Unpredictable, Part 2
Continued from part one.
Neal wasn’t actually all that worried. Granted, the whole letter thing was weird, and frustrating, and annoying, and a multitude of other adjectives as well. But he didn’t expect it to have any impact on this meeting.
Right now, he was focused. Yes, he’d taken part in variations on this deal many times before, both before and since his deal with the FBI. He knew the routine, had studied Federico’s personality and tendencies, knew how he wanted to play this. But a lot of things you just couldn’t prepare for. Each exchange was unique, unpredictable, and you had to be alert and ready to work with what you were given.
So, while he might not be worried, that didn’t stop the slight thrill of nervousness. Federico preferred to conduct his business in a civilized manner, always keeping his hands clean. The men associated with him, sadly, were not always so restrained. They tended to become quite upset when their employer suffered a disappointment.
That violence, however, tended to take the form of carefully-measured and planned reprisals, rather than immediate outbursts. And as things were planned, Federico shouldn’t be disappointed until Peter had him safely contained.
The excitement and anticipation of a successful con was no less because that con was carried out in aid, rather than defiance, of the law. (Recently, the disconcerting thought that it might possibly be even greater had been cropping up at unexpected moments.) The touch of that awareness of danger kept him on his game, less likely to take anything for granted. Yeah, he was ready for this.
Neal kept his pace moderate as he entered the warehouse. Confident step, squared shoulders - his alias was used to things going his way. “Thomas Cardin” was no nervous first-timer, hesitating over the idea of venturing into illegal dealings with dangerous men. He had a fair share of shady business transactions to his credit. Different though their supposed specialties might be, he would view Federico as an equal, someone he could understand and anticipate, not an intimidating unknown.
The building was large, well-lit by the sunlight streaming through high windows, dusty but relatively clean. It hadn’t been vacant long enough to begin falling into disrepair.
One of Federico’s men met him just inside the door. A glance outside satisfied him that Neal had arrived alone. The man gave a quick, sharp nod.
“This way.” He gestured, just on the businesslike side of peremptory, for Neal to precede him.
Having seen pictures of the warehouse’s layout, Neal knew the most logical place for the exchange would be a smaller, subdivided section - the one to the left still contained several sturdy tables, according to earlier reconnaissance. He waited for his guide to direct him around a metal dividing wall, into the enclosed area.
There were boxes of varying sizes, most still closed, laid out on the tables. Two more of Federico’s men were in the room. They looked wary, but in the way of men who were bad-tempered by habit and principle, rather than ones who were actually expecting something to happen.
Federico himself was nowhere to be seen. Surprised, Neal turned to his guide, raising an eyebrow.
“Did I get the time wrong?”
“He’ll be here soon,” the man replied. “Had something unexpected come up.”
Neal nodded his acceptance, giving the man a pleasant smile. These things happened. It wasn’t cause for concern. Yet.
“You mind if I take a look while we’re waiting?” he asked, gesturing toward one of the open cases. “No sense in taking up more of anyone’s time than necessary.”
The man exchanged a look with one of his companions before nodding. Not much of a talker, this one. As Neal stepped toward the table, he moved back to take up a position near the door.
At his first glimpse inside the nearest open case, Neal’s breath caught. The Akhenaten statue. Dutifully, he tore himself away to have a look inside the other open cases. He recognized a couple of pieces from the file, alongside several unfamiliar ones. Not bothering with the closed cases for the present, he returned to the first, glancing at the nearest of Federico’s men for permission before reaching inside.
He lifted the Akhenaten statue, letting the sunlight catch its colors. Oh, it was beautiful. The sort of thing he might have stolen himself - once upon a time - for the mere pleasure of holding it for a while. He wondered who had originally taken it from the museum. Not Federico, certainly. He was the big fish in this operation, but most of the actual thefts associated with him were done by others. His skills lay mainly in the management of people and money.
As he carefully turned the statue to examine it from all angles, Neal didn’t allow his expression to go beyond reserved satisfaction. Thomas Cardin was something of a history buff - interested but not obsessed. His desire for these pieces lay as much in the investment and the satisfaction of having something so valuable to himself as in specific appreciation for the artifacts themselves.
Inwardly, though, he could feel stirring the familiar, fierce joy in beauty for its own sake - beyond The Con, beyond even the history or intrinsic value. It was the same impetus that had driven those thefts he’d committed for himself alone, not for the money a piece of artwork might bring, and it was also what lay behind his own need to create. Oh yes, there was technical satisfaction in work well done, intellectual pride in a successful forgery, but in all the best of his art there was infused that inexpressible tangle of emotions stirred up by witnessing something just beyond his grasp. That longing to capture… something, and pass that indefinable something on to others.
Neal always sought to integrate into his aliases - even the ones developed for one specific purpose and that alone - qualities that he could like, enjoy, identify with. That was kind of the point - much harder to sell himself in the role, otherwise. At the moment, however, the passionate art lover in him could only deplore “Thomas’” lack of true appreciation for these things. The man might as well be a thorough Philistine, for all he could truly savor this moment.
In any case, all savoring was at an end for the moment. Federico had arrived. Time to get to work. Carefully replacing the Akhenaten statue in its cushioned case, he turned to give Federico a cheerful greeting.
“Ah, good to see you again, Mr. Federico.”
Apparently the man’s mood hadn’t improved any since yesterday. If anything, his expression was even more sour. As their eyes met, Neal felt his stomach slowly twisting into a knot. Something wasn’t right. He put on his “charmingly professional” smile like a shield.
“I hope the delay wasn’t anything serious?” he asked mildly, as if not particularly interested. Mere polite form.
What he really hoped was that it was none of his business, nothing to be concerned about, let’s just move things along. But, as his current run of luck was conditioning him to expect, it wasn’t that simple. Federico smiled slightly, without a hint of amusement.
“Funny you should ask that. I’m afraid it was rather serious, Mr. Cardin. Or should I just call you Mr. Caffrey? It is Neal Caffrey, isn’t it?”
It was so ridiculously cliché, he would’ve laughed if he hadn’t been too busy sorting through implications. This was bad - but he’d talked himself out of worse. And just because they knew who he was didn’t necessarily mean they also knew who he was currently working for. He traded out the “professional” smile for his best go at “disarmingly rueful.”
“I see you’ve been doing some research.”
“I have, thanks to a rather odd phone call I received yesterday.” Federico tilted his head to one side. “At first I thought it might be some rival of yours, just wanting to throw a wrench into this deal for his own gain, or for spite. But I sent out a few feelers, and today I’ve been getting back the most interesting information. Neal Caffrey, master forger and thief. You’ve done some quite impressive work.”
Neal inclined his head in head in gracious acceptance of the compliment. “Thank you. I do try. Nice to hear that my reputation’s been getting around.”
“Indeed. Do you know, I was actually considering offering you some work myself.”
“Oh?” Neal raised an eyebrow.
“Yes. I was.” Federico placed pointed emphasis on the last word. “That is, until my sources produced some more recent information. I don’t like dealing with people with such… close ties to the FBI. It makes me rather uncomfortable, you understand.”
