Fic: Remain Faithful, part seven, [White Collar]
Part 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 /
"Everyone ready for this?" Peter asks. Hughes occupies the head of the conference room table, excited enough by the possibility of bringing in Vincent Adler to involve himself directly in the case. Diana stands behind Neal's chair. She rolls her eyes at Peter, because he's as nervous as he's ever been about a case. Of course, he was never sleeping with someone involved before. He hopes to God neither Diana or Hughes - Peter cringes at just the thought - has a clue about that. Jones has his laptop set up and is ready to run the back trace on the call as soon as Neal makes it.
The damned music box - which turns out to be an ugly monstrosity for all its historical value - sits at the center of the conference table. The amber holds the morning light coming through the wall of windows and glows. Okay, Peter can admit, the amber itself is beautiful, it's just the design that he finds objectionable.
Neal himself glows a little - Catherine the Great would have gobbled him up as fast as Kate the Great - sitting with his cell phone in his hand, dressed in one of Byron Ellington's elegant suits. He chose a dark blue one today and a blinding white dress shirt with it.
"Yes, Peter, we're all ready," Neal says with just a touch of impatience. He's been edgy and snappish since he figured out Peter thought he'd gone to Adler to make a deal. Peter hasn't found an opportunity to apologize, though he knows that's more important than explaining why he thought it. Neal drums his fingers on the polished table top. They move hypnotically in and out of the splash of sunlight reflecting white off the surface.
Peter checks Jones. Jones nods, his hands poised over his keyboard.
"Let's do this."
Neal taps Adler's contact number, Jones types, then gives them a thumbs up. Neal switches the phone to speaker. The door to the conference room is shut and locked; everyone inside knows better than to make any giveaway noises.
"Neal." Through the phone's small speaker, Vincent Adler's voice is sharper than in reality, but recognizably the same as in various recordings the Bureau has gathered. Peter knows it. Even if he didn't, Neal certainly does. Adler sounds oily to Peter, something he never realized before.
"Vincent," Neal greets him, poised and unruffled. "How was Argentina?" His brows are drawn together just a little, telegraphing his tension while he keeps it out of his voice. His hands spread wide, flat on the table, tensed against it, pressing down.
"The beef and the polo are both superb."
"I can't imagine that being enough for a man like you. Where's the challenge?"
"You always were smart," Adler murmurs in approval.
Neal almost smiles, but then his expression turns brittle. "I didn't feel that way when you left with Kate."
"Sometimes a man miscalculates. Of course, I knew Kate's game from the beginning, but watching her try to have her cake and eat it too was just too delightful."
Neal's frown deepens. "What cake?"
Adler chuckles. "You, Neal. She wanted you and she wanted my money. So I made her choose."
Neal winces visibly. Peter doesn't blame him. It shouldn't come as any surprise that Adler has a cruel streak. He's a wrecker of lives, a destroyer, after all, a greedy bastard who makes Kate look like a saint. He keeps talking and Peter listens for any clue that may slip through the taunts. "I was disappointed when you fell for her, of course, because I had my own plans, but you both provided more than enough entertainment to make up for that."
Neal stiffens and Diana squeezes his shoulder. Jones' eyes are just a little wider than normal. He makes a curling motion though - keep going - to Neal. The trace is taking time. The phone number does them no good, it's undoubtedly a burner and will be tossed at the end of the call. They need to know where the phone is now, while Adler is using it.
"You - what plans?" Neal asks.
"Are you really still so naive?"
"I - "
"Come now, Neal. You flirted the first time we met, in that atrocious little gallery."
"I flirted with all the customers. It was part of the job." A thread of cynicism colors Neal's soft words. "It wasn't anything more than that."
"Too bad."
"I don't understand." Neal's confusion appears real. Adler's knocking him off track.
"I had a passport waiting for you," Adler explains. "I meant to take you with me, of course. Kate interfered. And without you, she became boring."
"Oh," Neal murmurs at last. "Me." He sounds friendlier, almost wistful, and there's no way to guess if he's acting or not. The shock on Neal's face makes Peter wonder if he would have gone with Adler. No matter what Neal says now, Peter knows Adler had a strong hold on him once.
"Delightful as this little stroll down history lane has been," Adler interrupts, "I believe you called to do some business with me."
"Do you still have my paintings?" Neal blurts, abandoning the loose script Peter and Hughes went over with him earlier - not that the conversation has held to it before, but Neal just gave away his weak point. Luckily, it isn't the case's weak point. "Did you destroy them? Because if you did, I'll - "
"Don't be ridiculous, Neal. Just name your price."
Neal rubs his hands over his face and says, "You can't give me Kate back."
Diana's hand is still locked tight on Neal's shoulder. Peter wishes he dared offer that much support, but he's not comfortable showing how close he is to Neal in front of Hughes. Not until the case is put away, along with Vincent Adler.
"No, but I can pay you very well to return the item she stole from me."
"As long it includes my paintings."
Adler laughs. Even from the phone's speakers, it makes Peter want to take a shower. After he locks Neal in a vault somewhere that Adler can never touch him.
"How much, Neal?"
Neal breathes in hard through his nose, almost loud enough for the phone to pick up. A tense muscle flexes in his cheek, under skin gone pale. Some people go red, flush with anger. Neal goes pale and drawn taut and quiet. It's much more frightening; it's the anger of a thinking man. Like Iago, such men are dangerous. He names the amount they scripted without letting his fury color his voice at all. Peter is impressed; plenty of agents lack as much control as Neal has.
It hits Peter again, what a shame it is Kate went bad. She would have made a fantastic agent, on par with Diana. And Neal, if art didn't have a lock on the biggest part of him, could have been the best in the Bureau. Of course, what ifs and could have beens are pointless. The fantasy of working side by side with Neal is just that: a fantasy. This isn't permanent.
"All right," Adler agrees. "Tomorrow. I'll call you after lunch and we'll make the exchange."
Jones makes the keep it going gesture again. Neal tries. "What, you can't even buy me lunch?" Neal says.
"I'll bring a picnic."
The call ends.
"Location?" Peter snaps.
Jones shakes his head. "Sorry, boss. The cell was moving the whole time. He must've been in a car."
"Damn it."
Neal pushes the phone with his index finger. It skids a couple of inches. He looks exhausted and slightly sick, hunching over rather than sitting straight as he usually does. His eyes rise from the phone to meet Peter's gaze. They're as blue as crystal and Peter thinks how easy it is to shatter crystal. "I didn't know. How could I not know?"
"You really didn't see he had the hots for you?" Diana asks as she comes around and takes seat next to Neal.
Neal shakes his head twice. "I - I thought he wanted Kate."
"Does it make a difference now?" Jones asks.
"No," Hughes declares before Peter can say anything - and what he'd say wouldn't be that - and nods to Neal. "Mr. Caffrey will wait for the call tomorrow. We'll have him wired for sound and GPS. When he meets with Adler, we'll wait to move in if it looks like Adler may incriminate himself for Ms. Moreau or anyone else's murder." He raises his eyebrows at everyone. "Agreed?"
