Skybird: Who I Am Today (Inception/White Collar)
Title: Skybird - Who I Am Today
Fandoms: Inception, White Collar
Characters: Neal, Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13
For the prompt: Arthur and Eames adopt a kid and raise that kid into Neal Caffrey.
Arc Two in the series.
Living with Arthur and Eames was a little like riding a rollercoaster.
There were the peaks: uphill climbs of anticipation, the knowledge that something incredible was happening. Reaching the top of accomplishment, and then the plunging dives; heart-in-your-throat bursts of exhilaration tangled with helpless fear. There were twists and turns and through it all, the thrill of experiencing something novel and wonderful.
They set down rules, of course. Neal didn’t expect to be in such an extraordinary situation without it having some downsides. Having to actually show up to school was the worst: Neal considered it a waste of time when he was feeling magnanimous, and wanted to blow it up when he wasn’t. Arthur pulled strings to get him admitted to Calhoun, an exclusive little school near the Hudson. It was close enough to the apartment that he could take his bike there-blue and shiny and new-and while the desire to ditch and wander over to Museum Row instead was a daily struggle, he found himself almost always attending. When he didn’t, Arthur would always know; and then he would make that non-judgmental-but-nevertheless-disappointed face at him.
Neal hated that face.
Eames seemed to share his aversion of higher education, but he always agreed with Arthur on the subject of Neal’s schooling-although he did confide to Neal that as soon as he was able to forge school records on his own, he could drop out. Arthur had not been pleased to learn of that conversation.
He’d been even less pleased when he’d finished making dinner to find Eames showing Neal how to forge his CIA badge. But he hadn’t stopped them, which said something about his own view of the rules.
The interplay between Eames and Arthur never ceased to fascinate Neal. The two men seemed like complete opposites on paper: a CIA agent and a thief; a lawmaker and a lawbreaker. Yet Arthur never questioned the less-than-legal skills Eames was teaching Neal; and when the two were together, they fit so seamlessly it was hard to imagine one without the other. They bickered and they snarked and they argued the points of Aristotle versus Plato, but the surface tension was only ever that: a surface. Neal knew them well enough to see beyond that-to see the live wire connection that bound the two together.
It was more than a little humbling to know that link now included him as well.
Eames and Arthur made sure he was never alone: if one was gone on a job, the other wouldn’t be. If Arthur had to be called away, Eames made sure to cancel whatever business he might have had. When Eames was out of the country stealing things and causing chaos, Arthur limited himself to strictly office-hours work.
Arthur taught Neal French and Japanese and how to shoot a gun, though he didn’t push very hard because of Neal’s aversion of the things. He showed him how to hotwire a car and the difference between Zegna and Dunhill, took him to the latest exhibitions at the Met and introduced him to the wonders of wine and caviar. Over late-night dinners he explained the workings of the American judicial system, what would get you caught and what policemen and FBI agents and Interpol looked for when profiling suspects.
Eames tried to teach Neal German and Swahili, which was when Neal discovered that Eames was a fantastically horrible teacher. Things came naturally to the thief, so he didn’t entirely comprehend how to instruct someone else. Once Neal got the basics down, however, Eames was able to expand exponentially on his knowledge. He honed Neal’s lockpicking and pickpocketing and broke down the basics of an average person’s wants and needs so better to manipulate them. Through him, Neal was introduced to forgers and thieves and fences and fraudsters, and it wasn’t long before he knew both the high-class side of New York as well as the city’s seamy underbelly. With diagrams and blueprints Eames showed him how to avoid security cameras, how to pinpoint the best route to a target and the importance of avoiding squeaky tile while wearing sneakers.
Arthur showed Neal the rules.
Eames showed him how to break them.
And through it all, inexplicably, Neal found himself remembering what it was like to be part of a family. The study was cleared out of file cabinets and storage to make room for a wardrobe, for his clothes and his books, a space to call solely his own. Eames made him breakfast in the morning when he stumbled out bleary-eyed and half-asleep; Arthur helped him with his homework after school. He settled into the kind of rhythm that only came with knowing others would be there for you, finally believing he had a place and people to call home.
Then, just a few weeks shy of his fifteenth birthday, everything came crashing down.
Neal never took any of his friends back to the apartment.
Admittedly, part of the reason for that was the fact Neal didn’t really have many friends. It wasn’t for lack of opportunity-the half of his classmates who didn’t adore him envied him instead-but simply that Neal didn’t like anyone enough. Most of his peers were self-absorbed, clueless or just plain dumb, and none were at all interesting. Neal knew how to get them to do what he wanted, of course, and even teachers had a tendency to fawn over him-but he saw them as little more than means to an end. They were fun in their own way, and he did have a few groups he would hang out with on occasion, but no one he really connected with.
