WC Fic: That There, That’s Not Me, Part 1/2
Title: That There, That’s Not Me
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Neal/Peter/El established relationship, Moz
Spoilers: AU treatment of the happenings in Under the Radar and On Guard
Content Notice: Gratuitous smut and naughty language. A metric ton o’ angst. Might be slightly squicky for some.
Word Count: ~14,000
Summary: Neal is happy with Peter and El and his life in New York, but then the warehouse explodes, causing Peter to accuse Neal, and Moz to pressure him to take the treasure and run. All the stress triggers a relapse of Neal’s little invisibility problem.
This is a sequel to How to Disappear Completely, so it helps to have read that, though I think I've covered the relevant bits here.
Now with terrific cover art by kanarek13:
A/N: This is my wcpairings gift to ivorysilk, who’s been pestering me - er, I mean who has been an unflinching champion of this sequel - for the last two years. I finally figured out how to do it, bb - I hope you like it! Title is a lyric from the Radiohead song, “How to Disappear Completely.”
Many thanks to my trusty beta, Miri_Thompson, as well as to my pals winterstar95 and elrhiarhodan for reading an early draft and assuring me that it didn’t suck.
----
To think it all happened because of a goddamned music box.
The more Neal reminded himself of this, the more ludicrous it sounded to him. And yet it had happened. Adler had killed Kate, ruined Neal’s life, and was now dead himself, and it was all because of a music box.
The whole business was cursed, he had to believe. He was looking at the proof right in front of him, as a team of firemen arrived to fight the flames that were consuming the warehouse - it seemed like a lost cause. To think now of what had been lost - well, it was actually unthinkable, so he didn’t.
The explosion had been so violent. Neal felt numb. He almost died today. He held onto his elbow. He must have landed on it wrong when the place blew, but he couldn’t remember. His thoughts were erratic, disjointed; he wondered if he’d hit his head.
He stood by the car, fixated on the thick black smoke billowing to the sky. A flicker of movement to the right caught his attention. Peter called him over; his face was hard, like a mask. Neal could see the muscles bunching in his jaw as he got closer, a flash of anger in his eyes.
He’d just killed a man. Neal almost died. Peter was angry, and Neal thought he had a right to be, he had -
“You did this!” Peter barked at him, coming on so furiously that Neal hardly caught what he was saying. He stood there, mouth agape, the accusation flowing over him like another wall of fire - shocking and sudden. “You did this; the fire, all of it. You did it.”
“Peter, those were masterpieces, I would never burn them, you know that.” He was choking on the words, the smoke, the accusation.
“No, but you’d steal them.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Neal stammered, shocked, wondering where this was coming from, what it could mean.
“The long con on Adler finally paid off, didn’t it? You saw your chance and then you took it. I don’t know how. I don’t know what game you’re playing…”
Neal managed to regain some composure. “I haven’t lied to you Peter,” he said earnestly. “I’m not lying to you now. I didn’t steal the art.”
“I think you did.” Peter was beyond angry, he was incensed, livid with rage, his mouth a cruel line.
Neal couldn’t help his next reaction: anger answering anger. “Then prove it,” he spat out. “Prove it!” He turned to go, but then Peter grabbed his arm roughly, turning him around. Neal winced with pain.
“You want proof? Here’s your proof!” Peter grabbed Neal’s hand and slapped a scorched bit of canvas into it. Neal looked down on it and his mind reeled - there was no mistaking it for the piece Peter had been admiring the other day at his apartment. “What is this?”
“It landed at my feet a few minutes ago. Tell me it’s not yours.”
“I - I don’t know what it is.” He didn’t; if this was, in fact, his painting, it was supposed to be sitting in a storage room back at June’s.
“Right.”
“You don’t believe me? After everything we’ve just been through? After -“ he glanced around to be sure that no one could hear him. “After all we’ve meant to each other these last months? After what I -“ he stopped. The look on Peter’s face told him he was not hearing anything Neal said. “You know what? Forget it.” He crumpled the canvas scrap in his hand and threw it to the ground. “Forget that any of it ever happened.”
He turned on his heel and stalked away, his mind, despite all that had happened, was a complete blank; a white-hot blank of anger. He walked towards Diana’s car and kept walking; he didn’t look back and Peter didn’t call to him again.
----
By the time Neal got home, it was nearly dark. He’d walked all the way from the Brooklyn docks and barely remembered any of it. The look on Peter’s face, his accusation, was all he could see, hear, think about. That the man he had come to love, who had claimed to love him back, could accuse him of this hurt him to his core. He was beyond hurt - he was betrayed.
As he walked into his apartment, his eyes fell on something laying on the edge of his table - something that hadn’t been there before - a key with a note beneath it. The note had been typed, not hand-written; it included an address downtown and a single-line message: youll thank me.
What, no apostrophes on this typewriter? he thought to himself wryly. But something compelled him to act, to turn around and leave immediately, something he didn’t want to give a name to yet.
----
“Jesus, another damn warehouse?” Neal muttered under his breath as he used the key to open the outer door of the building at the address he’d found at home.
The place was as non-descript as it got in Manhattan, with a musty smell inside bordering on rot. To the right, he spied another locked door, to which the key was a fit. The bang of the door echoed as it opened, signifying a large space. Neal saw a light switch, which he flicked on. A turn around another corner revealed to him literally the last thing in the world he expected to see.
Arranged around the room was wooden crate upon wooden crate; piled atop and around them were the contents of the Nazi U-boat Adler had made him and Peter break into just the day before; Neal recognized the vanDyck and a Degas he’d spotted. There were piles of gold-plated items, a bronze sculpture of a horse that looked to be ancient, an elaborate crystal chandelier. He stumbled forward, taking it all in. It was the score of a lifetime.
And it was all his.
He couldn’t help but smile.
For a minute.
He allowed himself one minute to fantasize about the freedom and opportunity this trove of precious art would bring him: the wealth, the power, even. How easy it would be for him to run away with it - he was still off anklet, after all.
But then he remembered where it had come from - it was tainted with the blood of innocents, and he could not bear that stain on his soul. No, as tempting as all of this suddenly dropping into his lap was, he didn’t really want it.
Youll thank me, the note had said. Clearly it was left by someone who knew him. Adler? Did he have some angle? But he was dead now, so it didn’t matter.
I could get away with it all scot-free.
But no. It was tainted.
No anklet. Run. Peter thinks you did it anyway.
“Get a grip, Caffrey,” he muttered, admonishing himself. He locked the place up and headed back home, too tired to decide what to do about it now.
He spotted the FBI-issued SUV sitting outside June’s and sighed. He got into the passenger seat beside Jones, who wordlessly started the engine and drove them downtown.
----
Neal flinched as he raised his arms for Jones to fasten the lie detector leads around his chest; his arm still hurt him, and he had not had a chance to even look at it. Jones wouldn’t let him put the finger lead on himself, insisting he had to - didn’t want to give him any opportunity to spoof the test, Neal thought bitterly. He stared at the thin white wires that led to the polygraph, pointedly not looking at Peter. The waves of animosity pouring off his - partner? Lover? Ex? What were they now? In any case, they were palpable. Neal adopted an attitude of studied nonchalance.
Jones adjusted a few things and then turned the machine on. His eyes met Neal's, and they were flat and almost expressionless, conveying that he, too, believed Neal had something to do with this. Neal ground his teeth together, determined not to let it upset him.
Jones cleared his throat. “What color are your eyes?”
“Blue.” Neal's voice was without inflection.
“Are you a criminal consultant for the FBI?”
“Yes.”
“OK. For a baseline, I’m gonna need you to tell a lie.”
He looked up at Peter, standing behind Jones and opened his mouth. “I am in love with Peter Burke.” The polygraph needle did a little dance. Peter narrowed his eyes and then turned his back on him. Neal felt a momentary stab of shame for being so spiteful.
“Great, we’ve got our baseline,” Jones pointed out.
“Ask him about the warehouse,” Peter practically barked.
“Shortly before his death, you confronted Vincent Adler outside a warehouse. What was in that warehouse?” Jones asked.
Neal sighed. “A U-boat, German, recently dredged up off the coast of New York State.”
“And inside that U-boat?”
“A collection of art plundered by the Nazis.”
Peter turned, looming above Neal where he sat. “What happened?”
“The warehouse burst into flames,” Neal replied conversationally.
His tone clearly bothered Peter, who bent forward and leaned over the table. “Did you steal the art?”
Neal did not blink, nor did his eyes waver from Peter’s as he answered, “No.” Did he detect a softening around Peter’s eyes? No.
“Do you know who did?”
“No.”
“According to the readout, he’s telling the truth,” Jones pointed out.
“It’s two o’clock in the morning, Peter,” Neal pointed out. “You gonna keep me here all night?”
“Until I’m satisfied.”
Only that morning, Neal would’ve answered that with a raised eyebrow and a leer. Right now, he just felt sick. “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” he said.
Peter blinked and stood, hands on his hips. “Again, Jones,” he said quietly.
“Shortly before his death...”
----
When Neal got to the top of the stairs that led to his apartment, it was to find the door wide open, a breeze passing through from the open terrace doors. He sighed, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. He was so exhausted - it was nearly 11:00 am and he still wore the same clothes from the day before, the smell of burning rubber and sulfur clung to his hair and skin and clothes, evoking long-buried and painful memories he did not want to recall.
He walked wearily into the apartment and sighed as he spotted Moz sitting out on the terrace with his back to him, basking in the sun. On Neal's table was a ridiculous-looking Hawaiian hula-dancer doll with a grass skirt on. He poked at it with his finger and it shimmied on the spring embedded inside that bound it to its base.
“Her name is Lolana,” Moz called to him without turning around.
Neal closed his eyes. Of course Moz was behind this whole thing - how had he not guessed?
“She from any particular island?” he asked, not really wanting to do this, not now. This whole caper may have cost him the most important relationship of his life, and Moz, Neal noted, held a pair of champagne flutes in his hand.
“Whichever one your heart desires,” Moz answered.
Neal pulled the card and the key from his pocket. “So I guess this was from you,” he said, his voice hollow. Moz turned around and gave him a shit-eating grin; Neal's voice was choked. “How?”
“It wasn’t easy.”
“The warehouse?”
Moz rose, came into the apartment. “I worked backwards from the transmitter you wired into the limo.”
“Security?”
“I got around it with a localized EM burst.”
“And the art?’
“Adler had it loaded onto a truck - it wasn’t hard.”
Neal made a calculation. “And the TNT was unstable and easy to detonate.”
Moz nodded his head and grinned. “The perfect cover.” He held a glass out to Neal.
“Except I just spent the entire night being interrogated by Peter, Moz. Why - why would you do this?”
“What are you talking about? Neal, we finally got our white whale!” He stepped forward and pressed the glass into Neal's hand.
Neal felt numb. “You didn’t tell me.” I lied to Peter.
“Plausible deniability, mon frère. Now, all I need is a couple of days - three at most, and we can be on our way. A plane, travel documents, a couple of new identities, and we’ll be sitting pretty. Can you believe it? This is our golden ticket!”
Neal's mind was reeling. Moz - Moz had done this. Peter had accused him, and he’d denied everything, and Moz was behind it. What now? For one fleeting, shameful moment, he almost agreed to go, right now.
He looked down at the stupid doll on the table, still wiggling slightly. “Lolana, huh?” he said.