Everyone nods.
~*~
"Don't get shot," Peter orders Neal as Jones fits him with the ballistic vest he'll wear under his dress shirt. The wireless mic is in a pen he'll have in his suit pocket, with a second, backup mic threaded into Neal's actual suit vest. Diana's busy with it, slicing open a seam with a razor blade so she can insert the bug.
"I won't, so tell me again why I have to wear this?" Neal replies. He makes a face. "It wrecks the lines of this suit."
"Procedure," Peter snaps.
Jones pats Neals arm. "You're done, man. Get dressed."
"What, the blinding pallor of my upper body getting to you?" Neal jokes.
"Yeah, it just drives me wild."
"Diana, you'll protect my virtue, won't you?" Neal appeals to her.
"Of course," she replies, dead-pan.
Neal pulls on his shirt and begins buttoning it. Peter makes himself look away from his nimble fingers. Otherwise, he's going to embarrass himself, remembering what Neal can do with his hands and Peter's body. Neal frowns over the way the ballistic vest stretches the material.
"It wouldn't be a problem if your shirt wasn't so tight anyway," Peter comments. He spins his wedding ring on his finger, an old habit.
"It wouldn't be a problem if I wore suits that fit like a burlap bag, but I prefer something tailored that fits me."
"Are you two really arguing fashion?" Diana bursts out.
Neal glances up at her. "I think Peter's arguing against it, actually." He's been cool as ice all day, shrugging off any questions over how he's doing with a smile and a quip.
"We'll be in the surveillance van," Peter tells him.
Patiently, Neal replies, "I know. You've told me. Twelve times."
"I only counted eleven," Jones mutters.
"You were out of the room once," Diana fake whispers.
"All right, enough," Peter cuts them both off. "Try to remember, Neal's a civilian. I'm just trying to reassure him he'll have back-up."
"Peter, I'm not worried." Neal gives him a bright smile. His eyes are clear as water, framed in soot-dark lashes, and unreadable.
Peter shakes his head. "Yeah, that's what worries me."
~*~
It's always the docks or an empty warehouse. Never a nice restaurant, the park, or a good hotel room, Neal snarks to himself as he parks June's Jaguar and gets out, and why couldn't Adler be a little more original instead of taking his cue from the movies? He doesn't see the surveillance van. Either the Bureau has improved their ability to hide it or they're stuck in traffic somewhere behind on the route he took after Adler gave him the address of the meet.
He acknowledges that seeing what the Jaguar could do when pushed the gas pedal probably contributed to that.
A scan around him doesn't yield any sign of anyone else either, but the sky is cloudless blue and the water is a shifting blue mirror one shade darker. Even the urban decay holds a kind of beauty - if Neal painted it how he saw it. He mixes the paints in his mind, finding just the right sepia tinged gray for the cracked pavement, the right brush stroke to replicate the loose grit, the layer on layer of tire tracks laid down, the tarry shadows in the cracks, the way the sun still finds smooth surfaces to reflect from. He can't help it; he can't look at anything without framing it as a painting. No matter how ugly, he's always found a beauty in catching the reality of it, in sharing what he sees, the familiar made new with recognition.
The amber music box sits in the Jaguar's trunk. A tracker has been glued to it. Neal prefers not to contemplate the just in case that would result in the Bureau needing to follow it.
When Adler's arrested and tried, the music box will go back to Russia. He wishes he could keep it, except Denny and Joseph are right: it is ugly.
The air smells of dirty water and diesel, the skyscrapers shine silver, gold, and blue, angles against a few misty, unraveling clouds, and the sound of gulls drifts from the air, querulous and melancholy.
Hands in his pockets, Neal leans against the Jaguar's hood and lifts his face to the sun, eyes half closed against the glare, so he hears tires and the engine before he sees the sleek black limo come to a stop next to him. A tinted window slides down and Adler leans forward enough to be seen. A tingle starts at Neal's fingertips and rushes through him. Nerves. He feels so perfectly alive and in this moment that he finally understands Kate and why she couldn't give the con up. This feeling could be addictive. It could get in your blood.
A glance at his watch shows it's a quarter past one. Neal tips Byron's hat toward Adler. "Did you bring me something to eat?" He has to stay cool and, most of all, he has to act like he doesn't know the FBI is watching and listening. If they are. Neal doesn't dare look for them. Adler would see.
The driver steps out and opens the door for Adler, then retreats back behind the limo's wheel.
Adler exits the backseat holding two crystal flutes. "Champagne."
Neal takes one flute, lifts it, and toasts, "To Kate."
Adler laughs but lifts his flute too before drinking.
It's good champagne. No surprise. Adler always demanded the best. "Louis Roederer Cristal. You opened a bottle when you bought the Ellington," Neal says, nostalgic despite himself. "1989." It was expensive then. Now, a case must go for an obscene price. Adler showed him so much. Without the things Neal learned from Adler, Kate would never have looked twice at him.
"You remember."
Neal watches the bubbles rise through the delicately-shaded champagne, remembering that first taste of effervescent possibility, when it felt like Vincent Adler had plucked him from the muck of his life and given him wings. The trick, he thinks, is to never forget how bad the fall felt when Adler's wings proved as false as the man himself.
Adler looks at Neal's suit and the Jaguar and comments in amusement, "You've landed on your feet. I guess you learned something from Kate and me after all."
"An appreciation for good wine at least," Neal acknowledges.
"You've always been a natural."
He has to look away, out across the deceptively placid water, because it still feels good when Adler compliments him. Surely that's a worse betrayal of Kate than loving Peter. Thinking of Peter eases Neal's nerves, though. Peter's somewhere close, listening, and he'll swoop in and take Adler down as soon as Neal gets him to say enough. He just needs to tease an admission from Adler. Playing up the attraction he hadn't wanted to acknowledge back then will do it, even if it ends with Adler and him both saying things he'd rather no one ever heard.
"If I'd known you were an option... " Neal stops the words and shrugs. "I'm not sure. I probably would have run," he finishes ruefully. It's only the truth. The rest of the truth is that if Kate had asked him to go with her and Adler, he would have gone, instead of waking up to news reports of a joint FBI and SEC investigation of Adler's faltering empire, empty offices, an empty bed and an emptied bank account - Kate was nothing if not thorough - and his dream life disappearing like a puff of smoke.
Adler contemplates him thoughtfully.
Neal finishes his champagne and sets the flute on the roof of Adler's limo. "Let's get this over with. I want to see my paintings."
Adler gestures to the nearest warehouse. "They're here. Did you think I'd destroy them?"
It's easy to shrug and say, "You proved you can surprise me years ago."
