White Collar; Fic; Stupid Is As Stupid Does, R to NC-17
Title: Stupid Is As Stupid Does (Or, The Rules and How to Break Them)
Rating: R to NC-17
Pairings: Neal/Kate, Neal/Peter (kind of)
Spoilers: Nope.
Warnings: Also nope.
Author's Note: Part of the Captain America 'verse, but can definitely be read alone. Also, photoash, this is your fic as much as mine. Thanks for the encouragement :D
Summary: A con's only as stupid as the reason you're running it.
Ridiculous as it is, Neal Caffrey has gotten as far as he's gotten in the criminal world by following the rules.
It's not--the rules and the law are different. It's a mistake people make, equating them, a mistake Neal finds tiresome and exhausting to have to correct. It's why he's worked more or less alone for most of his career--Mozzie gets it. Kate tries to get it. That's all he needs.
Because...if the world were different, if Neal could hang up his aliases and teach conning at The School of Hard Knocks, he knows what his first lesson would be. The first rule of the con is knowing what you want, and not letting go of that; the first rule of the con is not to get distracted.
Neal has always been good at it. He's always been able to know exactly what he's looking for. In a forgery, he can close his eyes and see the painting he's copying, picture-perfect; in a setup he can see the expression on the mark's face, clear as day, when he feeds them the next line. Even in bed, he can close his eyes and just see Kate, uncluttered by the pornographic trash that most men succumb to. It is this skill, this focus, that has made him excellent at everything he does. It is this skill that has made him great.
Which is why he knows, at 11:30 on Saturday night, breathing heavily with the thrill and terror of it, that he is completely fucked. Because tonight, Neal closes his eyes to better see his escape route, to better visualize these last few steps, and sees only the piercing gaze of Agent Peter Burke.
Monday: Initialization
"It's a stupid job," Mozzie says, looking over Neal's notes with skepticism. Kate nods, absently, without looking up from her book, and Neal scowls at both of them.
"You know," he drawls, "it's no use being a criminal if you don't, occasionally, commit crimes."
Mozz peers at Neal over the top of his glasses; Neal, knowing perfectly well that he's blind as a bat without them, waves his hands around. As expected, Mozz makes a face and pushes them back up--he hates the blurs.
"Being a criminal," he says, and then he pauses and amends "being a successful criminal depends on knowing there's no use in trying for things you know you can't do."
Neal smiles. It's his best smile, the one he uses to charm his way into whatever he wants. It has never worked on Mozzie--there are other, stranger ways to charm Mozzie, usually involving the threat of blackmail and/or denying him dinner--but it never hurts to try.
"I'm Neal Caffrey," he says, "I can do anything."
From the couch, Kate scoffs and turns a page. Neal shoots her a truly dirty look then; they're fighting this week, and he loves her, but these moods grate on him. He can't make her understand that it's harder, now, than when he was 25 and high on success--he can't make her see past the sharp tangy taste of adrenaline surging through their veins, falling to the floor and tearing at each other. She is at her best, always, after a big con, and at her worst when they've been lying low. Neal tells himself that this is the only reason he wants to bother with this job, and discovers he's not as good a liar as his career would suggest.
"I thought you'd be interested in this," he tells her, wheedling. "Put a little thrill back in your life." It's a barb and he means it as one--the previous night she'd stormed around the apartment, snapping that he'd gotten boring, gotten safe. She looks up from her book then, meets his eyes with fire in hers, and for second Neal thinks about kicking Mozzie out and taking her on the coffee table for old times' sake. Then she feigns a yawn, and the moment is gone.
"Don't I look thrilled?" she asks him, and glances back down.
Neal resists the urge to throttle her, but it's a close thing. "Look," he starts, "if you guys are going to be total buzzkills--" and then Mozz gives a little gasp of understanding.
"This is about your suit, isn't it?"
Neal stares at him. "The suit I'm wearing?" he inquires, honestly curious. "I don't see how it's going to help me break into the Met, but if you've got an idea..."
"No," Mozzie snaps, and he looks angry now. "Your Suit. Your pet Fed, Neal."
He feels the blush start at his neck and actively forces it back. "I don't know what you're talking about." To his horror, Kate's looking up again, intrigue in her eyes now.
"Your pet Fed?" she asks, and Neal groans.
"He's not my pet anything," he snaps, "he's just--he's just the agent assigned to my case. I've told you about him. He's, uh, been a little more persistent than I expected."
She raises both eyebrows, puts down her book, and narrows her eyes. "Should I be jealous here, Neal?" she asks him, and Neal snaps "No" and the same time Mozz says "Yes."
Neal shoots Mozzie a glare as the corners of Kate's mouth turn up. Mozz makes a face that seems to suggest his own innocence, and when Neal continues to glare, he throws up his hands in despair. "Come on," Mozz says, "don't look at me like that. You've even got a little nickname for him."
"A nickname?" Kate repeats, looking like she's trying hard not to laugh.
"It's not a nickname!" Neal snaps. "It's--I didn't know his name the first time I met him, and it annoys him--look. This isn't about him. This is about eight million dollars."
Mozzie opens his mouth to protest, and then his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and he whistles. "Eight million dollars," Neal repeats, watching him.
Mozz opens his mouth, shuts it again, and then he sighs. "Oh, fine. But I hope my objections are noted."
Neal lets out a whoop of joy and turns to Kate. He grabs her hand and pulls her into a spin, dipping her low to the ground with one arm. "Come on," he whispers, "you know you want to," and she smiles up and him with the light of a challenge in her eyes.
"I want you," she murmurs, suddenly sharp and sweet and exactly the way he likes her. Neal would worry about that, except that there's no point--she's always been the kind of girl you'd call enigmatic, hard to follow, and he's always been the kind of guy who needs a little intrigue in his life.
Plus, he's got enough to worry about. He can protest all day, but he knows, deep in his soul, that Mozzie is absolutely right.
Tuesday: Entrapment
The first steps of a con are always Neal's favorite part. To steal anything successfully, you have to make the mark trust you, and to make the mark trust you, you have to insinuate yourself. Neal is good at that. Neal is good at people.
He's been waiting around for fifteen minutes when he catches the telltale glimpse of yellow from the corner of his eye--Kate's rooftop signal. Grinning, he pulls himself away from the wall, rounds the corner and maneuvers himself carefully; the mark crashes into him and he stumbles, lets himself fall.
"Oh!" the woman cries. She's older, grey-haired, and impeccably dressed. "I'm so sorry, I can't believe I--"
"No, no, it's fine," Neal says, pushing himself back up, "my fault more than anything--"
"Really," she says, sounding horrified, "really, let me help you--"
And then Mozzie, right on cue, runs by and snatches her purse.