He toyed briefly with the idea of trying to convince Federico that he was just playing the FBI, that he has plenty of his own deals going on the side, that this had nothing whatever to do with them. Federico’s expression convinced him that wasn’t going to cut it.
“Shame,” he said with a light sigh.
“It is, isn’t it?”
“So what now?”
“Now… I suppose I’ll have to deal with you. Can’t have people thinking I just let things like this go. It’s bad for business.”
Okay, Peter, now would be a good time to get me out of here. Just in case it wasn’t obvious that the situation was headed downhill fast, beyond hope for repair - time to toss out that code phrase.
“I don’t suppose we have time to discuss this over drinks?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Federico reached under his suit jacket to pull out a gun. His men followed suit, shifting their weapons to cover Neal. He edged back half a step, raising his hands. Unwilling to take his eyes off the people holding guns on him, he tried to subtly scan the area for cover he might be able to dive for, or maybe a conveniently open path to a nearby exit. The room had three possible ways out, after all - two openings in the sheet metal dividing this section from the main warehouse, and one maybe-unlocked, maybe-not door in an outside wall. He found little that looked encouraging in any of the possibilities. He wasn’t quite close enough for any of them to do him much good.
“No! You were just supposed to - beat him up or something! You can’t kill him!”
And just like that the situation took a turn from cliché-yet-scary to utterly-bizarre-yet-scary. All attention turned to the unfamiliar new player in their little drama. And - what? Was that the guy who’d spilled coffee on him yesterday, pointing a gun at Federico? Federico’s men turned their guns onto the intruder. Federico himself, unfortunately, kept his gun on Neal, shifting to the side so that he could keep both Neal and the newcomer in sight.
“Who are you?”
“You can’t kill him,” the man repeated, radiating intensity.
Federico shook his head with a disbelieving laugh. “Alright then, why can’t I kill him?”
“Because I’m going to kill him, if he doesn’t get sent back to jail.”
“And, what, you’re not happy to see someone else doing your work for you?”
“No. I’ve been working on this for weeks. You’re not going to take him from me!”
Seriously, was the man actually whining? Federico was intrigued - and amused - enough that the muzzle of his gun had drifted downward, his attention shifting away from Neal and onto the crazy guy. Neal slid one foot, experimentally inching to the side, wondering if they were sufficiently distracted that he could…
Both Federico and Crazy Guy turned, their guns pointing at him.
“Don’t move,” Federico said firmly. “I’m not done with you yet.”
Neal froze, once more raising his hands in surrender.
“May I just point out that I have no idea what’s going on, here?” he asked.
He was frustrated, and scared, and frustrated that he was scared, and he wished Peter and his agents would just hurry up and come save the day already. Then he realized that, even if they were just outside the door, they might be hesitating to actually come bursting in, lest their entrance prove the spark to set off this little powder keg, and a firefight break out. Great.
Federico raised an eyebrow at the crazy guy. “Want to explain yourself? Let’s start slow - your name?”
“George Campbell.”
Neal thought it should trigger some recognition, but… nope. He was coming up blank. It was a common enough name, anyhow.
“And just why is it so important that you get Caffrey, George?” Federico asked with exaggerated patience. “He kill someone you like? Steal your girlfriend? What?”
“He got my brother put in jail!”
Okay… there was a vague stirring of familiarity with the last name, now. But he still couldn’t place it.
“Ah.” Federico nodded sympathetically. “Yes, I can see how that would annoy you. So you decided to avenge your dear brother by making sure the person responsible shared either his fate or a worse one?”
“What was I supposed to do?”
Campbell started to gesture helplessly, then remembered he was holding a gun, grasping it firmly again. He seemed to waver in indecision between pointing it at Federico and Neal. He settled on Neal. Naturally.
“Well, in your place I’d have made taking over the family business a priority while the competition’s away,” Federico said drily. “But that’s just me.”
“I tried that,” Campbell muttered, sounding resentful. “It didn’t work.”
Neal wasn’t surprised by that, actually.
Federico laughed. “Tough luck for you. And unfortunately, it’s going to get worse. Much as I’d like to oblige you, just leaving a loose end like Caffrey here tends to send the wrong message.”
“No, you can’t.” Campbell was all but vibrating in distress at seeing his plan spinning out of control.
“I can, actually. If I need to have my men take care of you as well, I will.”
And then… things pretty much devolved into a shouting match. Campbell shouting at Federico, Federico’s men shouting at Campbell when he advanced a step on their employer and turned his gun toward him, Federico himself getting thoroughly fed up with the whole situation…. Neal was starting to feel quite left out as the only person in the room with neither a gun nor a say in what happened - not that he actually wanted the former, but it’d be kinda nice not to have things quite so weighted against him. He was just contemplating making a run for it while everyone was distracted when some very welcome new voices joined in the shouting, accompanied by equally welcome guns as backup.
“FBI! Put the weapons down! We have you surrounded!”
Neal wasn’t sure who actually shot him. It could as easily have been Campbell, or Federico, or one of his men. He was pretty sure it wasn’t anyone from the FBI. The agents Peter worked with weren’t usually that trigger-happy.
All he knew was that one minute he was moving away from the action, trying to stay out of the way until the agents had things under control… and the next he was flat on his back, feeling like someone had punched him in the shoulder.
It was his head that hurt the most, at first, where it had made contact with the pavement when he went down. It ached, and for a confused moment all he could think was that he had tripped, and that was a stupid thing to do. Should’ve looked where he was going… except there’d been guns, and he’d been distracted….
And then Peter was there, right above him, and he was shouting. Somehow that final straw was too much, the ache in his head turning into pounding, in time with his rapid heartbeat, the dull pressure in his left shoulder slowly unfurling fiery tendrils that sent pain shooting outward with every breath he took. He tried to tell Peter to stop yelling, that it was hurting his head, but all he managed was an unintelligible noise of complaint.
Garbled or not, Peter seemed to understand it. He crouched down next to Neal, and when he spoke again his voice was quiet and oddly gentle.
“Neal? You with me?”
Neal nodded, stopping short with a ragged inhale as his body protested the motion. Even parts of his body that had no reason to be complaining seemed to hurt, as if his brain was too overwhelmed to bother localizing pain.
“Got shot…” he murmured.
“Yeah, you did,” Peter agreed.
His voice was grim, but he didn’t look mad. Just like his voice, there was a strangely softened, gentle look to his face. Neal thought it might be concern, which was enough to get him worried. For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to him to be, before. His stomach knotted. He wasn’t sure if the threatening nausea was from fear, or the steadily-growing pain.
“’S it bad?” he asked. He tried to turn his head, to get a look at his shoulder himself. The motion pulled a breathy whimper of pain from him. He clamped his lips together tightly, as if by so doing he could take back the sound.
But Peter had heard. He was leaning forward, one hand out as if to restrain him, but hovering, uncertain.
“Easy,” he said. “Just stay still. No, I don’t think it’s too bad, but we should do something about the bleeding.”
Peter pulled off his suit jacket, folding it in preparation for use to staunch the blood.
“Don’t - y’ll jus’ ruin it,” Neal protested, waving it away with his good hand. “Not bleeding that bad.”