He walks beside Adler to a surprisingly unpadlocked door and inside, blinking his eyes into adjustment once they step through the doorway. The warehouse is dim, but navigable, dirty windows high on the walls offering illumination. Once his eyes have adapted, a surge of anger burns through Neal. He bolts away from Adler to where his canvases are tossed carelessly on the dirty cement floor. Some are face down, others leaning against cracked wooden crates. He doesn't register Adler coming up behind him as he crouches and begins straightening and checking each one.
Neal's aware he's a little crazy in that moment, running his hands over his paintings the way a parent checks a wayward child, relieved and worried at the same time.
A hiss of fury escapes Neal when he spots a frame splintered and broken by careless handling. "You sonova - " He surges to his feet and spins, only to have Adler grab his shoulders and hold him. The crazy thing is that Adler's smiling. Not a mean smile, either, but one filled with something Neal thinks might be real fondness, real amusement. It stops whatever else Neal means to say.
So does the kiss, though it's only a closed mouth brush of Adler's warm lips over Neal's, lasting a mere second. The scent of Adler's cologne, unchanged after all the years, surrounds him. He doesn't have time to draw away or respond.
He blurts the first thing that crosses his mind once Adler lets him go. "Did you kiss Kate before you killed her?"
Adler laughs and chucks Neal beneath his chin. "A kiss goodbye, of course."
"Why?" Neal asks simply, then clarifies, "Why not kill me too?" Adler has to know he either has the music box in the Jaguar or can tell him where it is, but so far there hasn't been even the hint of a threat. Could it really be because Adler feels something toward him or just that Neal, unlike Kate, never stole from him? The situation confuses him; it isn't what he anticipated. He can't read Adler at all in the dim light of the warehouse interior.
"Kate was glass," Adler says. "Cut glass, crystal even, but you're the real thing."
"I can't even... "
"Show me the music box, Neal, and I'll show you the money."
Still disbelieving and eying Adler skeptically, Neal leads him back outside and pops open the Jag's trunk. He waits while Adler looks the box over, then asks, "It's the one Alex Hunter was after, isn't it?"
Adler looks up and over the lid of the trunk to Neal. "You know about that?" A darkness moves behind his eyes, suspicion like the shadow of a shark in the water.
Neal shrugs uneasily. "I knew Alex. She told a crazy story. I never believed it." He takes another breath and says, "You killed her too, didn't you? Why?"
"Curiosity, Neal, killed the cat," Adler warns him.
"Satisfaction brought it back?" Neal offers with a weak smile. He berates himself silently for nearly forgetting Vincent Adler killed Kate and Alex and had Garrett Fowler killed too, along with no doubt planning to kill Neal.
"Only in a fairytale."
"So tell me a story," Neal prompts him, leaning against the Jag's hood and wondering exactly when the FBI is going to move in. He supposes they're waiting for Adler to state his guilt rather than simply not deny it. He'll keep trying until they show. It's all he can do, after all.
Either that or they're waiting for Adler to kill him.
Try, Neal reminds himself, and swallows. Peter will stop him.
Wow, he really hopes Peter will stop him. He doesn't want to die to be with Kate now that he's let her go.
"I think you know the story, Neal," Adler says. He lifts the music box out of the trunk and carries it to the limo. The driver opens its trunk when Adler arrives at the rear of the limo. He sets it down and when he steps back he has a gun in his hand, aimed at Neal.
Neal would retreat, but he's already against the Jag.
"Really, Vincent, you're going to shoot me too?" he says with a bit of panic pitching his voice up. He raises his hands. "Why? What could I do to you?"
"I can't trust an enemy at my back, Neal," Adler tells him. "I do regret this. I like you and you're so talented - those paintings will be worth a fortune someday, as a matter of fact I believe I'll keep them, but you have to go."
Trying not to hyperventilate, because he dislikes guns anyway, but especially guns aimed at him, Neal licks his lips and says, "Well, at least you're pulling the trigger yourself. I hate the idea of getting killed by a lackey. It's so... tacky."
His inadvertent rhyme draws a chuckle from Adler. "I really do wish I'd got you in bed, Neal."
"I'd say you still could, but frankly the gun's a real turn off." The muzzle on the boxy gun is huge, Neal swears, and he can't take his eyes off it. "I don't really get turned on by danger."
"What about Kate?"
"Much," Neal amends.
"Like you said about poor Fowler and his wife," Adler says and he gestures with the gun for Neal to walk ahead of him and back into the warehouse, "you'll be with her soon."
Neal shakes his head at the thought. Just when he was accepting he could be with Peter instead. "Life is a bitch," he mutters. "He pulled the trigger on Kate, I hope he burns in hell, alone."
"And that, Neal, is why I can't leave you alive." They've stopped in the bare, open space at the center of the warehouse. "Fowler didn't shoot Kate. I did. Because you're right, she deserved more than a lackey." Adler stops and lets Neal process this. "I did use his gun, though. I thought it would be useful leverage if he ever turned on me. Unfortunately, it made him a liability instead."
There it is, an unmistakable confession of guilt. Neal presses on anyway, raising his voice with anger to hide any noise from the agents led by Peter who are infiltrating the warehouse behind Adler. "Did you kill Alex yourself too?"
"As a man should," Adler admits. He lifts the gun. "I'll make this quick."
Peter is directly behind Adler now, with a gun aimed at him.
"FBI! Put down your gun!" Peter yells.
Adler flinches and pulls the trigger.
~*~
Peter has never shot anyone in the back. It goes against his concept of right and wrong, even if he is acting as an officer of the law. The hesitation costs him everything. He orders Adler to put down his gun.
Instead, Adler shoots Neal.
Peter fires so closely after him the report of Adler's Beretta and his Bureau-issue Glock merge into one sound. Neal falls to the floor before the sharp echo bounces from the high ceiling. Peter's heart slams inside his chest, but he can't look at Neal yet. Training takes over and he moves to disarm Adler, who is writhing and screaming on the floor, blood pumping dark from his shoulder through his clutching fingers.
Peter pushes the Beretta out of Adler's reach with his shoe, keeping an eye on where it is pointed even now. Beretta's are well made, but there's no way to know if Adler's has been customized. Some guns have a hair trigger and even that much jostling could result in it firing.
"Diana!" he yells. He keeps his Glock trained on Adler. There's no guarantee the Beretta is Adler's only weapon. "Get a bus here! Someone secure the evidence and - "
"We're on it, boss," Diana tells him. "You should - "
"Someone check Caffrey," Peter grits out. He isn't ready to holster his weapon. He could pull the trigger again and finish Adler. Even staring down at the wounded criminal, Peter's still seeing Neal stagger back before his legs went out from under him. The images replay and overlay everything he's doing. He can only ignore it and the need to go to Neal by holding onto procedure.
Adler sears the air with a litany of vicious obscenities and threats. If he has energy enough to do that, Peter figures he'll live. Adler has no idea how lucky he is. Peter wanted - still does - to kill him. He shot to wound only so the bullet wouldn't exit Adler and go into Neal.