No one he trusted.
Neal wasn’t used to having a family. Now that he had Arthur and Eames, he was fiercely protective of their bond. He never invited anyone over because he didn’t think anyone yet had the right to intrude on their home. It was a place and an idea that he guarded keenly, leery even to put the address on school forms.
Roger helpfully opened the door when he spotted Neal wheeling his bike toward the apartment lobby: now a part of their after-school ritual. The concierge had warmed up to Neal, eventually, forgiving him his uncouth ways as it became clear the boy was there to stay.
Also, Eames had made him apologize.
‘A concierge,’ he had said, ‘Is the God of a block of flats. He sees all and he knows all, and you Do Not Piss Him Off.’
Roger was one of Neal’s first examples of keeping friends with those who were in a position of power. Eames always chatted with the man, and so Eames always knew what was happening in the apartment building at any given time. If the Bauers were fighting again or the Sherwoods broke another water pipe, Eames was one of the first to know. It wasn’t that Roger was a gossip-just that Eames had taken the time to insinuate himself as someone the concierge could talk to. And when an unfortunate pigeon tore through the screen door of their balcony one day, Roger made sure someone was there to fix it within the hour.
The same principles applied to the barista at the coffee shop down the street, who would always add extra cinnamon to Neal’s chai, and to the man who worked at the news stand on the corner of 110th and Manhattan who tossed in a free pack of gum with Neal’s daily purchase of the Times. People-especially those working service jobs-liked to be treated as people, and they liked familiar, friendly faces. It didn’t take a lot of effort to gain someone’s favor: a smile, a laugh, asking how their day was.
“Anything interesting happen today?” Neal asked as he wheeled his bike toward the back storage room just off the lobby. Roger helped him with the door, holding it open while Neal locked his bike to the rack located inside. The lights in the building had been on the fritz again, and a pair of electricians were working over in the corner.
“The Darzis’ chihuahua got out again,” Roger reported with a twitch of his lips. “Aside from that, things have been quiet.” He tilted his head. “Mr. Eames is due back today, is he not?”
Neal nodded, unable to hide his grin. Some jobs Eames didn’t tell him about, but the recent one was a little heist in Florence that involved a very good replica of Verrocchio’s ‘David’. He’d seen the cast before Eames left for Italy-the attention to detail was astounding.
“His flight should land in an hour or so. He promised he’d bring me back something, too.”
Never mind that when Eames promised a gift, it was usually something he’d stolen.
Roger waved Neal into one of the elevators, holding it open as one of the electricians trotted after him. The week Eames had been gone, Neal had spent his time going over an intellectual challenge the thief had left him with: apparently, Eames wanted to steal The Last Supper.
Despite the fact it was a mural.
Neal was watching the elevator numbers tick up, pondering the merits of laser cutters versus precision waterjets, when the unmistakable weight of a gun muzzle pressed into the small of his back.
“Take me to Eames.”
He has a gun.
He knows who I am. He knows who Eames is.
He has a gun.
He knows we live here. He knows my schedule.
He has a gun-
“He’s not here,” Neal rasped. He refused to let the fear choking his throat be heard in his voice, shunting that scared part of him somewhere deep at the bottom of his stomach. His mind raced as he cobbled together the pieces of information he knew about his assailant.
He knows Eames. His accent is British, from around Yorkshire-he probably worked with Eames before, maybe with the SAS. He knows who I am, which means he’s gotten past all of the security Arthur put around our identities. He knows where we live and what my schedule is, so he’s been watching for a while. He’s smart. Patient. Knows how to handle a gun. Knows how to crack CIA-level defenses.
A heavy hand landed between his shoulder blades as the elevator reached the fifteenth floor.
“Then let’s go wait for him to get home, shall we?”
Neal licked his lips as he was pushed inexorably from the elevator, holding his arms carefully away from his sides. Not that he had any weapons on him: he knew how to use them, certainly, but both Arthur and Eames were leery about him actually handling them.
He never thought there would be an instance when he disagreed with them.
Neal moved agonizingly slowly, taking tiny bunny-hopping steps as he was forced down the hallway. He mentally counted down the apartment numbers: 1501, the Caseys; 1502, the McConnells. 1503 was Mrs. Grahn. She was off on some cruise in the Bahamas; wouldn’t be back for another week. Neal stopped at her door, fumbling for his keys, trying to gain more time to think, to evade.
The ploy failed. The man behind him cuffed him hard on the side of his head, and Neal saw stars for a few painful seconds.
“Don’t try, boy. I know where you live. Apartment 1507, let’s go.”
“Who are you?” Neal demanded, teeth gritted. “What do you want?”
The man chuckled.
“Call me Liam. And my business is with Eames, not with you.”
“Apparently, it is with me,” Neal snapped. “Considering you have a gun in my back.”
