WC Fic: I Can’t Go Back to Yesterday (I Was a Different Person Then), Part 2/2
Title: I Can’t Go Back to Yesterday (I Was a Different Person Then), Part 2
Rating: R for language
Characters/Pairings: Tim DeKay, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, OFC; Gen
Spoilers: Mentions canon events up to and including Season 4
Content Notice: NOT RPF, I swear; crack; h/c; casefic; friendship; humor. Also, this probably qualifies as parody. Also-also, this does nothing to dispel certain national stereotypes. Sorry, Canada.
Word Count: 20,500
Disclaimer: Don’t own, don’t profit.
Beta: miri_thompson and my Canadian Connection, ivorysilk
Artist: aragarna
Summary: What happens when TDK gets whomped over the head and wakes up in White Collar Land? A self-love story.
Part 1
----
Tim sat on the edge of one of the divans in June’s front parlor, staring moodily out of the front window at the traffic on Riverside Drive. He didn’t know why he hadn’t left, except that he really had nowhere else to go. “Home” was a townhouse in Brooklyn where a woman wearing the face of a platonic friend was supposed to be his wife. But Neal had been kind and understanding of his situation - he was not unlike Matt in that way - and he just couldn’t leave.
“You stayed,” a low voice said to him from the doorway, and he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that Neal had found him.
“Didn’t have anywhere to go, really,” Tim replied, picking at the nubby fabric of the furniture.
“I know you can do this.”
Tim looked at him, a sad smile on his face. “That’s just it - I don’t think I do, Neal. I’m a regular guy, you know? I go to work, I do my job as well as I can, and if I’m lucky, I get to go home in time to have dinner with my family and kick a ball around with my daughter or help my son with his math homework. I’m not winning any awards or anything. I’m just a utility infielder, you know?
“And the hell of it is, I’m not the only one who knows it. Eastin hates me - he’s the show runner you know about those?” Neal nodded. “Well, half the time, I’m convinced he’s going to write me out of the show - find someone younger. And hotter. And a vampire.”
“You sell yourself and your talent short. There’s no Neal without Peter. And in your reality, there’s no Peter without Tim. You just need to get your confidence back.”
“If I ever had it.” He recalled how Matt had wanted to recommend him for a part in a new movie being made by his Magic Mike director, Steven Soderbergh. The part was small but integral to the plot - he was to have played a violent mobster. He knew he couldn’t pull it off and had told Matt no.
“You’ve got plenty of it, and attitude to spare. You showed an awful lot of it earlier today with Agent Braxton.”
“Well, she pissed me off.”
“So use that.”
Tim realized something. “My God, is Peter always pissed off?” He sure hoped not - it sounded like it would be pretty stressful to keep that up for an extended period, and God knew he was already exhausted from the day he’d had so far.
“Not at all, but if it gets you there, Tim, maybe it’s somewhere to start. You know, ‘fake it ‘til you make it’ is a time-honored cliché for a reason: it’s true.”
A light snort behind them alerted them to the fact that Bugsy, June’s beloved Pug, had entered the room. He waddled over to the divan Tim was sitting on and jumped on it. Spinning in place three times, he settled himself on the cushion with a satisfied grunt.
“Does June let him on the furniture?” Tim asked, surprised. Whether it was June or Diahann, Tim considered both women to be pretty formidable, and he didn’t think either of them would abide animals on the antique furnishings.
“No.”
Tim looked at Neal. “Aren’t you going to make him get off?” After all, Neal lived here; he ought to be enforcing the rules.
“No, I’m not. You are. Call it your first practical lesson.”
“What? He’s a little dog.”
“Is he? Then why don’t you want to do it?”
Tim was not going to have this argument. “Bugsy, get off the couch,” he ordered, waving at the dog with his hand.
Bugsy lifted his head from his paws and began to pant, looking suspiciously like he was grinning at Tim.
“Bugsy, get off the couch!”
The dog’s curly tail began to wag lazily and he snuffled. Tim looked at Neal helplessly.
“Do you know what you’re doing wrong?” Neal asked.
“I suspect if I did then the dog would be off the couch,” Tim said, frustrated.
“See, that’s it right there. You’re frustrated, and you’re annoyed, and that’s what you’re projecting. You have to be forceful. You have to mean it. Do it again.”
Tim stood. “Bugsy, get off the couch.” This time, the animal raised his butt in the air and barked at Tim, obviously wanting to play. “How did that not work?” Tim asked the room in general.
Neal sighed, and appeared to be deep in thought. “How about this?” he began, thinking. “Remember when Elizabeth was kidnapped?”
“Yes! Man, I loved playing that scene - it was so intense. Matt got so bruised up!” Tim’s smile faded as he saw the expression on Neal’s face; he was paler than before, his eyes troubled by the memory. “Oh, I’m sorry, Neal. That really happened for you, didn’t it? I’m such a bonehead!”
“No, it’s OK, Tim,” Neal said quietly. “It, um, it’s in the past. My past. I mean, we got past it.”
He looked upset and Tim wanted to kick himself. “Anyway. I remember that performance vividly,” he assured Neal.
“Good. There was the part on the back patio, remember? It was really tense, and you were very focused - Peter was very focused.”
“He was scared shitless and madder than hell at you.”
“Yes.” Neal swallowed, but reached out to squeeze Tim’s arm reassuringly. He looked Tim in the eyes as he went on, “So anyway, you should remember that feeling, and use it. Use it on the dog.”
Tim nodded and closed his eyes, focusing on the way he’d felt the day he’d played that scene, how he’d at first slammed Neal up against a wall, but then had been able to control his temper and frustration, and use it, focus it. He held his breath, letting the feeling build. When he opened his eyes, he stepped closer to Bugsy, until he was looming over him. He waited a beat, until the dog gave him his full attention, and looked him in the eyes. “Bugsy. Down,” he ordered, and with a low whine, the pug got to his feet and jumped down to the floor, making for the kitchen and the comfy bed that awaited him there.
“It worked!” Tim exclaimed, overjoyed.
“Yep,” Neal said, a smile on his face that didn’t reach his eyes - Tim felt horrible that he was still upset over the bad memories he’d just had to dredge up. But Neal squeezed Tim’s upper arm encouragingly. “Now let’s go back upstairs and work on it some more.”
----
“You ready?” Jones asked Neal. They were all in the van a few hours later - Tim, Jones, Braxton, and Neal - parked up the street from the bar known as The Beach. The bar was in a neighborhood known as “Little Toronto” - which, from what Tim could tell, consisted of little more than the bar itself, a hockey rink, and a Tim Horton’s, but it was the cleanest couple of blocks he had ever laid eyes on in the city.
“Aren’t I always?” Neal replied, but there was tension around his eyes. “You need a sound level?”
Jones nodded and Neal spoke conversationally for the benefit of the wire he wore, “Testes, testes.” Since he was only going in to establish contact, the risk of his wire being discovered was considered negligible, so they’d opted for that instead of the clunky gold watch they typically used.
“It’s good,” Jones said, giving a thumbs-up.
“Hey, be careful, OK?” Tim said as Neal turned to go. Neal smiled encouragingly but it did nothing to ease the trepidation that clenched at Tim’s gut as his friend hopped down out of the van and out of sight.
Picking up a set of headphones, Tim put them on and listened in as Neal headed over to the bar. The wire was surprisingly sensitive; Tim could hear traffic noises as Neal moved, followed by the slight squeak of the bar’s door as it opened and the bang as it closed behind him. There was a bit of a creaking sound as he took a seat at the bar - the leather of the bar stool, Tim surmised.
”Welcome to The Beach, eh,” a friendly voice said. “What can I getcha?”
“What’s good?” Neal asked.
“Oh, we have everything - ale, lager, pils. What’s yer poison?”
“I, uh, guess I’ll have a Molson.”
Tim’s attention drifted for a moment and he allowed himself to take in the interior of the surveillance van. In contrast to the one used on the White Collar set - which was an actual, operational step van that had been outfitted with lightweight, removable pieces - this one was very solid, with state-of-the-art recording and satellite uplink equipment. It was quite comfortable, too, with plush cushions on the chairs and a mini-fridge built in under the console that had been stocked with a variety of soft drinks and bottled water.
“OK, thanks a lot. So I’ll just meet Mr. Campbell at the Tim Horton’s on Thursday, then? What time?” Neal was saying.
What? Tim thought - that was awfully quick. How long had his attention wandered?
“Lemme just check his Outlook, eh?” the bartender said. Tim mused that even though these Canadians were proven to be ruthless killers, they were still pretty damned organized. “How’s 4:00?”
“Sounds good,” Neal said, then Tim heard the stool slide across the floor and Neal’s footsteps as he left the place.
“Whew - that was tense,” Neal said minutes later when he’d gotten back on board; they’d driven to pick him up six blocks away - it wouldn’t do for the Canadians to see “Steve Tabernacle” getting into a power company van.
“It was?” Tim said.
“The place was crawling with unfriendlies.” He shuddered.
“So we’ve got two days,” Tim said, musing aloud and wondering what might be coming next.
“Good point, Peter,” Jones said. “So you’re saying we should spend these next couple of days learning all we can about this guy, Campbell, and build up more of a background for Steve’s interest in the gig.”
“Um, yes. And also, get all the right, uh, paperwork, uh, started.”
“Good thinking, Boss,” Jones replied. “We should probably get an electronic surveillance warrant pronto too, right? And also one for a pen register to record the voice and internet traffic while we’re at it.”
“Yep… cuz they’re Canadians…?”
“That’s right - thanks for reminding me. We should also apply for a warrant to the FISA court since they’re likely to be foreign nationals. I’ll contact the AUSA first thing in the morning about it, just to cover our bases.”
“Right.”
By this time, they’d made the short drive back to the FBI garage. Tim hopped out of the van, and Neal raised an eyebrow, gesturing with his head that it was time for them to go. Tim thought they might stay behind and help the other agents stow everything.
“You’re management,” Neal informed him, “don’t worry about it.”
“OK, if you’re sure.” He turned and addressed the remaining agents in the van - Jones, Diana, Braxton and one of her colleagues from Secret Service. “Well, good job, everyone. We’ll pick it up tomorrow, discuss what we’ve learned and work out a, uh, plan.” He clapped his hands together once and let Neal lead the way back to the Taurus.
“Wow,” he heard Braxton say to Jones as they walked away. “It really is thrilling to watch Agent Burke work - you must have learned so much over the years - what a leader!”
“Wouldn’t trade my job for the world,” Tim heard Jones say proudly before they were out of earshot.
----
Tim drove wearily up to the Burke house in Brooklyn; despite the fact it was nearly 11:00 pm, he found a parking spot right in front. He got out of the car and stretched his legs - it had been a long day and he was not looking forward to the long night ahead of him.
“You’re home,” Elizabeth said, greeting him at the door with a sweet kiss on the lips and handing him a frosty beer. “You hungry? I made lamb.”
“Sure - I could eat.”
She led him to the kitchen and before long set down a lovely kebab, some toasted pita, as well as some grilled veggies and a side of tabbouleh - one of his favorite meals, and it was just what he was craving. “Aw, thanks,” he said. She looked at him expectantly. “Hon,” he added, and she smiled happily.
As he ate, she regaled him with stories of her day - a pair of meetings with suppliers and then an update on some sort of planned home repair. Tim lost himself in the benign normalcy of it all, until that very normalcy made him miss his own home and family so badly his stomach hurt. He pushed his plate away and finished his beer, then insisted on doing the cleaning up despite Elizabeth’s protests.
They watched some television, Elizabeth curled up beside him on the couch, and when she began to make going-to-bed noises, Tim got up. “You know, I think I’ll take the dog for a walk or something. I’m just so keyed up from the day, you know?”
“OK, sure Hon,” she said. “Big case?”
“Aren’t they all? But you know, I can’t really talk about it…”
“Of course. Well, see you in a bit.” She kissed him on the cheek and headed up the stairs.
Tim stripped off the tie he still wore and went to retrieve the dog leash he saw hanging on a hook beside the front door. He turned, expecting the dog to come trotting over - what healthy dog wasn’t literally always ready for a walk - his two mutts certainly were. But Satchmo remained on his doggy bed in the corner of the kitchen and just kind of - glared at him.
