Fic: Up Against the Wall [1/1]
Oh my god how long has it been since I posted writing? Here's something small to get me back into the swing of things. I'm delving into White Collar fic because I enjoy Neal Caffrey's brain and everything that comes with it. Super thanks to sweetsyren for the beta job <3
up against the wall
white collar - gen
~5,130 words, PG
*set somewhere between 2x11 and 2x16, contains character spoilers.
Before Neal dies, he thinks of Peter and how the last words the two exchanged were a plea and a condemnation. He thinks of Mozzie and Sara and Diana and Jones and how just when he’s starting to feel like he has a place somewhere, it’s all going to end. Lastly, he thinks of Kate. Neal’s never really believed in the afterlife, but as he closes his eyes he finds himself smiling at the thought of seeing her again.
-
“I didn’t do it, Peter!”
A sharp tug of his shoulder cuts Neal off and he turns his head to glare at Diana. Neal still remembers the look on the face of the agent who cuffed him the first time he was caught; all smug smiles and hopes for some kind of promotion. Once, the same look might have appeared on Diana’s face in this situation but Neal can’t read anything but disappointment.
“Peter!”
“Just don’t, Neal. You really screwed up this time,” Peter answers, turning his back. Diana clicks the cuffs closed and puts a hand on Neal’s shoulder to ease him into the squad car, probably a little more gently than usual. As the car starts to move Neal stares out the window and shifts a little, trying to ease the strain on his shoulders.
Peter doesn’t look back.
-
It’s not the first time Neal has been suspected of being the thief behind Peter’s current case, but this is the first time Neal thinks Peter truly believes it. The painting had gone missing from the Metropolitan Museum of Art while Neal was off the clock, conveniently around the same time that Neal’s anklet had started malfunctioning. At the time he’d thought nothing of it when the red light went out, and despite Mozzie’s insistence, he stayed put. Looking back, he should have known that something more suspicious was going on.
Now, he’s anklet free but instead fully equipped with an orange jumpsuit and a cell. It’s his old cell again, though whether this is on purpose or not is nothing but a small stroke of amusement in Neal’s mind. There are bigger things to be worrying about - like how he’s going to get out of here and show Peter he wasn’t lying.
When visiting hour rolls around, Neal is marched out of his cell and into the small, bare room expecting to find Moz. Instead he grits his teeth and sits stiffly in his chair when he sees one of Adler’s guys standing in front of him.
“He could have just sent flowers,” Neal tries, folding his hands in his lap and searching for anything he could potentially use as a weapon with his peripheral vision.
“Didn’t know which kind were your favourite,” the guy responds, and holds out a hand for Neal to shake. He doesn’t put it down again when Neal hesitates, and eventually he holds up his own in return and shakes the guy’s hand, immediately feeling the little fold of paper. It’s passed from one hand to the other smoothly and Neal sits down again without the slightest change in expression.
“He sends his regards,” is all the guy says, and then he’s leaving and there’s a guard touching Neal’s arm, gesturing for him to stand up so he can be walked back to his cell.
Neal waits until lights out before he unfolds the tiny piece of paper, holding it up close to his eyes and forcing them to make out the letters. What’s written there leaves him feeling intrigued, if not the least bit comforted. For a moment he wonders how Adler is planning on busting him out and what he could possibly want before he remembers that this is Vincent Adler and anything is possible.
-
The blindfold over his eyes is irritating and the cuffs around his wrists chafe, but at least he’s getting used to that. Instead, he focuses on the sounds outside, of the feel of the road and ticks off the time in his head, doing his best to take careful note of where he’s going. At first it’s easy enough - left, right, pause at an intersection and forward for maybe ten minutes, speed bump and then left again - but it’s not long before he realises that the driver has no plan of stopping any time soon.
Another ten minutes later and Neal gives up trying to remember the twists and turns in the road and focuses on the time. At least if he can work out how far away from home he is, he has a better chance. From what he can tell from the sounds in the vehicle, there are two other men with him, excluding the driver. Neither of them is Adler, nor are they voices that he recognises.
The van eventually rolls to a stop and Neal’s blindfold is tugged away. Instantly, he scans his eyes over the inside of the van, taking note of the two burly guys on either side of him. There are scars on the left one’s hands and a gun holstered at his hip. The other one - the one who removed the blindfold - is pointing his own gun straight at Neal, his face unreadable.
“You should know, before this goes any further, that we have someone outside your house. You fuck up, or try to run, and your landlady gets a bullet between the eyes. Are we clear?”
A small lump forms in Neal’s throat at the idea of June being shot because of him, and he gives a small nod. With any luck, Mozzie will be around to call Peter if anything goes wrong at the house, but in reality Neal has no idea if Mozzie is even still in town. It’s only been a few hours since Adler’s guys busted him out of prison, but at least a week since Mozz last visited him behind bars.
“Crystal,” he says, careful not to let his voice betray any of the nerves he’s feeling.
Adler is somewhat of a wildcard. It’s not like Neal hasn’t been in this situation before, but with Keller or Wilkes he knows the playing field. For the most part, he knows their motives and the way they approach things, when he can afford to push and when he should do what he’s told.
With Adler it’s a whole new ball game. There’s no telling what he wants or why except that maybe he still holds enough resentment to make Neal the target.
Roughly, Neal’s blindfold is tugged back on before a hand grabs his arm and pulls him out of the van. It’s an effort not to trip over his own feet without being able to see a thing, but he forces himself to stay upright. It’s a matter of dignity, if nothing else. The sound of a roller door opening suggests a warehouse of some kind; Neal tucks the information away and lets himself be led inside.
“Good to see you, Neal!”
The familiarity of the voice does nothing to put Neal at ease. Instead the muscles in his shoulder tighten but he’s careful enough to keep his face passive.
“I’d say the same, but…” he shrugs a little, and then there’s the scuffling sound of someone moving towards him and his blindfold is removed again. “I was wrong. It’s not.”
The corners of Adler’s lips curve a little in bemusement but he doesn’t say anything. Free from having to concentrate on his former boss, Neal takes the time to concentrate on the warehouse, putting the puzzle together in his head and trying to figure out where he is.