“And don’t you forget that,” Liam agreed easily. He ground the gun into Neal’s spine, proving his point-and allowing Neal to make out the distinct shape of a silencer attached to the barrel.
They reached the apartment. Neal stood there for a few seconds, trying helplessly to come up with a way to stall longer, but Liam knew what he was doing. He prodded the gun forward, waiting as Neal unlocked the door stiffly. His heart fell as they walked into the foyer and he caught sight of Arthur’s suit jacket draped over the back of a chair.
“Neal?” Arthur’s voice called from the direction of his bedroom.
Liam nudged him. Neal cleared his throat, projecting a waver into his voice, trying to somehow signal Arthur to get out, get out now.
“It’s me.”
Liam snorted, pushing him forward into the sitting room, putting distance between them. Neal spun around the second he was away, but the pistol was still aimed at his heart. He froze. There was an endless period of silence that could have lasted only a few seconds-and then Arthur was ducking out of the hallway that led to the bedrooms, leading with his gun.
He stopped the instant he saw Neal.
“Be a good lad and put the piece away, yeah?” Liam drawled, flexing his grip on the gun pointedly. Something foreign and bizarre flitted across Arthur’s features as his eyes darted between Neal and Liam-and it took Neal a moment to realize that the expression was fear.
He knew Arthur could beat Liam. He knew that with absolute certainty. But Arthur’s gaze was fixed on the gun pointed at Neal’s chest, intent in a way Neal rarely saw him. Slowly, the CIA agent lowered his weapon. He placed it on the bureau near the hall entry, stepping away with his hands raised and a cold mask settling over his face.
“Liam. It’s been a while.”
Neal blinked. He hadn’t factored Arthur into his assessments. So Liam knew Eames and Arthur-that made him almost certainly ex-SAS.
“Yes, nearly four years now,” Liam drawled. “And you’re still working at the agency, I hear.”
“And you’ve gone rogue,” Arthur said. His voice was icy. Liam simply laughed.
“You’re shagging a mercenary Forger, pet. You’re not allowed to play the high-and-mighty card with me.”
Neal frowned, catching the emphasis on ‘forger’. It was said like a title, not a job description. He shifted curiously and Liam’s hand moved with him, tracking his movement even as he continued looking at Arthur.
“Eames would never take the jobs you do,” Arthur snapped. “I heard about the Rosenberg case, what your team did to that girl-”
“I gather information,” Liam interrupted. “I play point, that’s all. What the client wants is the client’s business. If the rest of the team mucks up in the mark’s head, that’s not my problem.”
“You’re still responsible.”
Liam sneered. “Spare me the lecture.” He twitched the gun in Neal’s direction, nodding toward the kitchen table. “Boy, drag one of those chairs over. You’re going to help me secure dear Arthur here.”
Neal bristled. He didn’t understand all of what the two men were talking about, but he knew an order he didn’t like.
“I will not-”
“Neal,” Arthur said softly, and the words stuck in Neal’s throat. He looked over, seeing the steady reassurance in Arthur’s gaze. “It’s okay. Do as he says.”
Neal bit his lip. He trusted Arthur; he always would.
He went to get the chair.
Liam directed Neal like some kind of twisted conductor, ordering him around with flicks of the gun. He kept him well within range for an easy shot, even as he had him use zipties to secure Arthur to the slats of the chair. Neal tried to leave them loose, to give Arthur a chance to slip free, but Liam made a pointed tsking noise and forced him to tighten them fully.
Liam sat with his back to a corner of the room, eyes on both Arthur and Neal. He set Arthur up half-facing the door, and ordered Neal onto the loveseat, gun never straying from the boy’s chest.
Neal didn’t protest. He didn’t protest because there was an H&K pistol strapped to the bottom of the endtable next to him. He knew how to get it; he knew how to use it. All he needed was a chance: a matter of seconds to get it free.
He was not given that chance.
“You know, I never pinned you as the settling down type,” Liam commented. He was watching Arthur, but his aim never strayed from Neal. Arthur managed to put scorn and disdain and a bitingly cool hatred into one single look.
“And I never took you to be a moron. Just what do you think you’re doing here, Liam?”
Liam narrowed his eyes. The bantering Brit was replaced, for a moment, by someone hard-edged and deadly. Neal had seen glimpses of that same kind of person before, lingering behind Eames’ eyes; behind Arthur’s.
“Did you really think what we do doesn’t have repercussions?” Liam said derisively. “That you can jump into someone’s mind and steal their secrets, disassemble corporate empires and affect worldwide politics without anyone taking notice? Despite what your CIA likes to pretend, the PASIV technology is becoming known. And the world is finding out what we do.”