“Come on, boy, walkies!” Tim encouraged. Satchmo lowered his head to his paws. “This is a test, I think,” Tim muttered to himself, and crossed the room to stand above the dog. Closing his eyes, he mustered up all the assertiveness and badass attitude he ever did while embodying Peter Burke, took a deep breath and then looked down at the dog. “Satchmo! Walk!” He squared his shoulders, turned smartly, and walked to the front door, expecting the dog to follow. When he stopped and turned around, Satchmo remained where he was.
“I have never met a dog like you,” he said moodily, taking a seat on the couch again and flicking on a Yankees game - he wondered if they were doing any better in this reality than in his. Satchmo got up with a grunt and moseyed up the stairs without another look back.
“Stupid dog,” Tim grumbled.
----
“Whatcha doin’?” Neal asked, standing in Peter’s office doorway and bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“I found this book online last night,” Tim said, swinging his laptop around so Neal could see the cover.
“Law Enforcement for Dummies? Ambitious of you.”
“I dunno, I’m hoping it’ll help with procedures or something.”
“It’s better than reading Searches and Seizures, Fourth Edition cover-to-cover. Feel like a little more applied knowledge?”
“Does it involve getting out of here?” Tim asked; he’d had a rough night of it last night. He still couldn’t bring himself to sleep in the same bed as Elizabeth, so had spent the night on the couch again. He woke too early, confused as to where he was. He missed his family so badly he could taste it. He stood, stretching his long limbs.
“More or less,” Neal said.
More or less turned out to be the basement of the Federal Building, where a full-service gun range had been set up to make routine target practice easy and convenient for the law enforcement agents that worked in the building. This early in the day, it was mostly empty, and Neal had reserved them a space at the far end, where they would be able to practice unobserved.
“I know how to shoot a gun, Neal.”
Neal raised an eyebrow. “You only think you do.”
“I shoot one every week on the show, practically.”
“Prop guns shooting blanks are exactly nothing like shooting a real gun.” He gestured to the tray Tim had carried with him from the attendant’s booth; inside was an unloaded Glock and a fully loaded magazine. “Load it,” he ordered.
Tim picked up the gun and the clip and slotted them together - unsuccessfully, as he’d gotten the clip the wrong way around. He pulled it out and then shoved it back in; it slid home with a satisfying click. When he went to cock the hammer, Neal stepped forward and stopped him.
“You don’t need to cock an automatic,” Neal said, “you chamber a round.”
“Oh - that slidey thing?”
“Yes. That slidey thing,” Neal said dryly. “It’s called a ‘slide’ by the way,”
Tim felt his face color as he moved the slide; he could feel the round enter the chamber.
“See the target?” Neal asked.
“Yes.”
“Take your stance, aim, and fire.”
Tim shoved the earplugs that the attendant had given him into his ears and, turning his body perpendicular to the target that hung something like 25 yards away, he raised his right arm and fired. The gun felt like it exploded in his hand, kicking back so hard and so fast he nearly stumbled backward.
“That was the worst example of shooting I have ever seen or will ever see in my entire life,” Neal said. “At least you didn’t turn the thing sideways like some crap Guy Ritchie film.”
“They have those here?”
“Shut up. Do you know what you did wrong?”
“Everything apparently,” Tim grumbled.
“Pretty much. First off, you need to hold the weapon with both hands, and you face the target squarely, like this.” Neal repositioned Tim’s body into just the right stance, then arranged his hands. “Brace yourself with your shoulders, and put your weight on both your feet evenly. Try again.”
Tim fired the gun and, naturally, missed.
“This time try to keep your eyes open.”
“Details, details,” Tim muttered, but his words covered up a very real frustration he was feeling. He had done this before - he’d taken two different firearms workshops in acting school, and the propmaster on the White Collar set had also shown him how to hold the gun years ago. Why was he forgetting all his training? How was he even going to attempt to be Peter Burke if he couldn’t fire the man’s service weapon? Or worse: what if he needed to use it?
He took the stance Neal showed him and fired again; the bullet pierced the upper right corner of the target, nowhere near the cartoon silhouette printed on it.
“Try again,” Neal said. He was standing just behind Peter, arms folded and chewing a fingernail. Tim fired; the bullet went too high. Neal stepped wordlessly forward and adjusted Tim’s body minutely. “Again,” he commanded. “Use the sights, it’s what they’re there for.”
Tim closed one eye and lined his vision up along one of the sights on the weapon, then fired again, and again. His last shot hit the target in the shoulder, twice. Soon, the magazine was empty and Neal brought the target back to them while he made Tim reload the magazine with rounds.
“I hit it,” Tim pointed out, semi-proudly.
“Not bad, but for certification, you need to hit him twice in the dead center of the chest. This time, I want you to squeeze off two rounds in quick succession each time, see how close you can cluster the shots. Think you can do that?”
“No.”
“Do it anyway.”
“Bossy,” Tim grumbled, but raised the gun and fired some more. By the time they’d gotten through the third full clip, he could feel sweat trickling down his back and the muscles in his arms were beginning to tremble.
“Again,” Neal ordered.
“Boy, I really suck at this,” Tim moaned, took aim and fired. The two shots pierced the dark silhouette of the target - in its arm.
“Congratulations, you winged him,” Neal said. “Oops! He just shot you.”
“This isn’t funny, Neal,” Tim whined.
“Am I laughing?”
“I’d like to see you try it.”
Neal raised an eyebrow, then took the gun away from Tim, being careful to keep it pointed downward. Donning the earplugs and goggles he’d grabbed for himself from the attendant, he stepped up to the line, raised the gun swiftly and squeezed off two shots. He lowered the gun and stepped back, then pulled the switch that brought the target back towards them on its long track. Before it was halfway to them, Tim could discern only one hole in it.
“You only hit it once,” he pointed out. Then it got closer, and Tim saw that the single hole he had spotted was, in actuality, one large hole comprised of two bullet holes nearly on top of each other. “Um, wow.”
“Huh, I was off a millimeter,” Neal muttered to himself, frowning. Then he looked at Tim and his face softened. “Look, you’re new to this - you’ll get there. Now - reload and we’ll try again.”
Half an hour later, Tim could barely hold his arms out properly, but at last, he was able to hit the target twice in the chest.
“Not bad,” Neal pronounced, removing the last target from the clips it was on and handing it to Tim. Tim turned to go. “What are you doing?” Neal asked.
“Getting out of here. I need a cold drink.”
“Not before you’ve stripped and cleaned that weapon and returned it to the attendant,” Neal told him.
“I don’t know how.”
“I’ll tell you how.”
“Can’t you do it?”
“Me? I’m a convicted felon - I’m not allowed to touch a gun.”
----
“Peter lesson number three,” Neal was saying. “Body language.”
They had gotten a cup of coffee at a nearby Starbucks (Tim was happy to see them here), and were sitting on a bench in Columbus Park.
“Oh, this I’ve got down,” Tim said with confidence. He had, after all, created the character of Peter - at least the one he portrayed, if not the “real” one. Except he was real too, wasn’t he? But if Tim was real and Peter was real, how could that be? It made his head hurt.
Anyway, the point was he knew he could do this. He stood up. “What do you want me to do?”
“Walk over there,” Neal instructed.
Tim walked about 15 feet away, then turned, looking at Neal expectantly.
“Good, good,” Neal said. “But loosen up your spine and see what that does for your gait.”
Tim knew exactly what he meant, and made the required adjustment.
“Very good. Now, tell me to do something, give me an order.”
“Like what?”
“I dunno - what would you normally do?”
Tim cocked his head to the side, raised an eyebrow, and demanded, “Like you’d actually listen to me?”
“Perfect.”
Tim laughed. “Sometimes you remind me of Matt so much,” he said.
“Really?” Neal shook his head.
“What?”
“Nothing, it’s just - from what I could tell when I was him, he seemed kinda uptight.”
“Then you didn’t see enough,” Tim said. “He’s one of the best people I know.”
“Really? With the grey apartment? And all the juices?”
Tim laughed. “Well, the old apartment was a mistake - he was too nice to say no to his decorator at the time. He’s got a much nicer one now. And the juices are just… his body’s his temple, you know?”
“I suppose so - I guess I just can’t relate, I never really have to work out all that much.”
“Consider yourself lucky, then. He’s got a lot of pressure on him, being the star of this show, and he takes it really seriously. Like if he fails, then the entire production is let down.”
“It’s the same with Peter, you know.”
It was Tim’s turn to shake his head.
“You don’t think so?” Neal asked. “There isn’t a man or woman on that White Collar team that wouldn’t take a bullet for him, and do you know why? Because he would do the same thing.”
“I don’t know if I could,” Tim said. He wasn’t that brave, and at the core of him, Tim didn’t think himself capable of inspiring feelings like that.
“Couldn’t you?” Neal asked.
----
“Now, I’ve been saving this until you were more comfortable being Peter.”
“I thought I was Peter, but whatever…”
They were sitting at a café, having a late lunch later that day. Neal handed his fedora to Tim. “Invent a persona and fire it back at me. Part of being an agent is that you never know when you’ll have to go undercover. You might have to pull on another persona at the drop of a hat.”
“What’s my motivation?” Tim immediately asked.
“Motivation? You’re questioning an informant and her boyfriend - your lead suspect - comes in. If he finds out you’re a Fed, she’s dead. Invent a persona.”
Tim stared at the hat and wracked his brain, then put it on his head. “Well, ahhhh, rrrrrmmmm. Nice to meet yerr, my name is Peterrrr.”
Neal laughed. “You sound like a pirate - you got a parrot hidden under your coat? Got anything else?”
Tim laughed himself. “See heeerre, sir, I’ll have you know I haf taken menny dialect clahsses.”
“What kind of accent was that supposed to be?”
“Belgian?”
“Because there are so many Belgians around the city? What kind of dialect coach did you have anyway?”
“A Belgian one?”
Neal dissolved into laughter and flagged their waiter down to bring him another iced tea.
“Well, what would you do, if the bad guy came in and you had to fake it?” Tim asked, genuinely curious as to Neal's technique.
“Well, there are two schools of thought on that one. The first would say to give the person what you think they want to hear. In this case, I’d probably pretend I was hassling her so the guy would want to kick my ass, then get the hell out of there. No one’s more forgettable than an asshole.”
“What’s the other school say?”
Neal paused thoughtfully. “Every con has a kernel of truth in it. In this case, I personally would play up the fact I’m a criminal too - this would give the guy a false sense of security, like we’re kindred spirits or whatever. If I was you - or Peter, really - I’d pretend I was new to the neighborhood or something - me and my lovely wife Elizabeth just moved in and we’re looking for a good place for Chinese takeout or the closest dry cleaner’s.”
“I would never think of that,” Tim said, marveling. “I’d probably make up some outrageous thing, like I was her long lost older brother or something.”
“Never over-embellish a lie,” Neal said seriously. “If you put in too many details, it’s a dead giveaway, and then you’ll be wracking your brain later trying to remember all the shit that spewed out of your mouth.”
They ate in silence for a few more minutes, but Tim couldn’t keep his eyes off of Neal's face. It seemed to him that all of the plot details in his reality were, in fact, true in regards to Neal's life, and there were a few things he’d always wondered about.
“Just ask me,” Neal said finally, meeting his eyes.
Tim blinked. “What?”
“You clearly want to know something, so ask me. Did you want to know how I became a con man? Or what my first crime was? You’re not Peter, so I don’t mind telling -”
“How did you get so good with guns?” Tim blurted.
Neal looked slightly surprised by the question.
“I’ve just always wondered - it’s never been explained, really.”
Neal looked thoughtful for a minute. “You know I grew up in witness protection in St. Louis, right?”
Tim nodded.
“Well, as I got older, my mom couldn’t help but drop hints about why we were where we were. She never outright told me the whole story - I got that from Ellen when I turned 18. But there was always this implication that we were in danger, that there was a constant threat against us. Which I never really understood, you know - since my dad was supposed to have been this badass cop, shouldn’t we have been protected? But it was this vibe I couldn’t quite escape, this very palpable fear coming from my mother, and it transferred to me. So when I was old enough, I asked Ellen to show me how to shoot a gun.”
“How old?”
“Eleven.”
Tim whistled. “That’s pretty young.”
Neal shrugged. “Meh - lots of kids were already hunting at that age. But Ellen, she was smart. Before she let me even touch a gun, she showed me pictures of bullet wounds and crime scenes - just in case I had any ideas of acting rashly.”
“Yikes - did that deter you?”
“No. You gotta know, I was interested only because I wanted to protect my family - that was the only thing I could think about. And my mom she - “ He was thoughtful for a minute, as if weighing what he might say. “Let’s just say I needed to protect her.