“Did you like the handiwork on the anklet?”
Adler’s voice snaps him out of concentration and he frowns. “Should’ve known. Planning on telling me why?”
“Nostalgia for old friends?” Adler spreads his hands wide and raises his eyebrows, but he doesn’t spend long on the pretence. “I want you to do something for me, Neal. There’s a painting-”
“You can’t steal your own art?” Neal cuts him off and suddenly there’s a gun pointed at his head again. Neal shuts his mouth.
As if nothing happened, Adler continues. “A pair, actually. According to the FBI, you’ve already stolen one.” Casually, he flicks his wrist in the direction of a large crate. On cue, one of his guy’s cracks it open and Neal comes face to face with the painting he was charged with stealing for the first time. It’s not a surprise, not really, but he still feels a tinge of bitter resentment towards Adler when he thinks of the way Peter shook his head and turned his back.
“And you want me to steal the other one. Why? You’re usually more of an embezzlement kind of guy.”
There’s silence as Adler smiles at him, the kind of smile that puts Neal’s teeth on edge. Adler is the kind of criminal he despises. There’s no finesse, no skill. There’s nothing intriguing or beautiful about the way he plans a con. Art has never been his game. There’s something else at stake here, something that the paintings are just a cover for. Something that Adler wants more than what he’s willing to let on.
“You’ll do the job for me, Neal. You already know what’ll happen if you don’t.”
-
“Peter, you’re taking the lead on this one. I want Caffrey back here by sundown.”
Peter nods, hardly paying attention to Hughes as he assigns Diana and Jones to his team as usual. He’s thinking of the theft, of Neal’s tracking anklet, of Neal’s face when Diana cuffed him. If Peter didn’t know that Neal Caffrey was one of the best con artists in the world, he might have believed that Neal was genuinely surprised. As it is, the case fits Neal’s style to a T. It couldn’t be a more perfect fit if Neal had planned it that way. Peter’s spent long enough studying Neal’s methods not to recognise his style when it’s staring him right in the face.
Still, he can’t get the expression on Neal’s face out of his head. The betrayal, the flash of hurt in Neal’s eyes as Peter turned away from him. The pleading in his voice - “I didn’t do it, Peter. Peter!” - is enough to make Peter want to beat his head against a wall. He can’t decide if he’s angry at himself for trusting Neal in the first place or whether he’s angry that he’s willing to believe Neal’s guilt so quickly. Either way, he can’t think straight which is exactly the opposite of what Peter needs right now if he’s going to get to the bottom of this.
In the end he decides to go and see Mozz. If there’s anyone who might know more about Neal than Peter, it’s him, and at this point Peter is ready to try anything. He tells himself it’s for the case, for the Bureau, but in reality he needs some sort of reassurance that Neal didn’t do this. Some hint that he was set up, some confirmation from Mozz that this isn’t Neal’s kind of gig.
Without any idea of where Mozzie lives when he’s alone, Peter heads straight to June’s. Out of the corner of his eye he spots a nondescript car parked across the street. He doesn’t think anything of it. Instead, he knocks on the door and smiles at June when she answers.
“You know he didn’t do this, Peter,” she says as soon as she ushers him inside. Peter wants to believe her, and a large part of him does, but he doesn’t trust himself to say so.
“I was hoping Mozzie might be here,” he says instead, glancing up the staircase in the direction of Neal’s room. June just nods and Peter takes the stairs by himself.
Outside of Neal’s door he hesitates for a moment. When it comes down to it, Peter’s not entirely sure he wants to know what Mozz has to say. It would be so much easier just to believe that Caffrey is guilty and continue his investigation with the sole purpose of finding him and putting him back behind bars. But they've been through too much for that, grown too close.
He opens the door without bothering to knock.
“You don’t have a warrant!” is the first thing Peter hears shouted at him as he enters.
“I’m just here to talk, Mozz.”
“You arrested Neal.” Mozzie says it like more of an accusation than a statement. Like in slapping the cuffs on Neal, he’s betrayed any sort of partnership the three of them had built up over Neal’s time with the FBI.
“His prints were all over the scene. It’s Neal’s kind of job and he has no alibi. Yeah, we arrested him.”
“Like your prints have never been planted, suit.”
Peter takes the blow graciously. He’s gone down this road already, wondering how possible it is that evidence was falsified, that Neal was set up. But then he thinks of the last time Neal was accused of a heist under his watch and how adamantly Neal had tried to get his name cleared. Then, it was Peter he came to when he needed help, despite everything. Had Neal come to him and asked for help clearing his name this time, Peter probably would have listened.
As it is, he has a missing painting and a busted cell with Neal’s name on it. Peter hasn’t heard a word from him since the moment he was read his rights.
“Mozzie, if you know something…”
For the first time, Mozz sighs and lets his guard down a little. In a few shuffled steps, he’s at the bookcase, picking up the empty Bordeaux bottle and tossing it lightly into Peter’s waiting hands.
“If he was going to run, he wouldn’t have gone without that.”
Peter runs his fingers over the bottle and knows that Mozzie is right.
“I’m going to bring him home,” Peter promises, and takes the bottle with him when he leaves.
-
The difference between Neal and Vincent Adler is that Adler will never understand art like Neal does. He’s an expert at appraising art, determining how much monetary worth it has and finding the right fence, the right buyer. Adler knows how to make money from art. But Neal understands it. He paints his forgeries with the utmost care and precision not only to ensure it stands a good chance of fooling people, but because it would be disrespectful to give it anything less.
Adler isn’t the sort of criminal that Neal likes working with. He’s too willing to sacrifice, too reliant on using brutality to get what he wants instead of good old fashioned talent. For Neal it’s about the skill, the thought and care that go into planning a con, making sure everything is accounted for before he goes in for the score.
The second Adler points a gun at him - before that, really - Neal knows this isn’t a con he’s going to enjoy. He doesn’t even know which museum they’re at. The windows are tinted from the inside and out, and he can’t see a thing when he tries to look out.
“Ready, Neal?”