The woman makes a sharp, shocked noise at the same time Neal yells "Come back here, you thief!"; he launches himself up and runs after Mozzie, tackling him a few yards away.
"Oooof," Mozzie groans, and half-heartedly fakes a struggle. "Hit me a little harder, why don't you."
"Sorry," Neal says, grinning. Mozzie rolls his eyes under his black facemask; Neal made him wear contacts for this job. Neal asks rather a lot of Mozz, some days.
"No, you're not," Mozz says. Neal shrugs and they tussle a moment more; then Mozzie rears back and punches him right in the eye.
"Jesus fuck, man," he hisses.
"That's what you get for hitting me that hard. Think twice, next time, won't you?" Neal makes a show of reeling back, clutching his face, and Mozzie runs off.
Neal leans back against a parking meter and waits. Five...four....three...
"Oh my god," the woman wails, a clatter of heels and concern. "Are you alright? Did that--that thug hurt you?"
Neal has to bite back a peal of genuine laughter at the description of Mozz as a thug. He gives her his best brave smile instead, knowing that his eye is already blacking--he'll have to thank Mozzie for his extra force later. "I'm fine," he says, "I just wish I'd gotten the little bastard."
"Oh, you poor dear--" the woman starts, and then Neal winces and stands.
"I did, at least, get you bag back, ma'am," he offers. He holds it out to her and she stares at it, astonished, for a minute; the she starts to laugh, a pleased, warm sound. She takes the bag from him and smiles simperingly up at him, like he is her hero, and this is how Neal knows he's won.
"Young man," she says, "I can't--I can't tell you how much I appreciate this. Really, you must at least let me take you for coffee or, or get some ice for that eye."
"Oh, ma'am, there's no need, I really couldn't--" and then he pauses and makes a great show of looking her over. "My god," he says, faking a startled little laugh, "you're Eloise Feingold, aren't you? The curator of Arms and Armor at the Met?"
She laughs again, looking startled. "Why, yes, I--"
"I saw your talk in Rhode Island last year," Neal breathes, taking care to sound awed. "On Japanese war weaponry? You were brilliant. I make all my students read your book, I've read everything you've ever written." He stares at her worshipfully for a moment, and then shakes his head as if to clear it and laughs. "Look at me, gushing like an idiot." He holds out a hand. "Tom Sullow."
She takes his hand, looking charmed. "Well, Mr. Sullow--"
"Tom," Neal interrupts. "Please, call me Tom."
To his glee, she flushes a little. "Tom, then. It's been a pleasure to meet such a gentleman." She bites her lip and then says, quickly, like she's nervous, "I would love to thank you properly. I'll--you're an art enthusiast?"
Neal nods quickly. "I'm a professor at RISD," he says, and then gives a little self-depricating laugh. "Associate professor, I should say."
She smiles at him. "Well, Mr. Su--Tom, we're unveiling a new piece next week. It's going to be a bit of an event, invitation only, but I'd love it if you could come. Will you still be in town?"
"Are you--could I really come?" he asks, breathlessly. She laughs and nods.
"Give me your card," she says, and Neal does, victory singing through his veins.
Wednesday: Reconnaissance
The second rule of the con: do your research. Neal, who has always loved to learn in his own way, is forever making Mozzie do this with him; Kate is too distracting and too distracted. She lacks Mozz's singleminded attention when confronted with beautiful things--she wants them all at once, and he wants them all in pieces.
Neal wants both. It's probably why they make such an excellent team.
"This is an exquisite example of 14th century work," Mozzie says loudly, peering at a Turkish short sword over his glasses, and he makes a note. Neal bites back a groan--the problem with Mozz is that he lacks the knowledge of when and how to apply personality. It's why he only ever ran small cons, before Neal; his technical skills are incomparable, and his interpersonal skills leave something to be desired. Neal can only be thankful that they are in the art world, where eccentricity is encouraged, a selling point.
Neal nods, absently, and peers at Mozz's notebook over his shoulder. As expected, he's not jotting notes about the artwork so much as the room, charting doors, vents and potential alarm triggers. He pats Mozz on the shoulder, and then, right on schedule, he hears "Tom?"
Neal turns smoothly. "Mrs. Feingold!" he says, feigning surprise, acting as though he isn't aware that she does a walkthrough of her wing every day at precisely 3:15. He touches the back of his neck and twists his face into a discomfited expression. "I didn't...well, I wanted to be sure I was well-versed in the the exhibit before the gala on Saturday. I'm, ah, a little embarrassed to be caught."
She titters out a little laugh. "It's Ms. Feingold," she murmurs, "and it's Eloise."
Neal thinks about the curve of Kate's neck, the warm, wet place he's gotten to know between her legs, until his cheeks are pink. He smiles, a shy, affected thing, and she laps it up, beaming at him.
Then Mozz coughs.
"Oh!" she says; she glances at him as though she hadn't noticed he was there. Neal finds this hilarious; Mozz clearly does not. "I--Tom, who's your friend?"
"Milton Grierson," Mozzie says stiffly. He is still talking too loud, practically shouting; Neal can work with that. "I don't know who you are." He blinks owlishly up at her, and doesn't smile. Neal bites the inside of his cheek, hard, to keep himself from laughing outright. That, of course, is the benefit of Mozz: when he's good at something, he's really good at it.
"Oh," Ms. Feingold says again. She looks uncomfortable, and Neal swiftly, smoothly, puts a hand on her shoulder and turns her away.
"A colleague of mine," he murmurs, a little too close. "Brilliant, of course, very brilliant, but--" He sighs heavily, and her gaze flickers back to Mozz almost unconsciously, and Neal nods sadly. "Fell out of a third story window two summers ago," he whispers. "Been like this ever since."
Ms. Feingold puts a hand to her mouth. "Oh, my," she says; softly, pityingly. They both turn to glance at Mozzie, who has turned his back to them and is staring into the case.
"This is ABSOLUTELY STUNNING," and Mozzie really is yelling now, oh, he is invaluable.
Neal leans close to Eloise Feingold again. "It really is a shame, you know," he tells her. "Had a fabulous career in front of him too. Was just finishing a second dissertation, focusing on the Crimean War."
Feingold pursed her lips. Then her eyes lit up. "Tom," she said, brightly, "did you know? We've got the Colt Third Model Dragoon revolver; just bought it a month ago, it isn't even on display yet."
Neal, who knows perfectly well where the revolver is, wrinkles his forehead. "I'm sorry, the Colt--?"