“In Hawaiian, her name means to soar, which is exactly what we’re gonna do in a short time.”
Neal fought down the urge to vomit and let Moz clink his champagne glass against his.
xXxXxXx
“Hon? Why are you home so early?”
Elizabeth Burke dropped her house keys on the side table beside the stairs and went into the living room. It had been a long day - one made even longer by a restless night without Peter and Neal beside her in bed. The case they were working - something to do with Vincent Adler was all she’d gleaned - had kept them away all night and she had not expected to see him at home before 6:00 pm. The look on Peter’s face made her pause; it was equal parts anger and hurt and she didn’t quite know what to do about it. “What happened?” she asked.
“Vincent Adler is dead,” he said, his voice too low.
“Dead? Wh - I thought -“
“I killed him.”
“What? Peter!” She dropped to her knees in front of him and took his face between her hands; he opened his knees to let her get closer, leaning into her touch. She kissed him closed-mouthed on the lips. “What happened?”
“He was going to kill Neal, I had no choice.”
El’s blood ran cold at the thought and she looked around the room for someone who was not there. “Neal? Where’s Neal?” there was a frantic tone in her voice.
“At home, I suppose.”
“Was he hurt? Were you?” She ran her hands over his arms and chest as if she could tell by touch.
“No.”
“Then what happened?”
And then he launched into the most implausible story she’d ever heard about a booby-trapped Nazi U-boat filled with treasure, a different attempt by Adler to kill Peter and Neal the day before, and the search for the warehouse where they’d been taken.
She stilled; this explained Peter’s over-attentiveness to her the night before, which had bordered on clinginess. “Can you do me a favor next time you’re nearly killed, and maybe tell me?” She knew she shouldn’t show her anger, but she couldn’t help it.
“I’m sorry, hon, but I couldn’t, it was part of an open investigation.”
She closed her eyes and counted to ten, then got up off her knees and sat as close to him on the couch as she could. He leaned into her and she took his right hand into both of hers and laid it in her lap. “And Adler?”
“We had an approximation of where the warehouse was, so we were searching down by the Brooklyn docks. There was an explosion, and when I got there, Adler had a gun on Neal and he - he was going to shoot him, El, and I had to -“
“You don’t have to say it if you don’t want.” She put her arm around his shoulders and pulled his head to her shoulder, stroking his hair lightly. They sat that way for several minutes.
“The place was burning, there was a load of TNT inside. At first I thought maybe it was unstable and just blew, and took all the art with it, and Neal - he looked so wrecked, hon. Shook up, you know?” She could only nod. “But then this burned-up piece of a painting floated down and it was just like something I saw Neal painting the other day and -“ he swallowed against the words, clearly not willing or able to get them out.
El froze. “And what, Peter?”
He sat up and looked at her. “It all began to make a kind of sense to me - Neal was pulling a con the whole time.”
“What? No.”
“No, hon, I think he stole all the art somehow and blew the place up to cover his tracks.”
Shocked, Elizabeth got to her feet. “Peter, no!” He could only look up at her, an angry and conflicted look on his face. “He would never.”
“That’s what he said, and the polygraph -“
“You made him take a lie detector test?!”
“He passed it.”
“Well of course he did! Peter, how could you?”
“You didn’t see that painting.”
“But you did. And you saw Neal - how was he?”
“He was angry, and… and hurt. He denied it.”
She couldn’t believe the next words that had to come out of her mouth. “And you didn’t believe him?”
He stared at her, eyes defiant for several seconds until she saw his face turn red and he looked down. “I was angry and upset, El. I’d just had to -“
She sat down beside him and took his hand again, but she couldn’t look at him. Her voice, when she spoke, was as even as she could make it, “I know, you just had to kill someone. But Peter, after everything he’s been through in the last year, and what it took for him to trust again, to love again, could you really not have given him a simple benefit of the doubt?”
He was silent for more than a minute. His hand clutched at hers almost spasmodically. When she looked up at him, there was sorrow in his eyes, and not a little guilt. “Oh my God, El, what have I done?”
She didn’t need to tell him, because he knew. And because she had no idea how to fix it, if it could be fixed.
----
“You didn’t bring him with you, did you?” Neal asked as soon as she entered his apartment through the open door. His back was to her and he was sitting in the dark - the sun had almost set. She hated when he did that, she was certain she hadn’t made a single sound.
“I did not.”
“He send you to smooth things over for him?”
“He did not.” She switched on the table lamp by the couch and crossed to where he was sitting at his table, staring at an incongruous Hawaiian hula-dancing doll sitting on the table. He was slurring his words, she realized as she noted the empty wine bottle sitting at his elbow. “I’m nearly as angry at him as you are, I think.”
“I’m not angry.”
“OK.”
“There aren’t words for what I’m feeling right now, Elizabeth. There just aren’t enough words.”
She reached out to play with the hairs curling over his collar and he flinched away from her. She thought she could guess at one of those words: pain.
“I wish there was something I could say or do to undo or fix this, my darling. But it’s not up to me,” she said. “I love you both, but you will have to work it out yourselves.”
If it can be worked out, she did not say, and cursed herself for thinking.
She continued, “Just remember one thing, Neal. He had to kill someone. To save you. I hope that still means something.”
She kissed him on top of his head and left.
xXxXxXx
Neal reported to work as usual the next morning after a night spent tossing and turning. Moz had come over, showing him brochures from Pacific islands and talking about some cargo plane he’d acquired. Neal had gotten him to leave only by appearing to go along - saying something about doing it right and taking the time to plan. To top that off, the words Elizabeth had said to him when she’d left still haunted him.
Peter had had to kill Adler because he was about to shoot Neal. He had done it to protect Neal, because he cared for him. That had to put a great weight on how Neal processed what had been done - what had been said. It had to, right? Peter was overreacting, as he sometimes did. He’d been emotional, and for good reason. Neal had to give him the benefit of the doubt, right?
But at the back of his mind was the knowledge that Peter had not done the same for him, had not given him a chance to explain. Not that there was any explanation - Moz had confessed to using Neal's paintings so that ERT would find evidence of destroyed art in the explosion, had apologized to Neal for exposing him in that way. He’d said it would be immaterial anyway - he and Neal would be long gone by the time there was any real proof.
Except Neal didn’t want to go, no matter how things now stood between him and his lovers. He liked his life here, he needed it, even if he might end up with his heart broken. Even if it meant Peter didn’t trust him.
Peter didn’t trust him. That was probably the thing that hurt him the most.
Maybe Moz was right - maybe they should just cut ties and blow town. What did he really have here if the man he loved didn’t trust him?
His thoughts were interrupted by a shadow coming over his desk - Peter. He held an innocuous, white paper bag in his hand that he placed on Neal's desk.
“Thanks, but I had breakfast already,” Neal said.
Peter’s face was stony, unreadable. “Look inside.”
Neal unfolded the top of the bag; nestled inside, beside a bearclaw from his favorite bakery, was the swatch of burned painting, sealed inside an unlabeled - and therefore unprocessed - evidence bag. Neal closed his eyes as something like relief flooded over him.
“El says that there were lots of European artists who liked to paint the Chrysler,” Peter began, his voice tight.
“It was a popular subject in its time,” Neal replied, his voice even.
“You have to understand what went through my mind when I saw that.”
“Do I?”
“It looks like the one I saw you painting the other day.”
“And?”
“I jumped to a conclusion I shouldn’t have.”
Neal noticed he didn’t apologize. “You hurt me,” he said, fingering the paper edge of the bag and not looking at Peter.
“I know.”
“You were hurting too.”
“I was.”
“I think we need to turn to each other when that happens, not away.” When Neal at last looked up at Peter, the man’s face was red, his eyes were bright, and he looked so hopeful.
“Please forgive me,” Peter whispered.
Neal didn’t know if it was enough to repair the damage done to his heart, but he thought maybe the bleeding might be stopped. He didn’t say anything, just gave a single nod, and got up to get another cup of coffee.
----
It was late that afternoon when Peter called Neal to his office about their next case. “You’re smiling,” Neal pointed out.
“I am. Tell me about Gary Rydell.” He threw a file on the desk that Neal opened up; inside was a photo of himself and a list of alleged crimes committed by one Gary Rydell. “That’s you.”
“It is.” Gary was an alias he’d invented once upon a time when he needed to be a rich douchebag; he was also a world class smuggler. “So… what? You think I might reactivate my Rydell alias in order to smuggle something out of the country? Something like a stolen Nazi treasure?”
Peter flinched but Neal did not react; he may forgive Peter, but the forgetting was going to take a while longer.
“I think this guy’s looking for Rydell,” Peter said, ignoring Neal's attitude and dropping another file on the desk. Inside was the smiling mug shot of one David Lawrence, a former associate of Gary’s who was supposed to have robbed the federal reserve of $60 million.
“You really think he’s trying to smuggle the money?” Neal asked when Peter had explained the details of the case thus far.
“It’s the score of his life - how can he just let it go?” Peter asked honestly.
Until recently, Neal thought it could be pretty easy. But that was before the man he was in love with accused him of stealing a couple billion in Nazi plunder he wanted nothing to do with.
----
Neal walked home again that night - he’d been doing a lot of walking lately, he realized. Usually, it helped to clear his head, the mindless placement of one foot in front of the other freeing his brain to process things that were weighing on his mind. But not today. He still didn’t know where he stood on anything.
Making matters worse, Moz was waiting for him when he got home.
“What is that?” Neal asked, indicating the model plane sitting on the table in front of Moz.
“Our ticket out of here. Behold, the 400 Series Twin Otter.”
“Is it big enough?” Neal's sarcasm went unnoticed.
“Think of it as a Kardashian; what it lacks in refinement, it makes up for in cargo space.”
Neal's mind was spinning - this was moving too fast.
Moz took his reluctance for criticism. “You’re not sold.”
“It’s fine - I’m just worried about Peter. He’s guessed more than you think. He could be close to finding something.”
Moz waved a hand airily. “Let him - we’ll be on another continent before he gets close enough. After what he put you through -“
“He gave me the painting scrap back,” Neal interrupted.
“Because he knows it proves nothing.”
Because he wanted to show how sorry he was, Neal didn’t say, though he desperately wanted to believe it.
Moz left shortly afterwards, leaving behind Lolana and the plane model. Neal sat at the far end of the table, keeping as far away from the objects as possible, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. His mind was in turmoil, voices floating in his head not making any of this easy. Elizabeth’s, telling him she loved him. Peter’s doing the same, but then… the anger in his eyes just two days before, the suspicion and lack of trust. And Moz’s, offering him riches he hadn’t dared to have dreamed would be his.
As the voices roiled and clashed in his mind, so did his emotions, ebbing and flowing with them. He stood abruptly, as if such an action could put them from his mind. He dropped his arms, frowned at the pins and needles he felt in his hands - he must’ve been clutching his arms more tightly than he’d thought.
He glanced up at Lolana, making a fist and willing the feeling to return to his hands. “What’s it to be, Caffrey?” he asked himself. “Love or everything else you’ve ever wanted. You can’t have both.”
xXxXxXx
It was Date Night - perhaps the most important ever over the course of their relationship, Elizabeth realized. And it all felt wrong. And forced. It felt wrong because it was so forced. But she kept at it anyway, because repairing the rift between Neal and Peter was worth it. And no one could do this but her.