“Ready as I can be without knowing where I am or what I’m doing.” Neal throws him a smile and doesn’t receive one in return.
“Not to worry. You go in, you get the painting, and you get out. Then you get back here and hand it over. You run before, or with the painting, and I kill June. Straightforward, no?”
Neal nods his acquiescence. Figuring out why Adler doesn’t just steal the painting himself like the first one takes a minute longer, but he gets there in the end.
“You didn’t say anything about security. You want my face on the cameras, my mark on the scene, right? I’m supposed to make it obvious it was me, my style.”
“Always a fast learner.”
Something about the whole situation still doesn’t sit entirely right with Neal. He can’t get his head around the idea that Adler would bust him out of jail just to frame Neal for the theft of some pieces that aren’t even high on anyone’s radar. It’s a whole lot of bother for very little profit and Neal’s sure there’s something more to it, but he doesn’t have time to dwell.
“Twenty minutes. You’re in, you’re out. Go.”
Neal doesn’t need to be told twice.
-
“Something is really off about this, El.”
Peter bites into his sandwich with probably a little more force than necessary while Elizabeth sips at her coffee and watches him over the rim of her mug. It’s her favourite, the “My <3 Belongs to an FBI Agent”* one that Peter had bought as a joke two Christmases ago. Back when he was chasing Neal and spending every waking minute trying to guess his whereabouts, his motivations. Two years later and Peter thinks not much has changed.
“Mozz doesn’t think he did it either?”
Peter still doesn’t quite know how he feels about his wife being on nickname basis with felons, but it’s hardly the time to bring it up. Instead, he slides the Bordeaux bottle across the table.
“This is his proof. He says Neal wouldn’t have run without it.”
El eyes the bottle for a long moment before she pats Peter’s knee and stands up, taking her now empty mug into the kitchen.
“Well then he’s probably in trouble,” she calls out, stashing the mug in the sink and coming back to lean against the kitchen doorframe. “And you should bring him home.”
-
When the security footage comes in, Peter can hardly believe it. It’s sloppy work. So sloppy that it practically confirms any doubts Peter had about this entire case.
“There’s no way Caffrey’s that careless,” Jones mutters from behind him and Peter nods. Neal’s face is all over the security tapes, going as far as to look directly at the camera at one point. Peter’s seen enough of Neal’s work to know that he doesn’t leave himself open like this. Neal might be cocky, but never enough that he doesn’t care if he’s spotted. There’s a reason Neal is so fond of the word ‘alleged’, Peter thinks with a wry smile. They may have caught him on the bond forgery, but essentially, there’s nothing concrete tying him to everything else they had on him. Neal is smart.
Finally, Peter has something substantial to prove to himself that this isn’t Neal Caffrey working of his own free will. There’s something else at hand, and Peter is going to find out what.
“Maybe he’s been out of the game too long,” suggests Jones.
Peter thinks of the music box, of the Young Girl With Locket painting, of Franklin’s bottle. “Neal’s never out of the game. Play it again but slow it down.”
Jones does so and Peter leans forward over his shoulder to get a better look. The first time, he doesn’t catch anything more on the tape, but on the third viewing, he sees it. The way Neal looks at the camera is so purposeful and obvious that it’s like he wants whoever’s watching to know that it’s him (wants Peter to know it’s him) - and then he sees it. So subtly that Peter’s not surprised the museum’s security missed it, he sees Neal’s foot start tapping at odd intervals.
Peter’s lips twist into a wry smile and he claps Jones on the shoulder. “He always did like morse code.”
-
It takes Peter a minute to find someone more well-versed in morse code than himself, and from there it’s easy.
A-D-L-E-R
-
Elizabeth is in the middle of lunch with an important client when her cell rings shrilly from her handbag. Excusing herself, she fishes it out quickly and upon seeing Mozzie’s name flash up on the caller ID, turns her cell on silent and drops it back in her bag.
“Sorry about that,” she says with a smile, and is about to pick the conversation back up when her phone beeps adamantly again.
Neal’s in trouble.
For a moment Elizabeth stares at the text trying to decide whether this is Mozzie being overdramatic or not. In the end, she decides it’s not worth the risk.
“I’m so sorry, something’s come up. Could we possibly take a rain check?”
At the briefest nod from her client, Elizabeth is out of her chair and heading for the door, her fingers fast at work punching in Peter’s number.
-
“You went to my wife?”
Mozzie shrugs. “You betrayed Neal.”
Peter rolls his eyes, but they don’t have time for this right now. “Tell me everything you know.”
Elizabeth sets a mug of coffee down in front of each of them before sitting at the dining table with her own, reaching out a hand to rest on top of Peter’s comfortingly. He might not show it, but she knows how worried he is about Neal. If he weren’t, he would have kicked Mozzie out of the house as soon as he walked in.
“I asked around, called in a few favours. Vincent Adler’s back in town and word on the street says he wants Neal’s head.”
“Why bother framing him then?” Peter pauses for only a second before he answers his own question. “Neal turns up dead, probably with the paintings, and the whole case is closed. No one looks too hard at a dead thief and wanted conman. Damn it.”
“Precisely.”
“Tell me you know where he is.”
“One of Adler’s guys might have been spotted at a warehouse on West 13th.”
Without another word, Peter is gone.
-
There’s a sharp pain in his head and his vision is swimming when Neal comes to. His limbs feel like they’ve been filled with lead and it takes all the effort he has to tilt his head up and meet Adler’s eyes. He doesn’t know what they’ve given him, doesn’t know where he is, but he knows he doesn’t like it one bit.
“I can’t wait to take you down,” he groans, attempting to lift his hands and finding them cuffed. Sometimes he thinks he spends more time in cuffs than out of them.
“Unfortunately Neal, you’re not going to get a chance.” Adler pats Neal’s cheek lightly and smiles. “He’s all yours,” he says to the two guys Neal recognises as being the ones who brought him to Adler in the first place.
“So you guys rough me up a bit, throw in a little Taunting 101 and show each other how macho you are? Nice gig. It’s like a dance.”