"The--oh, I'm sure Mr. Grierson will know it."
Mozzie, as if summoned, turns. His voice is flat and emotionless as he rattles off "The Colt Third Model Dragoon. Made by Samuel Colt and Gustave Young as part of a pair. Separated from its partner in 1854, during the Crimean War." He allows a hint of wistfulness wash over his face, and Neal wants to buy him a house for the sheer skill of his delivery. "Supposed to be gorgeous."
Ms. Feingold glances from Mozz to Neal and then back to Mozz. "Welllll," she hazards, offering them a slight smile, "I am the curator. Would you like to see it?"
Mozzie blinks once. Then he lets his eyes light up, lets a pathetically excited expression bloom into fruition under his glasses. Ms. Feingold laughs, grabs his arm, and leads him away.
"Aren't you coming, Tom?" she calls over her shoulder. Neal shakes his head and smiles.
"More a sword guy, myself," he says, and she titters nervously. "I'll be right out here." He waves them off.
Half an hour later, he and Mozzie are on the street. "It's a beauty, alright," Mozzie says. "You're sure the buyer's not going to make you go to Russia for the other one?"
Neal laughs. "I told him Russia's out of the question."
"Because I don't do Russia," Mozz continues. "I'll go as far as Poland, but after that--" he shudders. "Big brother's even bigger over there."
"No Russia," Neal promises. "You get pictures?"
Mozzie gives him a withering look. "Did I get pictures, he asks. You'd think we'd never done this before." He pulled out his phone and tosses it to Neal, who flips through the photos and whistles.
"Nice," he says. It's every door in the whole room, unless he's much mistaken. "Leave anything out?"
It's a ridiculous question; the best thing about Mozz is his absolute commitment to a job thoroughly done.
Thursday: Preparation
"Again," Kate says, pointing. Neal closes his eyes and sees it: the schematics they've sketched expertly across three massive sheets of butcher paper, the grainy photos from Mozzie's cell camera.
"Vent on the ceiling of the far right wall," he says, keeping his eyes shut. "Door to the right leads to the Egyptian Wing; door directly in front leads to the lobby, so only if I'm desperate. Door directly behind me leads to a hallway; left fork takes me back to the gallery, right fork--preferable--takes me through the security office."
"And?" Kate prompts. Neal furrows his brow and doesn't open his eyes.
"Three revolving cameras in that hallway. Two of them fake, one of them real; the first one on the left wall and the only one on the right are the fakes, so in case Mozzie hasn't hacked the feed, my blindspots are--" He steps forward, doing a complicated dance across the hardwood floor. "Here, here and here."
"And?"
"Janitorial closet on the left, if I need it. Security office has at least one outward door, which will put me on the left side of the building, if I decide to go that way." He pauses, and waits for her next prompt. When it doesn't come, he opens his eyes tentatively, and she smiles at him.
The third rule of the con: never plan. Planning leads to reliance on a plan, which leads to inability to innovate, which leads to capture; it has jailed greater criminals than Neal and he knows it. The trick is to know everything there is to know, and then make decisions accordingly.
He smiles back at Kate, pulls her in for a kiss. She is sharp and sweet, murmuring praise into his mouth, and if they weren't both so very good at their jobs he'd take her right here. He'd pull her down and roll around with her in the extra butcher paper, touching every inch of her with his fingertips and palms and mouth. He'd get to know every nook and cranny of her too, even better than he already does, so no matter what happened, he'd be prepared.
But they've got a goal, a project, and it wouldn't do to get sidetracked. Kate pulls away, dragging his lower lip between her teeth for a moment; he groans and she grins wickedly at him.
"Again," she says.
Friday: Relaxation
As a child, the only thing consistent about Neal Caffrey was his test scores. It baffled his teachers and his case workers--everyone who met him, really. It was easy to see from speaking to him that he was bright, maybe even exceptionally bright; his vocabulary, certainly, went above and beyond his age range, and his artistic talent was frankly off-putting.
But he tested consistently in the 35th percentile, worse than nearly all of his classmates. His teachers protested loudly when the schools tried to put him into less challenging courses; they insisted that he was answering questions in class, doing well on his homework, and understanding the material better that the other students.
It wasn't until Neal was 10 that someone thought to watch him before he sat down for an exam, that someone thought to take him out into the hall and tell him to breathe, that it was ok. "Relax," his fourth grade teacher told him, as Neal trembled with nerves. "No one's going to be mad at you if you don't do well. You know this stuff. It's ok, kid, relax." He'd made Neal put his head between his knees for ten minutes, given him a lollipop, and sent him forth with a pencil and a cool head.
He'd scored consistently in the 97 percentile after that.
"We've heard this story, Neal," Kate moans, as Neal opens his mouth to tell it again. "Every job we've ever pulled--"
"And several we haven't," Mozzie adds. Kate gestures at him a little wildly--she's always been a bit of a lightweight.
"And several we haven't!" she agrees. She leans against Neal, laughing, the dingy bar light streaked across her face. "We know," she murmurs, "relaxation is very important."
"It's tradition," Neal protests, halfheartedly. Truthfully, he tells them the story as much for himself as for them--it reminds him not to panic, to save up that nervous energy for when he needs it.
"It's a stupid tradition," Mozzie tells him, sipping at his gin and tonic. "You're welcome to tell us any other story."
"Tell us about the time you lost the Cardova piece," Kate says, laughing, "that's a good story."
"Tell us about the time I came home and found you passed out in my--" Mozzie starts, but Neal cuts him off.
"Are you guys trying to psych me out?" he asks them, only half-joking. Kate waves for another round and grins.
"We just want to see it," she chokes out around a peal of laughter. Neal glares at her.
"See what?"
She is laughing too hard to explain, now; Neal turns his glare to Mozzie, who gives him the small smile that means he's holding back laughter.
"The face you make," Mozzie admits. Neal raises both eyebrows. "You know the one. The face you make when we've freaked you out."
"You guys are trying to scare me the night before one of the hardest jobs of my career to see me make embarrassing faces?" Kate leans forward in her stool, positively shaking with hysterics, and a snort of amusement drifts over from Mozzie's direction. Neal mock-sighs and takes a pull from his beer. "Everyone always did warn me to stay away from the criminal element," he says, musingly.
That does Mozzie in; he leans his head back and guffaws. Kate, against him, has tears running down her face. Neal smiles, and then Mozzie actually snorts, and soon he is laughing too, a little drunk, high on anticipation and nerves and the scent of Kate's hair, so close.