She puttered around in her kitchen, making the things she knew they would like - roasted chicken for Peter, goat cheese salad for Neal, chocolate mousse for all of them - all their favorites. It would be perfect.
Over the last two days, she’d kept her hand in, had sent flirty texts to Neal as she had always done, inviting him to come over Saturday night. We miss you, she’d sent to him.
I miss you too, Elizabeth, had been his reply, and she wouldn’t read anything into the fact he’d addressed only her, she refused.
Her attempts to talk to Peter to gauge the temperature between he and Neal had been almost as futile. Her husband, when he was wrong and he knew it, clammed up like, well, a clam, and it was like he was avoiding her in order to avoid the topic. But his mood told her everything was not as rosy as she’d hoped - she knew he’d apologized to Neal, but that was it, and from his manner, she deduced that things were still strained.
Oy vey ist mir, as her favorite, one-time boss Brad Rosenzweig would have sighed, they sure were in a heap of hurt. But she thought that the old cliché, “Fake it ‘til you make it,” had a particular applicability here, and that’s just what she was going to do. Another cliché, “Queen of De Nile” also went through her mind, and she ruthlessly suppressed it as she shoved the chicken into the oven.
A jingle of keys at the front door alerted her to the fact her husband had arrived home. He walked into the kitchen with an entire case of wine in his arms, bottles of different vintages poking out of each of the slots inside.
“Go a little overboard, hon?” she asked, pulling one of the bottles out.
“You think?” He looked slightly crestfallen until she nodded approvingly at some of his choices. “That’s the one Neal brought for that birthday picnic he made you - you remember?” he said, indicating a dry rose she held.
She smiled at the memory - she and Neal had gotten way too tipsy on two bottles of the stuff, and Peter had had to nurse them both through a pair of evil hangovers the next morning.
She picked up another bottle. “Oh, and here’s that champagne from the night he took us to the opera,” she said, her smile widening. Neither of them would forget it - it was the first time they’d taken Neal to their bed.
She put the bottle down and caressed the side of Peter’s face with an open palm. “He’ll love that you remembered.” Peter didn’t look like he believed her, but he leaned over and kissed her before heading off to shower and change.
Elizabeth made sure to be the one to answer the door when Neal arrived, just over an hour later. She thought - and the fleeting look of unease on his face confirmed it - that he would feel awkward to be confronted by Peter answering the door. She took his hand and pulled him into the hall, rising on her tiptoes to kiss him deeply on the mouth. If the hitch in his breathing was any indication, her warm welcome reminded him just a little of what their relationship meant to all of them. When he pulled away from her, he smiled easily at her and removed his hat.
In his other hand he held a bag from a liquor store that held a four-pack of the imported German doppelbock that Peter loved. She hoped it meant something that each of her men was trying to bury the hatchet via his gift of the other’s favorite alcoholic beverages.
Peter came down the stairs and smiled to see Neal, but when he approached him, El could see Neal stiffen slightly. Hiding his hurt remarkably well, Peter settled for a gentle squeeze of Neal's biceps, took the beer from Neal and made appropriately grateful noises over it, and finally headed for the kitchen. Neal and El followed, and once Peter had put the beer in the fridge, they stood around the kitchen island for a full minute, and no one said anything.
“Who needs a cocktail?” El asked, causing both men to jump.
“I do!” Peter answered immediately, and Neal raised his hand like a kid in school who knew the answer, and the three of them shared a laugh. Minutes later, they each had a drink in hand - Peter and Neal a glass of whisky each and she a dirty martini with extra olives.
She produced some cheese and crackers to go with the cocktails, and soon the three of them were leaning over the kitchen island and nibbling when Peter’s work cell rang.
“Uh-oh, the Batphone,” Neal joked lamely.
“Who’d be calling me on a Saturday?” Peter groaned, taking the phone off its recharger and excusing himself to the back deck.
“Big case at the office?” El prompted Neal.
He shrugged. “We just started one. Guy I allegedly used to run with.”
El raised her eyebrows.
“I’m not supposed to make contact until Monday,” Neal continued, “he’s staying at the Gramercy Fencing Club - he was a member in the past. I sure hope I can get in a bit of fencing when I’m there - it’s been a while.”
His lips curled up in a slight smile at Elizabeth’s surprised expression; Neal never ceased to surprise her with his hidden talents. “You’ll have to wear your lucky tie, then,” she suggested as Peter came back into the house, an apologetic look on his face. “What is it, Hon?”
“The Pederson case,” he said, looking a little crestfallen.
“That insider trading thing?” Neal said. El recalled the case - that “insider trading thing” uncovered a money laundering scandal and was the biggest case of Peter’s career five years ago.
Peter nodded. “Pederson escaped. Someone landed a helicopter in the field next to the Federal correctional facility at Otisville, and he hopped on. I need to go into the office.”
“Ballsy,” Neal said, looking impressed. El smacked him on the chest with the back of her hand, a reproachful look in her eyes even as she laughed.
“But, Honey, isn’t that a job for the Marshals or something?” she asked.
“No one can catch an escaped con like Peter,” Neal said, with a hint of fondness that Elizabeth was happy to hear.
“This sucks! It’s date night!” Peter near-whined, looking sincerely apologetic and upset to be called away. He was looking at Neal, who gave his arm a squeeze as he leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek.
“There will be others,” Neal pointed out, and El thought it sounded like a promise.
Ten minutes later, Peter was suited up and out the door, and when El turned from seeing him off, it was to find Neal standing behind her with his hat on. “You’re not going too, are you?”
“Date night’s a bust.”
“Aw, come on, I made a chicken. And chocolate mousse. You have to stay.” At his reluctant expression, she walked up to him, reached her right hand up to the back of his neck and pulled him in for a deep kiss. She nipped his bottom lip as she pulled away, her hand trailing along his collar and her finger caressing the line of his jaw. “Just because we’re a threesome, doesn’t mean we must always be three,” she pointed out.
Neal smiled and leaned in to kiss her again, his hands settling at the small of her back as she pulled the hat from his head and tossed it onto the couch.
----
“Take your time, baby, I’ve missed you,” Elizabeth purred as Neal pressed her back against the wall of her bedroom, his mouth ravaging her right nipple through her bra. He had practically torn her dress off, and it hung around her hips as he squeezed her ass with both hands.
“Huh-uh,” he gasped between kisses. “You smell too good.”
When he lifted his head to stare into her eyes, his mouth was red and kiss-swollen, his pupils blown wide with desire, and his hair stuck out in all directions, the result of her questing fingers. He turned his head to the other side, pushed the fingers of his left hand between her skin and her bra to palm her breast, diving in to take the pert nipple into his hot mouth and she gasped at the attention, throwing all attempts at slowing down the proceedings to the wind. Moaning, she rested her head against the wall and buried her hands in his hair again, arching her back to increase the sensations.
“Bed,” she panted, and before she knew it, he’d picked her up and carried her over, laying her down atop the bedspread. She spread her thighs wide and he fit himself on top of her, and she could feel the heat of his groin and the straining length of his cock against her. She reached a hand down and unfastened his pants, pulling his dick out and pumping him to full hardness.
He used his hands to lever himself above her, slid his hand between them to pull the skirt of her dress up. His fingernails scratched against her skin as he tugged her panties down her legs, making desperate grunting sounds as he did. Once the panties were off, she hooked her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling the head of his massive erection breach her hot center. She gasped as he entered her, holding her breath and feeling the delicious stretch of it until he was fully-seated within.
He pumped into her with an urgency she had never seen in him before, his moans against the skin of her neck and breasts almost sounding like whines of desperation. Eventually, they resolved into words.
“Please, please say it’s OK.”
“Neal? Neal, it’s OK,” she soothed.
“Tell me I don’t have to leave?”
“Of course not, you’ll stay here with me tonight. Keep me nice and warm.”
But something in his manner made her suspect he meant something entirely different; his voice had sounded broken, like a crying child’s, and she felt the need to reassure.
“Baby?” She cupped her hands around his face, but he wouldn’t look at her, instead turning his attention to her neck and throat, his kisses punctuated by desperate gasps as he fucked into her with a kind of desperation she’d never seen in him. When he came shortly thereafter, it was with a series of hard, shallow thrusts, and he collapsed beside her, and just lay there with his face tucked between her arm and the bed, avoiding her gaze.
She made a quarter turn and caressed the side of his face with an open hand, pushing the sweat-soaked hair away from his face and kissing him on the cheek. “Neal?” she said gently, but he buried his face further into the bedding and no amount of cajoling would get him to look at her. At last, the cooling sweat on her body gave her a chill, and she pulled the edges of the bedspread up to cover them both.
Later, after she’d coaxed him out of the bed long enough for the two of them to remove their now rumpled and soiled clothing and climb under the covers, she lay in his arms with her head resting on his chest, her legs wrapped around one of his possessively.
“Neal?” she said at last.
“Hmm?”
She pushed herself up on her elbow to look at him. “You know I love you no matter what, right?”
“I do.” The way he said it sounded like a question, almost, like he wasn’t sure where she was going with this conversation.
She bit her lip, considering her next words carefully. “You know your place here is a sure thing, don’t you?”
There was a long pause, punctuated by a sigh before he spoke, his voice low and emotional. “I don’t know if I deserve… I’ve done so many things to regret, Elizabeth.”
She sensed some need in him for validation, and her words came out in a rush, “Not where I’m concerned, baby. I don’t care what you did in the past, I care about your present. And right here, right now, I know you are a good man.”
His eyes were bright suddenly, as if they might fill with tears at any moment, though they did not. He opened his mouth to speak, but she could not allow him to give voice to the self-loathing she could see in his eyes. She put two fingers on his lips. “Hush, I don’t need to hear it, Neal. All I need is you, here with me - with us - because we love each other.”
“Yeah, but you -“
“Hush,” she repeated, pulling her fingers away and replacing them with her own lips.
xXxXxXx
Neal lay on his back in Peter and Elizabeth’s bed, willing himself to remain motionless. Elizabeth slept peacefully in his arms, her head on his chest, snoring softly.
All he wanted to do was get out of there.
That was not entirely true - if he could be anywhere in the entire world, it was in this bed, but for some reason he felt like he might hyperventilate, like he wasn’t getting enough air in his lungs.
In the aftermath of their lovemaking and her sweet understanding of him, he had wanted, more than he thought he wanted anything before in his life, to tell Elizabeth everything. He needed to unburden his conscience like he needed the air he breathed. Perhaps that explained this growing panic. The fact that El had been so understanding, so accepting of him, had made him feel so close to her and willing to confess all, regardless of the consequences for him, for his relationship with the Burkes, or for Moz.
But then she’d quieted him; the very instrument of his salvation had taken that option away with a caring, “hush,” and a gentle kiss. She thought she was soothing him, but instead it had made it all worse.
He felt suddenly so… thin. Like a balloon about to burst. Or a bubble.
And here he lay, with the woman he loved in his arms, and all he wanted was to get out of there. Because getting out of there, moving, would at least take all of these horrible, pent up feelings away. But he couldn’t move, or else he'd disturb her, and if she woke up, he knew she’d figure it all out.
As he looked down on her sleeping form, wondering what to do, he was shocked to see his hands and arms begin to fade away.
“No,” he nearly moaned, but he bit his lip against the utterance.
Not again.
He closed his eyes and took slow, deep breaths, trying the calming exercises that he’d been taught before.