Neal's down anyway.
Peter sees the impact of Adler's bullet stagger Neal again. It's hard to breathe.
He has never wanted to kill anyone before.
He lets Diana take away his gun, per standard post-shooting protocol. His shoulders slump. The warehouse is a hive of noisy activity now.
"Someone remember to read him rights," Peter says. "I want two agents with him all the time. This guy's too slippery to take any chances."
"Gotcha," Diana replies.
He scrubs his hand over his face, finding wetness, but it's sweat and not tears. Those will have to wait. When he gets out of the way of the medics coming in, it's like a camera shot pulling back as Peter becomes aware of everything else going on.
"Hey, I feel like someone ran a car over my chest, but I'm fine," he hears.
Peter lets himself turn slowly and finds the speaker sitting on the edge of a crate. Neal is fruitlessly batting an EMT's hands away from his shirt buttons. He sounds a little breathless, but he's clearly not really hurt. Peter watches as Jones steps in and tells Neal to let the EMT do his job and Neal's stripped of his shirt along with his vest and coat before the ballistic vest is removed. He can make out the blackened hole where Adler's bullet penetrated the material of the vest and hit one of the armor plates inside.
Neal winces as Jones and the medic take the vest off and flinches harder when the man begins checking the impact point on his chest. He's already bruising and moving slowly.
Adler isn't a great shot. Maybe because he panicked. The bullet would have missed Neal's heart and torn through his lung. But without the vest, Adler's shot still could have killed Neal. Peter gags quietly and tastes bile at the back of his tongue. He wishes he'd killed Adler.
He's sweat-slick, sick, and cold with residual terror. His hands look steady, but it feels like everything inside him is shaking.
He thinks, I almost got Neal killed.
It's unacceptable. He can't function like this. El never made him afraid the way Neal did as he led Adler on.
Neal looks up from watching the medic checking him and meets Peter's gaze. A blinding smile lights his face.
"Peter!"
Peter turns away and walks out.
~*~
"So how is Neal?" El asks after Peter sits down opposite her. Their twice weekly lunches have become more a once or twice a month thing, but neither of them is willing to fall completely out of touch. There's still too much love between them for that. It's a different love than before and she's eager to hear how her favorite artist is now that Kate's killers are all behind bars. She wishes Peter had brought Neal with him today, so she could talk to him herself.
"Fine," Peter answers. Peter's never been a chatterbox, but that's laconic even for him. El narrows her eyes, but sets aside her worries in favor of scanning the menu their waiter hands her. They've dined at this restaurant before, so she gives her order then and there to save time; Peter follows suit. Peter's order is for the cheapest, blandest thing on the menu, of course. As always, his little foibles amuse her. It's the big things that drove her away. Wanting to save a little money or stick with the safe choices never bothered her.
Before.
"He must be relieved," she ventures.
"I'm sure."
Oh, Peter is definitely evading. El refuses to let him get away with it; not when it involves Neal too. She hasn't known Neal that long, but it isn't necessary. Peter has an amazing facility to hurt people who love him, despite being a good man.
"You don't know," she declares.
"I haven't seen him since the arrest. Diana and Jones are handling returning the paintings Adler had stolen." Peter picks up the chilled crystal goblet of water, sets it back down and wipes the moisture transfer from his fingertips onto his still folded linen napkin. The dampness turns the snowy fabric gray. El hasn't seen him so fidgety since the first time he had to cancel dinner plans to fly across the country. Come think of it, he'd been chasing Kate that time too.
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Don't play the idiot with me, Peter Burke. Why haven't you seen Neal?" El demands.
"I had to shoot a man."
Vincent Adler. So what? El wants to snap. As if anyone would be sorry if Adler had ended up dead.
"So they put you on the beach for couple of days," she snaps, using the Bureau's own slang for the time Peter, like any agent, has to take off after a shooting. "You couldn't see Neal then?"
"He's a material witness," Peter says, as stiff as if he were testifying in front of a shooting committee, " and it could have been interpreted as interfering."
"That is complete bull - " El only stops because the waiter is back with their meals. Airing dirty laundry for some twenty-something actor wannabe will not improve the situation. Instead, she tucks her temper away, thanks the waiter, and busies herself eating her food.
Peter does the same. He, no doubt, hopes this is the end of the conversation about Neal. He should know he is shit out of luck, El thinks, watching him while she eats. He's thinner and older looking than just two weeks ago. It seems impossible that their lives have changed so swiftly. Only a month ago, she only knew Neal Caffrey as a name in Kate Moreau's file and remarrying Peter seemed more and more likely. Now, she's pissed off not because Peter has a boyfriend, but because he seems determined to dump Neal.
Perhaps she needs to order a glass of wine.
Or a barrel.
She sips her water instead and tries to fathom the inner working's of Peter's mind. Nothing makes sense. It seems unlikely, but, "Did Neal do something - "
"No."
"Then why are you giving up?"
"It's better," Peter mutters. He has abandoned his meal, just stirring bits of it with his fork, occasionally making a tine screech over the fine china. "I still love you. I can't do that to him."
El can't stand it and slaps his hand. "Stop that. - You don't. You're using me as an excuse. Stop that too."
Peter doesn't even raise his eyes from the messy plate before him. "Can we just drop it?"
"No."
"Please."
"Neal's the best thing that ever happened to you," El snaps in frustration. "He can match you in every way you want and he's crazy about you. You're smart enough to know that, so why are you screwing this up?"
Peter folds his napkin and set it beside his plate of untouched food. "He's over a decade younger than me, he's still mourning Kate, and - "
"And you're so scared he'll hurt you that you'd rather hurt him," she states. Peter has never disappointed her so badly, not even when she divorced him, not even when he showed up weeks ago talking of nothing but Neal Caffrey. She shakes her head. "Neal's so used to being tossed aside when he's not convenient, he's just taking it."
"He'll get over it," Peter mutters, sullen the way he can only be when he knows he's in the wrong and refusing to admit it.
El smiles at him, sharp as a knife, the way she smiles at her suppliers right before she cuts them off at the knees if they've tried to gip Mitchell Premier Events. "You're right," she tells him. "He will. He won't forget being hurt, but some day he won't love you anymore." Time to twist the knife. "Someone else will love him - he's easy to love - and be with him. And, Peter?"
"El - "
"You'll be alone." She doesn't sugarcoat it, even as her heart breaks for him a little, even as she's formulating her own plans for Neal. If Peter won't take care of him, she will. Also, Neal will be a fantastic addition to the business, for as long as she can hold him. It won't be long. Very soon, Neal Caffrey's name will be known to everyone in the art world and he'll fly free of them all. But in the mean time, she thinks a visit to his loft studio is the next item on her agenda.
And then she's going to call Avery Lindquist and accept his invitation to dinner. She's not going to make Peter's mistakes.
"El."
"The saddest thing of all is that you'll deserve it."