Saturday: Execution
He let Kate dress him, beforehand. She's left his bowtie a little askance--"Easily flustered professor, Neal"--and she'd purposely mismatched his pocket square and his shirt by half a shade. It bothers him more than he'd like it to; he has to resist the urge to straighten the tie, to snatch someone else's square and switch it out.
He scans the crowd. Kate's in the corner in her pilfered waitress uniform, refilling someone's wineglass; her gaze flickers to him and away again before he can blink. There's no sign of law enforcement, save the standard issue door guards, and Neal knows Peter Burke isn't here. Neal always knows when Peter's in the room--he can feel that stare against his neck, feel it eating through every alias he's got to look at Neal fucking Caffrey. He tries to ignore the swell of disappointment; he'd thought maybe Peter would be here. This is Neal's kind of thing, after all. He's been known to pop into these galas, and to leave impolitely early.
The fourth rule of the con: remember the first rule. Neal shakes Peter from his thoughts and focuses again, just in time; he feels Kate brush against him and turns on cue, upending her wine bottle all over him. "Oh my god!" she cries. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry--"
Neal has to fight back the urge to wince. Kate needs to look stupid for this to be believable and he hates making her do that, hates the pitch of her voice and the choppy mess of her language. Even when she's only gone for a few minutes, for the sake of a job, he misses her.
"I should report you," he snaps, and she throws back her head and wails.
"Oh my god I'm gonna lose my job for this!" she howls, tears streaming down her face; she would have been a great actress is she wasn't so devious. "Oh, mister, please--"
"I can't believe this," he cries. "This was an important night for me!" They've drawn a crowd now, which is exactly what they want. "You...you complete--incompetent--"
Kate keeps wailing, and Neal turns on his heel and stalks off. As he goes, he hears a decidedly male voice say "Hey, honey, he's just a jerk, it'll be ok." He smiles to himself--beautiful girl in tears. It works every time.
From there, it's easy. The hallway that leads toward the museum's main entrance has an offshoot in the direction Neal's going; he takes it, mussing his hair and removing his jacket as he goes. On the offchance he's caught, he needs to be able to pull off a pretty damn convincing impression of a drunk wanderer. He rolls up one sleeve loosely, turns three more corners, and then--
--he's there. The gun sits in its glass case, staring up at him. Mozzie was right; it is a beauty. Neal hates guns, doesn't even relish the idea of touching an unloaded antique one, but the metalwork is exquisite.
He takes a deep, steadying breath. This next step is what makes this such a stupid job: there's no way around breaking the glass and setting off the alarm. Mozz has (hopefully, probably) cut the live feed to the cameras in this wing, but he'll still only have three, four minutes--tops. The idea is to smash the glass, grab the gun, and ditch the suit to reveal the guard's uniform underneath before anyone can see him--the danger is that he'll cut himself and throw his cover. He takes one more breath, and then he closes his eyes, to go over his escape route one more time...
And the image of Peter Burke's face slams up in front of him, like an assault, like a disaster. Neal opens his eyes at once, breathing heavily, but it is too late--he is thrown, panicked, and he wraps his hand in the pocketsquare he'd kept from his jacket and slams it through the glass before he can talk himself out of it.
The alarm is a silent one, but it is more than certainly sounding, and Neal is bleeding by mistake. If he had time he'd make sure this was a clean crime scene; as it is he just swears, grabs the gun, and runs. He smears as much blood as he can on his left arm as he goes, tucking the gun into his back waistband. The hallway is positioned and spaced exactly as it had been in their schematics, and Neal is under the blindspots and into the security office so fast he doesn't have much time to think.
"He shot me!" he cries, in the chaos of guards responding to the alarm. "He shot me!"
"Where'd he go?" the biggest guard growls, and Neal leans faintly against the wall and points. "Go, go, go!" the guard shouts, as his team runs out the door.
Neal is disgustingly, obscenely grateful--that crap would never have flown with the day guard, but the guys in this office are just whatever goons were left over after positioning the best on event staff.
He runs out the back door as soon as they're gone, and then...then he should leave. He should leave, it is painful idiocy to stay, and his rational brain screams in protest as he leans against the outer wall of the museum, breathing heavily.
He--god. He wants to see Burke. He wants to lean a little too close and murmur "Guess you got me, Captain." He wants to feel like Neal fucking Caffrey under that stare, not Tom or Steve or Nick or any of the other people he's been. He wants the cold burn of Peter's disappointment almost as much as the sweaty, flushed thrill of knowing he is impressed despite himself.
So Neal waits. Against his better instincts, against all his judgement, he waits, gasping his panic, for Peter to come find him. He feels 5 and 8 and 10 years old again, and he wants to put his head between his knees and shake until he can do this, until he can sort himself out. He wants Peter's hands on his back, soothing and sure, even if they will take him to jail.
It's the sirens that snap him out of it--Peter would never be so stupid, to turn on a siren and warn him like that. It's the police, not the FBI, that are after him this time. Peter's not coming. He's not coming, and Neal finds he wants to cry, finds that this job has been about Peter the whole time. His hand is still bleeding freely and he curls it into a fist; the sharp ache of it distracts him, and lets him run.
--
Kate is straddling him, naked, her breath coming in short, heady gasps as he thrusts up into her and makes her moan. He reaches up, cups her left breast with one hand, strokes the line of her collarbone with the other, and she arches against him and throws her head back, sobbing her ecstasy to the ceiling.
It is their ritual, after, to fuck in front of whatever Neal's stolen. It had been Kate's idea, the first time, and Neal had found it disgusting and debasing and achingly hot. They've come together in front of rare manuscripts and rarer paintings, on piles of currency and forged bonds. She never looks more alive, more with him, than these times.
"Kate," he gasps, and levers himself up to catch her nipple in his mouth. She shudders against him and they both look at the gun, still making Neal nervous on the bedside table. He lays back against the sheets after a few moments and she leans down, presses her hands into her shoulders and grinds herself down onto him. Her hair is thick and black, a corrupted halo, and he catches it and pulls.
She has always been a beautiful girl, beautiful and brilliant and a little impossible. Neal loves her for it, has never wanted anything more. Some nights, as he pounds into her, lines of Whitman and Auden and cummings slide from her lips between invectives, like water. Some nights, faced with the smooth canvas of her back, he traces Picasso into her skin with his fingernails. She has always been enough. She has always been a little more than enough, truth be told.
The last, but arguably the most important, rule of the con: know your own tells. Neal closes his eyes to Kate's face and sees another instead, heavier and more masculine, darker and maybe a little bit kinder. He feels broader, thicker fingers tracing his skin, shorter hair caught between his fingers; he hears a lower, more demanding moan.