“Save the bravado, Neal. It’s no good to you here.” Adler turns on his heel and walks away, and Neal almost finds himself feeling sorry to see him go. At the very least, Adler is a familiar face, something he recognises and can try to anticipate. The dark of the warehouse and the two men looming over him are the unknown, unpredictable.
Still, he grins up at them, refuses to give them the satisfaction of seeing him worry. “I was starting to think he’d never give us some privacy.”
He’s prepared for the first punch but the second sends him reeling.
-
On Mozzie’s direction, Peter finds himself standing outside of Samson’s Mini Storage on West 13th, his gun steady in his hand. He knows he should be waiting for backup - he put in the call on his way - but he thinks of Adler and how much he wants Neal dead and decides that he can’t wait. His foot connects with the door with as much force as he can muster and falls to the ground with a crash.
“Hope you weren’t planning on going in there alone,” he hears Diana’s voice say from behind him, and turns to find her and Jones with their own weapons cocked at the ready.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, and lets them follow him into the building.
The first thing Peter notices is the smell of blood. Peter’s never been the most comfortable around blood - part of why he joined the white collar division - but he forces himself to keep walking anyway. His footsteps echo off the walls, the sounds of the rest of his team not far behind him.
“There’s a door,” he hears Jones say, and looks to where he’s pointing. It’s tucked away in the far corner of the warehouse, barely distinguishable in the darkness.
“Everyone keep on your guard,” Peter tells them, holding his own gun a little tighter as he inches towards the door.
“We've got your back, boss,” Diana says.
Peter reaches for the doorknob and twists.
It’s almost pitch black in the next room, the only light a sliver on the floor where Peter just opened the door. Here, the smell of blood is even stronger, enough that he can almost taste it in the back of his throat, flooding his senses. He doesn’t want to think of Neal in this place, doesn’t want to think of what could have happened to him to end up here. The fact is that if Neal isn’t here, Peter doesn’t know where to look. Here, his trail goes dead. For the hundredth time, he prays that Mozzie’s sources know what they’re talking about.
The truth of it is that if Neal’s trail does go cold, Peter will blame himself. He can still hear Neal’s voice in his head, swearing his own innocence. He tries to tell himself that Neal is a world class conman and it was entirely reasonable of him to doubt, but when it gets right down to it, Neal asked for help and Peter turned him away. In all the time that Neal’s been working with the FBI, Peter can count the amount of times that Neal has asked him for help on one hand.
“Boss!”
Diana’s voice rings out from further into the darkness and Peter heads toward it instantly, gun raised firmly.
“Jesus Christ,” he hears Jones mutter and Peter immediately picks up the pace, his eyes adjusting to the dark enough to make out the outline of Jones, Diana crouched on the floor just in front of him.
“What is it?”
Diana turns to look up at him and the slight shift in her body reveals another figure sprawled on the ground by her feet.
“Is that-”
There’s blood coating Diana’s shoes. That’s what strikes Peter as he strides closer, eyes intently focussed on the man on the floor.
“Caffrey.” Diana finishes the sentence for him, stowing her gun in her holster. Peter does the same, crouching beside Diana and trying to process everything running through his brain.
There’s so many bruises and cuts adorning the man’s face that it takes Peter a second to confirm that it is Neal Caffrey. Blood is flowing steadily from a head wound that Diana is struggling to staunch with her own jacket, his shirt is missing and his pants, usually so crisply ironed are torn and darkened with blood - from the floor or more wounds underneath the material Peter can’t tell. His breathing is shallow, so shallow at first Peter thinks he’s not breathing at all. The surge of relief he feels when he sees the tiniest, shaking rise and fall of Neal’s chest is short lived. He looks beyond awful, beaten and bludgeoned and left bleeding to death on a fucking warehouse floor, and Peter wants to find Adler and kill him with his own hands. Fuck vengeance versus justice and the right way to do things, he just wants Adler to pay.
“Damn it, Neal…”
“‘eter?”
If Peter hadn’t been staring at Neal’s face, he might have missed it, the word just barely managing to tumble from cracked and cut lips. Diana carefully rests Neal’s head in her lap, pressing the jacket tighter.
“Call an ambulance, Jones,” she says, and in seconds Peter can hear him on the phone to emergency services.
“Don’t try and talk, Neal. You’re going to be fine.” He says the words despite the heavy feeling of dread in his stomach. He can’t stop staring at the ruin of a man in front of him, so utterly devoid of his usual swagger and charm that it’s just wrong. Neal Caffrey may be a criminal, may have been the sole pain in Peter’s ass for the last few years, but he doesn’t deserve this.
It feels like hours of waiting until the ambulance arrives, and every second Peter fears that Neal’s going to die in Diana’s lap without a sound. He’s lost so much blood Peter can hardly believe he managed to live this long, doesn’t even want to think about how long Neal’s been lying there waiting for someone to find him. Every small rise and fall of his chest is a relief until finally the paramedics are bursting through the door and Peter, Jones and Diana are shuffled aside.
Hughes follows hot on the heels of the paramedics, casting Neal a solemn glance as they pile him onto a stretcher and disappear.
“Good work, Burke,” is all he allows time for before he’s gone again and the room is empty, as if they never found Neal at all.
-
For the second time that day, Neal wakes up with no idea of where he is. A quick survey of his surroundings and he decides that it’s a hospital, which is far more welcome than a lonely warehouse with Adler’s men closing in.
Sitting slumped in the chair by his bedside is Peter, his head resting on one arm, asleep. He’s wearing his favourite suit, the one he’s caught Neal in twice, though the jacket is slung over the back of the chair. The symbolism isn’t lost on Neal, but for once he appreciates Peter’s knack for finding him. As if he heard Neal stirring, Peter shifts in his chair and opens his eyes, and for a second there’s silence between them.
“Thank you, Peter,” Neal says finally.
Peter nods and gives the barest hint of a smile, straightening his tie. His shirt is crumpled and Neal wouldn’t be surprised if he slept the night in that chair. He can’t imagine it must have been too comfortable and part of him wonders why, but the larger part of him is just grateful that after everything, Peter stayed.
“I didn’t do it, Peter.”