~*~
Part 8
"Everyone ready for this?" Peter asks. Hughes occupies the head of the conference room table, excited enough by the possibility of bringing in Vincent Adler to involve himself directly in the case. Diana stands behind Neal's chair. She rolls her eyes at Peter, because he's as nervous as he's ever been about a case. Of course, he was never sleeping with someone involved before. He hopes to God neither Diana or Hughes - Peter cringes at just the thought - has a clue about that. Jones has his laptop set up and is ready to run the back trace on the call as soon as Neal makes it.
The damned music box - which turns out to be an ugly monstrosity for all its historical value - sits at the center of the conference table. The amber holds the morning light coming through the wall of windows and glows. Okay, Peter can admit, the amber itself is beautiful, it's just the design that he finds objectionable.
Neal himself glows a little - Catherine the Great would have gobbled him up as fast as Kate the Great - sitting with his cell phone in his hand, dressed in one of Byron Ellington's elegant suits. He chose a dark blue one today and a blinding white dress shirt with it.
"Yes, Peter, we're all ready," Neal says with just a touch of impatience. He's been edgy and snappish since he figured out Peter thought he'd gone to Adler to make a deal. Peter hasn't found an opportunity to apologize, though he knows that's more important than explaining why he thought it. Neal drums his fingers on the polished table top. They move hypnotically in and out of the splash of sunlight reflecting white off the surface.
Peter checks Jones. Jones nods, his hands poised over his keyboard.
"Let's do this."
Neal taps Adler's contact number, Jones types, then gives them a thumbs up. Neal switches the phone to speaker. The door to the conference room is shut and locked; everyone inside knows better than to make any giveaway noises.
"Neal." Through the phone's small speaker, Vincent Adler's voice is sharper than in reality, but recognizably the same as in various recordings the Bureau has gathered. Peter knows it. Even if he didn't, Neal certainly does. Adler sounds oily to Peter, something he never realized before.
"Vincent," Neal greets him, poised and unruffled. "How was Argentina?" His brows are drawn together just a little, telegraphing his tension while he keeps it out of his voice. His hands spread wide, flat on the table, tensed against it, pressing down.
"The beef and the polo are both superb."
"I can't imagine that being enough for a man like you. Where's the challenge?"
"You always were smart," Adler murmurs in approval.
Neal almost smiles, but then his expression turns brittle. "I didn't feel that way when you left with Kate."
"Sometimes a man miscalculates. Of course, I knew Kate's game from the beginning, but watching her try to have her cake and eat it too was just too delightful."
Neal's frown deepens. "What cake?"
Adler chuckles. "You, Neal. She wanted you and she wanted my money. So I made her choose."
Neal winces visibly. Peter doesn't blame him. It shouldn't come as any surprise that Adler has a cruel streak. He's a wrecker of lives, a destroyer, after all, a greedy bastard who makes Kate look like a saint. He keeps talking and Peter listens for any clue that may slip through the taunts. "I was disappointed when you fell for her, of course, because I had my own plans, but you both provided more than enough entertainment to make up for that."
Neal stiffens and Diana squeezes his shoulder. Jones' eyes are just a little wider than normal. He makes a curling motion though - keep going - to Neal. The trace is taking time. The phone number does them no good, it's undoubtedly a burner and will be tossed at the end of the call. They need to know where the phone is now, while Adler is using it.
"You - what plans?" Neal asks.
"Are you really still so naive?"
"I - "
"Come now, Neal. You flirted the first time we met, in that atrocious little gallery."
"I flirted with all the customers. It was part of the job." A thread of cynicism colors Neal's soft words. "It wasn't anything more than that."
"Too bad."
"I don't understand." Neal's confusion appears real. Adler's knocking him off track.
"I had a passport waiting for you," Adler explains. "I meant to take you with me, of course. Kate interfered. And without you, she became boring."
"Oh," Neal murmurs at last. "Me." He sounds friendlier, almost wistful, and there's no way to guess if he's acting or not. The shock on Neal's face makes Peter wonder if he would have gone with Adler. No matter what Neal says now, Peter knows Adler had a strong hold on him once.
"Delightful as this little stroll down history lane has been," Adler interrupts, "I believe you called to do some business with me."
"Do you still have my paintings?" Neal blurts, abandoning the loose script Peter and Hughes went over with him earlier - not that the conversation has held to it before, but Neal just gave away his weak point. Luckily, it isn't the case's weak point. "Did you destroy them? Because if you did, I'll - "
"Don't be ridiculous, Neal. Just name your price."
Neal rubs his hands over his face and says, "You can't give me Kate back."
Diana's hand is still locked tight on Neal's shoulder. Peter wishes he dared offer that much support, but he's not comfortable showing how close he is to Neal in front of Hughes. Not until the case is put away, along with Vincent Adler.
"No, but I can pay you very well to return the item she stole from me."
"As long it includes my paintings."
Adler laughs. Even from the phone's speakers, it makes Peter want to take a shower. After he locks Neal in a vault somewhere that Adler can never touch him.
"How much, Neal?"
Neal breathes in hard through his nose, almost loud enough for the phone to pick up. A tense muscle flexes in his cheek, under skin gone pale. Some people go red, flush with anger. Neal goes pale and drawn taut and quiet. It's much more frightening; it's the anger of a thinking man. Like Iago, such men are dangerous. He names the amount they scripted without letting his fury color his voice at all. Peter is impressed; plenty of agents lack as much control as Neal has.
It hits Peter again, what a shame it is Kate went bad. She would have made a fantastic agent, on par with Diana. And Neal, if art didn't have a lock on the biggest part of him, could have been the best in the Bureau. Of course, what ifs and could have beens are pointless. The fantasy of working side by side with Neal is just that: a fantasy. This isn't permanent.
"All right," Adler agrees. "Tomorrow. I'll call you after lunch and we'll make the exchange."
Jones makes the keep it going gesture again. Neal tries. "What, you can't even buy me lunch?" Neal says.
"I'll bring a picnic."
The call ends.
"Location?" Peter snaps.
Jones shakes his head. "Sorry, boss. The cell was moving the whole time. He must've been in a car."
"Damn it."
Neal pushes the phone with his index finger. It skids a couple of inches. He looks exhausted and slightly sick, hunching over rather than sitting straight as he usually does. His eyes rise from the phone to meet Peter's gaze. They're as blue as crystal and Peter thinks how easy it is to shatter crystal. "I didn't know. How could I not know?"
"You really didn't see he had the hots for you?" Diana asks as she comes around and takes seat next to Neal.
Neal shakes his head twice. "I - I thought he wanted Kate."
"Does it make a difference now?" Jones asks.
"No," Hughes declares before Peter can say anything - and what he'd say wouldn't be that - and nods to Neal. "Mr. Caffrey will wait for the call tomorrow. We'll have him wired for sound and GPS. When he meets with Adler, we'll wait to move in if it looks like Adler may incriminate himself for Ms. Moreau or anyone else's murder." He raises his eyebrows at everyone. "Agreed?"