It had been months since the last time - months since the fact he’d felt so conflicted over the course his life had taken - the unapologetic conman vs. the law-abiding citizen who had begun to find a place at the FBI - had almost literally destroyed him. Etheric projection it was called - his mind’s tendency to want to escape the conflict by, ironically, destroying his physical body.
He had been encouraged to take up meditation as part of his treatment but had stopped months ago when he’d gotten too busy or too distracted to do it regularly. Besides, he’d been so happy with Peter and Elizabeth, he couldn’t even imagine he'd have a relapse. And now he could not achieve the calm he sought.
He flinched as he felt an unusual pressure in his chest. Opening his eyes, he was horrified to see that Elizabeth’s head was beginning to pass through his body. He froze at the sight. What would happen if she passed through? What if his body resolved itself around her?
Disengaging as gently as he could, he laid her down on the bed and scrambled out of it. She frowned in her sleep, instinctively curling into the warmth in the spot he’d been in, but didn’t wake. By now, he noticed with more resignation than relief that his body had become solid again.
He found a robe and spent the remainder of the night sitting in the easy chair in the corner, staring at his hands.
----
Neal didn’t stay late on Sunday morning, leaving before Peter returned from the Pederson manhunt (he was tracked to his mistress’s apartment in New Jersey), claiming to have early plans with June. He spent the day alone, trying to meditate, and when that failed, he drowned his sorrows in a bottle of cheap Shiraz because he couldn’t bear to guzzle down the good stuff. Due to the lack of sleep the night before, he fell asleep on the couch by 9:00 and woke too early Monday morning with a dry mouth, a sour stomach, and a vicious headache.
He arrived at the office ahead of everyone and was staring morosely at the cheap swill the FBI called coffee falling into the pot and contemplating running out to get a Starbucks when he heard his name called.
“Neal?”
Peter’s voice was neutral, but he had come across the office to summon him, rather than calling to him and giving his customary double finger point. Neal raised his eyebrows expectantly.
“Quick meeting in my office?” Peter’s face remained as unexpressive as his voice, and Neal dutifully followed him up the stairs to his office. “Have a seat,” Peter said, shutting the door behind them.
“This something to do with Lawrence?” Neal asked. “I wasn’t going to head over to the club until this afternoon -“
Peter sat on the edge of his desk and looked down at Neal; given his posture and position, this was an informal, off-the books type of conversation; if it was Serious Business, he’d have sat down behind his desk. “ERT recovered something from near the warehouse where the sub had been,” he began.
Neal noticed he pointedly avoided referring to the art, and asked, “What did they find?”
Peter reached behind him for a file folder on his desk. Inside, sealed inside a plastic sheet protector, was an ancient and yellowed piece of onion skin, on which was typed a list, in German, that looked like some sort of inventory.
“We think it’s a manifest of the works that were on the U-boat,” Peter answered Neal’s unspoken question.
Neal schooled his face into a neutral expression before looking up at Peter. “Gotta love that German efficiency.”
“Right? We’re having it translated, then Diana’s going to take it to the folks at the International Foundation for Art Research to verify it’s all still missing.”
“So if it’s all verified as stolen -“ Neal began.
Peter’s voice was low, resonant, “As soon as one of these pieces turns up, we’ll know who took it, and be able to prosecute them to the fullest extent of the law.” His tone and meaning were a clear warning, and Neal took it as such. He also saw, in the softness around Peter’s eyes, that it was an offer of help. Neal understood that Peter would look the other way if the art was returned swiftly.
“I don’t know who took it,” Neal replied evenly.
“But if you do -“
“That would make me an accessory.”
Peter looked Neal right in the eyes, and spoke slowly. “I realize… to some people, this might be seen as the opportunity of a lifetime. But concessions can be made for someone who might return such a treasure to its rightful owners.”
“I know that.”
“Not a lot of questions will be asked when the enormity of this find is made known.”
Neal didn’t speak, but his eyes on Peter didn’t waver.
“There is more than one choice here,” Peter said finally, then got up and walked around the desk to sit in his chair. He stowed the manifest in his desk drawer and opened up another file. “Now, let’s go over your play with Lawrence later today.”
Neal ignored the tingling in his hands and hid them beneath the desk out of Peter’s sight, just in case they started to flicker and fade.
----
Neal jumped as he heard the sound of knocking in iambic pentameter at his apartment door. He strode over and pulled it open. “Moz! Where the hell have you been? I left you eight messages.”
“Transacting business, mon frère.” He made an airy gesture with his hand and strode into the apartment, pausing at the table to give Lolana a jaunty tap; she bounced merrily on her spring.
“What - what kind of business, Moz?”
“Certain things need financing, Neal. I had to liquidate some items for quick cash.”
“You -“ Neal pinched the area above his nose and closed his eyes, “liquidated… what, exactly?”
“The Greek bronze horse. And the Dali - got a really great price, by the way. His value has really come up in the black market the last ten years. Needed the money so we could have these.” He opened up his messenger bag and pulled out a file folder; inside were two sets of identification papers - birth certificates, passports, credit cards. “You know much about identity farming? Fascinating business. The paper’s 100% legit, but it costs. Here - your new name’s Victor Moreau.”
Neal accepted the documents Moz handed him and stared at them dumbly; there was his face smiling up at him from the too-good-to-be-faked passport.
“The plane’s already sorted out,” Moz continued breezily. “Guy owes me a favor, and besides, I can fly it myself. We’ll file a phony flight plan or two and head to the island of our choice. How do you feel about a place called Cape Verde? Rolls off the tongue quite well, don’t you think? Cape Verde.”
“Sounds like a veritable heaven to me,” Neal replied, his voice flat.
“Aw, come on, don’t be like that. Beggars can’t be choosers, you know. If you’d taken any initiative in making arrangements along with me, then you’d have more of a say in the matter. As it is, I’m stuck with the name Bob. Ugh, how pedestrian.” He glanced at Neal, who was all but glaring at him, as if seeing him for the first time, and his brows went up. “What? What am I missing?”
Neal spoke slowly so that he wouldn’t shout. “The FBI has a manifest of all the artworks that were on the U-boat.”
“What?”
“Peter showed it to me this morning.”
“Is the Dali on there?”
“I don’t know, Moz, my German’s a little rusty and I only got a glance at it.”
Moz’s eyes darted around as he thought it all through. “Well. I mean. So we lay off fencing the art for a while until the heat dies down. You know, there are plenty of people who would still buy a Vermeer for a private collection anyway. There’s plenty of gold in that haul too - we can melt it down and still be as rich as Croesus.”
“Are you not even seeing what is wrong here? The FBI has a list. As soon as word gets out on that Dali, our gooses are cooked.”
“So then, we leave before they even preheat the oven. Neal, this was Adler - we beat that smug, murderous mother fucker at his own game. It’s the score of a lifetime - we’re not going to turn our backs on it just because the man is onto us.”
“Peter said the FBI could look the other way if the art’s returned right away. He said that -“
“Peter said?” Moz said, very slowly. “What else did Peter say?”
“He said the publicity surrounding this would be such that no one would be too worried about the details. It’s our out, Moz.”
Moz took off his glasses and began to polish them on his shirt; when he spoke, his voice was very low. “Tell me, Neal, when he said this, did he threaten to put you in cuffs, or did he still have his dick up your ass?”
Neal reacted as if he’d been struck, taking a step backwards. “Moz!”
“Because I would like to know exactly how he turned you. How the man who claims to love you, yet subjected you to a lie detector test, was able to make Neal Caffrey, the most talented con I know, into his faithful lapdog.”
“Moz.” Neal's voice was strangled as he tried to reason with his friend.
“I knew you getting involved with the Suits was going to be the end of me. Of us. I just didn’t think it would happen so soon.”
“I would never betray you.”
He put his glasses back on. “Wouldn’t you? You’ve already betrayed everything you are, what’s one more step along the path to righteousness?”
Neal clenched his hands into fists at his side to quell the shaking in his limbs. “Moz, I have always been your friend, and I have helped you whenever I could. But you - did you ever notice the changes my life’s been going through the last two years? Did it occur to you that maybe, for one goddamn minute in my life, I could find happiness? You call me friend, but what kind of friend ignores another’s dreams?”
“Dreams? We used to dream of the big score, Neal. Back in the day, something like this would’ve gotten you hard. Now I guess the only thing that can do that is a white picket fence and Sunday brunch with the Times and Mrs. Suit in your lap. But that kind of shit doesn’t last, Neal. Not for guys like you.”
Neal took a deep breath. “But what’s wrong with trying? I know you’re bitter because you never get the relationships. But that’s your choice, Moz, not mine. If you’d taken the time to - no, if you’d fucking cared about me, you’d have seen that it’s important to me. I like who I am now. I can’t go back, I won’t.”
“I can see that,” Moz said. He picked up the stupid hula-dancer and headed for the door, and his voice shook as he spoke. “But you know what else I’ve seen? A leopard never changes his spots, Neal. You’re a con. Peter’s a Fed. One day, very soon, one of you big cats is going to revert to form, and there can only be one left standing.
“You’ve broken my heart. Remember that when it happens - that I warned you, and that I really do know you. Better than you know yourself.”
Moz left, not closing the door behind him.
Neal stared after him, unable to move or think until he heard the front door open and slam closed, three stories down.
Neal blinked, but remained standing where he was. Moz’s words had cut him like a knife.
A leopard never changes his spots, Neal.
Of course, those words hurt the most because they were true. Moz had touched on Neal’s dirtiest secret. At the back of his mind, always, no matter how happy or satisfied with his work or his relationship he felt, he could never quite shake the certainty that he would ultimately hurt Peter and Elizabeth. That his lack of impulse control would lead him to some misstep, some deal he couldn’t pass up, some job that was too good to be true, and it would lead to their downfall.
He wasn’t a fool - he knew the risk of entering into a relationship with the Burkes was especially high. If they were discovered, he’d be sent back to prison, and Peter would be disgraced. But if they were discovered through some deed of Neal's - like, say, the smuggling of billions of dollars’ worth of Nazi plunder - that transgression would utterly ruin Peter.
”You did this.”
Peter’s voice in Neal's head made his mind spin. He had been so angry, his anger underpinned with hurt and betrayal. Yes, Peter had jumped to the wrong conclusion, had wrongfully accused Neal, but deep inside, during those first hours, Neal really did wish he’d taken the treasure. He wanted to take that money and run almost more than Mozzie had. Peter’s accusation had awoken in him the reckless desire to do just what he’d worked so hard over the last six years to atone for - to once again get back into the game. And for those few hours just days ago, it had felt good. It had felt like coming home. He had liked it.
God, what does that make me? he asked himself.
”You did this.”
“I wanted to,” he said aloud.
“A leopard never changes his spots, Neal.”
“But I did!” he insisted. “I thought I could!”
Neal became aware, suddenly, that his head was spinning, his breath coming in shallow gasps now. He closed his eyes, feeling the familiar tingling in his extremities that signaled an attack. He tried to imagine that he was solid, that there was substance to him, skin surrounding muscle and sinew and bone.
“I know you. Better than you know yourself.”
“NO!” Neal shouted back, opening his eyes and shouting his rage, his defiance, his denial. But the tingling had by now turned into agonizing pain, his nerve endings screaming with it, his head throbbing in time with his racing heart. He fell to his knees, gasping for air, arms clutched around his torso as if he could stop himself from flying apart.