“Yes, you are.” Peter finally gave him a look of very familiar exasperation. “Now quit whining and hold still.”
Reassured, Neal quirked a slight smile at him. Peter must not think he was in real danger - he’d feel too guilty to risk getting mad at a potentially-dying man, otherwise.
It was Jones who halted the second attempt to press the jacket to the injury. He touched Peter’s arm, holding out a - fortunately, clean-looking - towel.
“Here, this’ll probably work better.”
“Thanks.”
Peter took it, then turned to carefully lift Neal’s head, placing the jacket underneath it instead. Neal winced at the movement. It did feel better to have his head off the cold concrete, though.
“All the suspects are secured.” Jones informed them. “Ambulance is on the way. Sounds like they’re about five, ten minutes out.”
“Good.” Peter nodded. He placed the wadded-up towel on Neal’s shoulder - but hesitated momentarily, giving Neal an apologetic look. “Sorry, buddy. This isn’t going to be fun. Try not to fight me - it’ll just make it worse.”
Neal gave him a jerky nod, the nausea of apprehension back full-force. He sucked in a deep breath, holding it in preparation. It didn’t help.
As Peter pressed down, leaning his weight onto the injury, all the air escaped Neal in a startled cry of pain. He was left breathless, back arching, one foot pushing out, sliding uselessly on the concrete as he tried to gain some purchase, tried to breathe.
He couldn’t see beyond the black spots dancing in front of his eyes, but as he finally pulled in a few gasping breaths he could feel hands, holding him down, countering his struggles. He remembered that he wasn’t supposed to fight, even though it hurt - and it did hurt, more than anything else he could think of at that moment - but it was rapidly becoming a moot point anyway, as he ran out of energy. The restraining hands eased up a bit as he stopped, lying flat once more. Peter was still holding relentless pressure on the wound - it must be Jones helping to hold him down.
He didn’t know when he’d squeezed his eyes shut, but now opening them again didn’t seem worth the effort. As he lay limp, breathing hard, he could suddenly hear Peter again, talking. From the sounds of it Neal suspected he’d been keeping up the litany for some time.
“Sorry, Neal. Sorry. I know it hurts… Not much longer, and they’ll be here…”
Peter’s voice was tight with suppressed emotion. He sounded so upset, Neal suspected that he should be the one apologizing, though he wasn’t exactly sure for what. For fighting him, maybe, though he hadn’t meant to… or maybe for not paying more attention to Peter’s worries earlier, not being more careful, not doing… something, to keep from winding up like this - with a bullet in his shoulder, and Peter forced to take care of him.
But he was tired, too tired to figure out what he wanted to apologize for, much less find the right words for it, so he decided he’d have to wait and do it later. Peter would understand.
And then there were new voices, and the pressure on his shoulder eased off suddenly as Peter moved back. It should’ve been a relief, but for some reason he felt strangely bereft instead. Summoning the dregs of his energy, he cracked his eyes open, turning his head, trying to figure out what was wrong.
“Pet’r…?”
The word came out so softly, he didn’t think anyone could have heard it. But then Peter was there again, his hand resting gently on Neal’s good shoulder this time, as he bent close to speak to him.
“It’s okay, Neal. Help’s here. You’re going to be fine.”
He didn’t feel fine, not even a little. But Peter was sounding much more like himself now - calm, and confident, reassuring. Neal decided Peter could handle the situation just fine on his own for now.
When they started to lift him up, shifting him to the side, he let go, giving in to the exhaustion and pain. He was unconscious before they settled him on the gurney.
-0-0-0-0-0-0-
Peter shifted the package to this left hand, rapping softly on the door to Neal’s apartment. No sense in waking Neal if he’d managed to fall asleep. The low-caliber bullet might not have caused extensive damage beyond a broken collar bone, but that didn’t stop it from hurting like crazy. Once the initial exhaustion from being freshly injured and heavily doped up wore off, Peter knew well how hard it could be to get restful sleep with an injury like that. He didn’t have anything to say that couldn’t wait, if needs be.
But - it seemed Neal was not asleep. Somewhat muffled by the intervening wall, Peter heard him call out.
“It’s unlocked - come on in.”
A glance inside didn’t reveal Neal anywhere in sight, so Peter shut the door behind him, looking around the corner to find him lying on the couch. He had a - currently blank - sketchbook propped up against his knee, and was distractedly tapping a pencil against his right leg. Twisting gingerly to see who it was, he gave Peter a welcoming smile.
“Hey Peter!”
“Hey.” Peter grinned back, heading around to where Neal could see him at a more comfortable angle. “How’re you -” he broke off with a startled yelp, barely catching himself on the back of a chair as one foot slid out from under him. “What the…”
Looking down, he found the culprit - a small rubber ball, which had now rolled to a stop against one of the chair’s legs. Bending to grab it, he held it up, raising an eyebrow at Neal. Neal gave him a sheepish look.
“Sorry. Missed catching it earlier, and never got around to getting it back.”
“Bored much?” Peter asked, amused. “Doesn’t look like you’re getting much drawing done, either.”
Neal gave a noncommittal grunt. “Nothing’s coming out right. I’d have given it up if I had any good alternatives.”
“What, there wasn’t anything on TV?”
“At this time of day? If it’s interesting, it’s too complicated to focus on. If I can focus on it, it’s too ridiculous or boring to stand. Tried to read, but it gave me a headache. I’m too tired to get up and do anything, but not tired enough to sleep.”
“So you’re reduced to bouncing a rubber ball off the walls, and staring at an empty sketchbook.”
“Pretty much. Getting shot sucks.”
Peter chuckled. “Y’know, most people could’ve figured that out without feeling the need to try it for themselves.”
Neal gave him a heavy-lidded look of disgust. Shaking his head, Peter pulled a chair closer to the couch and settled into it.
“Okay, not your fault,” he admitted. “And yeah, recovering from getting shot isn’t much more fun than the actual getting shot part. Would it help if I stick around to entertain you for a bit?”
“Maybe.” Neal drew the word out, attempting to fix him with a dubious look, but the corners of his mouth were twitching upward.
“Seriously, though, how’re you holding up?”
“Mostly just… achy, y’know? And tired all the time. Seems to be getting a little better, though.” Neal gave a slight, one-shouldered shrug, then winced, reaching across with his right hand to adjust the sling supporting his left arm.
Tilting his head, Peter studied him critically. Neal wasn’t wearing a shirt - had probably figured it wasn’t worth the pain and struggle of managing it without help, just to hang out alone in the apartment. The bruises over his ribs were fading a bit, turning nasty shades of splotchy green and yellow. Fresher bruising was visible around the edges of the bandage over his left shoulder.
Overall, he looked… yeah, tired, definitely. There was a pinched look to the corners of his eyes that spoke of days of pain that never quite went away, even with pain meds. A little thinner, maybe - Neal was lean, didn’t have extra weight to shed at the best of times, and his body had been under quite a bit of stress the last couple of weeks. The accumulation of minor injuries even before the shooting, two rounds with food poisoning… plenty of reason for him to be a bit run down, physically and mentally. But he was looking better. Alert - and disgruntled, yes, but overall more thoroughly like himself than he’d seemed in a while.