“So when I still wouldn’t give it up, Ellen took me to the gun range. She spent, like, our first half dozen lessons teaching me safety - it took a month before she’d let me fire the thing.”
“And when you did?”
“I wish I could say I was instantly perfect, but it still took practice. Before long, I really did get good. So good, I competed in sharpshooting competitions.”
“You win?”
“Every time. It was another reason I wanted to be a cop - I knew I’d ace that part of it, and I had a really healthy respect for guns and what they could do. But I left it all behind when I left WITSEC and St. Louis.”
“Really?”
“Until the day I picked up that rifle to shoot skeet at Avery’s house out on Montauk, it’d been over fifteen years since I touched a gun.”
“Even after all the -“ Tim stopped himself, not wanting to insult Neal, who he had come to consider a good friend in just the last two days. He was so like Matt - kind, thoughtful, and generous - and yet so unlike him. There was a hardness to him, as well as a wary vulnerability that was just this side of heartbreaking. It was clear now to Tim in ways he’d never thought of before, how much life had actually hurt Neal. But it had also shaped the man he had become.
“All the crimes?” Neal asked. “Yes. I have always meant it, Tim - I don’t like guns. Sometimes I wonder what the hell I was doing, thinking I could become a cop.”
“I think you’d have been a great one.”
“I think I’d have been a very unhappy one.”
“Are you happy now?”
Neal gave that some thought. “I am happy with my life,” he said slowly. “Now.”
Their eyes met, and Tim could tell he wasn’t lying. “I don’t know if I am,” he said, surprising even himself with the confession.
“Why?”
“I have the sneaking suspicion I suck at my job.”
“What - acting? You’re great at it, what are you talking about?”
Tim could only shake his head. “No matter what, I always feel like a fraud. Like I’m just skating by, and once people figure it out, that’ll be the end of it.” This was his secret fear, one he couldn’t voice even to himself.
Neal smiled sadly at him. “I know exactly what you mean, Tim, but guess what? That’s got nothing to do with your acting - that’s life, period. All of us secretly think of ourselves as assholes.”
“And the ones who don’t?”
“Probably really are.”
----
“Here you go.”
Tim eyed the two boxes of files and books that Neal laid on the edge of his desk. “What are those?”
“Real FBI process and procedure manuals. Federal statutes relating to currency and counterfeiting. Jurisdictional processes for the FBI and the Secret Service. I put Post-It notes on all the relevant sections for you - just what you’ll need to get by.”
“Just what I’ll need to get by?” Tim asked.
“Well, you know, just for this case - for the next few days. I don’t think you’ll be stuck here for that long, really.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I dunno - but I think you’re here for a reason. Maybe it’s solving this case.”
“Me?” Tim asked incredulously. “What the hell have I got to offer to the investigation of this case that super agent Peter Burke couldn’t have?”
Neal shrugged. “Hell if I know - I’m not the one caught in the existential, metaphysical time warp bullshit this time.”
Tim sighed. “That is a lot of material to get through.”
“Come on, you’ve been in plays - you memorize the entire script all the time, don’t you?”
“Of course, but this is the entirety of the United States criminal code, Neal - I don’t think there’s going to be a chance to refine it in tech.”
“You’ll do fine.”
Neal helped him carry the books to the Taurus and bid him good night. “Wait, let me drop you home,” Tim offered.
“Thanks, but no - I’ve got plans with Moz. And you have got to get home to Elizabeth.”
Tim felt a wave of panic that he quickly suppressed, but Neal caught the change in his expression. “What?”
“I don’t want to go home,” Tim confessed.
“Why not?”
“She scares me.”
“Tim!”
“You know what I mean. That woman is not my wife. When I look at her, all I see is my friend, Tiffani, who is married to a really great guy and has a little girl who is as cute as a bug.”
Neal smiled. “She does?”
“Yes. And that’s not my house, and it’s not my dog. And I - I miss mine - all of it. I just want to hold my wife and kiss my kids, and… feel comfortable again.” He couldn’t stop the tears that welled in his eyes, and the fact that they had made him angry for some reason. “It’s so unfair.”
Neal stepped closer and rested a hand on the back of his neck, squeezing reassuringly. “I know, I’m sorry. But I promise you, it’ll be over soon.”
“You can’t make that promise.”
“You’re probably right, but you can’t stop hoping that it’s true.”
Tim hated that he was so right.
----
“You’re home,” Elizabeth chirped cheerfully as she came to greet him at the door. She got up on her tiptoes to kiss him; he turned his head at the last second so that her lips landed on his cheek. “What’s all that?” she asked, indicating the boxes he carried.
“Research for this case we’re working on.”
“Yikes. You have to get through all of that?”
“Not all. Neal marked the right places.”
“So Neal got through it all?”
Tim looked at the multitude of information and his mind boggled. “Yeah, I guess he did.” And when had he even had the time?
“Well, let me get you a drink while you go and get changed into some comfy clothes, then I’ll start dinner?”
“That sounds great,” he said appreciatively. She looked at him expectantly, and he didn’t know what else he was supposed to say or do, but when a look of disappointment crossed her face, he remembered. “Hon,” he added, and she brightened and headed off for the kitchen to get him a beer.
He started with the procedural manual that sat at the top of the box; Neal had been very thorough in annotating what sections would be relevant, and he kept focused on reading only those sections, even though the content was pretty interesting and he wanted to learn more. Before he knew it, Elizabeth was calling him to come to dinner, and he realized just how hungry he was when the smell of baked ziti smothered in gooey cheese and accompanied by crispy garlic bread wafted to his nostrils. He ate two helpings of pasta, but stayed away from any more alcohol, because he knew this would be a late night and he wanted to keep as alert as possible.
After they’d done eating, he moved to help Elizabeth clear, but she told him he needed to get back to work, because it was important. She was so serious when she said it, so sincere, that Tim completely understood what Peter could love about this wonderful woman. When she was done cleaning up, she brought him a tiny cup of perfectly made espresso (“Don’t get used to it, Mister, this is an emergency”), then curled up at the opposite end of the couch from him and read a book quietly while he made notes on the legal pad he’d brought home.
Before long, he realized she was yawning loudly beside him; when he looked up, he saw it was after midnight.
“I’m heading up,” she said. “Don’t stay up too much later - you need your sleep.”
He suspected she was right. “I promise, Hon,” he replied.
“And see if you can’t make it up to our actual bed tonight, Peter. I’ve missed you, you know? It’s… it’s been a while.”
Tim realized that the poor woman probably hadn’t slept in the same bed with her husband for going on the fourth night in a row, and suddenly felt overwhelmingly guilty. It wasn’t her fault that Tim wasn’t who she thought he was, and even though he still felt it was very wrong, he decided he ought to join her, at least to sleep. He may not be Peter, but he wasn’t going to leave the man’s life in a shambles, either.
“I’m sorry, Hon,” he said, standing and dropping the materials he’d been reading back into the box. He followed her up the stairs, brushed his teeth and climbed into their bed. The soft mattress after two straight nights sleeping on the couch felt almost obscenely good, and he suppressed a groan. He fought down a small panic attack when she began to snuggle up to him, but it seemed her motives were more for comfort than romance, as she kissed him lightly on the lips, settled her head on his shoulder, and closed her eyes.
It took him a lot longer to fall asleep than she did, but when he did, he dreamed of his wife Elisa.
----
Peter’s phone vibrated on the edge of the sink as Tim was shaving early the next morning; when he glanced over at it, the display read, Neal Cell.
“Holy shit, it’s now. The meet. Now. Fucking-A,” Neal was already in mid-rant when Tim answered.
“Calm down,” Tim said. “What are you saying? What’s the matter?”
Neal took a deep breath and then another. “I just got a call. From Bob, the bartender I spoke to the other night. Campbell wants to meet with me - with Steve Tabernacle - now!”
“Shit,” Tim muttered, a finger of panic poking him in the stomach and wiggling around like it owned the place. “What are we supposed to do?”
“What can we do? I have to go down there and meet with him.”
“But don’t we need backup or Kevlar or the van or something?”
“There’s no time, Tim. Bob the bartender said Campbell was heading up to Halifax to install solaria in all the hospitals and he won’t be back for weeks, so it’s now or never. We let this opportunity go, and who knows when he’ll be back in the country? This guy’s a killer, Tim - this could be our only shot.”
Tim’s mind reeled. “Sure, OK. I’ll come meet you and we’ll do it together.” Do what together? Get killed?
Tim had a really bad feeling about this.
----
“Wait, what’s the plan again? Because I can’t decide if it’s reckless, crazy, going to get us killed, or all three,” Tim said to Neal as they stood around the corner from the “Little Toronto” neighborhood where Neal was about to meet with Roger Campbell.
“It’s still a basic meet and greet, right?” Neal said, sounding a lot more confident than he looked. “I go in, try to establish a relationship with the guy, then get out. We can set up a sting later when Campbell is back in the country. It’ll be over in ten minutes.”
“I dunno, Neal, it sounds really dangerous. We’ve got nothing out here - no backup, no recording equipment.” No help.
“We’ve got this, though.” Neal held out a plastic banana.
Tim stepped back, remembering the banana-knife prop from a prior season. “Hey, watch where you point that thing.”
“I know, but look what’s at the other end.” Neal pressed a hidden button in the side of the thing and the end came off, revealing a tiny microphone and transmitter, the USB end of a flash drive, and…
“Is that a corkscrew?”
“Yeah. Handy, right?”
Tim had to allow that it was. “So how does it work?”
“Here,” Neal said, handing Tim his cell phone and a pair of ear buds. Tim saw that the phone had an app open called, “Radio Free Banana.” He slipped one of the ear buds into his ear as Neal held the banana to his mouth.
“Testing - can you hear me?”
A loud whine of feedback made Tim yelp in pain and he ripped the ear bud out of his ear, but he had also heard Neal's voice when he’d spoken into the banana. “Sorry about that,” Neal said sincerely. “If you get too close to a receiver like the cell phone, it causes a feedback loop. Russian surplus, you know?”
“I suppose it gets the job done.”
So, with Tim huddled inside the doorway of a closed travel agency, Neal made his way to the lair of the most dangerous man in the entire city.
“Welcome to Tim Horton’s, eh! What can I getcha?”
“Um, I guess I’ll have…” Neal seemed to be at an utter loss for words, and Tim’s heart sank a little - if the famous Caffrey charm was failing him now, this whole plan was doomed.
“I’ll have a coffee and a box of Timbits,” Neal finally answered.
“How many?” the man asked with polite enthusiasm. Tim wasn’t sure if he was part of the Campbell organization or not - he didn’t think so - but he thought it was wise to assume all the employees were “unfriendlies.” Or, as unfriendly as Canadians could get, which seemed to be pretty damn friendly, come to think of it...
”Ten, I guess.”
“What flavors?”
Tim could hear Neal sighing with exasperation. ”Surprise me.”
There followed the sounds of Neal's order being filled, and Tim began to feel marginally less stressed when another voice could be heard. “Excuse me, are you Mr. Tabernacle?”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Campbell will see you now.”
“Oh, um, OK.”
“I’ll just grab your coffee, eh? Won’t take but a minute. Hey Tommy, this order’s on Mr. Campbell, all right?”
“Sure, sure, no problem, Remy. Have a good day, eh.”
Tim’s heart was practically beating out of his chest from the tension of listening to this exchange - how did Neal and Peter do this every day? He pressed the ear buds further into his ears so that he could hear better - traffic was beginning to pick up as rush hour began.
“Welcome to Little Toronto,” said a new voice and Tim couldn’t explain why, but his blood ran cold. “You should try the apple fritter next time you’re here, it’s phenomenal, eh?”
“Mr. Campbell?” Neal asked.
“In the flesh. You must be Mr. Tabernacle. Please, have a seat. No - over here, eh? There’s a draft on this side. Wouldn’t want you to catch your death or anything - it is coming up on the cold and flu season.”
Tim reflected that the voice of pure evil sounded a lot like Martin Short’s.
“Thanks,” Neal said. “And thanks for seeing me. When the bartender down at The Beaches called this morning, I thought for sure you wouldn’t be able to meet with me. I really think we could -
“The Beach,” Campbell said shortly, cutting Neal off.
“I’m sorry?”
“The name of the bar - it’s ‘The Beach,’ not ‘The Beaches’.”
“Oh, um, sorry, I didn’t realize…”
“Some people think it’s plural, but it very much is not.”
“No, of course not. I apologize for my inaccuracy. I certainly didn’t mean any offense by it.”