With a small smile, Peter gets up from his chair, reaching down to pull something out of a bag by his feet. He sets the Bordeaux bottle gently on the small table beside Neal’s bed and places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I know.”
*This is a legit mug you can buy.
up against the wall
white collar - gen
~5,130 words, PG
*set somewhere between 2x11 and 2x16, contains character spoilers.
Before Neal dies, he thinks of Peter and how the last words the two exchanged were a plea and a condemnation. He thinks of Mozzie and Sara and Diana and Jones and how just when he’s starting to feel like he has a place somewhere, it’s all going to end. Lastly, he thinks of Kate. Neal’s never really believed in the afterlife, but as he closes his eyes he finds himself smiling at the thought of seeing her again.
-
“I didn’t do it, Peter!”
A sharp tug of his shoulder cuts Neal off and he turns his head to glare at Diana. Neal still remembers the look on the face of the agent who cuffed him the first time he was caught; all smug smiles and hopes for some kind of promotion. Once, the same look might have appeared on Diana’s face in this situation but Neal can’t read anything but disappointment.
“Peter!”
“Just don’t, Neal. You really screwed up this time,” Peter answers, turning his back. Diana clicks the cuffs closed and puts a hand on Neal’s shoulder to ease him into the squad car, probably a little more gently than usual. As the car starts to move Neal stares out the window and shifts a little, trying to ease the strain on his shoulders.
Peter doesn’t look back.
-
It’s not the first time Neal has been suspected of being the thief behind Peter’s current case, but this is the first time Neal thinks Peter truly believes it. The painting had gone missing from the Metropolitan Museum of Art while Neal was off the clock, conveniently around the same time that Neal’s anklet had started malfunctioning. At the time he’d thought nothing of it when the red light went out, and despite Mozzie’s insistence, he stayed put. Looking back, he should have known that something more suspicious was going on.
Now, he’s anklet free but instead fully equipped with an orange jumpsuit and a cell. It’s his old cell again, though whether this is on purpose or not is nothing but a small stroke of amusement in Neal’s mind. There are bigger things to be worrying about - like how he’s going to get out of here and show Peter he wasn’t lying.
When visiting hour rolls around, Neal is marched out of his cell and into the small, bare room expecting to find Moz. Instead he grits his teeth and sits stiffly in his chair when he sees one of Adler’s guys standing in front of him.
“He could have just sent flowers,” Neal tries, folding his hands in his lap and searching for anything he could potentially use as a weapon with his peripheral vision.
“Didn’t know which kind were your favourite,” the guy responds, and holds out a hand for Neal to shake. He doesn’t put it down again when Neal hesitates, and eventually he holds up his own in return and shakes the guy’s hand, immediately feeling the little fold of paper. It’s passed from one hand to the other smoothly and Neal sits down again without the slightest change in expression.
“He sends his regards,” is all the guy says, and then he’s leaving and there’s a guard touching Neal’s arm, gesturing for him to stand up so he can be walked back to his cell.
Neal waits until lights out before he unfolds the tiny piece of paper, holding it up close to his eyes and forcing them to make out the letters. What’s written there leaves him feeling intrigued, if not the least bit comforted. For a moment he wonders how Adler is planning on busting him out and what he could possibly want before he remembers that this is Vincent Adler and anything is possible.
-
The blindfold over his eyes is irritating and the cuffs around his wrists chafe, but at least he’s getting used to that. Instead, he focuses on the sounds outside, of the feel of the road and ticks off the time in his head, doing his best to take careful note of where he’s going. At first it’s easy enough - left, right, pause at an intersection and forward for maybe ten minutes, speed bump and then left again - but it’s not long before he realises that the driver has no plan of stopping any time soon.
Another ten minutes later and Neal gives up trying to remember the twists and turns in the road and focuses on the time. At least if he can work out how far away from home he is, he has a better chance. From what he can tell from the sounds in the vehicle, there are two other men with him, excluding the driver. Neither of them is Adler, nor are they voices that he recognises.
The van eventually rolls to a stop and Neal’s blindfold is tugged away. Instantly, he scans his eyes over the inside of the van, taking note of the two burly guys on either side of him. There are scars on the left one’s hands and a gun holstered at his hip. The other one - the one who removed the blindfold - is pointing his own gun straight at Neal, his face unreadable.
“You should know, before this goes any further, that we have someone outside your house. You fuck up, or try to run, and your landlady gets a bullet between the eyes. Are we clear?”
A small lump forms in Neal’s throat at the idea of June being shot because of him, and he gives a small nod. With any luck, Mozzie will be around to call Peter if anything goes wrong at the house, but in reality Neal has no idea if Mozzie is even still in town. It’s only been a few hours since Adler’s guys busted him out of prison, but at least a week since Mozz last visited him behind bars.
“Crystal,” he says, careful not to let his voice betray any of the nerves he’s feeling.
Adler is somewhat of a wildcard. It’s not like Neal hasn’t been in this situation before, but with Keller or Wilkes he knows the playing field. For the most part, he knows their motives and the way they approach things, when he can afford to push and when he should do what he’s told.
With Adler it’s a whole new ball game. There’s no telling what he wants or why except that maybe he still holds enough resentment to make Neal the target.
Roughly, Neal’s blindfold is tugged back on before a hand grabs his arm and pulls him out of the van. It’s an effort not to trip over his own feet without being able to see a thing, but he forces himself to stay upright. It’s a matter of dignity, if nothing else. The sound of a roller door opening suggests a warehouse of some kind; Neal tucks the information away and lets himself be led inside.
“Good to see you, Neal!”
The familiarity of the voice does nothing to put Neal at ease. Instead the muscles in his shoulder tighten but he’s careful enough to keep his face passive.
“I’d say the same, but…” he shrugs a little, and then there’s the scuffling sound of someone moving towards him and his blindfold is removed again. “I was wrong. It’s not.”
The corners of Adler’s lips curve a little in bemusement but he doesn’t say anything. Free from having to concentrate on his former boss, Neal takes the time to concentrate on the warehouse, putting the puzzle together in his head and trying to figure out where he is.
“Did you like the handiwork on the anklet?”