Neal closes his eyes, and it's Peter, it's Peter he's fucking, and he knows he's as good as caught.
Rating: R to NC-17
Pairings: Neal/Kate, Neal/Peter (kind of)
Spoilers: Nope.
Warnings: Also nope.
Author's Note: Part of the Captain America 'verse, but can definitely be read alone. Also, photoash, this is your fic as much as mine. Thanks for the encouragement :D
Summary: A con's only as stupid as the reason you're running it.
Ridiculous as it is, Neal Caffrey has gotten as far as he's gotten in the criminal world by following the rules.
It's not--the rules and the law are different. It's a mistake people make, equating them, a mistake Neal finds tiresome and exhausting to have to correct. It's why he's worked more or less alone for most of his career--Mozzie gets it. Kate tries to get it. That's all he needs.
Because...if the world were different, if Neal could hang up his aliases and teach conning at The School of Hard Knocks, he knows what his first lesson would be. The first rule of the con is knowing what you want, and not letting go of that; the first rule of the con is not to get distracted.
Neal has always been good at it. He's always been able to know exactly what he's looking for. In a forgery, he can close his eyes and see the painting he's copying, picture-perfect; in a setup he can see the expression on the mark's face, clear as day, when he feeds them the next line. Even in bed, he can close his eyes and just see Kate, uncluttered by the pornographic trash that most men succumb to. It is this skill, this focus, that has made him excellent at everything he does. It is this skill that has made him great.
Which is why he knows, at 11:30 on Saturday night, breathing heavily with the thrill and terror of it, that he is completely fucked. Because tonight, Neal closes his eyes to better see his escape route, to better visualize these last few steps, and sees only the piercing gaze of Agent Peter Burke.
Monday: Initialization
"It's a stupid job," Mozzie says, looking over Neal's notes with skepticism. Kate nods, absently, without looking up from her book, and Neal scowls at both of them.
"You know," he drawls, "it's no use being a criminal if you don't, occasionally, commit crimes."
Mozz peers at Neal over the top of his glasses; Neal, knowing perfectly well that he's blind as a bat without them, waves his hands around. As expected, Mozz makes a face and pushes them back up--he hates the blurs.
"Being a criminal," he says, and then he pauses and amends "being a successful criminal depends on knowing there's no use in trying for things you know you can't do."
Neal smiles. It's his best smile, the one he uses to charm his way into whatever he wants. It has never worked on Mozzie--there are other, stranger ways to charm Mozzie, usually involving the threat of blackmail and/or denying him dinner--but it never hurts to try.
"I'm Neal Caffrey," he says, "I can do anything."
From the couch, Kate scoffs and turns a page. Neal shoots her a truly dirty look then; they're fighting this week, and he loves her, but these moods grate on him. He can't make her understand that it's harder, now, than when he was 25 and high on success--he can't make her see past the sharp tangy taste of adrenaline surging through their veins, falling to the floor and tearing at each other. She is at her best, always, after a big con, and at her worst when they've been lying low. Neal tells himself that this is the only reason he wants to bother with this job, and discovers he's not as good a liar as his career would suggest.
"I thought you'd be interested in this," he tells her, wheedling. "Put a little thrill back in your life." It's a barb and he means it as one--the previous night she'd stormed around the apartment, snapping that he'd gotten boring, gotten safe. She looks up from her book then, meets his eyes with fire in hers, and for second Neal thinks about kicking Mozzie out and taking her on the coffee table for old times' sake. Then she feigns a yawn, and the moment is gone.
"Don't I look thrilled?" she asks him, and glances back down.
Neal resists the urge to throttle her, but it's a close thing. "Look," he starts, "if you guys are going to be total buzzkills--" and then Mozz gives a little gasp of understanding.
"This is about your suit, isn't it?"
Neal stares at him. "The suit I'm wearing?" he inquires, honestly curious. "I don't see how it's going to help me break into the Met, but if you've got an idea..."
"No," Mozzie snaps, and he looks angry now. "Your Suit. Your pet Fed, Neal."
He feels the blush start at his neck and actively forces it back. "I don't know what you're talking about." To his horror, Kate's looking up again, intrigue in her eyes now.
"Your pet Fed?" she asks, and Neal groans.
"He's not my pet anything," he snaps, "he's just--he's just the agent assigned to my case. I've told you about him. He's, uh, been a little more persistent than I expected."
She raises both eyebrows, puts down her book, and narrows her eyes. "Should I be jealous here, Neal?" she asks him, and Neal snaps "No" and the same time Mozz says "Yes."
Neal shoots Mozzie a glare as the corners of Kate's mouth turn up. Mozz makes a face that seems to suggest his own innocence, and when Neal continues to glare, he throws up his hands in despair. "Come on," Mozz says, "don't look at me like that. You've even got a little nickname for him."
"A nickname?" Kate repeats, looking like she's trying hard not to laugh.
"It's not a nickname!" Neal snaps. "It's--I didn't know his name the first time I met him, and it annoys him--look. This isn't about him. This is about eight million dollars."
Mozzie opens his mouth to protest, and then his eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and he whistles. "Eight million dollars," Neal repeats, watching him.
Mozz opens his mouth, shuts it again, and then he sighs. "Oh, fine. But I hope my objections are noted."
Neal lets out a whoop of joy and turns to Kate. He grabs her hand and pulls her into a spin, dipping her low to the ground with one arm. "Come on," he whispers, "you know you want to," and she smiles up and him with the light of a challenge in her eyes.
"I want you," she murmurs, suddenly sharp and sweet and exactly the way he likes her. Neal would worry about that, except that there's no point--she's always been the kind of girl you'd call enigmatic, hard to follow, and he's always been the kind of guy who needs a little intrigue in his life.
Plus, he's got enough to worry about. He can protest all day, but he knows, deep in his soul, that Mozzie is absolutely right.
Tuesday: Entrapment
The first steps of a con are always Neal's favorite part. To steal anything successfully, you have to make the mark trust you, and to make the mark trust you, you have to insinuate yourself. Neal is good at that. Neal is good at people.
He's been waiting around for fifteen minutes when he catches the telltale glimpse of yellow from the corner of his eye--Kate's rooftop signal. Grinning, he pulls himself away from the wall, rounds the corner and maneuvers himself carefully; the mark crashes into him and he stumbles, lets himself fall.
"Oh!" the woman cries. She's older, grey-haired, and impeccably dressed. "I'm so sorry, I can't believe I--"
"No, no, it's fine," Neal says, pushing himself back up, "my fault more than anything--"
"Really," she says, sounding horrified, "really, let me help you--"
And then Mozzie, right on cue, runs by and snatches her purse.