When he noticed his clothes lying in a pile around him, he knew it was too late.
Part Two
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Neal/Peter/El established relationship, Moz
Spoilers: AU treatment of the happenings in Under the Radar and On Guard
Content Notice: Gratuitous smut and naughty language. A metric ton o’ angst. Might be slightly squicky for some.
Word Count: ~14,000
Summary: Neal is happy with Peter and El and his life in New York, but then the warehouse explodes, causing Peter to accuse Neal, and Moz to pressure him to take the treasure and run. All the stress triggers a relapse of Neal’s little invisibility problem.
This is a sequel to How to Disappear Completely, so it helps to have read that, though I think I've covered the relevant bits here.
Now with terrific cover art by kanarek13:
A/N: This is my wcpairings gift to ivorysilk, who’s been pestering me - er, I mean who has been an unflinching champion of this sequel - for the last two years. I finally figured out how to do it, bb - I hope you like it! Title is a lyric from the Radiohead song, “How to Disappear Completely.”
Many thanks to my trusty beta, Miri_Thompson, as well as to my pals winterstar95 and elrhiarhodan for reading an early draft and assuring me that it didn’t suck.
----
To think it all happened because of a goddamned music box.
The more Neal reminded himself of this, the more ludicrous it sounded to him. And yet it had happened. Adler had killed Kate, ruined Neal’s life, and was now dead himself, and it was all because of a music box.
The whole business was cursed, he had to believe. He was looking at the proof right in front of him, as a team of firemen arrived to fight the flames that were consuming the warehouse - it seemed like a lost cause. To think now of what had been lost - well, it was actually unthinkable, so he didn’t.
The explosion had been so violent. Neal felt numb. He almost died today. He held onto his elbow. He must have landed on it wrong when the place blew, but he couldn’t remember. His thoughts were erratic, disjointed; he wondered if he’d hit his head.
He stood by the car, fixated on the thick black smoke billowing to the sky. A flicker of movement to the right caught his attention. Peter called him over; his face was hard, like a mask. Neal could see the muscles bunching in his jaw as he got closer, a flash of anger in his eyes.
He’d just killed a man. Neal almost died. Peter was angry, and Neal thought he had a right to be, he had -
“You did this!” Peter barked at him, coming on so furiously that Neal hardly caught what he was saying. He stood there, mouth agape, the accusation flowing over him like another wall of fire - shocking and sudden. “You did this; the fire, all of it. You did it.”
“Peter, those were masterpieces, I would never burn them, you know that.” He was choking on the words, the smoke, the accusation.
“No, but you’d steal them.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Neal stammered, shocked, wondering where this was coming from, what it could mean.
“The long con on Adler finally paid off, didn’t it? You saw your chance and then you took it. I don’t know how. I don’t know what game you’re playing…”
Neal managed to regain some composure. “I haven’t lied to you Peter,” he said earnestly. “I’m not lying to you now. I didn’t steal the art.”
“I think you did.” Peter was beyond angry, he was incensed, livid with rage, his mouth a cruel line.
Neal couldn’t help his next reaction: anger answering anger. “Then prove it,” he spat out. “Prove it!” He turned to go, but then Peter grabbed his arm roughly, turning him around. Neal winced with pain.
“You want proof? Here’s your proof!” Peter grabbed Neal’s hand and slapped a scorched bit of canvas into it. Neal looked down on it and his mind reeled - there was no mistaking it for the piece Peter had been admiring the other day at his apartment. “What is this?”
“It landed at my feet a few minutes ago. Tell me it’s not yours.”
“I - I don’t know what it is.” He didn’t; if this was, in fact, his painting, it was supposed to be sitting in a storage room back at June’s.
“Right.”
“You don’t believe me? After everything we’ve just been through? After -“ he glanced around to be sure that no one could hear him. “After all we’ve meant to each other these last months? After what I -“ he stopped. The look on Peter’s face told him he was not hearing anything Neal said. “You know what? Forget it.” He crumpled the canvas scrap in his hand and threw it to the ground. “Forget that any of it ever happened.”
He turned on his heel and stalked away, his mind, despite all that had happened, was a complete blank; a white-hot blank of anger. He walked towards Diana’s car and kept walking; he didn’t look back and Peter didn’t call to him again.
----
By the time Neal got home, it was nearly dark. He’d walked all the way from the Brooklyn docks and barely remembered any of it. The look on Peter’s face, his accusation, was all he could see, hear, think about. That the man he had come to love, who had claimed to love him back, could accuse him of this hurt him to his core. He was beyond hurt - he was betrayed.
As he walked into his apartment, his eyes fell on something laying on the edge of his table - something that hadn’t been there before - a key with a note beneath it. The note had been typed, not hand-written; it included an address downtown and a single-line message: youll thank me.
What, no apostrophes on this typewriter? he thought to himself wryly. But something compelled him to act, to turn around and leave immediately, something he didn’t want to give a name to yet.
----
“Jesus, another damn warehouse?” Neal muttered under his breath as he used the key to open the outer door of the building at the address he’d found at home.
The place was as non-descript as it got in Manhattan, with a musty smell inside bordering on rot. To the right, he spied another locked door, to which the key was a fit. The bang of the door echoed as it opened, signifying a large space. Neal saw a light switch, which he flicked on. A turn around another corner revealed to him literally the last thing in the world he expected to see.
Arranged around the room was wooden crate upon wooden crate; piled atop and around them were the contents of the Nazi U-boat Adler had made him and Peter break into just the day before; Neal recognized the vanDyck and a Degas he’d spotted. There were piles of gold-plated items, a bronze sculpture of a horse that looked to be ancient, an elaborate crystal chandelier. He stumbled forward, taking it all in. It was the score of a lifetime.
And it was all his.
He couldn’t help but smile.
For a minute.
He allowed himself one minute to fantasize about the freedom and opportunity this trove of precious art would bring him: the wealth, the power, even. How easy it would be for him to run away with it - he was still off anklet, after all.
But then he remembered where it had come from - it was tainted with the blood of innocents, and he could not bear that stain on his soul. No, as tempting as all of this suddenly dropping into his lap was, he didn’t really want it.
Youll thank me, the note had said. Clearly it was left by someone who knew him. Adler? Did he have some angle? But he was dead now, so it didn’t matter.
I could get away with it all scot-free.
But no. It was tainted.
No anklet. Run. Peter thinks you did it anyway.
“Get a grip, Caffrey,” he muttered, admonishing himself. He locked the place up and headed back home, too tired to decide what to do about it now.
He spotted the FBI-issued SUV sitting outside June’s and sighed. He got into the passenger seat beside Jones, who wordlessly started the engine and drove them downtown.
----
Neal flinched as he raised his arms for Jones to fasten the lie detector leads around his chest; his arm still hurt him, and he had not had a chance to even look at it. Jones wouldn’t let him put the finger lead on himself, insisting he had to - didn’t want to give him any opportunity to spoof the test, Neal thought bitterly. He stared at the thin white wires that led to the polygraph, pointedly not looking at Peter. The waves of animosity pouring off his - partner? Lover? Ex? What were they now? In any case, they were palpable. Neal adopted an attitude of studied nonchalance.
Jones adjusted a few things and then turned the machine on. His eyes met Neal's, and they were flat and almost expressionless, conveying that he, too, believed Neal had something to do with this. Neal ground his teeth together, determined not to let it upset him.
Jones cleared his throat. “What color are your eyes?”
“Blue.” Neal's voice was without inflection.
“Are you a criminal consultant for the FBI?”
“Yes.”
“OK. For a baseline, I’m gonna need you to tell a lie.”
He looked up at Peter, standing behind Jones and opened his mouth. “I am in love with Peter Burke.” The polygraph needle did a little dance. Peter narrowed his eyes and then turned his back on him. Neal felt a momentary stab of shame for being so spiteful.
“Great, we’ve got our baseline,” Jones pointed out.
“Ask him about the warehouse,” Peter practically barked.
“Shortly before his death, you confronted Vincent Adler outside a warehouse. What was in that warehouse?” Jones asked.
Neal sighed. “A U-boat, German, recently dredged up off the coast of New York State.”
“And inside that U-boat?”
“A collection of art plundered by the Nazis.”
Peter turned, looming above Neal where he sat. “What happened?”
“The warehouse burst into flames,” Neal replied conversationally.
His tone clearly bothered Peter, who bent forward and leaned over the table. “Did you steal the art?”
Neal did not blink, nor did his eyes waver from Peter’s as he answered, “No.” Did he detect a softening around Peter’s eyes? No.
“Do you know who did?”
“No.”
“According to the readout, he’s telling the truth,” Jones pointed out.
“It’s two o’clock in the morning, Peter,” Neal pointed out. “You gonna keep me here all night?”
“Until I’m satisfied.”
Only that morning, Neal would’ve answered that with a raised eyebrow and a leer. Right now, he just felt sick. “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” he said.
Peter blinked and stood, hands on his hips. “Again, Jones,” he said quietly.
“Shortly before his death...”
----
When Neal got to the top of the stairs that led to his apartment, it was to find the door wide open, a breeze passing through from the open terrace doors. He sighed, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. He was so exhausted - it was nearly 11:00 am and he still wore the same clothes from the day before, the smell of burning rubber and sulfur clung to his hair and skin and clothes, evoking long-buried and painful memories he did not want to recall.
He walked wearily into the apartment and sighed as he spotted Moz sitting out on the terrace with his back to him, basking in the sun. On Neal's table was a ridiculous-looking Hawaiian hula-dancer doll with a grass skirt on. He poked at it with his finger and it shimmied on the spring embedded inside that bound it to its base.
“Her name is Lolana,” Moz called to him without turning around.
Neal closed his eyes. Of course Moz was behind this whole thing - how had he not guessed?
“She from any particular island?” he asked, not really wanting to do this, not now. This whole caper may have cost him the most important relationship of his life, and Moz, Neal noted, held a pair of champagne flutes in his hand.
“Whichever one your heart desires,” Moz answered.
Neal pulled the card and the key from his pocket. “So I guess this was from you,” he said, his voice hollow. Moz turned around and gave him a shit-eating grin; Neal's voice was choked. “How?”
“It wasn’t easy.”
“The warehouse?”
Moz rose, came into the apartment. “I worked backwards from the transmitter you wired into the limo.”
“Security?”
“I got around it with a localized EM burst.”
“And the art?’
“Adler had it loaded onto a truck - it wasn’t hard.”
Neal made a calculation. “And the TNT was unstable and easy to detonate.”
Moz nodded his head and grinned. “The perfect cover.” He held a glass out to Neal.
“Except I just spent the entire night being interrogated by Peter, Moz. Why - why would you do this?”
“What are you talking about? Neal, we finally got our white whale!” He stepped forward and pressed the glass into Neal's hand.
Neal felt numb. “You didn’t tell me.” I lied to Peter.
“Plausible deniability, mon frère. Now, all I need is a couple of days - three at most, and we can be on our way. A plane, travel documents, a couple of new identities, and we’ll be sitting pretty. Can you believe it? This is our golden ticket!”
Neal's mind was reeling. Moz - Moz had done this. Peter had accused him, and he’d denied everything, and Moz was behind it. What now? For one fleeting, shameful moment, he almost agreed to go, right now.
He looked down at the stupid doll on the table, still wiggling slightly. “Lolana, huh?” he said.
“In Hawaiian, her name means to soar, which is exactly what we’re gonna do in a short time.”
