In going through my old files...
So backstory - I created my Dreamwidth account back in 2010 and then forgot to cross-post so I had to hand-import the last 4 years. Not actually that much work.
In any event, while going through the archives I found this snippet of a White Collar/Anita Blake crossover I started back in July, 2011. I'm never going to finish it but wanted to share it with you as it's still rather fun.
(Written before that weird Nazi art heist thing on WC)
In the Blood
Summary: The reason Neal Caffrey is so good at running is that he's had nearly 300 years of practice.
At the end of the four years, Peter took him to the train station.
Penn Station was outside Neal's radius, if he'd still had the electronic tracker on his ankle. But that was yesterday, when Neal belonged to the FBI. Today was a new day, and Neal was free.
Whatever the hell that meant.
Peter had insisted on driving him to the station. Elle had hugged him goodbye and given him a bagged lunch, getting teary, and Neal had hugged her for longer than was proper, but Peter hadn't said anything. Now they were in the car and Peter still wasn't saying anything.
"Thanks," Neal said as Peter pulled into a police stall.
Peter killed the engine, not looking at Neal. "It was on the way to the office."
Neal wanted to sigh. Instead, he tried to convince himself that Peter was just sulking, and shouldn't be taken all that seriously. "Peter, I mean it. Thank you."
If Peter had been Elle, Neal could have explained everything with words and a couple of hugs, but Peter was such a twenty-first century guy that Neal didn't have a chance. He was left to watch Peter shrug it off. "You're a free man. You make your own decisions now."
Which meant that Peter didn't want Neal to go, which was something at least.
Neal plastered on a fake smile. "You don't think I've been around you for long enough to have become an upstanding citizen?"
Peter rolled his eyes and finally turned to look at Neal. "Is there time enough for that?"
Neal laughed as he got out of the vehicle, stretching his long legs in the new suit June had given him as a going-away present. Pulling his satchel from the back seat (one of Byron's, as were most of the clothes within), he straightened his jacket as Peter rounded the car. They had an awkward moment, then Peter held out his hand for a final shake.
Neal took it, wondering what Peter would do if Neal pulled him in for a manly hug. Better not risk it. "Good luck," Neal said, pulling back.
"You too," Peter said. He shoved his hands in his overcoat pockets. "Where you headed?"
"Chicago," said Neal, which wasn't a lie.
"What's in Chicago?"
Neal shrugged. "I hear they have some great museums," he said, just to see the sharp light in Peter's eyes.
"Neal..."
"Peter?"
Peter huffed, unable to hide the smile on his face. "Just remember what happened last time."
Neal expressed innocence hurt. "Peter, I've never been to Chicago."
The station loudspeaker crackled to life and announce the imminent departure of the train to Chicago. Neal straightened up and gave Peter one last look.
"Take care of yourself, kid," was Peter Burke's parting shot.
Neal smiled bright enough to rival the sun. Turning, he let the crowd swallow him up.
Satchel in hand, a suit on his back and money in his pocket, Neal tilted the brim of his hat over one eye and strode on. Neal Caffrey was a free man, and he had a train to catch.
~*~
Chicago hadn't technically been a lie. Neal was, in fact, destined for Chicago. And if he wasn't in the city for longer than it took to change trains, that was nobody's business but his own.
~*~
The Texas Eagle Line disgorged Neal Caffrey onto the streets of St. Louis with half an hour of daylight left to burn. Another man would have made for a hotel, freshened up, maybe had a meal.
But Neal had an appointment to keep.
He washed his face in the train station bathroom, ran a comb through his hair, and set about finding a cab. He was in luck, and made it to his destination in time to watch the sun set over the river.
Taking a deep breath of Mississippi air, Neal felt the strain of the train travel leave his body. Something about river air could never fail to calm him. New York had the fresh wind coming in off the ocean, but the river had just the right amount of earth and staidness. Even this far upstream from New Orleans, the river felt like home.