The woman makes a sharp, shocked noise at the same time Neal yells "Come back here, you thief!"; he launches himself up and runs after Mozzie, tackling him a few yards away.
"Oooof," Mozzie groans, and half-heartedly fakes a struggle. "Hit me a little harder, why don't you."
"Sorry," Neal says, grinning. Mozzie rolls his eyes under his black facemask; Neal made him wear contacts for this job. Neal asks rather a lot of Mozz, some days.
"No, you're not," Mozz says. Neal shrugs and they tussle a moment more; then Mozzie rears back and punches him right in the eye.
"Jesus fuck, man," he hisses.
"That's what you get for hitting me that hard. Think twice, next time, won't you?" Neal makes a show of reeling back, clutching his face, and Mozzie runs off.
Neal leans back against a parking meter and waits. Five...four....three...
"Oh my god," the woman wails, a clatter of heels and concern. "Are you alright? Did that--that thug hurt you?"
Neal has to bite back a peal of genuine laughter at the description of Mozz as a thug. He gives her his best brave smile instead, knowing that his eye is already blacking--he'll have to thank Mozzie for his extra force later. "I'm fine," he says, "I just wish I'd gotten the little bastard."
"Oh, you poor dear--" the woman starts, and then Neal winces and stands.
"I did, at least, get you bag back, ma'am," he offers. He holds it out to her and she stares at it, astonished, for a minute; the she starts to laugh, a pleased, warm sound. She takes the bag from him and smiles simperingly up at him, like he is her hero, and this is how Neal knows he's won.
"Young man," she says, "I can't--I can't tell you how much I appreciate this. Really, you must at least let me take you for coffee or, or get some ice for that eye."
"Oh, ma'am, there's no need, I really couldn't--" and then he pauses and makes a great show of looking her over. "My god," he says, faking a startled little laugh, "you're Eloise Feingold, aren't you? The curator of Arms and Armor at the Met?"
She laughs again, looking startled. "Why, yes, I--"
"I saw your talk in Rhode Island last year," Neal breathes, taking care to sound awed. "On Japanese war weaponry? You were brilliant. I make all my students read your book, I've read everything you've ever written." He stares at her worshipfully for a moment, and then shakes his head as if to clear it and laughs. "Look at me, gushing like an idiot." He holds out a hand. "Tom Sullow."
She takes his hand, looking charmed. "Well, Mr. Sullow--"
"Tom," Neal interrupts. "Please, call me Tom."
To his glee, she flushes a little. "Tom, then. It's been a pleasure to meet such a gentleman." She bites her lip and then says, quickly, like she's nervous, "I would love to thank you properly. I'll--you're an art enthusiast?"
Neal nods quickly. "I'm a professor at RISD," he says, and then gives a little self-depricating laugh. "Associate professor, I should say."
She smiles at him. "Well, Mr. Su--Tom, we're unveiling a new piece next week. It's going to be a bit of an event, invitation only, but I'd love it if you could come. Will you still be in town?"
"Are you--could I really come?" he asks, breathlessly. She laughs and nods.
"Give me your card," she says, and Neal does, victory singing through his veins.
Wednesday: Reconnaissance
The second rule of the con: do your research. Neal, who has always loved to learn in his own way, is forever making Mozzie do this with him; Kate is too distracting and too distracted. She lacks Mozz's singleminded attention when confronted with beautiful things--she wants them all at once, and he wants them all in pieces.
Neal wants both. It's probably why they make such an excellent team.
"This is an exquisite example of 14th century work," Mozzie says loudly, peering at a Turkish short sword over his glasses, and he makes a note. Neal bites back a groan--the problem with Mozz is that he lacks the knowledge of when and how to apply personality. It's why he only ever ran small cons, before Neal; his technical skills are incomparable, and his interpersonal skills leave something to be desired. Neal can only be thankful that they are in the art world, where eccentricity is encouraged, a selling point.
Neal nods, absently, and peers at Mozz's notebook over his shoulder. As expected, he's not jotting notes about the artwork so much as the room, charting doors, vents and potential alarm triggers. He pats Mozz on the shoulder, and then, right on schedule, he hears "Tom?"
Neal turns smoothly. "Mrs. Feingold!" he says, feigning surprise, acting as though he isn't aware that she does a walkthrough of her wing every day at precisely 3:15. He touches the back of his neck and twists his face into a discomfited expression. "I didn't...well, I wanted to be sure I was well-versed in the the exhibit before the gala on Saturday. I'm, ah, a little embarrassed to be caught."
She titters out a little laugh. "It's Ms. Feingold," she murmurs, "and it's Eloise."
Neal thinks about the curve of Kate's neck, the warm, wet place he's gotten to know between her legs, until his cheeks are pink. He smiles, a shy, affected thing, and she laps it up, beaming at him.
Then Mozz coughs.
"Oh!" she says; she glances at him as though she hadn't noticed he was there. Neal finds this hilarious; Mozz clearly does not. "I--Tom, who's your friend?"
"Milton Grierson," Mozzie says stiffly. He is still talking too loud, practically shouting; Neal can work with that. "I don't know who you are." He blinks owlishly up at her, and doesn't smile. Neal bites the inside of his cheek, hard, to keep himself from laughing outright. That, of course, is the benefit of Mozz: when he's good at something, he's really good at it.
"Oh," Ms. Feingold says again. She looks uncomfortable, and Neal swiftly, smoothly, puts a hand on her shoulder and turns her away.
"A colleague of mine," he murmurs, a little too close. "Brilliant, of course, very brilliant, but--" He sighs heavily, and her gaze flickers back to Mozz almost unconsciously, and Neal nods sadly. "Fell out of a third story window two summers ago," he whispers. "Been like this ever since."
Ms. Feingold puts a hand to her mouth. "Oh, my," she says; softly, pityingly. They both turn to glance at Mozzie, who has turned his back to them and is staring into the case.
"This is ABSOLUTELY STUNNING," and Mozzie really is yelling now, oh, he is invaluable.
Neal leans close to Eloise Feingold again. "It really is a shame, you know," he tells her. "Had a fabulous career in front of him too. Was just finishing a second dissertation, focusing on the Crimean War."
Feingold pursed her lips. Then her eyes lit up. "Tom," she said, brightly, "did you know? We've got the Colt Third Model Dragoon revolver; just bought it a month ago, it isn't even on display yet."
Neal, who knows perfectly well where the revolver is, wrinkles his forehead. "I'm sorry, the Colt--?"
"The--oh, I'm sure Mr. Grierson will know it."