Neal fought down the urge to vomit and let Moz clink his champagne glass against his.
xXxXxXx
“Hon? Why are you home so early?”
Elizabeth Burke dropped her house keys on the side table beside the stairs and went into the living room. It had been a long day - one made even longer by a restless night without Peter and Neal beside her in bed. The case they were working - something to do with Vincent Adler was all she’d gleaned - had kept them away all night and she had not expected to see him at home before 6:00 pm. The look on Peter’s face made her pause; it was equal parts anger and hurt and she didn’t quite know what to do about it. “What happened?” she asked.
“Vincent Adler is dead,” he said, his voice too low.
“Dead? Wh - I thought -“
“I killed him.”
“What? Peter!” She dropped to her knees in front of him and took his face between her hands; he opened his knees to let her get closer, leaning into her touch. She kissed him closed-mouthed on the lips. “What happened?”
“He was going to kill Neal, I had no choice.”
El’s blood ran cold at the thought and she looked around the room for someone who was not there. “Neal? Where’s Neal?” there was a frantic tone in her voice.
“At home, I suppose.”
“Was he hurt? Were you?” She ran her hands over his arms and chest as if she could tell by touch.
“No.”
“Then what happened?”
And then he launched into the most implausible story she’d ever heard about a booby-trapped Nazi U-boat filled with treasure, a different attempt by Adler to kill Peter and Neal the day before, and the search for the warehouse where they’d been taken.
She stilled; this explained Peter’s over-attentiveness to her the night before, which had bordered on clinginess. “Can you do me a favor next time you’re nearly killed, and maybe tell me?” She knew she shouldn’t show her anger, but she couldn’t help it.
“I’m sorry, hon, but I couldn’t, it was part of an open investigation.”
She closed her eyes and counted to ten, then got up off her knees and sat as close to him on the couch as she could. He leaned into her and she took his right hand into both of hers and laid it in her lap. “And Adler?”
“We had an approximation of where the warehouse was, so we were searching down by the Brooklyn docks. There was an explosion, and when I got there, Adler had a gun on Neal and he - he was going to shoot him, El, and I had to -“
“You don’t have to say it if you don’t want.” She put her arm around his shoulders and pulled his head to her shoulder, stroking his hair lightly. They sat that way for several minutes.
“The place was burning, there was a load of TNT inside. At first I thought maybe it was unstable and just blew, and took all the art with it, and Neal - he looked so wrecked, hon. Shook up, you know?” She could only nod. “But then this burned-up piece of a painting floated down and it was just like something I saw Neal painting the other day and -“ he swallowed against the words, clearly not willing or able to get them out.
El froze. “And what, Peter?”
He sat up and looked at her. “It all began to make a kind of sense to me - Neal was pulling a con the whole time.”
“What? No.”
“No, hon, I think he stole all the art somehow and blew the place up to cover his tracks.”
Shocked, Elizabeth got to her feet. “Peter, no!” He could only look up at her, an angry and conflicted look on his face. “He would never.”
“That’s what he said, and the polygraph -“
“You made him take a lie detector test?!”
“He passed it.”
“Well of course he did! Peter, how could you?”
“You didn’t see that painting.”
“But you did. And you saw Neal - how was he?”
“He was angry, and… and hurt. He denied it.”
She couldn’t believe the next words that had to come out of her mouth. “And you didn’t believe him?”
He stared at her, eyes defiant for several seconds until she saw his face turn red and he looked down. “I was angry and upset, El. I’d just had to -“
She sat down beside him and took his hand again, but she couldn’t look at him. Her voice, when she spoke, was as even as she could make it, “I know, you just had to kill someone. But Peter, after everything he’s been through in the last year, and what it took for him to trust again, to love again, could you really not have given him a simple benefit of the doubt?”
He was silent for more than a minute. His hand clutched at hers almost spasmodically. When she looked up at him, there was sorrow in his eyes, and not a little guilt. “Oh my God, El, what have I done?”
She didn’t need to tell him, because he knew. And because she had no idea how to fix it, if it could be fixed.
----
“You didn’t bring him with you, did you?” Neal asked as soon as she entered his apartment through the open door. His back was to her and he was sitting in the dark - the sun had almost set. She hated when he did that, she was certain she hadn’t made a single sound.
“I did not.”
“He send you to smooth things over for him?”
“He did not.” She switched on the table lamp by the couch and crossed to where he was sitting at his table, staring at an incongruous Hawaiian hula-dancing doll sitting on the table. He was slurring his words, she realized as she noted the empty wine bottle sitting at his elbow. “I’m nearly as angry at him as you are, I think.”
“I’m not angry.”
“OK.”
“There aren’t words for what I’m feeling right now, Elizabeth. There just aren’t enough words.”
She reached out to play with the hairs curling over his collar and he flinched away from her. She thought she could guess at one of those words: pain.
“I wish there was something I could say or do to undo or fix this, my darling. But it’s not up to me,” she said. “I love you both, but you will have to work it out yourselves.”
If it can be worked out, she did not say, and cursed herself for thinking.
She continued, “Just remember one thing, Neal. He had to kill someone. To save you. I hope that still means something.”
She kissed him on top of his head and left.
xXxXxXx
Neal reported to work as usual the next morning after a night spent tossing and turning. Moz had come over, showing him brochures from Pacific islands and talking about some cargo plane he’d acquired. Neal had gotten him to leave only by appearing to go along - saying something about doing it right and taking the time to plan. To top that off, the words Elizabeth had said to him when she’d left still haunted him.
Peter had had to kill Adler because he was about to shoot Neal. He had done it to protect Neal, because he cared for him. That had to put a great weight on how Neal processed what had been done - what had been said. It had to, right? Peter was overreacting, as he sometimes did. He’d been emotional, and for good reason. Neal had to give him the benefit of the doubt, right?
But at the back of his mind was the knowledge that Peter had not done the same for him, had not given him a chance to explain. Not that there was any explanation - Moz had confessed to using Neal's paintings so that ERT would find evidence of destroyed art in the explosion, had apologized to Neal for exposing him in that way. He’d said it would be immaterial anyway - he and Neal would be long gone by the time there was any real proof.
Except Neal didn’t want to go, no matter how things now stood between him and his lovers. He liked his life here, he needed it, even if he might end up with his heart broken. Even if it meant Peter didn’t trust him.
Peter didn’t trust him. That was probably the thing that hurt him the most.
Maybe Moz was right - maybe they should just cut ties and blow town. What did he really have here if the man he loved didn’t trust him?
His thoughts were interrupted by a shadow coming over his desk - Peter. He held an innocuous, white paper bag in his hand that he placed on Neal's desk.
“Thanks, but I had breakfast already,” Neal said.
Peter’s face was stony, unreadable. “Look inside.”
Neal unfolded the top of the bag; nestled inside, beside a bearclaw from his favorite bakery, was the swatch of burned painting, sealed inside an unlabeled - and therefore unprocessed - evidence bag. Neal closed his eyes as something like relief flooded over him.
“El says that there were lots of European artists who liked to paint the Chrysler,” Peter began, his voice tight.
“It was a popular subject in its time,” Neal replied, his voice even.
“You have to understand what went through my mind when I saw that.”
“Do I?”
“It looks like the one I saw you painting the other day.”
“And?”
“I jumped to a conclusion I shouldn’t have.”
Neal noticed he didn’t apologize. “You hurt me,” he said, fingering the paper edge of the bag and not looking at Peter.
“I know.”
“You were hurting too.”
“I was.”
“I think we need to turn to each other when that happens, not away.” When Neal at last looked up at Peter, the man’s face was red, his eyes were bright, and he looked so hopeful.
“Please forgive me,” Peter whispered.
Neal didn’t know if it was enough to repair the damage done to his heart, but he thought maybe the bleeding might be stopped. He didn’t say anything, just gave a single nod, and got up to get another cup of coffee.
----
It was late that afternoon when Peter called Neal to his office about their next case. “You’re smiling,” Neal pointed out.
“I am. Tell me about Gary Rydell.” He threw a file on the desk that Neal opened up; inside was a photo of himself and a list of alleged crimes committed by one Gary Rydell. “That’s you.”
“It is.” Gary was an alias he’d invented once upon a time when he needed to be a rich douchebag; he was also a world class smuggler. “So… what? You think I might reactivate my Rydell alias in order to smuggle something out of the country? Something like a stolen Nazi treasure?”
Peter flinched but Neal did not react; he may forgive Peter, but the forgetting was going to take a while longer.
“I think this guy’s looking for Rydell,” Peter said, ignoring Neal's attitude and dropping another file on the desk. Inside was the smiling mug shot of one David Lawrence, a former associate of Gary’s who was supposed to have robbed the federal reserve of $60 million.
“You really think he’s trying to smuggle the money?” Neal asked when Peter had explained the details of the case thus far.
“It’s the score of his life - how can he just let it go?” Peter asked honestly.
Until recently, Neal thought it could be pretty easy. But that was before the man he was in love with accused him of stealing a couple billion in Nazi plunder he wanted nothing to do with.
----
Neal walked home again that night - he’d been doing a lot of walking lately, he realized. Usually, it helped to clear his head, the mindless placement of one foot in front of the other freeing his brain to process things that were weighing on his mind. But not today. He still didn’t know where he stood on anything.
Making matters worse, Moz was waiting for him when he got home.
“What is that?” Neal asked, indicating the model plane sitting on the table in front of Moz.
“Our ticket out of here. Behold, the 400 Series Twin Otter.”
“Is it big enough?” Neal's sarcasm went unnoticed.
“Think of it as a Kardashian; what it lacks in refinement, it makes up for in cargo space.”
Neal's mind was spinning - this was moving too fast.
Moz took his reluctance for criticism. “You’re not sold.”
“It’s fine - I’m just worried about Peter. He’s guessed more than you think. He could be close to finding something.”
Moz waved a hand airily. “Let him - we’ll be on another continent before he gets close enough. After what he put you through -“
“He gave me the painting scrap back,” Neal interrupted.
“Because he knows it proves nothing.”
Because he wanted to show how sorry he was, Neal didn’t say, though he desperately wanted to believe it.
Moz left shortly afterwards, leaving behind Lolana and the plane model. Neal sat at the far end of the table, keeping as far away from the objects as possible, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. His mind was in turmoil, voices floating in his head not making any of this easy. Elizabeth’s, telling him she loved him. Peter’s doing the same, but then… the anger in his eyes just two days before, the suspicion and lack of trust. And Moz’s, offering him riches he hadn’t dared to have dreamed would be his.
As the voices roiled and clashed in his mind, so did his emotions, ebbing and flowing with them. He stood abruptly, as if such an action could put them from his mind. He dropped his arms, frowned at the pins and needles he felt in his hands - he must’ve been clutching his arms more tightly than he’d thought.
He glanced up at Lolana, making a fist and willing the feeling to return to his hands. “What’s it to be, Caffrey?” he asked himself. “Love or everything else you’ve ever wanted. You can’t have both.”
xXxXxXx
It was Date Night - perhaps the most important ever over the course of their relationship, Elizabeth realized. And it all felt wrong. And forced. It felt wrong because it was so forced. But she kept at it anyway, because repairing the rift between Neal and Peter was worth it. And no one could do this but her.
She puttered around in her kitchen, making the things she knew they would like - roasted chicken for Peter, goat cheese salad for Neal, chocolate mousse for all of them - all their favorites. It would be perfect.