Peter nodded in satisfaction. “You might be able to come in to the office again Monday.”
“You think so?”
“For a bit of desk work at least, if you feel up to it. Considering you were injured in the course of an op - and a very successful one at that - I don’t think anyone’s going to be pushing too hard to get you working again before you’re ready.”
“Oh, I think I’ll be plenty ready to have something to do by then.” Neal smiled wryly. “You said it was successful, though - were you able to get all the pieces back, then?”
“Yep.” Peter grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Most of them were right there in the warehouse. For the rest - we were able to get a couple of locations out of one of Federico’s men. Not only did we get all the artifacts we were hoping for, we picked up a couple other stolen pieces we hadn’t even known he had. Pretty much wrapped up three separate cases in one fell swoop.”
“Nice.” Neal returned the grin with a rather triumphant smirk of his own. “I’m guessing everyone’s in a pretty celebratory mood, then.”
“Everyone but Federico. And Campbell, of course. Ballistics say he was the one who shot you, by the way.”
“Ah.” Neal’s entire demeanor shifted. Tentatively, as if not sure he wanted the answer, he asked. “Has he… said anything?”
“Said anything?” Peter snorted. “We’ve hardly gotten him to shut up. Seems he’s been storing up quite a lot of hard feelings toward you.”
“Do you know why, exactly?”
Oh yes, Neal was nervous. Probably wracking his mind, trying to figure out if the guy was connected with one of his past escapades, and whether anything Campbell could say was likely to incriminate him. Peter decided not to hold him in suspense. The guy had earned a bit of mercy, after all.
“Yeah, I do know why. Turns out that part of things wasn’t your fault either. You remember the John Campbell case - with the series of attempted bank robberies?”
“One of the first cases I worked on with you, wasn’t it? Not exactly a challenge.” Neal’s expression reflected his distaste. “The guy was an idiot.”
“He was.” Peter agreed. And he’d been a violent idiot, right at the end. His criminal career might’ve been short-lived, but it’d been enough to send him to jail for quite some time.
“And George Campbell is his brother?”
“Yep. Apparently it runs in the family - both the crime and the… lack of intelligence. He decided it wasn’t fair that his brother only committed one crime -”
“ - if you discount the whole trying-to-kill-the-agents-chasing-him thing,” Neal put in.
“ - if you discount that, yes - and wound up with such a long sentence, where you have committed all kinds of crimes -
“ - allegedly committed non-violent crimes - ”
“ - yes. Allegedly committed. And yet here you are, serving out the rest of your sentence in relative freedom and comfort, while helping to put the likes of Campbell in prison.”
“An occupation that’s seeming more worthwhile all the time,” Neal muttered. “Though I’d debate the whole comfort thing at the moment.”
“Apparently he sees it as some kind of betrayal of your own kind.” Peter smirked at Neal’s look of disgust at being placed in the same class as them. “Anyway, the idea was that getting you put back in jail would be a more… poetic form of revenge, but he was willing to settle for shooting you if that didn’t work out.”
“And he thought that a few bad incidents and two cryptic notes was going to accomplish that?”
“The theory was that if he managed to scare you, made your life miserable enough, you might just decide that it wasn’t worth it, and jail was the safer option.”
“Because I’ve always been one to go for the safe, predictable route.” Neal scoffed. “Everyone knows how much I hate risk.”
“Yeah, well. His brother was the better planner of the two, and we saw how that worked out.” Peter shrugged. “In his defense - sort of - the letters, at least, weren’t supposed to be quite that cryptic. He claims he wrote up some real masterpieces, and I gather the first few were much clearer, and more reasonable, before he got frustrated by the lack of reaction to them. He was paying some neighbor kid to deliver them, up until the kid went on vacation last week.”
“I’m guessing he wasn’t real happy to hear that we never got the letters.”
“Not at all.” Peter pursed his lips. “Although he seemed to think that meant there was still hope for his case, if he could just make me understand why it was such a bad idea to let you out of jail. You’re quite the threat to society, you know.”
“So I’ve heard.” Neal gave him a sidelong look. “I take it he didn’t convince you.”
“Oh, I already know exactly what a bad idea it was. I could’ve even pointed out a few very compelling reasons he overlooked.” Neal had assumed such an expression of wounded innocence by that point, Peter couldn’t refrain from laughing, conceding, “But, I also know just what a good idea it’s been. On the whole, the balance comes out in your favor. So far.”
He fixed Neal with a warning look - which was probably undermined by the fact that he was still smiling. Neal leaned his head back against the couch arm to stare at the ceiling.
“Or you’d have sent me back to prison already, I know.” He gave a longsuffering sigh.
“Or,” Peter corrected, “my wife would not be coming over in a couple of hours to bring you dinner.”
“What?” Neal turned his head too quickly - and paid for it, if the wince and hiss of pain were any indication. But he was too intent to be sidetracked. “El’s coming?”
“Well, we figured you could use a little distraction. Thought about inviting you to our place for dinner, but I wasn’t sure you’d be up for the trip yet. So,” he shrugged, “if you want the company, we’ll just bring it here instead.”
Neal smiled. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”
“Alright then. Five o’clock good?”
“Mm.” Neal stifled a yawn, nodding. “Gives me time to catch a nap before then.”
“That a hint? My presence isn’t exciting enough to keep you awake?” he asked, with good-natured amusement.
Neal’s chuckled. Then, gesturing toward the large manila envelope Peter held, he asked, “Did you bring me homework, or a bedtime story?”
“Oh,” Peter started, holding the package out to Neal. “Neither - it’s more fan mail.”
Neal, who’d taken the envelope eagerly enough, froze in the act of opening it, looking as if he half expected the thing to bite him.
“Relax,” Peter said. “It’s the good kind this time.”
Thus reassured, Neal emptied the contents onto his lap, flipping through the notes to get the gist of the content. Peter had seen enough earlier to have a pretty good idea - it was a collection of “get well soon” notes, some on actual cards, some on sheets of paper. Mostly from FBI employees - everyone from agents to receptionists and, he was pretty sure, at least one of the building’s janitors, and a couple employees from the closest coffee shop. Yeah, Neal was a popular guy.
Peter had expected a little more gloating, somehow. But when Neal turned back to him his expression, while happy, had more wistfulness than triumph to it.
“Thanks, Peter,” he said simply.
“No problem.” Rising, he patted Neal’s knee, adding, “Don’t forget to get some rest. I’ll be back with El around five.”
“Mmhmm.”
Neal nodded, absently, but when Peter glanced back on his way to the door he’d already turned back to the first card in the stack, reading through them more slowly now. Peter was fairly sure it’d be some time before he actually got around to sleeping. He smiled.
“Oh, and Caffrey?”
Neal looked up.
“Put a shirt on before my wife gets here, huh?”
Neal just laughed.
The End
--------
Y'know, I'm noticing a funny trend. Each of my stories, regardless of how short and simple I expect it to be, is longer than the previous one. I thought this would come out at about 5,000 words. Pfft - try 12,500. Yes, this is what happens when I'm deliberately trying to write something short and fast. *headdesk*
Neal wasn’t actually all that worried. Granted, the whole letter thing was weird, and frustrating, and annoying, and a multitude of other adjectives as well. But he didn’t expect it to have any impact on this meeting.
