe and alive. He forced a smile to his lips and brushed his fingers down Keller's cheeks. "Sorry … It's just that you call everyone 'sweetheart'. Like it doesn't mean anything. I thought I was more than that. Especially since you went to so much trouble to build a home for … us." Neal kept smiling and took Keller's hand. He raised it to his lips and pressed a soft kiss into his palm. "Matthew."
Keller blinked and the rage was gone as if it never was. "It's going to be so good, Neal. Like we were never apart." He stepped back and started to strip.
Neal watched as Keller stood proudly naked before him, hands on his hips. He hadn't changed much from the man he'd remembered – compact, muscular, the tiniest bit of softness at the belly. And Neal blinked, and blinked again. There was now a tattoo on the smooth flesh between his hips, below his navel and just above the line of pubic hair, and it terrified Neal like nothing had before.
Together in Life and in Death
No One Shall Come Between Us and Survive
Neal swallowed and hoped the horror he felt wasn't reflected on his face. "Thank you, Matthew. Thank you."
Keller chuckled. "It hurt like hell to get it, but it was all worth it." He walked past Neal and went to the enormous shower and turned it on. The room quickly filled with hot steam. Keller held out his hand and led Neal into the shower. The water cascaded over both of them and Neal remained passive, allowing Keller to wash him from head to toe in a sick parody of loving care.
And when Keller fell to his knees and took Neal's cock in his mouth, Neal was grateful for the water. It hid his tears.
He'd never be clean again.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2014-12-18 10:10 pm (UTC)OMG. Keller and Neal hotness in les Tuileries. Well I was there this afternoon with friends and thinking about your story. And here it is. Amazing portrait of Keller ' s twisted brain. And yes, I believe there was love there, although certainly abusive. Its fascinating to see how you've built this relationship around everything we know from canon. Congrats and hugs. I'm a basket case right now....like all the rest of the fandom I guess.
no subject
Date: 2014-12-18 11:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-19 01:03 am (UTC)And it's so very Keller to design such an elaborate plan to get his boy back... Neal is so fucked (hmmm, literally and metaphorically :P), but I have a feeling Peter will find Neal sooner or later, if Neal doesn't manage to get away. But until that happens... hmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Poor Neal *pets him*
Beautifully written, this is Keller and Neal perfection, really :D
no subject
Date: 2014-12-19 05:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-19 03:33 pm (UTC)Interesting fic!
no subject
Date: 2014-12-19 03:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-21 12:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-12-30 05:58 pm (UTC)