Everyone nods.
~*~
"Don't get shot," Peter orders Neal as Jones fits him with the ballistic vest he'll wear under his dress shirt. The wireless mic is in a pen he'll have in his suit pocket, with a second, backup mic threaded into Neal's actual suit vest. Diana's busy with it, slicing open a seam with a razor blade so she can insert the bug.
"I won't, so tell me again why I have to wear this?" Neal replies. He makes a face. "It wrecks the lines of this suit."
"Procedure," Peter snaps.
Jones pats Neals arm. "You're done, man. Get dressed."
"What, the blinding pallor of my upper body getting to you?" Neal jokes.
"Yeah, it just drives me wild."
"Diana, you'll protect my virtue, won't you?" Neal appeals to her.
"Of course," she replies, dead-pan.
Neal pulls on his shirt and begins buttoning it. Peter makes himself look away from his nimble fingers. Otherwise, he's going to embarrass himself, remembering what Neal can do with his hands and Peter's body. Neal frowns over the way the ballistic vest stretches the material.
"It wouldn't be a problem if your shirt wasn't so tight anyway," Peter comments. He spins his wedding ring on his finger, an old habit.
"It wouldn't be a problem if I wore suits that fit like a burlap bag, but I prefer something tailored that fits me."
"Are you two really arguing fashion?" Diana bursts out.
Neal glances up at her. "I think Peter's arguing against it, actually." He's been cool as ice all day, shrugging off any questions over how he's doing with a smile and a quip.
"We'll be in the surveillance van," Peter tells him.
Patiently, Neal replies, "I know. You've told me. Twelve times."
"I only counted eleven," Jones mutters.
"You were out of the room once," Diana fake whispers.
"All right, enough," Peter cuts them both off. "Try to remember, Neal's a civilian. I'm just trying to reassure him he'll have back-up."
"Peter, I'm not worried." Neal gives him a bright smile. His eyes are clear as water, framed in soot-dark lashes, and unreadable.
Peter shakes his head. "Yeah, that's what worries me."
~*~
It's always the docks or an empty warehouse. Never a nice restaurant, the park, or a good hotel room, Neal snarks to himself as he parks June's Jaguar and gets out, and why couldn't Adler be a little more original instead of taking his cue from the movies? He doesn't see the surveillance van. Either the Bureau has improved their ability to hide it or they're stuck in traffic somewhere behind on the route he took after Adler gave him the address of the meet.
He acknowledges that seeing what the Jaguar could do when pushed the gas pedal probably contributed to that.
A scan around him doesn't yield any sign of anyone else either, but the sky is cloudless blue and the water is a shifting blue mirror one shade darker. Even the urban decay holds a kind of beauty - if Neal painted it how he saw it. He mixes the paints in his mind, finding just the right sepia tinged gray for the cracked pavement, the right brush stroke to replicate the loose grit, the layer on layer of tire tracks laid down, the tarry shadows in the cracks, the way the sun still finds smooth surfaces to reflect from. He can't help it; he can't look at anything without framing it as a painting. No matter how ugly, he's always found a beauty in catching the reality of it, in sharing what he sees, the familiar made new with recognition.
The amber music box sits in the Jaguar's trunk. A tracker has been glued to it. Neal prefers not to contemplate the just in case that would result in the Bureau needing to follow it.
When Adler's arrested and tried, the music box will go back to Russia. He wishes he could keep it, except Denny and Joseph are right: it is ugly.
The air smells of dirty water and diesel, the skyscrapers shine silver, gold, and blue, angles against a few misty, unraveling clouds, and the sound of gulls drifts from the air, querulous and melancholy.
Hands in his pockets, Neal leans against the Jaguar's hood and lifts his face to the sun, eyes half closed against the glare, so he hears tires and the engine before he sees the sleek black limo come to a stop next to him. A tinted window slides down and Adler leans forward enough to be seen. A tingle starts at Neal's fingertips and rushes through him. Nerves. He feels so perfectly alive and in this moment that he finally understands Kate and why she couldn't give the con up. This feeling could be addictive. It could get in your blood.
A glance at his watch shows it's a quarter past one. Neal tips Byron's hat toward Adler. "Did you bring me something to eat?" He has to stay cool and, most of all, he has to act like he doesn't know the FBI is watching and listening. If they are. Neal doesn't dare look for them. Adler would see.
The driver steps out and opens the door for Adler, then retreats back behind the limo's wheel.
Adler exits the backseat holding two crystal flutes. "Champagne."
Neal takes one flute, lifts it, and toasts, "To Kate."
Adler laughs but lifts his flute too before drinking.
It's good champagne. No surprise. Adler always demanded the best. "Louis Roederer Cristal. You opened a bottle when you bought the Ellington," Neal says, nostalgic despite himself. "1989." It was expensive then. Now, a case must go for an obscene price. Adler showed him so much. Without the things Neal learned from Adler, Kate would never have looked twice at him.
"You remember."
Neal watches the bubbles rise through the delicately-shaded champagne, remembering that first taste of effervescent possibility, when it felt like Vincent Adler had plucked him from the muck of his life and given him wings. The trick, he thinks, is to never forget how bad the fall felt when Adler's wings proved as false as the man himself.
Adler looks at Neal's suit and the Jaguar and comments in amusement, "You've landed on your feet. I guess you learned something from Kate and me after all."
"An appreciation for good wine at least," Neal acknowledges.
"You've always been a natural."
He has to look away, out across the deceptively placid water, because it still feels good when Adler compliments him. Surely that's a worse betrayal of Kate than loving Peter. Thinking of Peter eases Neal's nerves, though. Peter's somewhere close, listening, and he'll swoop in and take Adler down as soon as Neal gets him to say enough. He just needs to tease an admission from Adler. Playing up the attraction he hadn't wanted to acknowledge back then will do it, even if it ends with Adler and him both saying things he'd rather no one ever heard.
"If I'd known you were an option... " Neal stops the words and shrugs. "I'm not sure. I probably would have run," he finishes ruefully. It's only the truth. The rest of the truth is that if Kate had asked him to go with her and Adler, he would have gone, instead of waking up to news reports of a joint FBI and SEC investigation of Adler's faltering empire, empty offices, an empty bed and an emptied bank account - Kate was nothing if not thorough - and his dream life disappearing like a puff of smoke.
Adler contemplates him thoughtfully.
Neal finishes his champagne and sets the flute on the roof of Adler's limo. "Let's get this over with. I want to see my paintings."
Adler gestures to the nearest warehouse. "They're here. Did you think I'd destroy them?"
It's easy to shrug and say, "You proved you can surprise me years ago."