Adler’s voice snaps him out of concentration and he frowns. “Should’ve known. Planning on telling me why?”
“Nostalgia for old friends?” Adler spreads his hands wide and raises his eyebrows, but he doesn’t spend long on the pretence. “I want you to do something for me, Neal. There’s a painting-”
“You can’t steal your own art?” Neal cuts him off and suddenly there’s a gun pointed at his head again. Neal shuts his mouth.
As if nothing happened, Adler continues. “A pair, actually. According to the FBI, you’ve already stolen one.” Casually, he flicks his wrist in the direction of a large crate. On cue, one of his guy’s cracks it open and Neal comes face to face with the painting he was charged with stealing for the first time. It’s not a surprise, not really, but he still feels a tinge of bitter resentment towards Adler when he thinks of the way Peter shook his head and turned his back.
“And you want me to steal the other one. Why? You’re usually more of an embezzlement kind of guy.”
There’s silence as Adler smiles at him, the kind of smile that puts Neal’s teeth on edge. Adler is the kind of criminal he despises. There’s no finesse, no skill. There’s nothing intriguing or beautiful about the way he plans a con. Art has never been his game. There’s something else at stake here, something that the paintings are just a cover for. Something that Adler wants more than what he’s willing to let on.
“You’ll do the job for me, Neal. You already know what’ll happen if you don’t.”
-
“Peter, you’re taking the lead on this one. I want Caffrey back here by sundown.”
Peter nods, hardly paying attention to Hughes as he assigns Diana and Jones to his team as usual. He’s thinking of the theft, of Neal’s tracking anklet, of Neal’s face when Diana cuffed him. If Peter didn’t know that Neal Caffrey was one of the best con artists in the world, he might have believed that Neal was genuinely surprised. As it is, the case fits Neal’s style to a T. It couldn’t be a more perfect fit if Neal had planned it that way. Peter’s spent long enough studying Neal’s methods not to recognise his style when it’s staring him right in the face.
Still, he can’t get the expression on Neal’s face out of his head. The betrayal, the flash of hurt in Neal’s eyes as Peter turned away from him. The pleading in his voice - “I didn’t do it, Peter. Peter!” - is enough to make Peter want to beat his head against a wall. He can’t decide if he’s angry at himself for trusting Neal in the first place or whether he’s angry that he’s willing to believe Neal’s guilt so quickly. Either way, he can’t think straight which is exactly the opposite of what Peter needs right now if he’s going to get to the bottom of this.
In the end he decides to go and see Mozz. If there’s anyone who might know more about Neal than Peter, it’s him, and at this point Peter is ready to try anything. He tells himself it’s for the case, for the Bureau, but in reality he needs some sort of reassurance that Neal didn’t do this. Some hint that he was set up, some confirmation from Mozz that this isn’t Neal’s kind of gig.
Without any idea of where Mozzie lives when he’s alone, Peter heads straight to June’s. Out of the corner of his eye he spots a nondescript car parked across the street. He doesn’t think anything of it. Instead, he knocks on the door and smiles at June when she answers.
“You know he didn’t do this, Peter,” she says as soon as she ushers him inside. Peter wants to believe her, and a large part of him does, but he doesn’t trust himself to say so.
“I was hoping Mozzie might be here,” he says instead, glancing up the staircase in the direction of Neal’s room. June just nods and Peter takes the stairs by himself.
Outside of Neal’s door he hesitates for a moment. When it comes down to it, Peter’s not entirely sure he wants to know what Mozz has to say. It would be so much easier just to believe that Caffrey is guilty and continue his investigation with the sole purpose of finding him and putting him back behind bars. But they've been through too much for that, grown too close.
He opens the door without bothering to knock.
“You don’t have a warrant!” is the first thing Peter hears shouted at him as he enters.
“I’m just here to talk, Mozz.”
“You arrested Neal.” Mozzie says it like more of an accusation than a statement. Like in slapping the cuffs on Neal, he’s betrayed any sort of partnership the three of them had built up over Neal’s time with the FBI.
“His prints were all over the scene. It’s Neal’s kind of job and he has no alibi. Yeah, we arrested him.”
“Like your prints have never been planted, suit.”
Peter takes the blow graciously. He’s gone down this road already, wondering how possible it is that evidence was falsified, that Neal was set up. But then he thinks of the last time Neal was accused of a heist under his watch and how adamantly Neal had tried to get his name cleared. Then, it was Peter he came to when he needed help, despite everything. Had Neal come to him and asked for help clearing his name this time, Peter probably would have listened.
As it is, he has a missing painting and a busted cell with Neal’s name on it. Peter hasn’t heard a word from him since the moment he was read his rights.
“Mozzie, if you know something…”
For the first time, Mozz sighs and lets his guard down a little. In a few shuffled steps, he’s at the bookcase, picking up the empty Bordeaux bottle and tossing it lightly into Peter’s waiting hands.
“If he was going to run, he wouldn’t have gone without that.”
Peter runs his fingers over the bottle and knows that Mozzie is right.
“I’m going to bring him home,” Peter promises, and takes the bottle with him when he leaves.
-
The difference between Neal and Vincent Adler is that Adler will never understand art like Neal does. He’s an expert at appraising art, determining how much monetary worth it has and finding the right fence, the right buyer. Adler knows how to make money from art. But Neal understands it. He paints his forgeries with the utmost care and precision not only to ensure it stands a good chance of fooling people, but because it would be disrespectful to give it anything less.
Adler isn’t the sort of criminal that Neal likes working with. He’s too willing to sacrifice, too reliant on using brutality to get what he wants instead of good old fashioned talent. For Neal it’s about the skill, the thought and care that go into planning a con, making sure everything is accounted for before he goes in for the score.
The second Adler points a gun at him - before that, really - Neal knows this isn’t a con he’s going to enjoy. He doesn’t even know which museum they’re at. The windows are tinted from the inside and out, and he can’t see a thing when he tries to look out.
“Ready, Neal?”
“Ready as I can be without knowing where I am or what I’m doing.” Neal throws him a smile and doesn’t receive one in return.
“Not to worry. You go in, you get the painting, and you get out. Then you get back here and hand it over. You run before, or with the painting, and I kill June. Straightforward, no?”