“None taken, eh?” Campbell replied, suddenly pleasant again.
Tim let out the breath he’d been holding - dammit, when was this cat and mouse game going to be over?
“On to business,” Campbell went on breezily. “Word on the street is that you’ve got some rare talents that I might be in the market for, Mr. Tabernacle.”
“I stand by my reputation. Word on the street about you, Mr. Campbell, is that you’re a force to be reckoned with.”
“That word would be correct.”
“But why would I want the hassle? A man with my talents has more demand than he knows what to do with. How do you know you can afford me?”
Tim’s mind boggled - what the hell was Neal doing being so cocky?
“I can afford you. What’s your rate?”
“Fifteen a day plus expenses.”
“Fifteen thousand Canadian?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“That’s a little rich for my blood, Mr. Tabernacle.”
“Then we are at an impasse.”
There followed a long pause wherein Tim imagined they must have been staring each other down or sizing each other up. Or else some big lumberjack was choking Neal out, though he supposed he’d have at least heard something if that were the case. His reverie was interrupted by another voice - the second man Neal had spoken to, Remy.
“Excuse me, Mr. Campbell, but the satellite on the TV is acting all wonky.”
“Wonky how?”
“Keeps going in and out - I was in the middle of taping ‘Cuts Like a Knife, the Bryan Adams Story’ for you on MuchMusic and it just started getting all pixeled, eh?”
“Oh, fer pity’s sake, did you try jiggling the thing?”
“That’s the first thing I tried.”
“You could try rebooting your receiver box,” Neal suggested.
“How do you do that?”
“Depends on the setup - you want me to take a look?”
“I’d be much obliged to you if you would, Mr. Tabernacle,” Campbell said gratefully; Tim heard the sound of two chairs moving across the floor and three sets of feet walking.
“Is this the satellite box?” Neal asked.
“Yes.”
“You know, sometimes you just have to reboot these guys, let me just get down in there…”
There followed a screech of feedback so loud Tim thought his eardrums might rupture; he actually gasped in pain.
“What the heck was that?” Campbell said.
“I, uh…” Neal said.
“It’s coming from him, eh, Mr. Campbell!”
Tim’s heart was in his throat as he heard the muffled sounds of the banana being removed from Neal's pocket.
“Is that a banana in your pocket?”
“Maybe I’m damn happy to see you?” Neal said, then all hell broke loose.
There were shouts and accusations and sounds of shoving and blows being thrown, as Tim did the only thing he could think of and ran towards the Tim Horton’s as fast as he could, muttering, “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” the entire time.
When he arrived inside the shop, the morning breakfast rush seemed to be in full swing, but when he looked towards the back of the store, he could see that a lot of the tables there were being vacated by the customers. He heard muffled, raised voices emerging from the back, and headed back there, drawing Peter’s gun from the shoulder holster Neal had made him put on earlier that morning.
“FBI, nobody move!” he said as forcefully as he could muster as soon as he turned the corner. A pair of bakers looked up at him in astonishment; beyond them, Tim saw the doorway to another room. He stepped aside as the two men pushed past him to avoid whatever trouble was brewing and proceeded to the other doorway.
Inside, he found an impossibly large stock room for a lower Manhattan business, stacked neatly with supplies, dry goods, and packaging. At the far end was a well-appointed conference room with a glass wall, through which Tim could see an entertainment center - presumably the site of the malfunctioning satellite box. Also inside the room were two nondescript men, one of which was holding a gun on Neal, who stood with his hands raised and a terrified expression on his face.
No one had, apparently, noticed Tim’s entrance, so he ran across the stock room and repeated his earlier statement. This had the unfortunate side effect of forcing the man with the gun - Tim assumed it was Campbell - to grab Neal around the neck and shove the gun against his head.
“Please don’t come any closer, or I will be forced to kill this man,” Campbell said politely. Neal, terrified, made a gagging sound. “Ooo, sorry! Sorry!” Campbell said, loosening his choke hold on Neal so he could breathe.
Tim raised his gun higher. “Drop your weapon, Campbell, and no one’ll get hurt.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I am not sure that will happen,” Campbell said, pushing the gun’s barrel against Neal's head more forcefully. “I’m at a bit more of an advantage, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Tabernacle? If that really is your name?”
“It’s Neal Caffrey, actually.”
“Really? Caffrey? I’ve got a buddy named Caffrey - don’t suppose you’re related? Ned Caffrey - he’s from Mississauga?”
“’fraid not.”
“Bummer, eh. Anyway, I think I still have the upper hand, Mr. FBI. Move any closer, and I’ll kill him. If you don’t let me out of here, I’ll kill him.”
Tim’s hands wavered, and he almost gave up, but one look at Neal and he thought twice about it. He couldn’t give up, he had to prevail here - just like Peter Burke did every single day. He raised his gun, squared his legs and shoulders like Neal had taught him the day before, lowered his voice a little to play up the menace, and said, “Do not make me shoot you, Campbell.”
“Yeah, please - please - don’t make him shoot you,” Neal said, closing his eyes as if bracing himself to be killed at any minute.
Tim, blood pounding in his ears, had a moment of sudden clarity. He knew how to play this, and he knew exactly what to say. He rolled his neck, feeling the joints within crack satisfactorily, and fixed as menacing a glare on Campbell as he could. “Sure, you could probably shoot us both if you want, Campbell, because honestly, I’m not that great a shot. But before you do, consider this. Consider that if I am here, then there are several more of my Federal agent colleagues right behind me, just waiting for me to give the word to take you and your gang down. So go ahead, kill him. But you’ll never get out of here, not without repercussions. And you know all those stories they say about American prisons?”
Campbell raised his eyebrows.
Tim took a step forward, drew himself up as tall as he could, and spoke with his most intimidating voice, “They are entirely true. So what’s it to be, Campbell?” He had more to say, but his instinct, in that moment, told him that Peter would just let it lie there - make the perp come to his own decision about giving up quietly, and make it his own. He squinted his eyes and set his mouth in a determined line.
Campbell stood his ground, his arm flexing around Neal’s throat, but Tim just projected his most confident air and sense of control and command, his eyes never wavering from Campbell’s.
“All right, eh, jeez!” Campbell said, relaxing suddenly and letting Neal go. Campbell turned his weapon around and held it out to Tim, who had unfortunately locked his knees into their current position so he would not fall over, so he literally could not move. Neal, luckily, had more presence of mind, and disarmed Campbell, as well as his henchman Remy, who volunteered the weapon he had hidden on him without being prompted.
Tim could feel some of the tension leaving his body, and in its wake, the adrenaline that was coursing through him made his muscles begin to quake a little. His looked at Neal, who smiled proudly as if to say, “I knew you could do it!”
And then all hell broke loose.
“FEDERAL AGENTS! NOBODY MOVE!”
The shout rang out through the donut shop outside and Tim could hear the clattering as the few patrons who’d remained behind after his own dramatic - and armed - entrance did as bidden. Neal moved to cover Campbell and Remy as Tim turned to see two of the donut shop employees who’d been working the front counter run into the storeroom with weapons drawn.
Instinctively, Tim turned toward them, shoulders open and knees slightly bent, bodily protecting Neal.
“Tim!” Neal said, but he was ignored as Tim brought his weapon up, sighted along it and began firing at the other two. Thankfully, none of his shots found their mark - he would have been mortified if he’d hurt anyone - but they were close enough to make them duck for cover. Tim squeezed off one shot after another, moving protectively in front of Neal and the others. He thought he saw Diana and Jones emerge from the kitchen beyond - he’d forgotten he’d left Diana a voice mail on his way to meet with Neal - and was about to be relieved that the real law enforcement agents had arrived - when the last of the workers’ rounds actually found its mark.
“Tim!” Neal shouted.
The bullet that slammed into Tim’s shoulder made him reel back with the sheer force and shock of it. He quickly righted himself, but all at once his limbs turned to water and he fell on his ass. Before he knew it, he was staring up at the ceiling.
The pain was beyond belief. He would be crying like a baby if he only had the breath. He may have been screaming.
“Tim!”
Tim blinked as he focused on Neal’s face, hovering above him. “Neal.”
“Tim, Jesus Christ, what did you do that for?” Neal said urgently. He accepted the stack of clean aprons that Campbell helpfully offered to him and ripped Tim’s jacket aside to press them against the wound to staunch the bleeding.
“I dunno, it was just instinct I guess,” Tim said from between clenched teeth.
“You could’ve gotten killed.”
“It’s what he would’ve done. Peter. I did exactly what he’d have done, didn’t I? I didn’t even think about it - I knew. I just knew.”
“I told you you could do it - I knew it all along.”
“No you didn’t, not when we were at the gun range.”
“Never mind that! Do you believe it now, Tim, do you believe in yourself?”
“I suppose I do,” Tim said, and couldn’t help a small smile - he must have been delirious. “I guess I am a good actor.”
“You’re a great actor, but you’re a better man, because you risked it all for a friend. You saved my life, you know.”
“Us too, eh?” Remy piped up.
“See?” Neal said, pressing down on the bullet wound, which was bleeding pretty heavily now. One look at it made Tim feel suddenly faint, and he bit back a moan of pain. How did Bruce Willis and all those action guys ever pull this kind of shit off?
“You’re welcome,” Tim answered, screwing his eyes shut against the pain and the sudden lightheadedness he felt.
He felt like he was floating a little for a moment, and then he heard Neal’s voice again. “…coming around, buddy?”
Tim opened his eyes to find himself, once again, in a bright and cheery hospital room. He must have blacked out and missed the ambulance ride.
He was propped upright in a bed in a private room, and when he looked down, he saw that his left shoulder was wrapped and slung against his body. His head also hurt. “Ow,” he said to the room in general.
“It is good to see your face,” a familiar voice next to him said.
“Neal?” Tim looked over at the man sitting in the chair beside his bed.
“God, how hard did you hit your head?” He sat forward, blue eyes filled with concern.
Tim felt a rush of relief suffuse his body. “Matt,” he said definitively.
Matt smiled. “How you doing? You’ve been out a long time - almost all day.”
“I… fell,” Tim said, more reminding himself than anything - his tumble down the steps on-set seemed like it had happened a hundred years ago.
“That’s right. You scared the shit out of everyone, even Marsha.”
Tim smiled - Marsha had an iron constitution and nothing fazed her.
“Well, I’m glad to see you awake, I really am,” Matt said.
“I’m glad to be awake,” Tim said, the fog over his brain finally lifting and the fact he was home settling in on him. “Did I delay production too long?”
“I wouldn’t worry about that - Eastin was yelling at everyone at the studio he could get hold of for the faulty lighting equipment, and how could they almost kill the star of his show.”
“Star of the show?”” Tim said, amused.
“You know there’s no Neal without Peter,” Matt admonished, clearly not wanting to rehash the same conversation they’d have every time Tim’s insecurities about his performances would show their ugly faces. Tim suddenly felt foolish for all the time he’d wasted on that, though he was thankful for Matt’s support and friendship as he repeatedly assured Tim he was wrong.
“Those are from him.” Matt indicated the rather obscenely large arrangement of flowers on the table in the corner.
Tim smiled. “I guess nothing says, ‘Don’t sue us,’ like flowers.”
Matt laughed.
“Seriously, though, thanks for staying, Matt.”
“I promised Elisa I would.”
Just the mention of his wife’s name made tears well in Tim’s eyes. “Is she here?”
Matt noticed and smiled fondly at him. “She should be any minute - her flight landed about an hour ago. Just you and me for now.”
“It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to be seen.”
Matt looked at him with a puzzled expression, but Tim was truly happy and relieved to be home again. He didn’t know where he’d gone - or if it had been real or imagined - but there was no doubt the experience had changed him, and he was grateful. “
Speaking of ‘being seen,’” Matt continued, “I know you said the other day you weren’t interested, but Soderbergh really wants to talk to you about being the villain in his next film, and you may not think so, but I think you’ll be perfect, and -“
“I’ll do it,” Tim interrupted.
“You will?” Matt asked, looking simultaneously surprised and delighted.
“I think I’m made for it,” Tim said with a grin.
After all, he’d looked into the face of pure evil and faced it down. He could certainly be menacing enough on the big screen.
----
Thank you for your time.
More Author’s Notes
• There are, apparently, several Tim Horton’s in Manhattan. IDK what they’re on about on How I Met Your Mother…
• IDK if Neal's banana transmitter would really interfere with the Canadians’ satellite reception, but go with it, OK?