Once the sun had sunk below the horizon, the streets around Neal began to pick up. The tourists were already out in force, but now the locals began to move around, and this was just moments after full dark.
Neal let himself smile, just a little sharp. This was paradise for someone like him.
But there was no time for proper pick pocketing, not when he was this new in town. And especially not in the middle of Blood Quarter. It wouldn’t do to pick the wrong pocket in the middle of the most vampire laden district in the United States.
Turning on his heel, Neal headed inland.
The club lay still and dark, so soon after sunset. Neal prepared himself to wait, but a shadow peeled itself off the wall and wandered over to Neal. The man was short, blonde, and one-hundred percent alive. "Hey," the man said.
"Hey," Neal said noncommittally. The man didn't look like he was on the pull, but one could never be overly cautious.
"Nice hat. I'm Jason."
"Thanks. Neal."
The man's smile grew a little wider. "Yeah, I know. I'm to bring you upstairs."
He turned and headed up the stairs to the club door, fitting a key to the lock and pulling the door open for Neal. Hesitating for only a moment, Neal followed.
The rooms inside were showing signs of life: a bartender slicing citrus, a waiter arranging chairs close to the long catwalk-like stage. The only thing to set the club apart from a million other places Neal had seen in his life were the two nearly naked men going through their paces on the far side of the stage.
Neal didn’t break stride, just kept up behind the man named Jason.
They went through another door in the far wall, down a flight of stairs, and along a hall until Jason came to a halt before a door. He flashed Neal a wide knowing grin, and rapped on the door.
"Entrez," came a voice.
Jason opened the door and went in immediately. Neal followed, even though he suddenly was not ready for this particular meeting.
But running away wasn't an option. Running away from this particular man was never an option.
He was just as Neal remembered him. A few inches shorter than Neal himself, skin pale as ice, blue eyes piercingly vibrant. Only his hair was different, longer than Neal remembered. He hadn't changed, this vampire.
"Merci, Jason," he was saying to the blond man. "That is all."
Jason nodded, removing himself from the room with enough slowness to be hesitation. Yet Neal didn't speak until the door was closed and footsteps sounded, retreating down the corridor.
The room was silent for a long moment. The only sound was Neal's breathing, and if his breath caught oddly in his chest, it could be chalked up to a delayed reaction to his long-awaited freedom.
Then, "You look well," said the vampire.
Neal swallowed hard. "Four years of clean living," he said, doffing his hat. He set down his satchel and dropped his hat on the low table, running his hand through his hair. "So. Master of the City. Looks like it agrees with you."
The vampire bowed his head, never taking his gaze from Neal. "Oui, it does."
Neal considered several witty rejoinders, but found himself at a loss for words as he just stood there. "I, um..."
The vampire looked at him.
Long-repressed emotions pressed on his chest. All those years of hiding who he was, for safety's sake and for the con, suddenly seemed less important. "It's good to see you, Jean-Claude."
The vampire's lips curved up into a smile, showing the tips of his sharp teeth. Neal took a step forward, thinking vaguely of shaking the vampire's hand, when suddenly he found himself in an embrace.
"It is so very good to see you as well, mon fils," Jean-Claude said in his ear, slapping his back and stepping away to kiss Neal on both cheeks. "Look at you. So very... retro, is that not the word?"
Neal blinked away the stinging in his eyes. "Hey, this is an authentic Devore," he protested.
Jean-Claude rolled his eyes.
And that's as far as I got. We were going to find out that yes, Neal Caffrey is the 300-year-old mostly-human son of Jean-Claude, master vampire, stemming from a rather interesting union between young vampire and a fae woman (bringing in LKH's other series in a way). I can't recall the rest of the plot, although I think it had something to do with Jean-Claude commissioning some art from Neal for the Circus of the Damned and Anita being all squicked when she found out about Neal because, well, Anita.