Right now, he was focused. Yes, he’d taken part in variations on this deal many times before, both before and since his deal with the FBI. He knew the routine, had studied Federico’s personality and tendencies, knew how he wanted to play this. But a lot of things you just couldn’t prepare for. Each exchange was unique, unpredictable, and you had to be alert and ready to work with what you were given.
So, while he might not be worried, that didn’t stop the slight thrill of nervousness. Federico preferred to conduct his business in a civilized manner, always keeping his hands clean. The men associated with him, sadly, were not always so restrained. They tended to become quite upset when their employer suffered a disappointment.
That violence, however, tended to take the form of carefully-measured and planned reprisals, rather than immediate outbursts. And as things were planned, Federico shouldn’t be disappointed until Peter had him safely contained.
The excitement and anticipation of a successful con was no less because that con was carried out in aid, rather than defiance, of the law. (Recently, the disconcerting thought that it might possibly be even greater had been cropping up at unexpected moments.) The touch of that awareness of danger kept him on his game, less likely to take anything for granted. Yeah, he was ready for this.
Neal kept his pace moderate as he entered the warehouse. Confident step, squared shoulders - his alias was used to things going his way. “Thomas Cardin” was no nervous first-timer, hesitating over the idea of venturing into illegal dealings with dangerous men. He had a fair share of shady business transactions to his credit. Different though their supposed specialties might be, he would view Federico as an equal, someone he could understand and anticipate, not an intimidating unknown.
The building was large, well-lit by the sunlight streaming through high windows, dusty but relatively clean. It hadn’t been vacant long enough to begin falling into disrepair.
One of Federico’s men met him just inside the door. A glance outside satisfied him that Neal had arrived alone. The man gave a quick, sharp nod.
“This way.” He gestured, just on the businesslike side of peremptory, for Neal to precede him.
Having seen pictures of the warehouse’s layout, Neal knew the most logical place for the exchange would be a smaller, subdivided section - the one to the left still contained several sturdy tables, according to earlier reconnaissance. He waited for his guide to direct him around a metal dividing wall, into the enclosed area.
There were boxes of varying sizes, most still closed, laid out on the tables. Two more of Federico’s men were in the room. They looked wary, but in the way of men who were bad-tempered by habit and principle, rather than ones who were actually expecting something to happen.
Federico himself was nowhere to be seen. Surprised, Neal turned to his guide, raising an eyebrow.
“Did I get the time wrong?”
“He’ll be here soon,” the man replied. “Had something unexpected come up.”
Neal nodded his acceptance, giving the man a pleasant smile. These things happened. It wasn’t cause for concern. Yet.
“You mind if I take a look while we’re waiting?” he asked, gesturing toward one of the open cases. “No sense in taking up more of anyone’s time than necessary.”
The man exchanged a look with one of his companions before nodding. Not much of a talker, this one. As Neal stepped toward the table, he moved back to take up a position near the door.
At his first glimpse inside the nearest open case, Neal’s breath caught. The Akhenaten statue. Dutifully, he tore himself away to have a look inside the other open cases. He recognized a couple of pieces from the file, alongside several unfamiliar ones. Not bothering with the closed cases for the present, he returned to the first, glancing at the nearest of Federico’s men for permission before reaching inside.
He lifted the Akhenaten statue, letting the sunlight catch its colors. Oh, it was beautiful. The sort of thing he might have stolen himself - once upon a time - for the mere pleasure of holding it for a while. He wondered who had originally taken it from the museum. Not Federico, certainly. He was the big fish in this operation, but most of the actual thefts associated with him were done by others. His skills lay mainly in the management of people and money.
As he carefully turned the statue to examine it from all angles, Neal didn’t allow his expression to go beyond reserved satisfaction. Thomas Cardin was something of a history buff - interested but not obsessed. His desire for these pieces lay as much in the investment and the satisfaction of having something so valuable to himself as in specific appreciation for the artifacts themselves.
Inwardly, though, he could feel stirring the familiar, fierce joy in beauty for its own sake - beyond The Con, beyond even the history or intrinsic value. It was the same impetus that had driven those thefts he’d committed for himself alone, not for the money a piece of artwork might bring, and it was also what lay behind his own need to create. Oh yes, there was technical satisfaction in work well done, intellectual pride in a successful forgery, but in all the best of his art there was infused that inexpressible tangle of emotions stirred up by witnessing something just beyond his grasp. That longing to capture… something, and pass that indefinable something on to others.
Neal always sought to integrate into his aliases - even the ones developed for one specific purpose and that alone - qualities that he could like, enjoy, identify with. That was kind of the point - much harder to sell himself in the role, otherwise. At the moment, however, the passionate art lover in him could only deplore “Thomas’” lack of true appreciation for these things. The man might as well be a thorough Philistine, for all he could truly savor this moment.
In any case, all savoring was at an end for the moment. Federico had arrived. Time to get to work. Carefully replacing the Akhenaten statue in its cushioned case, he turned to give Federico a cheerful greeting.
“Ah, good to see you again, Mr. Federico.”
Apparently the man’s mood hadn’t improved any since yesterday. If anything, his expression was even more sour. As their eyes met, Neal felt his stomach slowly twisting into a knot. Something wasn’t right. He put on his “charmingly professional” smile like a shield.
“I hope the delay wasn’t anything serious?” he asked mildly, as if not particularly interested. Mere polite form.
What he really hoped was that it was none of his business, nothing to be concerned about, let’s just move things along. But, as his current run of luck was conditioning him to expect, it wasn’t that simple. Federico smiled slightly, without a hint of amusement.
“Funny you should ask that. I’m afraid it was rather serious, Mr. Cardin. Or should I just call you Mr. Caffrey? It is Neal Caffrey, isn’t it?”
It was so ridiculously cliché, he would’ve laughed if he hadn’t been too busy sorting through implications. This was bad - but he’d talked himself out of worse. And just because they knew who he was didn’t necessarily mean they also knew who he was currently working for. He traded out the “professional” smile for his best go at “disarmingly rueful.”
“I see you’ve been doing some research.”
“I have, thanks to a rather odd phone call I received yesterday.” Federico tilted his head to one side. “At first I thought it might be some rival of yours, just wanting to throw a wrench into this deal for his own gain, or for spite. But I sent out a few feelers, and today I’ve been getting back the most interesting information. Neal Caffrey, master forger and thief. You’ve done some quite impressive work.”
Neal inclined his head in head in gracious acceptance of the compliment. “Thank you. I do try. Nice to hear that my reputation’s been getting around.”
“Indeed. Do you know, I was actually considering offering you some work myself.”
“Oh?” Neal raised an eyebrow.
“Yes. I was.” Federico placed pointed emphasis on the last word. “That is, until my sources produced some more recent information. I don’t like dealing with people with such… close ties to the FBI. It makes me rather uncomfortable, you understand.”