• And because it bears repeating: Sorry, Canada! I kid because I love.
Rating: R for language
Characters/Pairings: Tim DeKay, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, OFC; Gen
Spoilers: Mentions canon events up to and including Season 4
Content Notice: NOT RPF, I swear; crack; h/c; casefic; friendship; humor. Also, this probably qualifies as parody. Also-also, this does nothing to dispel certain national stereotypes. Sorry, Canada.
Word Count: 20,500
Disclaimer: Don’t own, don’t profit.
Beta: miri_thompson and my Canadian Connection, ivorysilk
Artist: aragarna
Summary: What happens when TDK gets whomped over the head and wakes up in White Collar Land? A self-love story.
Part 1
----
Tim sat on the edge of one of the divans in June’s front parlor, staring moodily out of the front window at the traffic on Riverside Drive. He didn’t know why he hadn’t left, except that he really had nowhere else to go. “Home” was a townhouse in Brooklyn where a woman wearing the face of a platonic friend was supposed to be his wife. But Neal had been kind and understanding of his situation - he was not unlike Matt in that way - and he just couldn’t leave.
“You stayed,” a low voice said to him from the doorway, and he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that Neal had found him.
“Didn’t have anywhere to go, really,” Tim replied, picking at the nubby fabric of the furniture.
“I know you can do this.”
Tim looked at him, a sad smile on his face. “That’s just it - I don’t think I do, Neal. I’m a regular guy, you know? I go to work, I do my job as well as I can, and if I’m lucky, I get to go home in time to have dinner with my family and kick a ball around with my daughter or help my son with his math homework. I’m not winning any awards or anything. I’m just a utility infielder, you know?
“And the hell of it is, I’m not the only one who knows it. Eastin hates me - he’s the show runner you know about those?” Neal nodded. “Well, half the time, I’m convinced he’s going to write me out of the show - find someone younger. And hotter. And a vampire.”
“You sell yourself and your talent short. There’s no Neal without Peter. And in your reality, there’s no Peter without Tim. You just need to get your confidence back.”
“If I ever had it.” He recalled how Matt had wanted to recommend him for a part in a new movie being made by his Magic Mike director, Steven Soderbergh. The part was small but integral to the plot - he was to have played a violent mobster. He knew he couldn’t pull it off and had told Matt no.
“You’ve got plenty of it, and attitude to spare. You showed an awful lot of it earlier today with Agent Braxton.”
“Well, she pissed me off.”
“So use that.”
Tim realized something. “My God, is Peter always pissed off?” He sure hoped not - it sounded like it would be pretty stressful to keep that up for an extended period, and God knew he was already exhausted from the day he’d had so far.
“Not at all, but if it gets you there, Tim, maybe it’s somewhere to start. You know, ‘fake it ‘til you make it’ is a time-honored cliché for a reason: it’s true.”
A light snort behind them alerted them to the fact that Bugsy, June’s beloved Pug, had entered the room. He waddled over to the divan Tim was sitting on and jumped on it. Spinning in place three times, he settled himself on the cushion with a satisfied grunt.
“Does June let him on the furniture?” Tim asked, surprised. Whether it was June or Diahann, Tim considered both women to be pretty formidable, and he didn’t think either of them would abide animals on the antique furnishings.
“No.”
Tim looked at Neal. “Aren’t you going to make him get off?” After all, Neal lived here; he ought to be enforcing the rules.
“No, I’m not. You are. Call it your first practical lesson.”
“What? He’s a little dog.”
“Is he? Then why don’t you want to do it?”
Tim was not going to have this argument. “Bugsy, get off the couch,” he ordered, waving at the dog with his hand.
Bugsy lifted his head from his paws and began to pant, looking suspiciously like he was grinning at Tim.
“Bugsy, get off the couch!”
The dog’s curly tail began to wag lazily and he snuffled. Tim looked at Neal helplessly.
“Do you know what you’re doing wrong?” Neal asked.
“I suspect if I did then the dog would be off the couch,” Tim said, frustrated.
“See, that’s it right there. You’re frustrated, and you’re annoyed, and that’s what you’re projecting. You have to be forceful. You have to mean it. Do it again.”
Tim stood. “Bugsy, get off the couch.” This time, the animal raised his butt in the air and barked at Tim, obviously wanting to play. “How did that not work?” Tim asked the room in general.
Neal sighed, and appeared to be deep in thought. “How about this?” he began, thinking. “Remember when Elizabeth was kidnapped?”
“Yes! Man, I loved playing that scene - it was so intense. Matt got so bruised up!” Tim’s smile faded as he saw the expression on Neal’s face; he was paler than before, his eyes troubled by the memory. “Oh, I’m sorry, Neal. That really happened for you, didn’t it? I’m such a bonehead!”
“No, it’s OK, Tim,” Neal said quietly. “It, um, it’s in the past. My past. I mean, we got past it.”
He looked upset and Tim wanted to kick himself. “Anyway. I remember that performance vividly,” he assured Neal.
“Good. There was the part on the back patio, remember? It was really tense, and you were very focused - Peter was very focused.”
“He was scared shitless and madder than hell at you.”
“Yes.” Neal swallowed, but reached out to squeeze Tim’s arm reassuringly. He looked Tim in the eyes as he went on, “So anyway, you should remember that feeling, and use it. Use it on the dog.”
Tim nodded and closed his eyes, focusing on the way he’d felt the day he’d played that scene, how he’d at first slammed Neal up against a wall, but then had been able to control his temper and frustration, and use it, focus it. He held his breath, letting the feeling build. When he opened his eyes, he stepped closer to Bugsy, until he was looming over him. He waited a beat, until the dog gave him his full attention, and looked him in the eyes. “Bugsy. Down,” he ordered, and with a low whine, the pug got to his feet and jumped down to the floor, making for the kitchen and the comfy bed that awaited him there.
“It worked!” Tim exclaimed, overjoyed.
“Yep,” Neal said, a smile on his face that didn’t reach his eyes - Tim felt horrible that he was still upset over the bad memories he’d just had to dredge up. But Neal squeezed Tim’s upper arm encouragingly. “Now let’s go back upstairs and work on it some more.”
----
“You ready?” Jones asked Neal. They were all in the van a few hours later - Tim, Jones, Braxton, and Neal - parked up the street from the bar known as The Beach. The bar was in a neighborhood known as “Little Toronto” - which, from what Tim could tell, consisted of little more than the bar itself, a hockey rink, and a Tim Horton’s, but it was the cleanest couple of blocks he had ever laid eyes on in the city.
“Aren’t I always?” Neal replied, but there was tension around his eyes. “You need a sound level?”
Jones nodded and Neal spoke conversationally for the benefit of the wire he wore, “Testes, testes.” Since he was only going in to establish contact, the risk of his wire being discovered was considered negligible, so they’d opted for that instead of the clunky gold watch they typically used.
“It’s good,” Jones said, giving a thumbs-up.
“Hey, be careful, OK?” Tim said as Neal turned to go. Neal smiled encouragingly but it did nothing to ease the trepidation that clenched at Tim’s gut as his friend hopped down out of the van and out of sight.
Picking up a set of headphones, Tim put them on and listened in as Neal headed over to the bar. The wire was surprisingly sensitive; Tim could hear traffic noises as Neal moved, followed by the slight squeak of the bar’s door as it opened and the bang as it closed behind him. There was a bit of a creaking sound as he took a seat at the bar - the leather of the bar stool, Tim surmised.
”Welcome to The Beach, eh,” a friendly voice said. “What can I getcha?”
“What’s good?” Neal asked.
“Oh, we have everything - ale, lager, pils. What’s yer poison?”
“I, uh, guess I’ll have a Molson.”
Tim’s attention drifted for a moment and he allowed himself to take in the interior of the surveillance van. In contrast to the one used on the White Collar set - which was an actual, operational step van that had been outfitted with lightweight, removable pieces - this one was very solid, with state-of-the-art recording and satellite uplink equipment. It was quite comfortable, too, with plush cushions on the chairs and a mini-fridge built in under the console that had been stocked with a variety of soft drinks and bottled water.
“OK, thanks a lot. So I’ll just meet Mr. Campbell at the Tim Horton’s on Thursday, then? What time?” Neal was saying.
What? Tim thought - that was awfully quick. How long had his attention wandered?
“Lemme just check his Outlook, eh?” the bartender said. Tim mused that even though these Canadians were proven to be ruthless killers, they were still pretty damned organized. “How’s 4:00?”
“Sounds good,” Neal said, then Tim heard the stool slide across the floor and Neal’s footsteps as he left the place.
“Whew - that was tense,” Neal said minutes later when he’d gotten back on board; they’d driven to pick him up six blocks away - it wouldn’t do for the Canadians to see “Steve Tabernacle” getting into a power company van.
“It was?” Tim said.
“The place was crawling with unfriendlies.” He shuddered.
“So we’ve got two days,” Tim said, musing aloud and wondering what might be coming next.
“Good point, Peter,” Jones said. “So you’re saying we should spend these next couple of days learning all we can about this guy, Campbell, and build up more of a background for Steve’s interest in the gig.”
“Um, yes. And also, get all the right, uh, paperwork, uh, started.”
“Good thinking, Boss,” Jones replied. “We should probably get an electronic surveillance warrant pronto too, right? And also one for a pen register to record the voice and internet traffic while we’re at it.”
“Yep… cuz they’re Canadians…?”
“That’s right - thanks for reminding me. We should also apply for a warrant to the FISA court since they’re likely to be foreign nationals. I’ll contact the AUSA first thing in the morning about it, just to cover our bases.”
“Right.”
By this time, they’d made the short drive back to the FBI garage. Tim hopped out of the van, and Neal raised an eyebrow, gesturing with his head that it was time for them to go. Tim thought they might stay behind and help the other agents stow everything.
“You’re management,” Neal informed him, “don’t worry about it.”
“OK, if you’re sure.” He turned and addressed the remaining agents in the van - Jones, Diana, Braxton and one of her colleagues from Secret Service. “Well, good job, everyone. We’ll pick it up tomorrow, discuss what we’ve learned and work out a, uh, plan.” He clapped his hands together once and let Neal lead the way back to the Taurus.
“Wow,” he heard Braxton say to Jones as they walked away. “It really is thrilling to watch Agent Burke work - you must have learned so much over the years - what a leader!”
“Wouldn’t trade my job for the world,” Tim heard Jones say proudly before they were out of earshot.
----
Tim drove wearily up to the Burke house in Brooklyn; despite the fact it was nearly 11:00 pm, he found a parking spot right in front. He got out of the car and stretched his legs - it had been a long day and he was not looking forward to the long night ahead of him.
“You’re home,” Elizabeth said, greeting him at the door with a sweet kiss on the lips and handing him a frosty beer. “You hungry? I made lamb.”
“Sure - I could eat.”
She led him to the kitchen and before long set down a lovely kebab, some toasted pita, as well as some grilled veggies and a side of tabbouleh - one of his favorite meals, and it was just what he was craving. “Aw, thanks,” he said. She looked at him expectantly. “Hon,” he added, and she smiled happily.
As he ate, she regaled him with stories of her day - a pair of meetings with suppliers and then an update on some sort of planned home repair. Tim lost himself in the benign normalcy of it all, until that very normalcy made him miss his own home and family so badly his stomach hurt. He pushed his plate away and finished his beer, then insisted on doing the cleaning up despite Elizabeth’s protests.
They watched some television, Elizabeth curled up beside him on the couch, and when she began to make going-to-bed noises, Tim got up. “You know, I think I’ll take the dog for a walk or something. I’m just so keyed up from the day, you know?”
“OK, sure Hon,” she said. “Big case?”
“Aren’t they all? But you know, I can’t really talk about it…”
“Of course. Well, see you in a bit.” She kissed him on the cheek and headed up the stairs.
Tim stripped off the tie he still wore and went to retrieve the dog leash he saw hanging on a hook beside the front door. He turned, expecting the dog to come trotting over - what healthy dog wasn’t literally always ready for a walk - his two mutts certainly were. But Satchmo remained on his doggy bed in the corner of the kitchen and just kind of - glared at him.
“Come on, boy, walkies!” Tim encouraged. Satchmo lowered his head to his paws. “This is a test, I think,” Tim muttered to himself, and crossed the room to stand above the dog. Closing his eyes, he mustered up all the assertiveness and badass attitude he ever did while embodying Peter Burke, took a deep breath and then looked down at the dog. “Satchmo! Walk!” He squared his shoulders, turned smartly, and walked to the front door, expecting the dog to follow. When he stopped and turned around, Satchmo remained where he was.