He walks beside Adler to a surprisingly unpadlocked door and inside, blinking his eyes into adjustment once they step through the doorway. The warehouse is dim, but navigable, dirty windows high on the walls offering illumination. Once his eyes have adapted, a surge of anger burns through Neal. He bolts away from Adler to where his canvases are tossed carelessly on the dirty cement floor. Some are face down, others leaning against cracked wooden crates. He doesn't register Adler coming up behind him as he crouches and begins straightening and checking each one.
Neal's aware he's a little crazy in that moment, running his hands over his paintings the way a parent checks a wayward child, relieved and worried at the same time.
A hiss of fury escapes Neal when he spots a frame splintered and broken by careless handling. "You sonova - " He surges to his feet and spins, only to have Adler grab his shoulders and hold him. The crazy thing is that Adler's smiling. Not a mean smile, either, but one filled with something Neal thinks might be real fondness, real amusement. It stops whatever else Neal means to say.
So does the kiss, though it's only a closed mouth brush of Adler's warm lips over Neal's, lasting a mere second. The scent of Adler's cologne, unchanged after all the years, surrounds him. He doesn't have time to draw away or respond.
He blurts the first thing that crosses his mind once Adler lets him go. "Did you kiss Kate before you killed her?"
Adler laughs and chucks Neal beneath his chin. "A kiss goodbye, of course."
"Why?" Neal asks simply, then clarifies, "Why not kill me too?" Adler has to know he either has the music box in the Jaguar or can tell him where it is, but so far there hasn't been even the hint of a threat. Could it really be because Adler feels something toward him or just that Neal, unlike Kate, never stole from him? The situation confuses him; it isn't what he anticipated. He can't read Adler at all in the dim light of the warehouse interior.
"Kate was glass," Adler says. "Cut glass, crystal even, but you're the real thing."
"I can't even... "
"Show me the music box, Neal, and I'll show you the money."
Still disbelieving and eying Adler skeptically, Neal leads him back outside and pops open the Jag's trunk. He waits while Adler looks the box over, then asks, "It's the one Alex Hunter was after, isn't it?"
Adler looks up and over the lid of the trunk to Neal. "You know about that?" A darkness moves behind his eyes, suspicion like the shadow of a shark in the water.
Neal shrugs uneasily. "I knew Alex. She told a crazy story. I never believed it." He takes another breath and says, "You killed her too, didn't you? Why?"
"Curiosity, Neal, killed the cat," Adler warns him.
"Satisfaction brought it back?" Neal offers with a weak smile. He berates himself silently for nearly forgetting Vincent Adler killed Kate and Alex and had Garrett Fowler killed too, along with no doubt planning to kill Neal.
"Only in a fairytale."
"So tell me a story," Neal prompts him, leaning against the Jag's hood and wondering exactly when the FBI is going to move in. He supposes they're waiting for Adler to state his guilt rather than simply not deny it. He'll keep trying until they show. It's all he can do, after all.
Either that or they're waiting for Adler to kill him.
Try, Neal reminds himself, and swallows. Peter will stop him.
Wow, he really hopes Peter will stop him. He doesn't want to die to be with Kate now that he's let her go.
"I think you know the story, Neal," Adler says. He lifts the music box out of the trunk and carries it to the limo. The driver opens its trunk when Adler arrives at the rear of the limo. He sets it down and when he steps back he has a gun in his hand, aimed at Neal.
Neal would retreat, but he's already against the Jag.
"Really, Vincent, you're going to shoot me too?" he says with a bit of panic pitching his voice up. He raises his hands. "Why? What could I do to you?"
"I can't trust an enemy at my back, Neal," Adler tells him. "I do regret this. I like you and you're so talented - those paintings will be worth a fortune someday, as a matter of fact I believe I'll keep them, but you have to go."
Trying not to hyperventilate, because he dislikes guns anyway, but especially guns aimed at him, Neal licks his lips and says, "Well, at least you're pulling the trigger yourself. I hate the idea of getting killed by a lackey. It's so... tacky."
His inadvertent rhyme draws a chuckle from Adler. "I really do wish I'd got you in bed, Neal."
"I'd say you still could, but frankly the gun's a real turn off." The muzzle on the boxy gun is huge, Neal swears, and he can't take his eyes off it. "I don't really get turned on by danger."
"What about Kate?"
"Much," Neal amends.
"Like you said about poor Fowler and his wife," Adler says and he gestures with the gun for Neal to walk ahead of him and back into the warehouse, "you'll be with her soon."
Neal shakes his head at the thought. Just when he was accepting he could be with Peter instead. "Life is a bitch," he mutters. "He pulled the trigger on Kate, I hope he burns in hell, alone."
"And that, Neal, is why I can't leave you alive." They've stopped in the bare, open space at the center of the warehouse. "Fowler didn't shoot Kate. I did. Because you're right, she deserved more than a lackey." Adler stops and lets Neal process this. "I did use his gun, though. I thought it would be useful leverage if he ever turned on me. Unfortunately, it made him a liability instead."
There it is, an unmistakable confession of guilt. Neal presses on anyway, raising his voice with anger to hide any noise from the agents led by Peter who are infiltrating the warehouse behind Adler. "Did you kill Alex yourself too?"
"As a man should," Adler admits. He lifts the gun. "I'll make this quick."
Peter is directly behind Adler now, with a gun aimed at him.
"FBI! Put down your gun!" Peter yells.
Adler flinches and pulls the trigger.
~*~
Peter has never shot anyone in the back. It goes against his concept of right and wrong, even if he is acting as an officer of the law. The hesitation costs him everything. He orders Adler to put down his gun.
Instead, Adler shoots Neal.
Peter fires so closely after him the report of Adler's Beretta and his Bureau-issue Glock merge into one sound. Neal falls to the floor before the sharp echo bounces from the high ceiling. Peter's heart slams inside his chest, but he can't look at Neal yet. Training takes over and he moves to disarm Adler, who is writhing and screaming on the floor, blood pumping dark from his shoulder through his clutching fingers.
Peter pushes the Beretta out of Adler's reach with his shoe, keeping an eye on where it is pointed even now. Beretta's are well made, but there's no way to know if Adler's has been customized. Some guns have a hair trigger and even that much jostling could result in it firing.
"Diana!" he yells. He keeps his Glock trained on Adler. There's no guarantee the Beretta is Adler's only weapon. "Get a bus here! Someone secure the evidence and - "
"We're on it, boss," Diana tells him. "You should - "
"Someone check Caffrey," Peter grits out. He isn't ready to holster his weapon. He could pull the trigger again and finish Adler. Even staring down at the wounded criminal, Peter's still seeing Neal stagger back before his legs went out from under him. The images replay and overlay everything he's doing. He can only ignore it and the need to go to Neal by holding onto procedure.
Adler sears the air with a litany of vicious obscenities and threats. If he has energy enough to do that, Peter figures he'll live. Adler has no idea how lucky he is. Peter wanted - still does - to kill him. He shot to wound only so the bullet wouldn't exit Adler and go into Neal.