He toyed briefly with the idea of trying to convince Federico that he was just playing the FBI, that he has plenty of his own deals going on the side, that this had nothing whatever to do with them. Federico’s expression convinced him that wasn’t going to cut it.
“Shame,” he said with a light sigh.
“It is, isn’t it?”
“So what now?”
“Now… I suppose I’ll have to deal with you. Can’t have people thinking I just let things like this go. It’s bad for business.”
Okay, Peter, now would be a good time to get me out of here. Just in case it wasn’t obvious that the situation was headed downhill fast, beyond hope for repair - time to toss out that code phrase.
“I don’t suppose we have time to discuss this over drinks?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Federico reached under his suit jacket to pull out a gun. His men followed suit, shifting their weapons to cover Neal. He edged back half a step, raising his hands. Unwilling to take his eyes off the people holding guns on him, he tried to subtly scan the area for cover he might be able to dive for, or maybe a conveniently open path to a nearby exit. The room had three possible ways out, after all - two openings in the sheet metal dividing this section from the main warehouse, and one maybe-unlocked, maybe-not door in an outside wall. He found little that looked encouraging in any of the possibilities. He wasn’t quite close enough for any of them to do him much good.
“No! You were just supposed to - beat him up or something! You can’t kill him!”
And just like that the situation took a turn from cliché-yet-scary to utterly-bizarre-yet-scary. All attention turned to the unfamiliar new player in their little drama. And - what? Was that the guy who’d spilled coffee on him yesterday, pointing a gun at Federico? Federico’s men turned their guns onto the intruder. Federico himself, unfortunately, kept his gun on Neal, shifting to the side so that he could keep both Neal and the newcomer in sight.
“Who are you?”
“You can’t kill him,” the man repeated, radiating intensity.
Federico shook his head with a disbelieving laugh. “Alright then, why can’t I kill him?”
“Because I’m going to kill him, if he doesn’t get sent back to jail.”
“And, what, you’re not happy to see someone else doing your work for you?”
“No. I’ve been working on this for weeks. You’re not going to take him from me!”
Seriously, was the man actually whining? Federico was intrigued - and amused - enough that the muzzle of his gun had drifted downward, his attention shifting away from Neal and onto the crazy guy. Neal slid one foot, experimentally inching to the side, wondering if they were sufficiently distracted that he could…
Both Federico and Crazy Guy turned, their guns pointing at him.
“Don’t move,” Federico said firmly. “I’m not done with you yet.”
Neal froze, once more raising his hands in surrender.
“May I just point out that I have no idea what’s going on, here?” he asked.
He was frustrated, and scared, and frustrated that he was scared, and he wished Peter and his agents would just hurry up and come save the day already. Then he realized that, even if they were just outside the door, they might be hesitating to actually come bursting in, lest their entrance prove the spark to set off this little powder keg, and a firefight break out. Great.
Federico raised an eyebrow at the crazy guy. “Want to explain yourself? Let’s start slow - your name?”
“George Campbell.”
Neal thought it should trigger some recognition, but… nope. He was coming up blank. It was a common enough name, anyhow.
“And just why is it so important that you get Caffrey, George?” Federico asked with exaggerated patience. “He kill someone you like? Steal your girlfriend? What?”
“He got my brother put in jail!”
Okay… there was a vague stirring of familiarity with the last name, now. But he still couldn’t place it.
“Ah.” Federico nodded sympathetically. “Yes, I can see how that would annoy you. So you decided to avenge your dear brother by making sure the person responsible shared either his fate or a worse one?”
“What was I supposed to do?”
Campbell started to gesture helplessly, then remembered he was holding a gun, grasping it firmly again. He seemed to waver in indecision between pointing it at Federico and Neal. He settled on Neal. Naturally.
“Well, in your place I’d have made taking over the family business a priority while the competition’s away,” Federico said drily. “But that’s just me.”
“I tried that,” Campbell muttered, sounding resentful. “It didn’t work.”
Neal wasn’t surprised by that, actually.
Federico laughed. “Tough luck for you. And unfortunately, it’s going to get worse. Much as I’d like to oblige you, just leaving a loose end like Caffrey here tends to send the wrong message.”
“No, you can’t.” Campbell was all but vibrating in distress at seeing his plan spinning out of control.
“I can, actually. If I need to have my men take care of you as well, I will.”
And then… things pretty much devolved into a shouting match. Campbell shouting at Federico, Federico’s men shouting at Campbell when he advanced a step on their employer and turned his gun toward him, Federico himself getting thoroughly fed up with the whole situation…. Neal was starting to feel quite left out as the only person in the room with neither a gun nor a say in what happened - not that he actually wanted the former, but it’d be kinda nice not to have things quite so weighted against him. He was just contemplating making a run for it while everyone was distracted when some very welcome new voices joined in the shouting, accompanied by equally welcome guns as backup.
“FBI! Put the weapons down! We have you surrounded!”
Neal wasn’t sure who actually shot him. It could as easily have been Campbell, or Federico, or one of his men. He was pretty sure it wasn’t anyone from the FBI. The agents Peter worked with weren’t usually that trigger-happy.
All he knew was that one minute he was moving away from the action, trying to stay out of the way until the agents had things under control… and the next he was flat on his back, feeling like someone had punched him in the shoulder.
It was his head that hurt the most, at first, where it had made contact with the pavement when he went down. It ached, and for a confused moment all he could think was that he had tripped, and that was a stupid thing to do. Should’ve looked where he was going… except there’d been guns, and he’d been distracted….
And then Peter was there, right above him, and he was shouting. Somehow that final straw was too much, the ache in his head turning into pounding, in time with his rapid heartbeat, the dull pressure in his left shoulder slowly unfurling fiery tendrils that sent pain shooting outward with every breath he took. He tried to tell Peter to stop yelling, that it was hurting his head, but all he managed was an unintelligible noise of complaint.
Garbled or not, Peter seemed to understand it. He crouched down next to Neal, and when he spoke again his voice was quiet and oddly gentle.
“Neal? You with me?”
Neal nodded, stopping short with a ragged inhale as his body protested the motion. Even parts of his body that had no reason to be complaining seemed to hurt, as if his brain was too overwhelmed to bother localizing pain.
“Got shot…” he murmured.
“Yeah, you did,” Peter agreed.
His voice was grim, but he didn’t look mad. Just like his voice, there was a strangely softened, gentle look to his face. Neal thought it might be concern, which was enough to get him worried. For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to him to be, before. His stomach knotted. He wasn’t sure if the threatening nausea was from fear, or the steadily-growing pain.
“’S it bad?” he asked. He tried to turn his head, to get a look at his shoulder himself. The motion pulled a breathy whimper of pain from him. He clamped his lips together tightly, as if by so doing he could take back the sound.
But Peter had heard. He was leaning forward, one hand out as if to restrain him, but hovering, uncertain.
“Easy,” he said. “Just stay still. No, I don’t think it’s too bad, but we should do something about the bleeding.”
Peter pulled off his suit jacket, folding it in preparation for use to staunch the blood.
“Don’t - y’ll jus’ ruin it,” Neal protested, waving it away with his good hand. “Not bleeding that bad.”