Oh yeah and that the reason Neal was so good at "forging" some of the 18th and 19th century painting masters was that he in fact was the painting master in question so he wasn't forging, he was doing his own work :D
In any event, while going through the archives I found this snippet of a White Collar/Anita Blake crossover I started back in July, 2011. I'm never going to finish it but wanted to share it with you as it's still rather fun.
(Written before that weird Nazi art heist thing on WC)
In the Blood
Summary: The reason Neal Caffrey is so good at running is that he's had nearly 300 years of practice.
At the end of the four years, Peter took him to the train station.
Penn Station was outside Neal's radius, if he'd still had the electronic tracker on his ankle. But that was yesterday, when Neal belonged to the FBI. Today was a new day, and Neal was free.
Whatever the hell that meant.
Peter had insisted on driving him to the station. Elle had hugged him goodbye and given him a bagged lunch, getting teary, and Neal had hugged her for longer than was proper, but Peter hadn't said anything. Now they were in the car and Peter still wasn't saying anything.
"Thanks," Neal said as Peter pulled into a police stall.
Peter killed the engine, not looking at Neal. "It was on the way to the office."
Neal wanted to sigh. Instead, he tried to convince himself that Peter was just sulking, and shouldn't be taken all that seriously. "Peter, I mean it. Thank you."
If Peter had been Elle, Neal could have explained everything with words and a couple of hugs, but Peter was such a twenty-first century guy that Neal didn't have a chance. He was left to watch Peter shrug it off. "You're a free man. You make your own decisions now."
Which meant that Peter didn't want Neal to go, which was something at least.
Neal plastered on a fake smile. "You don't think I've been around you for long enough to have become an upstanding citizen?"
Peter rolled his eyes and finally turned to look at Neal. "Is there time enough for that?"
Neal laughed as he got out of the vehicle, stretching his long legs in the new suit June had given him as a going-away present. Pulling his satchel from the back seat (one of Byron's, as were most of the clothes within), he straightened his jacket as Peter rounded the car. They had an awkward moment, then Peter held out his hand for a final shake.
Neal took it, wondering what Peter would do if Neal pulled him in for a manly hug. Better not risk it. "Good luck," Neal said, pulling back.
"You too," Peter said. He shoved his hands in his overcoat pockets. "Where you headed?"
"Chicago," said Neal, which wasn't a lie.
"What's in Chicago?"
Neal shrugged. "I hear they have some great museums," he said, just to see the sharp light in Peter's eyes.
"Neal..."
"Peter?"
Peter huffed, unable to hide the smile on his face. "Just remember what happened last time."
Neal expressed innocence hurt. "Peter, I've never been to Chicago."
The station loudspeaker crackled to life and announce the imminent departure of the train to Chicago. Neal straightened up and gave Peter one last look.
"Take care of yourself, kid," was Peter Burke's parting shot.
Neal smiled bright enough to rival the sun. Turning, he let the crowd swallow him up.
Satchel in hand, a suit on his back and money in his pocket, Neal tilted the brim of his hat over one eye and strode on. Neal Caffrey was a free man, and he had a train to catch.
~*~
Chicago hadn't technically been a lie. Neal was, in fact, destined for Chicago. And if he wasn't in the city for longer than it took to change trains, that was nobody's business but his own.
~*~
The Texas Eagle Line disgorged Neal Caffrey onto the streets of St. Louis with half an hour of daylight left to burn. Another man would have made for a hotel, freshened up, maybe had a meal.
But Neal had an appointment to keep.
He washed his face in the train station bathroom, ran a comb through his hair, and set about finding a cab. He was in luck, and made it to his destination in time to watch the sun set over the river.
Taking a deep breath of Mississippi air, Neal felt the strain of the train travel leave his body. Something about river air could never fail to calm him. New York had the fresh wind coming in off the ocean, but the river had just the right amount of earth and staidness. Even this far upstream from New Orleans, the river felt like home.
Once the sun had sunk below the horizon, the streets around Neal began to pick up. The tourists were already out in force, but now the locals began to move around, and this was just moments after full dark.