Mozzie, as if summoned, turns. His voice is flat and emotionless as he rattles off "The Colt Third Model Dragoon. Made by Samuel Colt and Gustave Young as part of a pair. Separated from its partner in 1854, during the Crimean War." He allows a hint of wistfulness wash over his face, and Neal wants to buy him a house for the sheer skill of his delivery. "Supposed to be gorgeous."
Ms. Feingold glances from Mozz to Neal and then back to Mozz. "Welllll," she hazards, offering them a slight smile, "I am the curator. Would you like to see it?"
Mozzie blinks once. Then he lets his eyes light up, lets a pathetically excited expression bloom into fruition under his glasses. Ms. Feingold laughs, grabs his arm, and leads him away.
"Aren't you coming, Tom?" she calls over her shoulder. Neal shakes his head and smiles.
"More a sword guy, myself," he says, and she titters nervously. "I'll be right out here." He waves them off.
Half an hour later, he and Mozzie are on the street. "It's a beauty, alright," Mozzie says. "You're sure the buyer's not going to make you go to Russia for the other one?"
Neal laughs. "I told him Russia's out of the question."
"Because I don't do Russia," Mozz continues. "I'll go as far as Poland, but after that--" he shudders. "Big brother's even bigger over there."
"No Russia," Neal promises. "You get pictures?"
Mozzie gives him a withering look. "Did I get pictures, he asks. You'd think we'd never done this before." He pulled out his phone and tosses it to Neal, who flips through the photos and whistles.
"Nice," he says. It's every door in the whole room, unless he's much mistaken. "Leave anything out?"
It's a ridiculous question; the best thing about Mozz is his absolute commitment to a job thoroughly done.
Thursday: Preparation
"Again," Kate says, pointing. Neal closes his eyes and sees it: the schematics they've sketched expertly across three massive sheets of butcher paper, the grainy photos from Mozzie's cell camera.
"Vent on the ceiling of the far right wall," he says, keeping his eyes shut. "Door to the right leads to the Egyptian Wing; door directly in front leads to the lobby, so only if I'm desperate. Door directly behind me leads to a hallway; left fork takes me back to the gallery, right fork--preferable--takes me through the security office."
"And?" Kate prompts. Neal furrows his brow and doesn't open his eyes.
"Three revolving cameras in that hallway. Two of them fake, one of them real; the first one on the left wall and the only one on the right are the fakes, so in case Mozzie hasn't hacked the feed, my blindspots are--" He steps forward, doing a complicated dance across the hardwood floor. "Here, here and here."
"And?"
"Janitorial closet on the left, if I need it. Security office has at least one outward door, which will put me on the left side of the building, if I decide to go that way." He pauses, and waits for her next prompt. When it doesn't come, he opens his eyes tentatively, and she smiles at him.
The third rule of the con: never plan. Planning leads to reliance on a plan, which leads to inability to innovate, which leads to capture; it has jailed greater criminals than Neal and he knows it. The trick is to know everything there is to know, and then make decisions accordingly.
He smiles back at Kate, pulls her in for a kiss. She is sharp and sweet, murmuring praise into his mouth, and if they weren't both so very good at their jobs he'd take her right here. He'd pull her down and roll around with her in the extra butcher paper, touching every inch of her with his fingertips and palms and mouth. He'd get to know every nook and cranny of her too, even better than he already does, so no matter what happened, he'd be prepared.
But they've got a goal, a project, and it wouldn't do to get sidetracked. Kate pulls away, dragging his lower lip between her teeth for a moment; he groans and she grins wickedly at him.
"Again," she says.
Friday: Relaxation
As a child, the only thing consistent about Neal Caffrey was his test scores. It baffled his teachers and his case workers--everyone who met him, really. It was easy to see from speaking to him that he was bright, maybe even exceptionally bright; his vocabulary, certainly, went above and beyond his age range, and his artistic talent was frankly off-putting.
But he tested consistently in the 35th percentile, worse than nearly all of his classmates. His teachers protested loudly when the schools tried to put him into less challenging courses; they insisted that he was answering questions in class, doing well on his homework, and understanding the material better that the other students.
It wasn't until Neal was 10 that someone thought to watch him before he sat down for an exam, that someone thought to take him out into the hall and tell him to breathe, that it was ok. "Relax," his fourth grade teacher told him, as Neal trembled with nerves. "No one's going to be mad at you if you don't do well. You know this stuff. It's ok, kid, relax." He'd made Neal put his head between his knees for ten minutes, given him a lollipop, and sent him forth with a pencil and a cool head.
He'd scored consistently in the 97 percentile after that.
"We've heard this story, Neal," Kate moans, as Neal opens his mouth to tell it again. "Every job we've ever pulled--"
"And several we haven't," Mozzie adds. Kate gestures at him a little wildly--she's always been a bit of a lightweight.
"And several we haven't!" she agrees. She leans against Neal, laughing, the dingy bar light streaked across her face. "We know," she murmurs, "relaxation is very important."
"It's tradition," Neal protests, halfheartedly. Truthfully, he tells them the story as much for himself as for them--it reminds him not to panic, to save up that nervous energy for when he needs it.
"It's a stupid tradition," Mozzie tells him, sipping at his gin and tonic. "You're welcome to tell us any other story."
"Tell us about the time you lost the Cardova piece," Kate says, laughing, "that's a good story."
"Tell us about the time I came home and found you passed out in my--" Mozzie starts, but Neal cuts him off.
"Are you guys trying to psych me out?" he asks them, only half-joking. Kate waves for another round and grins.
"We just want to see it," she chokes out around a peal of laughter. Neal glares at her.
"See what?"
She is laughing too hard to explain, now; Neal turns his glare to Mozzie, who gives him the small smile that means he's holding back laughter.
"The face you make," Mozzie admits. Neal raises both eyebrows. "You know the one. The face you make when we've freaked you out."
"You guys are trying to scare me the night before one of the hardest jobs of my career to see me make embarrassing faces?" Kate leans forward in her stool, positively shaking with hysterics, and a snort of amusement drifts over from Mozzie's direction. Neal mock-sighs and takes a pull from his beer. "Everyone always did warn me to stay away from the criminal element," he says, musingly.
That does Mozzie in; he leans his head back and guffaws. Kate, against him, has tears running down her face. Neal smiles, and then Mozzie actually snorts, and soon he is laughing too, a little drunk, high on anticipation and nerves and the scent of Kate's hair, so close.
Saturday: Execution
He let Kate dress him, beforehand. She's left his bowtie a little askance--"Easily flustered professor, Neal"--and she'd purposely mismatched his pocket square and his shirt by half a shade. It bothers him more than he'd like it to; he has to resist the urge to straighten the tie, to snatch someone else's square and switch it out.