Neal's down anyway.
Peter sees the impact of Adler's bullet stagger Neal again. It's hard to breathe.
He has never wanted to kill anyone before.
He lets Diana take away his gun, per standard post-shooting protocol. His shoulders slump. The warehouse is a hive of noisy activity now.
"Someone remember to read him rights," Peter says. "I want two agents with him all the time. This guy's too slippery to take any chances."
"Gotcha," Diana replies.
He scrubs his hand over his face, finding wetness, but it's sweat and not tears. Those will have to wait. When he gets out of the way of the medics coming in, it's like a camera shot pulling back as Peter becomes aware of everything else going on.
"Hey, I feel like someone ran a car over my chest, but I'm fine," he hears.
Peter lets himself turn slowly and finds the speaker sitting on the edge of a crate. Neal is fruitlessly batting an EMT's hands away from his shirt buttons. He sounds a little breathless, but he's clearly not really hurt. Peter watches as Jones steps in and tells Neal to let the EMT do his job and Neal's stripped of his shirt along with his vest and coat before the ballistic vest is removed. He can make out the blackened hole where Adler's bullet penetrated the material of the vest and hit one of the armor plates inside.
Neal winces as Jones and the medic take the vest off and flinches harder when the man begins checking the impact point on his chest. He's already bruising and moving slowly.
Adler isn't a great shot. Maybe because he panicked. The bullet would have missed Neal's heart and torn through his lung. But without the vest, Adler's shot still could have killed Neal. Peter gags quietly and tastes bile at the back of his tongue. He wishes he'd killed Adler.
He's sweat-slick, sick, and cold with residual terror. His hands look steady, but it feels like everything inside him is shaking.
He thinks, I almost got Neal killed.
It's unacceptable. He can't function like this. El never made him afraid the way Neal did as he led Adler on.
Neal looks up from watching the medic checking him and meets Peter's gaze. A blinding smile lights his face.
"Peter!"
Peter turns away and walks out.
~*~
"So how is Neal?" El asks after Peter sits down opposite her. Their twice weekly lunches have become more a once or twice a month thing, but neither of them is willing to fall completely out of touch. There's still too much love between them for that. It's a different love than before and she's eager to hear how her favorite artist is now that Kate's killers are all behind bars. She wishes Peter had brought Neal with him today, so she could talk to him herself.
"Fine," Peter answers. Peter's never been a chatterbox, but that's laconic even for him. El narrows her eyes, but sets aside her worries in favor of scanning the menu their waiter hands her. They've dined at this restaurant before, so she gives her order then and there to save time; Peter follows suit. Peter's order is for the cheapest, blandest thing on the menu, of course. As always, his little foibles amuse her. It's the big things that drove her away. Wanting to save a little money or stick with the safe choices never bothered her.
Before.
"He must be relieved," she ventures.
"I'm sure."
Oh, Peter is definitely evading. El refuses to let him get away with it; not when it involves Neal too. She hasn't known Neal that long, but it isn't necessary. Peter has an amazing facility to hurt people who love him, despite being a good man.
"You don't know," she declares.
"I haven't seen him since the arrest. Diana and Jones are handling returning the paintings Adler had stolen." Peter picks up the chilled crystal goblet of water, sets it back down and wipes the moisture transfer from his fingertips onto his still folded linen napkin. The dampness turns the snowy fabric gray. El hasn't seen him so fidgety since the first time he had to cancel dinner plans to fly across the country. Come think of it, he'd been chasing Kate that time too.
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Don't play the idiot with me, Peter Burke. Why haven't you seen Neal?" El demands.
"I had to shoot a man."
Vincent Adler. So what? El wants to snap. As if anyone would be sorry if Adler had ended up dead.
"So they put you on the beach for couple of days," she snaps, using the Bureau's own slang for the time Peter, like any agent, has to take off after a shooting. "You couldn't see Neal then?"
"He's a material witness," Peter says, as stiff as if he were testifying in front of a shooting committee, " and it could have been interpreted as interfering."
"That is complete bull - " El only stops because the waiter is back with their meals. Airing dirty laundry for some twenty-something actor wannabe will not improve the situation. Instead, she tucks her temper away, thanks the waiter, and busies herself eating her food.
Peter does the same. He, no doubt, hopes this is the end of the conversation about Neal. He should know he is shit out of luck, El thinks, watching him while she eats. He's thinner and older looking than just two weeks ago. It seems impossible that their lives have changed so swiftly. Only a month ago, she only knew Neal Caffrey as a name in Kate Moreau's file and remarrying Peter seemed more and more likely. Now, she's pissed off not because Peter has a boyfriend, but because he seems determined to dump Neal.
Perhaps she needs to order a glass of wine.
Or a barrel.
She sips her water instead and tries to fathom the inner working's of Peter's mind. Nothing makes sense. It seems unlikely, but, "Did Neal do something - "
"No."
"Then why are you giving up?"
"It's better," Peter mutters. He has abandoned his meal, just stirring bits of it with his fork, occasionally making a tine screech over the fine china. "I still love you. I can't do that to him."
El can't stand it and slaps his hand. "Stop that. - You don't. You're using me as an excuse. Stop that too."
Peter doesn't even raise his eyes from the messy plate before him. "Can we just drop it?"
"No."
"Please."
"Neal's the best thing that ever happened to you," El snaps in frustration. "He can match you in every way you want and he's crazy about you. You're smart enough to know that, so why are you screwing this up?"
Peter folds his napkin and set it beside his plate of untouched food. "He's over a decade younger than me, he's still mourning Kate, and - "
"And you're so scared he'll hurt you that you'd rather hurt him," she states. Peter has never disappointed her so badly, not even when she divorced him, not even when he showed up weeks ago talking of nothing but Neal Caffrey. She shakes her head. "Neal's so used to being tossed aside when he's not convenient, he's just taking it."
"He'll get over it," Peter mutters, sullen the way he can only be when he knows he's in the wrong and refusing to admit it.
El smiles at him, sharp as a knife, the way she smiles at her suppliers right before she cuts them off at the knees if they've tried to gip Mitchell Premier Events. "You're right," she tells him. "He will. He won't forget being hurt, but some day he won't love you anymore." Time to twist the knife. "Someone else will love him - he's easy to love - and be with him. And, Peter?"
"El - "
"You'll be alone." She doesn't sugarcoat it, even as her heart breaks for him a little, even as she's formulating her own plans for Neal. If Peter won't take care of him, she will. Also, Neal will be a fantastic addition to the business, for as long as she can hold him. It won't be long. Very soon, Neal Caffrey's name will be known to everyone in the art world and he'll fly free of them all. But in the mean time, she thinks a visit to his loft studio is the next item on her agenda.
And then she's going to call Avery Lindquist and accept his invitation to dinner. She's not going to make Peter's mistakes.
"El."
"The saddest thing of all is that you'll deserve it."
~*~
Part 8