Neal let himself smile, just a little sharp. This was paradise for someone like him.
But there was no time for proper pick pocketing, not when he was this new in town. And especially not in the middle of Blood Quarter. It wouldn’t do to pick the wrong pocket in the middle of the most vampire laden district in the United States.
Turning on his heel, Neal headed inland.
The club lay still and dark, so soon after sunset. Neal prepared himself to wait, but a shadow peeled itself off the wall and wandered over to Neal. The man was short, blonde, and one-hundred percent alive. "Hey," the man said.
"Hey," Neal said noncommittally. The man didn't look like he was on the pull, but one could never be overly cautious.
"Nice hat. I'm Jason."
"Thanks. Neal."
The man's smile grew a little wider. "Yeah, I know. I'm to bring you upstairs."
He turned and headed up the stairs to the club door, fitting a key to the lock and pulling the door open for Neal. Hesitating for only a moment, Neal followed.
The rooms inside were showing signs of life: a bartender slicing citrus, a waiter arranging chairs close to the long catwalk-like stage. The only thing to set the club apart from a million other places Neal had seen in his life were the two nearly naked men going through their paces on the far side of the stage.
Neal didn’t break stride, just kept up behind the man named Jason.
They went through another door in the far wall, down a flight of stairs, and along a hall until Jason came to a halt before a door. He flashed Neal a wide knowing grin, and rapped on the door.
"Entrez," came a voice.
Jason opened the door and went in immediately. Neal followed, even though he suddenly was not ready for this particular meeting.
But running away wasn't an option. Running away from this particular man was never an option.
He was just as Neal remembered him. A few inches shorter than Neal himself, skin pale as ice, blue eyes piercingly vibrant. Only his hair was different, longer than Neal remembered. He hadn't changed, this vampire.
"Merci, Jason," he was saying to the blond man. "That is all."
Jason nodded, removing himself from the room with enough slowness to be hesitation. Yet Neal didn't speak until the door was closed and footsteps sounded, retreating down the corridor.
The room was silent for a long moment. The only sound was Neal's breathing, and if his breath caught oddly in his chest, it could be chalked up to a delayed reaction to his long-awaited freedom.
Then, "You look well," said the vampire.
Neal swallowed hard. "Four years of clean living," he said, doffing his hat. He set down his satchel and dropped his hat on the low table, running his hand through his hair. "So. Master of the City. Looks like it agrees with you."
The vampire bowed his head, never taking his gaze from Neal. "Oui, it does."
Neal considered several witty rejoinders, but found himself at a loss for words as he just stood there. "I, um..."
The vampire looked at him.
Long-repressed emotions pressed on his chest. All those years of hiding who he was, for safety's sake and for the con, suddenly seemed less important. "It's good to see you, Jean-Claude."
The vampire's lips curved up into a smile, showing the tips of his sharp teeth. Neal took a step forward, thinking vaguely of shaking the vampire's hand, when suddenly he found himself in an embrace.
"It is so very good to see you as well, mon fils," Jean-Claude said in his ear, slapping his back and stepping away to kiss Neal on both cheeks. "Look at you. So very... retro, is that not the word?"
Neal blinked away the stinging in his eyes. "Hey, this is an authentic Devore," he protested.
Jean-Claude rolled his eyes.
And that's as far as I got. We were going to find out that yes, Neal Caffrey is the 300-year-old mostly-human son of Jean-Claude, master vampire, stemming from a rather interesting union between young vampire and a fae woman (bringing in LKH's other series in a way). I can't recall the rest of the plot, although I think it had something to do with Jean-Claude commissioning some art from Neal for the Circus of the Damned and Anita being all squicked when she found out about Neal because, well, Anita.
Oh yeah and that the reason Neal was so good at "forging" some of the 18th and 19th century painting masters was that he in fact was the painting master in question so he wasn't forging, he was doing his own work :D