“I have never met a dog like you,” he said moodily, taking a seat on the couch again and flicking on a Yankees game - he wondered if they were doing any better in this reality than in his. Satchmo got up with a grunt and moseyed up the stairs without another look back.
“Stupid dog,” Tim grumbled.
----
“Whatcha doin’?” Neal asked, standing in Peter’s office doorway and bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“I found this book online last night,” Tim said, swinging his laptop around so Neal could see the cover.
“Law Enforcement for Dummies? Ambitious of you.”
“I dunno, I’m hoping it’ll help with procedures or something.”
“It’s better than reading Searches and Seizures, Fourth Edition cover-to-cover. Feel like a little more applied knowledge?”
“Does it involve getting out of here?” Tim asked; he’d had a rough night of it last night. He still couldn’t bring himself to sleep in the same bed as Elizabeth, so had spent the night on the couch again. He woke too early, confused as to where he was. He missed his family so badly he could taste it. He stood, stretching his long limbs.
“More or less,” Neal said.
More or less turned out to be the basement of the Federal Building, where a full-service gun range had been set up to make routine target practice easy and convenient for the law enforcement agents that worked in the building. This early in the day, it was mostly empty, and Neal had reserved them a space at the far end, where they would be able to practice unobserved.
“I know how to shoot a gun, Neal.”
Neal raised an eyebrow. “You only think you do.”
“I shoot one every week on the show, practically.”
“Prop guns shooting blanks are exactly nothing like shooting a real gun.” He gestured to the tray Tim had carried with him from the attendant’s booth; inside was an unloaded Glock and a fully loaded magazine. “Load it,” he ordered.
Tim picked up the gun and the clip and slotted them together - unsuccessfully, as he’d gotten the clip the wrong way around. He pulled it out and then shoved it back in; it slid home with a satisfying click. When he went to cock the hammer, Neal stepped forward and stopped him.
“You don’t need to cock an automatic,” Neal said, “you chamber a round.”
“Oh - that slidey thing?”
“Yes. That slidey thing,” Neal said dryly. “It’s called a ‘slide’ by the way,”
Tim felt his face color as he moved the slide; he could feel the round enter the chamber.
“See the target?” Neal asked.
“Yes.”
“Take your stance, aim, and fire.”
Tim shoved the earplugs that the attendant had given him into his ears and, turning his body perpendicular to the target that hung something like 25 yards away, he raised his right arm and fired. The gun felt like it exploded in his hand, kicking back so hard and so fast he nearly stumbled backward.
“That was the worst example of shooting I have ever seen or will ever see in my entire life,” Neal said. “At least you didn’t turn the thing sideways like some crap Guy Ritchie film.”
“They have those here?”
“Shut up. Do you know what you did wrong?”
“Everything apparently,” Tim grumbled.
“Pretty much. First off, you need to hold the weapon with both hands, and you face the target squarely, like this.” Neal repositioned Tim’s body into just the right stance, then arranged his hands. “Brace yourself with your shoulders, and put your weight on both your feet evenly. Try again.”
Tim fired the gun and, naturally, missed.
“This time try to keep your eyes open.”
“Details, details,” Tim muttered, but his words covered up a very real frustration he was feeling. He had done this before - he’d taken two different firearms workshops in acting school, and the propmaster on the White Collar set had also shown him how to hold the gun years ago. Why was he forgetting all his training? How was he even going to attempt to be Peter Burke if he couldn’t fire the man’s service weapon? Or worse: what if he needed to use it?
He took the stance Neal showed him and fired again; the bullet pierced the upper right corner of the target, nowhere near the cartoon silhouette printed on it.
“Try again,” Neal said. He was standing just behind Peter, arms folded and chewing a fingernail. Tim fired; the bullet went too high. Neal stepped wordlessly forward and adjusted Tim’s body minutely. “Again,” he commanded. “Use the sights, it’s what they’re there for.”
Tim closed one eye and lined his vision up along one of the sights on the weapon, then fired again, and again. His last shot hit the target in the shoulder, twice. Soon, the magazine was empty and Neal brought the target back to them while he made Tim reload the magazine with rounds.
“I hit it,” Tim pointed out, semi-proudly.
“Not bad, but for certification, you need to hit him twice in the dead center of the chest. This time, I want you to squeeze off two rounds in quick succession each time, see how close you can cluster the shots. Think you can do that?”
“No.”
“Do it anyway.”
“Bossy,” Tim grumbled, but raised the gun and fired some more. By the time they’d gotten through the third full clip, he could feel sweat trickling down his back and the muscles in his arms were beginning to tremble.
“Again,” Neal ordered.
“Boy, I really suck at this,” Tim moaned, took aim and fired. The two shots pierced the dark silhouette of the target - in its arm.
“Congratulations, you winged him,” Neal said. “Oops! He just shot you.”
“This isn’t funny, Neal,” Tim whined.
“Am I laughing?”
“I’d like to see you try it.”
Neal raised an eyebrow, then took the gun away from Tim, being careful to keep it pointed downward. Donning the earplugs and goggles he’d grabbed for himself from the attendant, he stepped up to the line, raised the gun swiftly and squeezed off two shots. He lowered the gun and stepped back, then pulled the switch that brought the target back towards them on its long track. Before it was halfway to them, Tim could discern only one hole in it.
“You only hit it once,” he pointed out. Then it got closer, and Tim saw that the single hole he had spotted was, in actuality, one large hole comprised of two bullet holes nearly on top of each other. “Um, wow.”
“Huh, I was off a millimeter,” Neal muttered to himself, frowning. Then he looked at Tim and his face softened. “Look, you’re new to this - you’ll get there. Now - reload and we’ll try again.”
Half an hour later, Tim could barely hold his arms out properly, but at last, he was able to hit the target twice in the chest.
“Not bad,” Neal pronounced, removing the last target from the clips it was on and handing it to Tim. Tim turned to go. “What are you doing?” Neal asked.
“Getting out of here. I need a cold drink.”
“Not before you’ve stripped and cleaned that weapon and returned it to the attendant,” Neal told him.
“I don’t know how.”
“I’ll tell you how.”
“Can’t you do it?”
“Me? I’m a convicted felon - I’m not allowed to touch a gun.”
----
“Peter lesson number three,” Neal was saying. “Body language.”
They had gotten a cup of coffee at a nearby Starbucks (Tim was happy to see them here), and were sitting on a bench in Columbus Park.
“Oh, this I’ve got down,” Tim said with confidence. He had, after all, created the character of Peter - at least the one he portrayed, if not the “real” one. Except he was real too, wasn’t he? But if Tim was real and Peter was real, how could that be? It made his head hurt.
Anyway, the point was he knew he could do this. He stood up. “What do you want me to do?”
“Walk over there,” Neal instructed.
Tim walked about 15 feet away, then turned, looking at Neal expectantly.
“Good, good,” Neal said. “But loosen up your spine and see what that does for your gait.”
Tim knew exactly what he meant, and made the required adjustment.
“Very good. Now, tell me to do something, give me an order.”
“Like what?”
“I dunno - what would you normally do?”
Tim cocked his head to the side, raised an eyebrow, and demanded, “Like you’d actually listen to me?”
“Perfect.”
Tim laughed. “Sometimes you remind me of Matt so much,” he said.
“Really?” Neal shook his head.
“What?”
“Nothing, it’s just - from what I could tell when I was him, he seemed kinda uptight.”
“Then you didn’t see enough,” Tim said. “He’s one of the best people I know.”
“Really? With the grey apartment? And all the juices?”
Tim laughed. “Well, the old apartment was a mistake - he was too nice to say no to his decorator at the time. He’s got a much nicer one now. And the juices are just… his body’s his temple, you know?”
“I suppose so - I guess I just can’t relate, I never really have to work out all that much.”
“Consider yourself lucky, then. He’s got a lot of pressure on him, being the star of this show, and he takes it really seriously. Like if he fails, then the entire production is let down.”
“It’s the same with Peter, you know.”
It was Tim’s turn to shake his head.
“You don’t think so?” Neal asked. “There isn’t a man or woman on that White Collar team that wouldn’t take a bullet for him, and do you know why? Because he would do the same thing.”
“I don’t know if I could,” Tim said. He wasn’t that brave, and at the core of him, Tim didn’t think himself capable of inspiring feelings like that.
“Couldn’t you?” Neal asked.
----
“Now, I’ve been saving this until you were more comfortable being Peter.”
“I thought I was Peter, but whatever…”
They were sitting at a café, having a late lunch later that day. Neal handed his fedora to Tim. “Invent a persona and fire it back at me. Part of being an agent is that you never know when you’ll have to go undercover. You might have to pull on another persona at the drop of a hat.”
“What’s my motivation?” Tim immediately asked.
“Motivation? You’re questioning an informant and her boyfriend - your lead suspect - comes in. If he finds out you’re a Fed, she’s dead. Invent a persona.”
Tim stared at the hat and wracked his brain, then put it on his head. “Well, ahhhh, rrrrrmmmm. Nice to meet yerr, my name is Peterrrr.”
Neal laughed. “You sound like a pirate - you got a parrot hidden under your coat? Got anything else?”
Tim laughed himself. “See heeerre, sir, I’ll have you know I haf taken menny dialect clahsses.”
“What kind of accent was that supposed to be?”
“Belgian?”
“Because there are so many Belgians around the city? What kind of dialect coach did you have anyway?”
“A Belgian one?”
Neal dissolved into laughter and flagged their waiter down to bring him another iced tea.
“Well, what would you do, if the bad guy came in and you had to fake it?” Tim asked, genuinely curious as to Neal's technique.
“Well, there are two schools of thought on that one. The first would say to give the person what you think they want to hear. In this case, I’d probably pretend I was hassling her so the guy would want to kick my ass, then get the hell out of there. No one’s more forgettable than an asshole.”
“What’s the other school say?”
Neal paused thoughtfully. “Every con has a kernel of truth in it. In this case, I personally would play up the fact I’m a criminal too - this would give the guy a false sense of security, like we’re kindred spirits or whatever. If I was you - or Peter, really - I’d pretend I was new to the neighborhood or something - me and my lovely wife Elizabeth just moved in and we’re looking for a good place for Chinese takeout or the closest dry cleaner’s.”
“I would never think of that,” Tim said, marveling. “I’d probably make up some outrageous thing, like I was her long lost older brother or something.”
“Never over-embellish a lie,” Neal said seriously. “If you put in too many details, it’s a dead giveaway, and then you’ll be wracking your brain later trying to remember all the shit that spewed out of your mouth.”
They ate in silence for a few more minutes, but Tim couldn’t keep his eyes off of Neal's face. It seemed to him that all of the plot details in his reality were, in fact, true in regards to Neal's life, and there were a few things he’d always wondered about.
“Just ask me,” Neal said finally, meeting his eyes.
Tim blinked. “What?”
“You clearly want to know something, so ask me. Did you want to know how I became a con man? Or what my first crime was? You’re not Peter, so I don’t mind telling -”
“How did you get so good with guns?” Tim blurted.
Neal looked slightly surprised by the question.
“I’ve just always wondered - it’s never been explained, really.”
Neal looked thoughtful for a minute. “You know I grew up in witness protection in St. Louis, right?”
Tim nodded.
“Well, as I got older, my mom couldn’t help but drop hints about why we were where we were. She never outright told me the whole story - I got that from Ellen when I turned 18. But there was always this implication that we were in danger, that there was a constant threat against us. Which I never really understood, you know - since my dad was supposed to have been this badass cop, shouldn’t we have been protected? But it was this vibe I couldn’t quite escape, this very palpable fear coming from my mother, and it transferred to me. So when I was old enough, I asked Ellen to show me how to shoot a gun.”
“How old?”
“Eleven.”
Tim whistled. “That’s pretty young.”
Neal shrugged. “Meh - lots of kids were already hunting at that age. But Ellen, she was smart. Before she let me even touch a gun, she showed me pictures of bullet wounds and crime scenes - just in case I had any ideas of acting rashly.”
“Yikes - did that deter you?”
“No. You gotta know, I was interested only because I wanted to protect my family - that was the only thing I could think about. And my mom she - “ He was thoughtful for a minute, as if weighing what he might say. “Let’s just say I needed to protect her.
“So when I still wouldn’t give it up, Ellen took me to the gun range. She spent, like, our first half dozen lessons teaching me safety - it took a month before she’d let me fire the thing.”