“Yes, you are.” Peter finally gave him a look of very familiar exasperation. “Now quit whining and hold still.”
Reassured, Neal quirked a slight smile at him. Peter must not think he was in real danger - he’d feel too guilty to risk getting mad at a potentially-dying man, otherwise.
It was Jones who halted the second attempt to press the jacket to the injury. He touched Peter’s arm, holding out a - fortunately, clean-looking - towel.
“Here, this’ll probably work better.”
“Thanks.”
Peter took it, then turned to carefully lift Neal’s head, placing the jacket underneath it instead. Neal winced at the movement. It did feel better to have his head off the cold concrete, though.
“All the suspects are secured.” Jones informed them. “Ambulance is on the way. Sounds like they’re about five, ten minutes out.”
“Good.” Peter nodded. He placed the wadded-up towel on Neal’s shoulder - but hesitated momentarily, giving Neal an apologetic look. “Sorry, buddy. This isn’t going to be fun. Try not to fight me - it’ll just make it worse.”
Neal gave him a jerky nod, the nausea of apprehension back full-force. He sucked in a deep breath, holding it in preparation. It didn’t help.
As Peter pressed down, leaning his weight onto the injury, all the air escaped Neal in a startled cry of pain. He was left breathless, back arching, one foot pushing out, sliding uselessly on the concrete as he tried to gain some purchase, tried to breathe.
He couldn’t see beyond the black spots dancing in front of his eyes, but as he finally pulled in a few gasping breaths he could feel hands, holding him down, countering his struggles. He remembered that he wasn’t supposed to fight, even though it hurt - and it did hurt, more than anything else he could think of at that moment - but it was rapidly becoming a moot point anyway, as he ran out of energy. The restraining hands eased up a bit as he stopped, lying flat once more. Peter was still holding relentless pressure on the wound - it must be Jones helping to hold him down.
He didn’t know when he’d squeezed his eyes shut, but now opening them again didn’t seem worth the effort. As he lay limp, breathing hard, he could suddenly hear Peter again, talking. From the sounds of it Neal suspected he’d been keeping up the litany for some time.
“Sorry, Neal. Sorry. I know it hurts… Not much longer, and they’ll be here…”
Peter’s voice was tight with suppressed emotion. He sounded so upset, Neal suspected that he should be the one apologizing, though he wasn’t exactly sure for what. For fighting him, maybe, though he hadn’t meant to… or maybe for not paying more attention to Peter’s worries earlier, not being more careful, not doing… something, to keep from winding up like this - with a bullet in his shoulder, and Peter forced to take care of him.
But he was tired, too tired to figure out what he wanted to apologize for, much less find the right words for it, so he decided he’d have to wait and do it later. Peter would understand.
And then there were new voices, and the pressure on his shoulder eased off suddenly as Peter moved back. It should’ve been a relief, but for some reason he felt strangely bereft instead. Summoning the dregs of his energy, he cracked his eyes open, turning his head, trying to figure out what was wrong.
“Pet’r…?”
The word came out so softly, he didn’t think anyone could have heard it. But then Peter was there again, his hand resting gently on Neal’s good shoulder this time, as he bent close to speak to him.
“It’s okay, Neal. Help’s here. You’re going to be fine.”
He didn’t feel fine, not even a little. But Peter was sounding much more like himself now - calm, and confident, reassuring. Neal decided Peter could handle the situation just fine on his own for now.
When they started to lift him up, shifting him to the side, he let go, giving in to the exhaustion and pain. He was unconscious before they settled him on the gurney.
-0-0-0-0-0-0-
Peter shifted the package to this left hand, rapping softly on the door to Neal’s apartment. No sense in waking Neal if he’d managed to fall asleep. The low-caliber bullet might not have caused extensive damage beyond a broken collar bone, but that didn’t stop it from hurting like crazy. Once the initial exhaustion from being freshly injured and heavily doped up wore off, Peter knew well how hard it could be to get restful sleep with an injury like that. He didn’t have anything to say that couldn’t wait, if needs be.
But - it seemed Neal was not asleep. Somewhat muffled by the intervening wall, Peter heard him call out.
“It’s unlocked - come on in.”
A glance inside didn’t reveal Neal anywhere in sight, so Peter shut the door behind him, looking around the corner to find him lying on the couch. He had a - currently blank - sketchbook propped up against his knee, and was distractedly tapping a pencil against his right leg. Twisting gingerly to see who it was, he gave Peter a welcoming smile.
“Hey Peter!”
“Hey.” Peter grinned back, heading around to where Neal could see him at a more comfortable angle. “How’re you -” he broke off with a startled yelp, barely catching himself on the back of a chair as one foot slid out from under him. “What the…”
Looking down, he found the culprit - a small rubber ball, which had now rolled to a stop against one of the chair’s legs. Bending to grab it, he held it up, raising an eyebrow at Neal. Neal gave him a sheepish look.
“Sorry. Missed catching it earlier, and never got around to getting it back.”
“Bored much?” Peter asked, amused. “Doesn’t look like you’re getting much drawing done, either.”
Neal gave a noncommittal grunt. “Nothing’s coming out right. I’d have given it up if I had any good alternatives.”
“What, there wasn’t anything on TV?”
“At this time of day? If it’s interesting, it’s too complicated to focus on. If I can focus on it, it’s too ridiculous or boring to stand. Tried to read, but it gave me a headache. I’m too tired to get up and do anything, but not tired enough to sleep.”
“So you’re reduced to bouncing a rubber ball off the walls, and staring at an empty sketchbook.”
“Pretty much. Getting shot sucks.”
Peter chuckled. “Y’know, most people could’ve figured that out without feeling the need to try it for themselves.”
Neal gave him a heavy-lidded look of disgust. Shaking his head, Peter pulled a chair closer to the couch and settled into it.
“Okay, not your fault,” he admitted. “And yeah, recovering from getting shot isn’t much more fun than the actual getting shot part. Would it help if I stick around to entertain you for a bit?”
“Maybe.” Neal drew the word out, attempting to fix him with a dubious look, but the corners of his mouth were twitching upward.
“Seriously, though, how’re you holding up?”
“Mostly just… achy, y’know? And tired all the time. Seems to be getting a little better, though.” Neal gave a slight, one-shouldered shrug, then winced, reaching across with his right hand to adjust the sling supporting his left arm.
Tilting his head, Peter studied him critically. Neal wasn’t wearing a shirt - had probably figured it wasn’t worth the pain and struggle of managing it without help, just to hang out alone in the apartment. The bruises over his ribs were fading a bit, turning nasty shades of splotchy green and yellow. Fresher bruising was visible around the edges of the bandage over his left shoulder.
Overall, he looked… yeah, tired, definitely. There was a pinched look to the corners of his eyes that spoke of days of pain that never quite went away, even with pain meds. A little thinner, maybe - Neal was lean, didn’t have extra weight to shed at the best of times, and his body had been under quite a bit of stress the last couple of weeks. The accumulation of minor injuries even before the shooting, two rounds with food poisoning… plenty of reason for him to be a bit run down, physically and mentally. But he was looking better. Alert - and disgruntled, yes, but overall more thoroughly like himself than he’d seemed in a while.