He scans the crowd. Kate's in the corner in her pilfered waitress uniform, refilling someone's wineglass; her gaze flickers to him and away again before he can blink. There's no sign of law enforcement, save the standard issue door guards, and Neal knows Peter Burke isn't here. Neal always knows when Peter's in the room--he can feel that stare against his neck, feel it eating through every alias he's got to look at Neal fucking Caffrey. He tries to ignore the swell of disappointment; he'd thought maybe Peter would be here. This is Neal's kind of thing, after all. He's been known to pop into these galas, and to leave impolitely early.
The fourth rule of the con: remember the first rule. Neal shakes Peter from his thoughts and focuses again, just in time; he feels Kate brush against him and turns on cue, upending her wine bottle all over him. "Oh my god!" she cries. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry--"
Neal has to fight back the urge to wince. Kate needs to look stupid for this to be believable and he hates making her do that, hates the pitch of her voice and the choppy mess of her language. Even when she's only gone for a few minutes, for the sake of a job, he misses her.
"I should report you," he snaps, and she throws back her head and wails.
"Oh my god I'm gonna lose my job for this!" she howls, tears streaming down her face; she would have been a great actress is she wasn't so devious. "Oh, mister, please--"
"I can't believe this," he cries. "This was an important night for me!" They've drawn a crowd now, which is exactly what they want. "You...you complete--incompetent--"
Kate keeps wailing, and Neal turns on his heel and stalks off. As he goes, he hears a decidedly male voice say "Hey, honey, he's just a jerk, it'll be ok." He smiles to himself--beautiful girl in tears. It works every time.
From there, it's easy. The hallway that leads toward the museum's main entrance has an offshoot in the direction Neal's going; he takes it, mussing his hair and removing his jacket as he goes. On the offchance he's caught, he needs to be able to pull off a pretty damn convincing impression of a drunk wanderer. He rolls up one sleeve loosely, turns three more corners, and then--
--he's there. The gun sits in its glass case, staring up at him. Mozzie was right; it is a beauty. Neal hates guns, doesn't even relish the idea of touching an unloaded antique one, but the metalwork is exquisite.
He takes a deep, steadying breath. This next step is what makes this such a stupid job: there's no way around breaking the glass and setting off the alarm. Mozz has (hopefully, probably) cut the live feed to the cameras in this wing, but he'll still only have three, four minutes--tops. The idea is to smash the glass, grab the gun, and ditch the suit to reveal the guard's uniform underneath before anyone can see him--the danger is that he'll cut himself and throw his cover. He takes one more breath, and then he closes his eyes, to go over his escape route one more time...
And the image of Peter Burke's face slams up in front of him, like an assault, like a disaster. Neal opens his eyes at once, breathing heavily, but it is too late--he is thrown, panicked, and he wraps his hand in the pocketsquare he'd kept from his jacket and slams it through the glass before he can talk himself out of it.
The alarm is a silent one, but it is more than certainly sounding, and Neal is bleeding by mistake. If he had time he'd make sure this was a clean crime scene; as it is he just swears, grabs the gun, and runs. He smears as much blood as he can on his left arm as he goes, tucking the gun into his back waistband. The hallway is positioned and spaced exactly as it had been in their schematics, and Neal is under the blindspots and into the security office so fast he doesn't have much time to think.
"He shot me!" he cries, in the chaos of guards responding to the alarm. "He shot me!"
"Where'd he go?" the biggest guard growls, and Neal leans faintly against the wall and points. "Go, go, go!" the guard shouts, as his team runs out the door.
Neal is disgustingly, obscenely grateful--that crap would never have flown with the day guard, but the guys in this office are just whatever goons were left over after positioning the best on event staff.
He runs out the back door as soon as they're gone, and then...then he should leave. He should leave, it is painful idiocy to stay, and his rational brain screams in protest as he leans against the outer wall of the museum, breathing heavily.
He--god. He wants to see Burke. He wants to lean a little too close and murmur "Guess you got me, Captain." He wants to feel like Neal fucking Caffrey under that stare, not Tom or Steve or Nick or any of the other people he's been. He wants the cold burn of Peter's disappointment almost as much as the sweaty, flushed thrill of knowing he is impressed despite himself.
So Neal waits. Against his better instincts, against all his judgement, he waits, gasping his panic, for Peter to come find him. He feels 5 and 8 and 10 years old again, and he wants to put his head between his knees and shake until he can do this, until he can sort himself out. He wants Peter's hands on his back, soothing and sure, even if they will take him to jail.
It's the sirens that snap him out of it--Peter would never be so stupid, to turn on a siren and warn him like that. It's the police, not the FBI, that are after him this time. Peter's not coming. He's not coming, and Neal finds he wants to cry, finds that this job has been about Peter the whole time. His hand is still bleeding freely and he curls it into a fist; the sharp ache of it distracts him, and lets him run.
--
Kate is straddling him, naked, her breath coming in short, heady gasps as he thrusts up into her and makes her moan. He reaches up, cups her left breast with one hand, strokes the line of her collarbone with the other, and she arches against him and throws her head back, sobbing her ecstasy to the ceiling.
It is their ritual, after, to fuck in front of whatever Neal's stolen. It had been Kate's idea, the first time, and Neal had found it disgusting and debasing and achingly hot. They've come together in front of rare manuscripts and rarer paintings, on piles of currency and forged bonds. She never looks more alive, more with him, than these times.
"Kate," he gasps, and levers himself up to catch her nipple in his mouth. She shudders against him and they both look at the gun, still making Neal nervous on the bedside table. He lays back against the sheets after a few moments and she leans down, presses her hands into her shoulders and grinds herself down onto him. Her hair is thick and black, a corrupted halo, and he catches it and pulls.
She has always been a beautiful girl, beautiful and brilliant and a little impossible. Neal loves her for it, has never wanted anything more. Some nights, as he pounds into her, lines of Whitman and Auden and cummings slide from her lips between invectives, like water. Some nights, faced with the smooth canvas of her back, he traces Picasso into her skin with his fingernails. She has always been enough. She has always been a little more than enough, truth be told.
The last, but arguably the most important, rule of the con: know your own tells. Neal closes his eyes to Kate's face and sees another instead, heavier and more masculine, darker and maybe a little bit kinder. He feels broader, thicker fingers tracing his skin, shorter hair caught between his fingers; he hears a lower, more demanding moan.
Neal closes his eyes, and it's Peter, it's Peter he's fucking, and he knows he's as good as caught.