“And when you did?”
“I wish I could say I was instantly perfect, but it still took practice. Before long, I really did get good. So good, I competed in sharpshooting competitions.”
“You win?”
“Every time. It was another reason I wanted to be a cop - I knew I’d ace that part of it, and I had a really healthy respect for guns and what they could do. But I left it all behind when I left WITSEC and St. Louis.”
“Really?”
“Until the day I picked up that rifle to shoot skeet at Avery’s house out on Montauk, it’d been over fifteen years since I touched a gun.”
“Even after all the -“ Tim stopped himself, not wanting to insult Neal, who he had come to consider a good friend in just the last two days. He was so like Matt - kind, thoughtful, and generous - and yet so unlike him. There was a hardness to him, as well as a wary vulnerability that was just this side of heartbreaking. It was clear now to Tim in ways he’d never thought of before, how much life had actually hurt Neal. But it had also shaped the man he had become.
“All the crimes?” Neal asked. “Yes. I have always meant it, Tim - I don’t like guns. Sometimes I wonder what the hell I was doing, thinking I could become a cop.”
“I think you’d have been a great one.”
“I think I’d have been a very unhappy one.”
“Are you happy now?”
Neal gave that some thought. “I am happy with my life,” he said slowly. “Now.”
Their eyes met, and Tim could tell he wasn’t lying. “I don’t know if I am,” he said, surprising even himself with the confession.
“Why?”
“I have the sneaking suspicion I suck at my job.”
“What - acting? You’re great at it, what are you talking about?”
Tim could only shake his head. “No matter what, I always feel like a fraud. Like I’m just skating by, and once people figure it out, that’ll be the end of it.” This was his secret fear, one he couldn’t voice even to himself.
Neal smiled sadly at him. “I know exactly what you mean, Tim, but guess what? That’s got nothing to do with your acting - that’s life, period. All of us secretly think of ourselves as assholes.”
“And the ones who don’t?”
“Probably really are.”
----
“Here you go.”
Tim eyed the two boxes of files and books that Neal laid on the edge of his desk. “What are those?”
“Real FBI process and procedure manuals. Federal statutes relating to currency and counterfeiting. Jurisdictional processes for the FBI and the Secret Service. I put Post-It notes on all the relevant sections for you - just what you’ll need to get by.”
“Just what I’ll need to get by?” Tim asked.
“Well, you know, just for this case - for the next few days. I don’t think you’ll be stuck here for that long, really.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I dunno - but I think you’re here for a reason. Maybe it’s solving this case.”
“Me?” Tim asked incredulously. “What the hell have I got to offer to the investigation of this case that super agent Peter Burke couldn’t have?”
Neal shrugged. “Hell if I know - I’m not the one caught in the existential, metaphysical time warp bullshit this time.”
Tim sighed. “That is a lot of material to get through.”
“Come on, you’ve been in plays - you memorize the entire script all the time, don’t you?”
“Of course, but this is the entirety of the United States criminal code, Neal - I don’t think there’s going to be a chance to refine it in tech.”
“You’ll do fine.”
Neal helped him carry the books to the Taurus and bid him good night. “Wait, let me drop you home,” Tim offered.
“Thanks, but no - I’ve got plans with Moz. And you have got to get home to Elizabeth.”
Tim felt a wave of panic that he quickly suppressed, but Neal caught the change in his expression. “What?”
“I don’t want to go home,” Tim confessed.
“Why not?”
“She scares me.”
“Tim!”
“You know what I mean. That woman is not my wife. When I look at her, all I see is my friend, Tiffani, who is married to a really great guy and has a little girl who is as cute as a bug.”
Neal smiled. “She does?”
“Yes. And that’s not my house, and it’s not my dog. And I - I miss mine - all of it. I just want to hold my wife and kiss my kids, and… feel comfortable again.” He couldn’t stop the tears that welled in his eyes, and the fact that they had made him angry for some reason. “It’s so unfair.”
Neal stepped closer and rested a hand on the back of his neck, squeezing reassuringly. “I know, I’m sorry. But I promise you, it’ll be over soon.”
“You can’t make that promise.”
“You’re probably right, but you can’t stop hoping that it’s true.”
Tim hated that he was so right.
----
“You’re home,” Elizabeth chirped cheerfully as she came to greet him at the door. She got up on her tiptoes to kiss him; he turned his head at the last second so that her lips landed on his cheek. “What’s all that?” she asked, indicating the boxes he carried.
“Research for this case we’re working on.”
“Yikes. You have to get through all of that?”
“Not all. Neal marked the right places.”
“So Neal got through it all?”
Tim looked at the multitude of information and his mind boggled. “Yeah, I guess he did.” And when had he even had the time?
“Well, let me get you a drink while you go and get changed into some comfy clothes, then I’ll start dinner?”
“That sounds great,” he said appreciatively. She looked at him expectantly, and he didn’t know what else he was supposed to say or do, but when a look of disappointment crossed her face, he remembered. “Hon,” he added, and she brightened and headed off for the kitchen to get him a beer.
He started with the procedural manual that sat at the top of the box; Neal had been very thorough in annotating what sections would be relevant, and he kept focused on reading only those sections, even though the content was pretty interesting and he wanted to learn more. Before he knew it, Elizabeth was calling him to come to dinner, and he realized just how hungry he was when the smell of baked ziti smothered in gooey cheese and accompanied by crispy garlic bread wafted to his nostrils. He ate two helpings of pasta, but stayed away from any more alcohol, because he knew this would be a late night and he wanted to keep as alert as possible.
After they’d done eating, he moved to help Elizabeth clear, but she told him he needed to get back to work, because it was important. She was so serious when she said it, so sincere, that Tim completely understood what Peter could love about this wonderful woman. When she was done cleaning up, she brought him a tiny cup of perfectly made espresso (“Don’t get used to it, Mister, this is an emergency”), then curled up at the opposite end of the couch from him and read a book quietly while he made notes on the legal pad he’d brought home.
Before long, he realized she was yawning loudly beside him; when he looked up, he saw it was after midnight.
“I’m heading up,” she said. “Don’t stay up too much later - you need your sleep.”
He suspected she was right. “I promise, Hon,” he replied.
“And see if you can’t make it up to our actual bed tonight, Peter. I’ve missed you, you know? It’s… it’s been a while.”
Tim realized that the poor woman probably hadn’t slept in the same bed with her husband for going on the fourth night in a row, and suddenly felt overwhelmingly guilty. It wasn’t her fault that Tim wasn’t who she thought he was, and even though he still felt it was very wrong, he decided he ought to join her, at least to sleep. He may not be Peter, but he wasn’t going to leave the man’s life in a shambles, either.
“I’m sorry, Hon,” he said, standing and dropping the materials he’d been reading back into the box. He followed her up the stairs, brushed his teeth and climbed into their bed. The soft mattress after two straight nights sleeping on the couch felt almost obscenely good, and he suppressed a groan. He fought down a small panic attack when she began to snuggle up to him, but it seemed her motives were more for comfort than romance, as she kissed him lightly on the lips, settled her head on his shoulder, and closed her eyes.
It took him a lot longer to fall asleep than she did, but when he did, he dreamed of his wife Elisa.
----
Peter’s phone vibrated on the edge of the sink as Tim was shaving early the next morning; when he glanced over at it, the display read, Neal Cell.
“Holy shit, it’s now. The meet. Now. Fucking-A,” Neal was already in mid-rant when Tim answered.
“Calm down,” Tim said. “What are you saying? What’s the matter?”
Neal took a deep breath and then another. “I just got a call. From Bob, the bartender I spoke to the other night. Campbell wants to meet with me - with Steve Tabernacle - now!”
“Shit,” Tim muttered, a finger of panic poking him in the stomach and wiggling around like it owned the place. “What are we supposed to do?”
“What can we do? I have to go down there and meet with him.”
“But don’t we need backup or Kevlar or the van or something?”
“There’s no time, Tim. Bob the bartender said Campbell was heading up to Halifax to install solaria in all the hospitals and he won’t be back for weeks, so it’s now or never. We let this opportunity go, and who knows when he’ll be back in the country? This guy’s a killer, Tim - this could be our only shot.”
Tim’s mind reeled. “Sure, OK. I’ll come meet you and we’ll do it together.” Do what together? Get killed?
Tim had a really bad feeling about this.
----
“Wait, what’s the plan again? Because I can’t decide if it’s reckless, crazy, going to get us killed, or all three,” Tim said to Neal as they stood around the corner from the “Little Toronto” neighborhood where Neal was about to meet with Roger Campbell.
“It’s still a basic meet and greet, right?” Neal said, sounding a lot more confident than he looked. “I go in, try to establish a relationship with the guy, then get out. We can set up a sting later when Campbell is back in the country. It’ll be over in ten minutes.”
“I dunno, Neal, it sounds really dangerous. We’ve got nothing out here - no backup, no recording equipment.” No help.
“We’ve got this, though.” Neal held out a plastic banana.
Tim stepped back, remembering the banana-knife prop from a prior season. “Hey, watch where you point that thing.”
“I know, but look what’s at the other end.” Neal pressed a hidden button in the side of the thing and the end came off, revealing a tiny microphone and transmitter, the USB end of a flash drive, and…
“Is that a corkscrew?”
“Yeah. Handy, right?”
Tim had to allow that it was. “So how does it work?”
“Here,” Neal said, handing Tim his cell phone and a pair of ear buds. Tim saw that the phone had an app open called, “Radio Free Banana.” He slipped one of the ear buds into his ear as Neal held the banana to his mouth.
“Testing - can you hear me?”
A loud whine of feedback made Tim yelp in pain and he ripped the ear bud out of his ear, but he had also heard Neal's voice when he’d spoken into the banana. “Sorry about that,” Neal said sincerely. “If you get too close to a receiver like the cell phone, it causes a feedback loop. Russian surplus, you know?”
“I suppose it gets the job done.”
So, with Tim huddled inside the doorway of a closed travel agency, Neal made his way to the lair of the most dangerous man in the entire city.
“Welcome to Tim Horton’s, eh! What can I getcha?”
“Um, I guess I’ll have…” Neal seemed to be at an utter loss for words, and Tim’s heart sank a little - if the famous Caffrey charm was failing him now, this whole plan was doomed.
“I’ll have a coffee and a box of Timbits,” Neal finally answered.
“How many?” the man asked with polite enthusiasm. Tim wasn’t sure if he was part of the Campbell organization or not - he didn’t think so - but he thought it was wise to assume all the employees were “unfriendlies.” Or, as unfriendly as Canadians could get, which seemed to be pretty damn friendly, come to think of it...
”Ten, I guess.”
“What flavors?”
Tim could hear Neal sighing with exasperation. ”Surprise me.”
There followed the sounds of Neal's order being filled, and Tim began to feel marginally less stressed when another voice could be heard. “Excuse me, are you Mr. Tabernacle?”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Campbell will see you now.”
“Oh, um, OK.”
“I’ll just grab your coffee, eh? Won’t take but a minute. Hey Tommy, this order’s on Mr. Campbell, all right?”
“Sure, sure, no problem, Remy. Have a good day, eh.”
Tim’s heart was practically beating out of his chest from the tension of listening to this exchange - how did Neal and Peter do this every day? He pressed the ear buds further into his ears so that he could hear better - traffic was beginning to pick up as rush hour began.
“Welcome to Little Toronto,” said a new voice and Tim couldn’t explain why, but his blood ran cold. “You should try the apple fritter next time you’re here, it’s phenomenal, eh?”
“Mr. Campbell?” Neal asked.
“In the flesh. You must be Mr. Tabernacle. Please, have a seat. No - over here, eh? There’s a draft on this side. Wouldn’t want you to catch your death or anything - it is coming up on the cold and flu season.”
Tim reflected that the voice of pure evil sounded a lot like Martin Short’s.
“Thanks,” Neal said. “And thanks for seeing me. When the bartender down at The Beaches called this morning, I thought for sure you wouldn’t be able to meet with me. I really think we could -
“The Beach,” Campbell said shortly, cutting Neal off.
“I’m sorry?”
“The name of the bar - it’s ‘The Beach,’ not ‘The Beaches’.”
“Oh, um, sorry, I didn’t realize…”
“Some people think it’s plural, but it very much is not.”
“No, of course not. I apologize for my inaccuracy. I certainly didn’t mean any offense by it.”
“None taken, eh?” Campbell replied, suddenly pleasant again.