Peter nodded in satisfaction. “You might be able to come in to the office again Monday.”
“You think so?”
“For a bit of desk work at least, if you feel up to it. Considering you were injured in the course of an op - and a very successful one at that - I don’t think anyone’s going to be pushing too hard to get you working again before you’re ready.”
“Oh, I think I’ll be plenty ready to have something to do by then.” Neal smiled wryly. “You said it was successful, though - were you able to get all the pieces back, then?”
“Yep.” Peter grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Most of them were right there in the warehouse. For the rest - we were able to get a couple of locations out of one of Federico’s men. Not only did we get all the artifacts we were hoping for, we picked up a couple other stolen pieces we hadn’t even known he had. Pretty much wrapped up three separate cases in one fell swoop.”
“Nice.” Neal returned the grin with a rather triumphant smirk of his own. “I’m guessing everyone’s in a pretty celebratory mood, then.”
“Everyone but Federico. And Campbell, of course. Ballistics say he was the one who shot you, by the way.”
“Ah.” Neal’s entire demeanor shifted. Tentatively, as if not sure he wanted the answer, he asked. “Has he… said anything?”
“Said anything?” Peter snorted. “We’ve hardly gotten him to shut up. Seems he’s been storing up quite a lot of hard feelings toward you.”
“Do you know why, exactly?”
Oh yes, Neal was nervous. Probably wracking his mind, trying to figure out if the guy was connected with one of his past escapades, and whether anything Campbell could say was likely to incriminate him. Peter decided not to hold him in suspense. The guy had earned a bit of mercy, after all.
“Yeah, I do know why. Turns out that part of things wasn’t your fault either. You remember the John Campbell case - with the series of attempted bank robberies?”
“One of the first cases I worked on with you, wasn’t it? Not exactly a challenge.” Neal’s expression reflected his distaste. “The guy was an idiot.”
“He was.” Peter agreed. And he’d been a violent idiot, right at the end. His criminal career might’ve been short-lived, but it’d been enough to send him to jail for quite some time.
“And George Campbell is his brother?”
“Yep. Apparently it runs in the family - both the crime and the… lack of intelligence. He decided it wasn’t fair that his brother only committed one crime -”
“ - if you discount the whole trying-to-kill-the-agents-chasing-him thing,” Neal put in.
“ - if you discount that, yes - and wound up with such a long sentence, where you have committed all kinds of crimes -
“ - allegedly committed non-violent crimes - ”
“ - yes. Allegedly committed. And yet here you are, serving out the rest of your sentence in relative freedom and comfort, while helping to put the likes of Campbell in prison.”
“An occupation that’s seeming more worthwhile all the time,” Neal muttered. “Though I’d debate the whole comfort thing at the moment.”
“Apparently he sees it as some kind of betrayal of your own kind.” Peter smirked at Neal’s look of disgust at being placed in the same class as them. “Anyway, the idea was that getting you put back in jail would be a more… poetic form of revenge, but he was willing to settle for shooting you if that didn’t work out.”
“And he thought that a few bad incidents and two cryptic notes was going to accomplish that?”
“The theory was that if he managed to scare you, made your life miserable enough, you might just decide that it wasn’t worth it, and jail was the safer option.”
“Because I’ve always been one to go for the safe, predictable route.” Neal scoffed. “Everyone knows how much I hate risk.”
“Yeah, well. His brother was the better planner of the two, and we saw how that worked out.” Peter shrugged. “In his defense - sort of - the letters, at least, weren’t supposed to be quite that cryptic. He claims he wrote up some real masterpieces, and I gather the first few were much clearer, and more reasonable, before he got frustrated by the lack of reaction to them. He was paying some neighbor kid to deliver them, up until the kid went on vacation last week.”
“I’m guessing he wasn’t real happy to hear that we never got the letters.”
“Not at all.” Peter pursed his lips. “Although he seemed to think that meant there was still hope for his case, if he could just make me understand why it was such a bad idea to let you out of jail. You’re quite the threat to society, you know.”
“So I’ve heard.” Neal gave him a sidelong look. “I take it he didn’t convince you.”
“Oh, I already know exactly what a bad idea it was. I could’ve even pointed out a few very compelling reasons he overlooked.” Neal had assumed such an expression of wounded innocence by that point, Peter couldn’t refrain from laughing, conceding, “But, I also know just what a good idea it’s been. On the whole, the balance comes out in your favor. So far.”
He fixed Neal with a warning look - which was probably undermined by the fact that he was still smiling. Neal leaned his head back against the couch arm to stare at the ceiling.
“Or you’d have sent me back to prison already, I know.” He gave a longsuffering sigh.
“Or,” Peter corrected, “my wife would not be coming over in a couple of hours to bring you dinner.”
“What?” Neal turned his head too quickly - and paid for it, if the wince and hiss of pain were any indication. But he was too intent to be sidetracked. “El’s coming?”
“Well, we figured you could use a little distraction. Thought about inviting you to our place for dinner, but I wasn’t sure you’d be up for the trip yet. So,” he shrugged, “if you want the company, we’ll just bring it here instead.”
Neal smiled. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”
“Alright then. Five o’clock good?”
“Mm.” Neal stifled a yawn, nodding. “Gives me time to catch a nap before then.”
“That a hint? My presence isn’t exciting enough to keep you awake?” he asked, with good-natured amusement.
Neal’s chuckled. Then, gesturing toward the large manila envelope Peter held, he asked, “Did you bring me homework, or a bedtime story?”
“Oh,” Peter started, holding the package out to Neal. “Neither - it’s more fan mail.”
Neal, who’d taken the envelope eagerly enough, froze in the act of opening it, looking as if he half expected the thing to bite him.
“Relax,” Peter said. “It’s the good kind this time.”
Thus reassured, Neal emptied the contents onto his lap, flipping through the notes to get the gist of the content. Peter had seen enough earlier to have a pretty good idea - it was a collection of “get well soon” notes, some on actual cards, some on sheets of paper. Mostly from FBI employees - everyone from agents to receptionists and, he was pretty sure, at least one of the building’s janitors, and a couple employees from the closest coffee shop. Yeah, Neal was a popular guy.
Peter had expected a little more gloating, somehow. But when Neal turned back to him his expression, while happy, had more wistfulness than triumph to it.
“Thanks, Peter,” he said simply.
“No problem.” Rising, he patted Neal’s knee, adding, “Don’t forget to get some rest. I’ll be back with El around five.”
“Mmhmm.”
Neal nodded, absently, but when Peter glanced back on his way to the door he’d already turned back to the first card in the stack, reading through them more slowly now. Peter was fairly sure it’d be some time before he actually got around to sleeping. He smiled.
“Oh, and Caffrey?”
Neal looked up.
“Put a shirt on before my wife gets here, huh?”
Neal just laughed.
The End
--------
Y'know, I'm noticing a funny trend. Each of my stories, regardless of how short and simple I expect it to be, is longer than the previous one. I thought this would come out at about 5,000 words. Pfft - try 12,500. Yes, this is what happens when I'm deliberately trying to write something short and fast. *headdesk*