Neal nods his acquiescence. Figuring out why Adler doesn’t just steal the painting himself like the first one takes a minute longer, but he gets there in the end.
“You didn’t say anything about security. You want my face on the cameras, my mark on the scene, right? I’m supposed to make it obvious it was me, my style.”
“Always a fast learner.”
Something about the whole situation still doesn’t sit entirely right with Neal. He can’t get his head around the idea that Adler would bust him out of jail just to frame Neal for the theft of some pieces that aren’t even high on anyone’s radar. It’s a whole lot of bother for very little profit and Neal’s sure there’s something more to it, but he doesn’t have time to dwell.
“Twenty minutes. You’re in, you’re out. Go.”
Neal doesn’t need to be told twice.
-
“Something is really off about this, El.”
Peter bites into his sandwich with probably a little more force than necessary while Elizabeth sips at her coffee and watches him over the rim of her mug. It’s her favourite, the “My <3 Belongs to an FBI Agent”* one that Peter had bought as a joke two Christmases ago. Back when he was chasing Neal and spending every waking minute trying to guess his whereabouts, his motivations. Two years later and Peter thinks not much has changed.
“Mozz doesn’t think he did it either?”
Peter still doesn’t quite know how he feels about his wife being on nickname basis with felons, but it’s hardly the time to bring it up. Instead, he slides the Bordeaux bottle across the table.
“This is his proof. He says Neal wouldn’t have run without it.”
El eyes the bottle for a long moment before she pats Peter’s knee and stands up, taking her now empty mug into the kitchen.
“Well then he’s probably in trouble,” she calls out, stashing the mug in the sink and coming back to lean against the kitchen doorframe. “And you should bring him home.”
-
When the security footage comes in, Peter can hardly believe it. It’s sloppy work. So sloppy that it practically confirms any doubts Peter had about this entire case.
“There’s no way Caffrey’s that careless,” Jones mutters from behind him and Peter nods. Neal’s face is all over the security tapes, going as far as to look directly at the camera at one point. Peter’s seen enough of Neal’s work to know that he doesn’t leave himself open like this. Neal might be cocky, but never enough that he doesn’t care if he’s spotted. There’s a reason Neal is so fond of the word ‘alleged’, Peter thinks with a wry smile. They may have caught him on the bond forgery, but essentially, there’s nothing concrete tying him to everything else they had on him. Neal is smart.
Finally, Peter has something substantial to prove to himself that this isn’t Neal Caffrey working of his own free will. There’s something else at hand, and Peter is going to find out what.
“Maybe he’s been out of the game too long,” suggests Jones.
Peter thinks of the music box, of the Young Girl With Locket painting, of Franklin’s bottle. “Neal’s never out of the game. Play it again but slow it down.”
Jones does so and Peter leans forward over his shoulder to get a better look. The first time, he doesn’t catch anything more on the tape, but on the third viewing, he sees it. The way Neal looks at the camera is so purposeful and obvious that it’s like he wants whoever’s watching to know that it’s him (wants Peter to know it’s him) - and then he sees it. So subtly that Peter’s not surprised the museum’s security missed it, he sees Neal’s foot start tapping at odd intervals.
Peter’s lips twist into a wry smile and he claps Jones on the shoulder. “He always did like morse code.”
-
It takes Peter a minute to find someone more well-versed in morse code than himself, and from there it’s easy.
A-D-L-E-R
-
Elizabeth is in the middle of lunch with an important client when her cell rings shrilly from her handbag. Excusing herself, she fishes it out quickly and upon seeing Mozzie’s name flash up on the caller ID, turns her cell on silent and drops it back in her bag.
“Sorry about that,” she says with a smile, and is about to pick the conversation back up when her phone beeps adamantly again.
Neal’s in trouble.
For a moment Elizabeth stares at the text trying to decide whether this is Mozzie being overdramatic or not. In the end, she decides it’s not worth the risk.
“I’m so sorry, something’s come up. Could we possibly take a rain check?”
At the briefest nod from her client, Elizabeth is out of her chair and heading for the door, her fingers fast at work punching in Peter’s number.
-
“You went to my wife?”
Mozzie shrugs. “You betrayed Neal.”
Peter rolls his eyes, but they don’t have time for this right now. “Tell me everything you know.”
Elizabeth sets a mug of coffee down in front of each of them before sitting at the dining table with her own, reaching out a hand to rest on top of Peter’s comfortingly. He might not show it, but she knows how worried he is about Neal. If he weren’t, he would have kicked Mozzie out of the house as soon as he walked in.
“I asked around, called in a few favours. Vincent Adler’s back in town and word on the street says he wants Neal’s head.”
“Why bother framing him then?” Peter pauses for only a second before he answers his own question. “Neal turns up dead, probably with the paintings, and the whole case is closed. No one looks too hard at a dead thief and wanted conman. Damn it.”
“Precisely.”
“Tell me you know where he is.”
“One of Adler’s guys might have been spotted at a warehouse on West 13th.”
Without another word, Peter is gone.
-
There’s a sharp pain in his head and his vision is swimming when Neal comes to. His limbs feel like they’ve been filled with lead and it takes all the effort he has to tilt his head up and meet Adler’s eyes. He doesn’t know what they’ve given him, doesn’t know where he is, but he knows he doesn’t like it one bit.
“I can’t wait to take you down,” he groans, attempting to lift his hands and finding them cuffed. Sometimes he thinks he spends more time in cuffs than out of them.
“Unfortunately Neal, you’re not going to get a chance.” Adler pats Neal’s cheek lightly and smiles. “He’s all yours,” he says to the two guys Neal recognises as being the ones who brought him to Adler in the first place.
“So you guys rough me up a bit, throw in a little Taunting 101 and show each other how macho you are? Nice gig. It’s like a dance.”
“Save the bravado, Neal. It’s no good to you here.” Adler turns on his heel and walks away, and Neal almost finds himself feeling sorry to see him go. At the very least, Adler is a familiar face, something he recognises and can try to anticipate. The dark of the warehouse and the two men looming over him are the unknown, unpredictable.