Over the last two days, she’d kept her hand in, had sent flirty texts to Neal as she had always done, inviting him to come over Saturday night. We miss you, she’d sent to him.
I miss you too, Elizabeth, had been his reply, and she wouldn’t read anything into the fact he’d addressed only her, she refused.
Her attempts to talk to Peter to gauge the temperature between he and Neal had been almost as futile. Her husband, when he was wrong and he knew it, clammed up like, well, a clam, and it was like he was avoiding her in order to avoid the topic. But his mood told her everything was not as rosy as she’d hoped - she knew he’d apologized to Neal, but that was it, and from his manner, she deduced that things were still strained.
Oy vey ist mir, as her favorite, one-time boss Brad Rosenzweig would have sighed, they sure were in a heap of hurt. But she thought that the old cliché, “Fake it ‘til you make it,” had a particular applicability here, and that’s just what she was going to do. Another cliché, “Queen of De Nile” also went through her mind, and she ruthlessly suppressed it as she shoved the chicken into the oven.
A jingle of keys at the front door alerted her to the fact her husband had arrived home. He walked into the kitchen with an entire case of wine in his arms, bottles of different vintages poking out of each of the slots inside.
“Go a little overboard, hon?” she asked, pulling one of the bottles out.
“You think?” He looked slightly crestfallen until she nodded approvingly at some of his choices. “That’s the one Neal brought for that birthday picnic he made you - you remember?” he said, indicating a dry rose she held.
She smiled at the memory - she and Neal had gotten way too tipsy on two bottles of the stuff, and Peter had had to nurse them both through a pair of evil hangovers the next morning.
She picked up another bottle. “Oh, and here’s that champagne from the night he took us to the opera,” she said, her smile widening. Neither of them would forget it - it was the first time they’d taken Neal to their bed.
She put the bottle down and caressed the side of Peter’s face with an open palm. “He’ll love that you remembered.” Peter didn’t look like he believed her, but he leaned over and kissed her before heading off to shower and change.
Elizabeth made sure to be the one to answer the door when Neal arrived, just over an hour later. She thought - and the fleeting look of unease on his face confirmed it - that he would feel awkward to be confronted by Peter answering the door. She took his hand and pulled him into the hall, rising on her tiptoes to kiss him deeply on the mouth. If the hitch in his breathing was any indication, her warm welcome reminded him just a little of what their relationship meant to all of them. When he pulled away from her, he smiled easily at her and removed his hat.
In his other hand he held a bag from a liquor store that held a four-pack of the imported German doppelbock that Peter loved. She hoped it meant something that each of her men was trying to bury the hatchet via his gift of the other’s favorite alcoholic beverages.
Peter came down the stairs and smiled to see Neal, but when he approached him, El could see Neal stiffen slightly. Hiding his hurt remarkably well, Peter settled for a gentle squeeze of Neal's biceps, took the beer from Neal and made appropriately grateful noises over it, and finally headed for the kitchen. Neal and El followed, and once Peter had put the beer in the fridge, they stood around the kitchen island for a full minute, and no one said anything.
“Who needs a cocktail?” El asked, causing both men to jump.
“I do!” Peter answered immediately, and Neal raised his hand like a kid in school who knew the answer, and the three of them shared a laugh. Minutes later, they each had a drink in hand - Peter and Neal a glass of whisky each and she a dirty martini with extra olives.
She produced some cheese and crackers to go with the cocktails, and soon the three of them were leaning over the kitchen island and nibbling when Peter’s work cell rang.
“Uh-oh, the Batphone,” Neal joked lamely.
“Who’d be calling me on a Saturday?” Peter groaned, taking the phone off its recharger and excusing himself to the back deck.
“Big case at the office?” El prompted Neal.
He shrugged. “We just started one. Guy I allegedly used to run with.”
El raised her eyebrows.
“I’m not supposed to make contact until Monday,” Neal continued, “he’s staying at the Gramercy Fencing Club - he was a member in the past. I sure hope I can get in a bit of fencing when I’m there - it’s been a while.”
His lips curled up in a slight smile at Elizabeth’s surprised expression; Neal never ceased to surprise her with his hidden talents. “You’ll have to wear your lucky tie, then,” she suggested as Peter came back into the house, an apologetic look on his face. “What is it, Hon?”
“The Pederson case,” he said, looking a little crestfallen.
“That insider trading thing?” Neal said. El recalled the case - that “insider trading thing” uncovered a money laundering scandal and was the biggest case of Peter’s career five years ago.
Peter nodded. “Pederson escaped. Someone landed a helicopter in the field next to the Federal correctional facility at Otisville, and he hopped on. I need to go into the office.”
“Ballsy,” Neal said, looking impressed. El smacked him on the chest with the back of her hand, a reproachful look in her eyes even as she laughed.
“But, Honey, isn’t that a job for the Marshals or something?” she asked.
“No one can catch an escaped con like Peter,” Neal said, with a hint of fondness that Elizabeth was happy to hear.
“This sucks! It’s date night!” Peter near-whined, looking sincerely apologetic and upset to be called away. He was looking at Neal, who gave his arm a squeeze as he leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek.
“There will be others,” Neal pointed out, and El thought it sounded like a promise.
Ten minutes later, Peter was suited up and out the door, and when El turned from seeing him off, it was to find Neal standing behind her with his hat on. “You’re not going too, are you?”
“Date night’s a bust.”
“Aw, come on, I made a chicken. And chocolate mousse. You have to stay.” At his reluctant expression, she walked up to him, reached her right hand up to the back of his neck and pulled him in for a deep kiss. She nipped his bottom lip as she pulled away, her hand trailing along his collar and her finger caressing the line of his jaw. “Just because we’re a threesome, doesn’t mean we must always be three,” she pointed out.
Neal smiled and leaned in to kiss her again, his hands settling at the small of her back as she pulled the hat from his head and tossed it onto the couch.
----
“Take your time, baby, I’ve missed you,” Elizabeth purred as Neal pressed her back against the wall of her bedroom, his mouth ravaging her right nipple through her bra. He had practically torn her dress off, and it hung around her hips as he squeezed her ass with both hands.
“Huh-uh,” he gasped between kisses. “You smell too good.”
When he lifted his head to stare into her eyes, his mouth was red and kiss-swollen, his pupils blown wide with desire, and his hair stuck out in all directions, the result of her questing fingers. He turned his head to the other side, pushed the fingers of his left hand between her skin and her bra to palm her breast, diving in to take the pert nipple into his hot mouth and she gasped at the attention, throwing all attempts at slowing down the proceedings to the wind. Moaning, she rested her head against the wall and buried her hands in his hair again, arching her back to increase the sensations.
“Bed,” she panted, and before she knew it, he’d picked her up and carried her over, laying her down atop the bedspread. She spread her thighs wide and he fit himself on top of her, and she could feel the heat of his groin and the straining length of his cock against her. She reached a hand down and unfastened his pants, pulling his dick out and pumping him to full hardness.
He used his hands to lever himself above her, slid his hand between them to pull the skirt of her dress up. His fingernails scratched against her skin as he tugged her panties down her legs, making desperate grunting sounds as he did. Once the panties were off, she hooked her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling the head of his massive erection breach her hot center. She gasped as he entered her, holding her breath and feeling the delicious stretch of it until he was fully-seated within.
He pumped into her with an urgency she had never seen in him before, his moans against the skin of her neck and breasts almost sounding like whines of desperation. Eventually, they resolved into words.
“Please, please say it’s OK.”
“Neal? Neal, it’s OK,” she soothed.
“Tell me I don’t have to leave?”
“Of course not, you’ll stay here with me tonight. Keep me nice and warm.”
But something in his manner made her suspect he meant something entirely different; his voice had sounded broken, like a crying child’s, and she felt the need to reassure.
“Baby?” She cupped her hands around his face, but he wouldn’t look at her, instead turning his attention to her neck and throat, his kisses punctuated by desperate gasps as he fucked into her with a kind of desperation she’d never seen in him. When he came shortly thereafter, it was with a series of hard, shallow thrusts, and he collapsed beside her, and just lay there with his face tucked between her arm and the bed, avoiding her gaze.
She made a quarter turn and caressed the side of his face with an open hand, pushing the sweat-soaked hair away from his face and kissing him on the cheek. “Neal?” she said gently, but he buried his face further into the bedding and no amount of cajoling would get him to look at her. At last, the cooling sweat on her body gave her a chill, and she pulled the edges of the bedspread up to cover them both.
Later, after she’d coaxed him out of the bed long enough for the two of them to remove their now rumpled and soiled clothing and climb under the covers, she lay in his arms with her head resting on his chest, her legs wrapped around one of his possessively.
“Neal?” she said at last.
“Hmm?”
She pushed herself up on her elbow to look at him. “You know I love you no matter what, right?”
“I do.” The way he said it sounded like a question, almost, like he wasn’t sure where she was going with this conversation.
She bit her lip, considering her next words carefully. “You know your place here is a sure thing, don’t you?”
There was a long pause, punctuated by a sigh before he spoke, his voice low and emotional. “I don’t know if I deserve… I’ve done so many things to regret, Elizabeth.”
She sensed some need in him for validation, and her words came out in a rush, “Not where I’m concerned, baby. I don’t care what you did in the past, I care about your present. And right here, right now, I know you are a good man.”
His eyes were bright suddenly, as if they might fill with tears at any moment, though they did not. He opened his mouth to speak, but she could not allow him to give voice to the self-loathing she could see in his eyes. She put two fingers on his lips. “Hush, I don’t need to hear it, Neal. All I need is you, here with me - with us - because we love each other.”
“Yeah, but you -“
“Hush,” she repeated, pulling her fingers away and replacing them with her own lips.
xXxXxXx
Neal lay on his back in Peter and Elizabeth’s bed, willing himself to remain motionless. Elizabeth slept peacefully in his arms, her head on his chest, snoring softly.
All he wanted to do was get out of there.
That was not entirely true - if he could be anywhere in the entire world, it was in this bed, but for some reason he felt like he might hyperventilate, like he wasn’t getting enough air in his lungs.
In the aftermath of their lovemaking and her sweet understanding of him, he had wanted, more than he thought he wanted anything before in his life, to tell Elizabeth everything. He needed to unburden his conscience like he needed the air he breathed. Perhaps that explained this growing panic. The fact that El had been so understanding, so accepting of him, had made him feel so close to her and willing to confess all, regardless of the consequences for him, for his relationship with the Burkes, or for Moz.
But then she’d quieted him; the very instrument of his salvation had taken that option away with a caring, “hush,” and a gentle kiss. She thought she was soothing him, but instead it had made it all worse.
He felt suddenly so… thin. Like a balloon about to burst. Or a bubble.
And here he lay, with the woman he loved in his arms, and all he wanted was to get out of there. Because getting out of there, moving, would at least take all of these horrible, pent up feelings away. But he couldn’t move, or else he'd disturb her, and if she woke up, he knew she’d figure it all out.
As he looked down on her sleeping form, wondering what to do, he was shocked to see his hands and arms begin to fade away.
“No,” he nearly moaned, but he bit his lip against the utterance.
Not again.
He closed his eyes and took slow, deep breaths, trying the calming exercises that he’d been taught before.