Tim let out the breath he’d been holding - dammit, when was this cat and mouse game going to be over?
“On to business,” Campbell went on breezily. “Word on the street is that you’ve got some rare talents that I might be in the market for, Mr. Tabernacle.”
“I stand by my reputation. Word on the street about you, Mr. Campbell, is that you’re a force to be reckoned with.”
“That word would be correct.”
“But why would I want the hassle? A man with my talents has more demand than he knows what to do with. How do you know you can afford me?”
Tim’s mind boggled - what the hell was Neal doing being so cocky?
“I can afford you. What’s your rate?”
“Fifteen a day plus expenses.”
“Fifteen thousand Canadian?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“That’s a little rich for my blood, Mr. Tabernacle.”
“Then we are at an impasse.”
There followed a long pause wherein Tim imagined they must have been staring each other down or sizing each other up. Or else some big lumberjack was choking Neal out, though he supposed he’d have at least heard something if that were the case. His reverie was interrupted by another voice - the second man Neal had spoken to, Remy.
“Excuse me, Mr. Campbell, but the satellite on the TV is acting all wonky.”
“Wonky how?”
“Keeps going in and out - I was in the middle of taping ‘Cuts Like a Knife, the Bryan Adams Story’ for you on MuchMusic and it just started getting all pixeled, eh?”
“Oh, fer pity’s sake, did you try jiggling the thing?”
“That’s the first thing I tried.”
“You could try rebooting your receiver box,” Neal suggested.
“How do you do that?”
“Depends on the setup - you want me to take a look?”
“I’d be much obliged to you if you would, Mr. Tabernacle,” Campbell said gratefully; Tim heard the sound of two chairs moving across the floor and three sets of feet walking.
“Is this the satellite box?” Neal asked.
“Yes.”
“You know, sometimes you just have to reboot these guys, let me just get down in there…”
There followed a screech of feedback so loud Tim thought his eardrums might rupture; he actually gasped in pain.
“What the heck was that?” Campbell said.
“I, uh…” Neal said.
“It’s coming from him, eh, Mr. Campbell!”
Tim’s heart was in his throat as he heard the muffled sounds of the banana being removed from Neal's pocket.
“Is that a banana in your pocket?”
“Maybe I’m damn happy to see you?” Neal said, then all hell broke loose.
There were shouts and accusations and sounds of shoving and blows being thrown, as Tim did the only thing he could think of and ran towards the Tim Horton’s as fast as he could, muttering, “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” the entire time.
When he arrived inside the shop, the morning breakfast rush seemed to be in full swing, but when he looked towards the back of the store, he could see that a lot of the tables there were being vacated by the customers. He heard muffled, raised voices emerging from the back, and headed back there, drawing Peter’s gun from the shoulder holster Neal had made him put on earlier that morning.
“FBI, nobody move!” he said as forcefully as he could muster as soon as he turned the corner. A pair of bakers looked up at him in astonishment; beyond them, Tim saw the doorway to another room. He stepped aside as the two men pushed past him to avoid whatever trouble was brewing and proceeded to the other doorway.
Inside, he found an impossibly large stock room for a lower Manhattan business, stacked neatly with supplies, dry goods, and packaging. At the far end was a well-appointed conference room with a glass wall, through which Tim could see an entertainment center - presumably the site of the malfunctioning satellite box. Also inside the room were two nondescript men, one of which was holding a gun on Neal, who stood with his hands raised and a terrified expression on his face.
No one had, apparently, noticed Tim’s entrance, so he ran across the stock room and repeated his earlier statement. This had the unfortunate side effect of forcing the man with the gun - Tim assumed it was Campbell - to grab Neal around the neck and shove the gun against his head.
“Please don’t come any closer, or I will be forced to kill this man,” Campbell said politely. Neal, terrified, made a gagging sound. “Ooo, sorry! Sorry!” Campbell said, loosening his choke hold on Neal so he could breathe.
Tim raised his gun higher. “Drop your weapon, Campbell, and no one’ll get hurt.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I am not sure that will happen,” Campbell said, pushing the gun’s barrel against Neal's head more forcefully. “I’m at a bit more of an advantage, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Tabernacle? If that really is your name?”
“It’s Neal Caffrey, actually.”
“Really? Caffrey? I’ve got a buddy named Caffrey - don’t suppose you’re related? Ned Caffrey - he’s from Mississauga?”
“’fraid not.”
“Bummer, eh. Anyway, I think I still have the upper hand, Mr. FBI. Move any closer, and I’ll kill him. If you don’t let me out of here, I’ll kill him.”
Tim’s hands wavered, and he almost gave up, but one look at Neal and he thought twice about it. He couldn’t give up, he had to prevail here - just like Peter Burke did every single day. He raised his gun, squared his legs and shoulders like Neal had taught him the day before, lowered his voice a little to play up the menace, and said, “Do not make me shoot you, Campbell.”
“Yeah, please - please - don’t make him shoot you,” Neal said, closing his eyes as if bracing himself to be killed at any minute.
Tim, blood pounding in his ears, had a moment of sudden clarity. He knew how to play this, and he knew exactly what to say. He rolled his neck, feeling the joints within crack satisfactorily, and fixed as menacing a glare on Campbell as he could. “Sure, you could probably shoot us both if you want, Campbell, because honestly, I’m not that great a shot. But before you do, consider this. Consider that if I am here, then there are several more of my Federal agent colleagues right behind me, just waiting for me to give the word to take you and your gang down. So go ahead, kill him. But you’ll never get out of here, not without repercussions. And you know all those stories they say about American prisons?”
Campbell raised his eyebrows.
Tim took a step forward, drew himself up as tall as he could, and spoke with his most intimidating voice, “They are entirely true. So what’s it to be, Campbell?” He had more to say, but his instinct, in that moment, told him that Peter would just let it lie there - make the perp come to his own decision about giving up quietly, and make it his own. He squinted his eyes and set his mouth in a determined line.
Campbell stood his ground, his arm flexing around Neal’s throat, but Tim just projected his most confident air and sense of control and command, his eyes never wavering from Campbell’s.
“All right, eh, jeez!” Campbell said, relaxing suddenly and letting Neal go. Campbell turned his weapon around and held it out to Tim, who had unfortunately locked his knees into their current position so he would not fall over, so he literally could not move. Neal, luckily, had more presence of mind, and disarmed Campbell, as well as his henchman Remy, who volunteered the weapon he had hidden on him without being prompted.
Tim could feel some of the tension leaving his body, and in its wake, the adrenaline that was coursing through him made his muscles begin to quake a little. His looked at Neal, who smiled proudly as if to say, “I knew you could do it!”
And then all hell broke loose.
“FEDERAL AGENTS! NOBODY MOVE!”
The shout rang out through the donut shop outside and Tim could hear the clattering as the few patrons who’d remained behind after his own dramatic - and armed - entrance did as bidden. Neal moved to cover Campbell and Remy as Tim turned to see two of the donut shop employees who’d been working the front counter run into the storeroom with weapons drawn.
Instinctively, Tim turned toward them, shoulders open and knees slightly bent, bodily protecting Neal.
“Tim!” Neal said, but he was ignored as Tim brought his weapon up, sighted along it and began firing at the other two. Thankfully, none of his shots found their mark - he would have been mortified if he’d hurt anyone - but they were close enough to make them duck for cover. Tim squeezed off one shot after another, moving protectively in front of Neal and the others. He thought he saw Diana and Jones emerge from the kitchen beyond - he’d forgotten he’d left Diana a voice mail on his way to meet with Neal - and was about to be relieved that the real law enforcement agents had arrived - when the last of the workers’ rounds actually found its mark.
“Tim!” Neal shouted.
The bullet that slammed into Tim’s shoulder made him reel back with the sheer force and shock of it. He quickly righted himself, but all at once his limbs turned to water and he fell on his ass. Before he knew it, he was staring up at the ceiling.
The pain was beyond belief. He would be crying like a baby if he only had the breath. He may have been screaming.
“Tim!”
Tim blinked as he focused on Neal’s face, hovering above him. “Neal.”
“Tim, Jesus Christ, what did you do that for?” Neal said urgently. He accepted the stack of clean aprons that Campbell helpfully offered to him and ripped Tim’s jacket aside to press them against the wound to staunch the bleeding.
“I dunno, it was just instinct I guess,” Tim said from between clenched teeth.
“You could’ve gotten killed.”
“It’s what he would’ve done. Peter. I did exactly what he’d have done, didn’t I? I didn’t even think about it - I knew. I just knew.”
“I told you you could do it - I knew it all along.”
“No you didn’t, not when we were at the gun range.”
“Never mind that! Do you believe it now, Tim, do you believe in yourself?”
“I suppose I do,” Tim said, and couldn’t help a small smile - he must have been delirious. “I guess I am a good actor.”
“You’re a great actor, but you’re a better man, because you risked it all for a friend. You saved my life, you know.”
“Us too, eh?” Remy piped up.
“See?” Neal said, pressing down on the bullet wound, which was bleeding pretty heavily now. One look at it made Tim feel suddenly faint, and he bit back a moan of pain. How did Bruce Willis and all those action guys ever pull this kind of shit off?
“You’re welcome,” Tim answered, screwing his eyes shut against the pain and the sudden lightheadedness he felt.
He felt like he was floating a little for a moment, and then he heard Neal’s voice again. “…coming around, buddy?”
Tim opened his eyes to find himself, once again, in a bright and cheery hospital room. He must have blacked out and missed the ambulance ride.
He was propped upright in a bed in a private room, and when he looked down, he saw that his left shoulder was wrapped and slung against his body. His head also hurt. “Ow,” he said to the room in general.
“It is good to see your face,” a familiar voice next to him said.
“Neal?” Tim looked over at the man sitting in the chair beside his bed.
“God, how hard did you hit your head?” He sat forward, blue eyes filled with concern.
Tim felt a rush of relief suffuse his body. “Matt,” he said definitively.
Matt smiled. “How you doing? You’ve been out a long time - almost all day.”
“I… fell,” Tim said, more reminding himself than anything - his tumble down the steps on-set seemed like it had happened a hundred years ago.
“That’s right. You scared the shit out of everyone, even Marsha.”
Tim smiled - Marsha had an iron constitution and nothing fazed her.
“Well, I’m glad to see you awake, I really am,” Matt said.
“I’m glad to be awake,” Tim said, the fog over his brain finally lifting and the fact he was home settling in on him. “Did I delay production too long?”
“I wouldn’t worry about that - Eastin was yelling at everyone at the studio he could get hold of for the faulty lighting equipment, and how could they almost kill the star of his show.”
“Star of the show?”” Tim said, amused.
“You know there’s no Neal without Peter,” Matt admonished, clearly not wanting to rehash the same conversation they’d have every time Tim’s insecurities about his performances would show their ugly faces. Tim suddenly felt foolish for all the time he’d wasted on that, though he was thankful for Matt’s support and friendship as he repeatedly assured Tim he was wrong.
“Those are from him.” Matt indicated the rather obscenely large arrangement of flowers on the table in the corner.
Tim smiled. “I guess nothing says, ‘Don’t sue us,’ like flowers.”
Matt laughed.
“Seriously, though, thanks for staying, Matt.”
“I promised Elisa I would.”
Just the mention of his wife’s name made tears well in Tim’s eyes. “Is she here?”
Matt noticed and smiled fondly at him. “She should be any minute - her flight landed about an hour ago. Just you and me for now.”
“It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to be seen.”
Matt looked at him with a puzzled expression, but Tim was truly happy and relieved to be home again. He didn’t know where he’d gone - or if it had been real or imagined - but there was no doubt the experience had changed him, and he was grateful. “
Speaking of ‘being seen,’” Matt continued, “I know you said the other day you weren’t interested, but Soderbergh really wants to talk to you about being the villain in his next film, and you may not think so, but I think you’ll be perfect, and -“
“I’ll do it,” Tim interrupted.
“You will?” Matt asked, looking simultaneously surprised and delighted.
“I think I’m made for it,” Tim said with a grin.
After all, he’d looked into the face of pure evil and faced it down. He could certainly be menacing enough on the big screen.
----
Thank you for your time.
More Author’s Notes
• There are, apparently, several Tim Horton’s in Manhattan. IDK what they’re on about on How I Met Your Mother…
• IDK if Neal's banana transmitter would really interfere with the Canadians’ satellite reception, but go with it, OK?
• And because it bears repeating: Sorry, Canada! I kid because I love.