Still, he grins up at them, refuses to give them the satisfaction of seeing him worry. “I was starting to think he’d never give us some privacy.”
He’s prepared for the first punch but the second sends him reeling.
-
On Mozzie’s direction, Peter finds himself standing outside of Samson’s Mini Storage on West 13th, his gun steady in his hand. He knows he should be waiting for backup - he put in the call on his way - but he thinks of Adler and how much he wants Neal dead and decides that he can’t wait. His foot connects with the door with as much force as he can muster and falls to the ground with a crash.
“Hope you weren’t planning on going in there alone,” he hears Diana’s voice say from behind him, and turns to find her and Jones with their own weapons cocked at the ready.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, and lets them follow him into the building.
The first thing Peter notices is the smell of blood. Peter’s never been the most comfortable around blood - part of why he joined the white collar division - but he forces himself to keep walking anyway. His footsteps echo off the walls, the sounds of the rest of his team not far behind him.
“There’s a door,” he hears Jones say, and looks to where he’s pointing. It’s tucked away in the far corner of the warehouse, barely distinguishable in the darkness.
“Everyone keep on your guard,” Peter tells them, holding his own gun a little tighter as he inches towards the door.
“We've got your back, boss,” Diana says.
Peter reaches for the doorknob and twists.
It’s almost pitch black in the next room, the only light a sliver on the floor where Peter just opened the door. Here, the smell of blood is even stronger, enough that he can almost taste it in the back of his throat, flooding his senses. He doesn’t want to think of Neal in this place, doesn’t want to think of what could have happened to him to end up here. The fact is that if Neal isn’t here, Peter doesn’t know where to look. Here, his trail goes dead. For the hundredth time, he prays that Mozzie’s sources know what they’re talking about.
The truth of it is that if Neal’s trail does go cold, Peter will blame himself. He can still hear Neal’s voice in his head, swearing his own innocence. He tries to tell himself that Neal is a world class conman and it was entirely reasonable of him to doubt, but when it gets right down to it, Neal asked for help and Peter turned him away. In all the time that Neal’s been working with the FBI, Peter can count the amount of times that Neal has asked him for help on one hand.
“Boss!”
Diana’s voice rings out from further into the darkness and Peter heads toward it instantly, gun raised firmly.
“Jesus Christ,” he hears Jones mutter and Peter immediately picks up the pace, his eyes adjusting to the dark enough to make out the outline of Jones, Diana crouched on the floor just in front of him.
“What is it?”
Diana turns to look up at him and the slight shift in her body reveals another figure sprawled on the ground by her feet.
“Is that-”
There’s blood coating Diana’s shoes. That’s what strikes Peter as he strides closer, eyes intently focussed on the man on the floor.
“Caffrey.” Diana finishes the sentence for him, stowing her gun in her holster. Peter does the same, crouching beside Diana and trying to process everything running through his brain.
There’s so many bruises and cuts adorning the man’s face that it takes Peter a second to confirm that it is Neal Caffrey. Blood is flowing steadily from a head wound that Diana is struggling to staunch with her own jacket, his shirt is missing and his pants, usually so crisply ironed are torn and darkened with blood - from the floor or more wounds underneath the material Peter can’t tell. His breathing is shallow, so shallow at first Peter thinks he’s not breathing at all. The surge of relief he feels when he sees the tiniest, shaking rise and fall of Neal’s chest is short lived. He looks beyond awful, beaten and bludgeoned and left bleeding to death on a fucking warehouse floor, and Peter wants to find Adler and kill him with his own hands. Fuck vengeance versus justice and the right way to do things, he just wants Adler to pay.
“Damn it, Neal…”
“‘eter?”
If Peter hadn’t been staring at Neal’s face, he might have missed it, the word just barely managing to tumble from cracked and cut lips. Diana carefully rests Neal’s head in her lap, pressing the jacket tighter.
“Call an ambulance, Jones,” she says, and in seconds Peter can hear him on the phone to emergency services.
“Don’t try and talk, Neal. You’re going to be fine.” He says the words despite the heavy feeling of dread in his stomach. He can’t stop staring at the ruin of a man in front of him, so utterly devoid of his usual swagger and charm that it’s just wrong. Neal Caffrey may be a criminal, may have been the sole pain in Peter’s ass for the last few years, but he doesn’t deserve this.
It feels like hours of waiting until the ambulance arrives, and every second Peter fears that Neal’s going to die in Diana’s lap without a sound. He’s lost so much blood Peter can hardly believe he managed to live this long, doesn’t even want to think about how long Neal’s been lying there waiting for someone to find him. Every small rise and fall of his chest is a relief until finally the paramedics are bursting through the door and Peter, Jones and Diana are shuffled aside.
Hughes follows hot on the heels of the paramedics, casting Neal a solemn glance as they pile him onto a stretcher and disappear.
“Good work, Burke,” is all he allows time for before he’s gone again and the room is empty, as if they never found Neal at all.
-
For the second time that day, Neal wakes up with no idea of where he is. A quick survey of his surroundings and he decides that it’s a hospital, which is far more welcome than a lonely warehouse with Adler’s men closing in.
Sitting slumped in the chair by his bedside is Peter, his head resting on one arm, asleep. He’s wearing his favourite suit, the one he’s caught Neal in twice, though the jacket is slung over the back of the chair. The symbolism isn’t lost on Neal, but for once he appreciates Peter’s knack for finding him. As if he heard Neal stirring, Peter shifts in his chair and opens his eyes, and for a second there’s silence between them.
“Thank you, Peter,” Neal says finally.
Peter nods and gives the barest hint of a smile, straightening his tie. His shirt is crumpled and Neal wouldn’t be surprised if he slept the night in that chair. He can’t imagine it must have been too comfortable and part of him wonders why, but the larger part of him is just grateful that after everything, Peter stayed.
“I didn’t do it, Peter.”
With a small smile, Peter gets up from his chair, reaching down to pull something out of a bag by his feet. He sets the Bordeaux bottle gently on the small table beside Neal’s bed and places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I know.”
*This is a legit mug you can buy.