It had been months since the last time - months since the fact he’d felt so conflicted over the course his life had taken - the unapologetic conman vs. the law-abiding citizen who had begun to find a place at the FBI - had almost literally destroyed him. Etheric projection it was called - his mind’s tendency to want to escape the conflict by, ironically, destroying his physical body.
He had been encouraged to take up meditation as part of his treatment but had stopped months ago when he’d gotten too busy or too distracted to do it regularly. Besides, he’d been so happy with Peter and Elizabeth, he couldn’t even imagine he'd have a relapse. And now he could not achieve the calm he sought.
He flinched as he felt an unusual pressure in his chest. Opening his eyes, he was horrified to see that Elizabeth’s head was beginning to pass through his body. He froze at the sight. What would happen if she passed through? What if his body resolved itself around her?
Disengaging as gently as he could, he laid her down on the bed and scrambled out of it. She frowned in her sleep, instinctively curling into the warmth in the spot he’d been in, but didn’t wake. By now, he noticed with more resignation than relief that his body had become solid again.
He found a robe and spent the remainder of the night sitting in the easy chair in the corner, staring at his hands.
----
Neal didn’t stay late on Sunday morning, leaving before Peter returned from the Pederson manhunt (he was tracked to his mistress’s apartment in New Jersey), claiming to have early plans with June. He spent the day alone, trying to meditate, and when that failed, he drowned his sorrows in a bottle of cheap Shiraz because he couldn’t bear to guzzle down the good stuff. Due to the lack of sleep the night before, he fell asleep on the couch by 9:00 and woke too early Monday morning with a dry mouth, a sour stomach, and a vicious headache.
He arrived at the office ahead of everyone and was staring morosely at the cheap swill the FBI called coffee falling into the pot and contemplating running out to get a Starbucks when he heard his name called.
“Neal?”
Peter’s voice was neutral, but he had come across the office to summon him, rather than calling to him and giving his customary double finger point. Neal raised his eyebrows expectantly.
“Quick meeting in my office?” Peter’s face remained as unexpressive as his voice, and Neal dutifully followed him up the stairs to his office. “Have a seat,” Peter said, shutting the door behind them.
“This something to do with Lawrence?” Neal asked. “I wasn’t going to head over to the club until this afternoon -“
Peter sat on the edge of his desk and looked down at Neal; given his posture and position, this was an informal, off-the books type of conversation; if it was Serious Business, he’d have sat down behind his desk. “ERT recovered something from near the warehouse where the sub had been,” he began.
Neal noticed he pointedly avoided referring to the art, and asked, “What did they find?”
Peter reached behind him for a file folder on his desk. Inside, sealed inside a plastic sheet protector, was an ancient and yellowed piece of onion skin, on which was typed a list, in German, that looked like some sort of inventory.
“We think it’s a manifest of the works that were on the U-boat,” Peter answered Neal’s unspoken question.
Neal schooled his face into a neutral expression before looking up at Peter. “Gotta love that German efficiency.”
“Right? We’re having it translated, then Diana’s going to take it to the folks at the International Foundation for Art Research to verify it’s all still missing.”
“So if it’s all verified as stolen -“ Neal began.
Peter’s voice was low, resonant, “As soon as one of these pieces turns up, we’ll know who took it, and be able to prosecute them to the fullest extent of the law.” His tone and meaning were a clear warning, and Neal took it as such. He also saw, in the softness around Peter’s eyes, that it was an offer of help. Neal understood that Peter would look the other way if the art was returned swiftly.
“I don’t know who took it,” Neal replied evenly.
“But if you do -“
“That would make me an accessory.”
Peter looked Neal right in the eyes, and spoke slowly. “I realize… to some people, this might be seen as the opportunity of a lifetime. But concessions can be made for someone who might return such a treasure to its rightful owners.”
“I know that.”
“Not a lot of questions will be asked when the enormity of this find is made known.”
Neal didn’t speak, but his eyes on Peter didn’t waver.
“There is more than one choice here,” Peter said finally, then got up and walked around the desk to sit in his chair. He stowed the manifest in his desk drawer and opened up another file. “Now, let’s go over your play with Lawrence later today.”
Neal ignored the tingling in his hands and hid them beneath the desk out of Peter’s sight, just in case they started to flicker and fade.
----
Neal jumped as he heard the sound of knocking in iambic pentameter at his apartment door. He strode over and pulled it open. “Moz! Where the hell have you been? I left you eight messages.”
“Transacting business, mon frère.” He made an airy gesture with his hand and strode into the apartment, pausing at the table to give Lolana a jaunty tap; she bounced merrily on her spring.
“What - what kind of business, Moz?”
“Certain things need financing, Neal. I had to liquidate some items for quick cash.”
“You -“ Neal pinched the area above his nose and closed his eyes, “liquidated… what, exactly?”
“The Greek bronze horse. And the Dali - got a really great price, by the way. His value has really come up in the black market the last ten years. Needed the money so we could have these.” He opened up his messenger bag and pulled out a file folder; inside were two sets of identification papers - birth certificates, passports, credit cards. “You know much about identity farming? Fascinating business. The paper’s 100% legit, but it costs. Here - your new name’s Victor Moreau.”
Neal accepted the documents Moz handed him and stared at them dumbly; there was his face smiling up at him from the too-good-to-be-faked passport.
“The plane’s already sorted out,” Moz continued breezily. “Guy owes me a favor, and besides, I can fly it myself. We’ll file a phony flight plan or two and head to the island of our choice. How do you feel about a place called Cape Verde? Rolls off the tongue quite well, don’t you think? Cape Verde.”
“Sounds like a veritable heaven to me,” Neal replied, his voice flat.
“Aw, come on, don’t be like that. Beggars can’t be choosers, you know. If you’d taken any initiative in making arrangements along with me, then you’d have more of a say in the matter. As it is, I’m stuck with the name Bob. Ugh, how pedestrian.” He glanced at Neal, who was all but glaring at him, as if seeing him for the first time, and his brows went up. “What? What am I missing?”
Neal spoke slowly so that he wouldn’t shout. “The FBI has a manifest of all the artworks that were on the U-boat.”
“What?”
“Peter showed it to me this morning.”
“Is the Dali on there?”
“I don’t know, Moz, my German’s a little rusty and I only got a glance at it.”
Moz’s eyes darted around as he thought it all through. “Well. I mean. So we lay off fencing the art for a while until the heat dies down. You know, there are plenty of people who would still buy a Vermeer for a private collection anyway. There’s plenty of gold in that haul too - we can melt it down and still be as rich as Croesus.”
“Are you not even seeing what is wrong here? The FBI has a list. As soon as word gets out on that Dali, our gooses are cooked.”
“So then, we leave before they even preheat the oven. Neal, this was Adler - we beat that smug, murderous mother fucker at his own game. It’s the score of a lifetime - we’re not going to turn our backs on it just because the man is onto us.”
“Peter said the FBI could look the other way if the art’s returned right away. He said that -“
“Peter said?” Moz said, very slowly. “What else did Peter say?”
“He said the publicity surrounding this would be such that no one would be too worried about the details. It’s our out, Moz.”
Moz took off his glasses and began to polish them on his shirt; when he spoke, his voice was very low. “Tell me, Neal, when he said this, did he threaten to put you in cuffs, or did he still have his dick up your ass?”
Neal reacted as if he’d been struck, taking a step backwards. “Moz!”
“Because I would like to know exactly how he turned you. How the man who claims to love you, yet subjected you to a lie detector test, was able to make Neal Caffrey, the most talented con I know, into his faithful lapdog.”
“Moz.” Neal's voice was strangled as he tried to reason with his friend.
“I knew you getting involved with the Suits was going to be the end of me. Of us. I just didn’t think it would happen so soon.”
“I would never betray you.”
He put his glasses back on. “Wouldn’t you? You’ve already betrayed everything you are, what’s one more step along the path to righteousness?”
Neal clenched his hands into fists at his side to quell the shaking in his limbs. “Moz, I have always been your friend, and I have helped you whenever I could. But you - did you ever notice the changes my life’s been going through the last two years? Did it occur to you that maybe, for one goddamn minute in my life, I could find happiness? You call me friend, but what kind of friend ignores another’s dreams?”
“Dreams? We used to dream of the big score, Neal. Back in the day, something like this would’ve gotten you hard. Now I guess the only thing that can do that is a white picket fence and Sunday brunch with the Times and Mrs. Suit in your lap. But that kind of shit doesn’t last, Neal. Not for guys like you.”
Neal took a deep breath. “But what’s wrong with trying? I know you’re bitter because you never get the relationships. But that’s your choice, Moz, not mine. If you’d taken the time to - no, if you’d fucking cared about me, you’d have seen that it’s important to me. I like who I am now. I can’t go back, I won’t.”
“I can see that,” Moz said. He picked up the stupid hula-dancer and headed for the door, and his voice shook as he spoke. “But you know what else I’ve seen? A leopard never changes his spots, Neal. You’re a con. Peter’s a Fed. One day, very soon, one of you big cats is going to revert to form, and there can only be one left standing.
“You’ve broken my heart. Remember that when it happens - that I warned you, and that I really do know you. Better than you know yourself.”
Moz left, not closing the door behind him.
Neal stared after him, unable to move or think until he heard the front door open and slam closed, three stories down.
Neal blinked, but remained standing where he was. Moz’s words had cut him like a knife.
A leopard never changes his spots, Neal.
Of course, those words hurt the most because they were true. Moz had touched on Neal’s dirtiest secret. At the back of his mind, always, no matter how happy or satisfied with his work or his relationship he felt, he could never quite shake the certainty that he would ultimately hurt Peter and Elizabeth. That his lack of impulse control would lead him to some misstep, some deal he couldn’t pass up, some job that was too good to be true, and it would lead to their downfall.
He wasn’t a fool - he knew the risk of entering into a relationship with the Burkes was especially high. If they were discovered, he’d be sent back to prison, and Peter would be disgraced. But if they were discovered through some deed of Neal's - like, say, the smuggling of billions of dollars’ worth of Nazi plunder - that transgression would utterly ruin Peter.
”You did this.”
Peter’s voice in Neal's head made his mind spin. He had been so angry, his anger underpinned with hurt and betrayal. Yes, Peter had jumped to the wrong conclusion, had wrongfully accused Neal, but deep inside, during those first hours, Neal really did wish he’d taken the treasure. He wanted to take that money and run almost more than Mozzie had. Peter’s accusation had awoken in him the reckless desire to do just what he’d worked so hard over the last six years to atone for - to once again get back into the game. And for those few hours just days ago, it had felt good. It had felt like coming home. He had liked it.
God, what does that make me? he asked himself.
”You did this.”
“I wanted to,” he said aloud.
“A leopard never changes his spots, Neal.”
“But I did!” he insisted. “I thought I could!”
Neal became aware, suddenly, that his head was spinning, his breath coming in shallow gasps now. He closed his eyes, feeling the familiar tingling in his extremities that signaled an attack. He tried to imagine that he was solid, that there was substance to him, skin surrounding muscle and sinew and bone.
“I know you. Better than you know yourself.”
“NO!” Neal shouted back, opening his eyes and shouting his rage, his defiance, his denial. But the tingling had by now turned into agonizing pain, his nerve endings screaming with it, his head throbbing in time with his racing heart. He fell to his knees, gasping for air, arms clutched around his torso as if he could stop himself from flying apart.
When he noticed his clothes lying in a pile around him, he knew it was too late.
Part Two