“Is that what this is about?” Arthur said, voice low. “A mark figured you out? Liam, we can help you-”
“Oh, shut it,” the Brit said irritably. He glanced at his watch, then motioned to Neal. “Give me your mobile.”
Neal blinked, still reeling from all the new information. He pulled the cell phone from his pocket numbly, looking between the two men as he tried to make sense of what Liam had said. Going into people’s minds? Stealing secrets? He glanced at Arthur, but the agent’s face was a blank slate.
He tossed Liam the phone. There were only four numbers in it: Eames’ cell, Arthur’s cell, the apartment and the pizza delivery place down the street.
Liam scrolled through the numbers, picking one out. He switched the phone to speaker, holding it casually in one hand, the gun still unwavering in his other.
“Hey, Neal,” Eames’ voice said after a few rings, tinny and distorted. He sounded tired. “I just got off the plane-”
“Hello, Eames,” Liam purred.
There was dead silence on the other end. Then, very tightly, Eames spoke again.
“Where is Neal?”
Liam raised an eyebrow at the boy. Neal cleared his throat, speaking up.
“I’m here.”
“Neal is here, Arthur is here, I’m here-everyone’s here but you, pet.”
“I swear to god, Liam,” Eames snarled, his voice harsher than Neal had ever heard it, “If you hurt them-”
“You’ll do what?”
“I will kill you.”
The words were cool, matter-of-fact, and a little chill went down Neal’s spine when he heard the absolute conviction in Eames’ voice. He’d always known the thief was dangerous. He just never thought he would see that side of him so coldly on display.
“Bold words from a man who’s half an hour away,” Liam scoffed. “And don’t try to involve the authorities on your way back, Eames. I’ll know if you do.”
“Don’t you dare come here,” Arthur snapped, sudden and sharp and startling them all. “Eames, get the hell out of New Yo-”
It happened quickly. One second the gun was pointed at Neal, and the next it flicked over to Arthur. A shot rang out and Arthur arched up against his bindings, an inhuman sound ripped from his throat; blood seeping into the fabric of his waistcoat high on the right sight of his torso over his clavicle. Neal screamed and over the phone Eames shouted in helpless rage, but Liam’s voice was completely calm.
“Hurry home, Eames. We’re waiting.”
Eames made it to the apartment in exactly twenty-one minutes. He had no weapons in hand when he slammed open the front door; there was no swat team or policemen or CIA agents behind him. He had on jeans and a white t-shirt that almost matched the pallor of his face, and when he took in the room with a sweeping glance, his panicked gaze fixed on Arthur, slumped forward in the chair.
Arthur raised his head slowly, eyes dark and unfocused. He managed a strained smile, trying to convey reassurance through the pain.
“Idiot. I told you not to come.”
A dishtowel from the kitchen was stuffed beneath Arthur’s waistcoat; the tie he’d been wearing was looped over his neck and under his shoulder, tied in a knot and applying pressure to the wound. There was blood on the towel, on the glen plaid of Arthur’s waistcoat; staining his shirt beneath and soaking into his fine Italian tie.
There was also blood on Neal’s hands, beneath his fingernails and flaking off his palms, but Neal very resolutely did not think about that.
Neal was back on the couch, ordered there after Liam relented and let him treat Arthur. He’d been taught basic first aid, of course, so he knew what to do-but knowing, he found, was far different from doing. Learning how to treat a puncture wound didn’t cover the tangy smell of iron, the slick of blood or the feel of someone you care about shuddering in pain beneath your hands.
The gun switched lazily from Neal to Eames, Liam’s attention focused on the newly-arrived thief. Arthur was injured and tied up and Neal didn’t pose a threat-and Eames was the one Liam came for. Something hot and angry curled in Neal’s stomach as Liam smiled easily. The man had invaded his home. He’d hurt Arthur-hurt Neal’s family. The fear from before was almost completely expelled, replaced with rage and something Neal was distantly aware of as a burning desire for revenge.
Eames offered Arthur a tight, pained smile, for once lacking any of his usual quips and banter. He turned to Liam.
“What do you want?”
Liam affected a hurt look. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
“I didn’t like you when we worked together, and I sure as shit don’t like you now,” Eames snapped. “Tell me what you want so I can get Arthur to a surgeon.”
“Do you remember Anton Prazak?”
A flicker of recognition passed over Eames’ features. His brow furrowed.
“The crooked oil baron in Almaty? We did that job years ago.”
“And it’s taken him all those years to find out what we did. After we ruined his company, he spent all of his remaining money and all of his time searching for the people who destroyed his life.”
Eames was quiet for a few long moments. Neal could almost see his mind working, dashing from conclusion to conclusion, settling the information into neat compact sections. A shuttered look closed off the thief’s eyes.
“How much is he giving you, Liam?” he asked softly, at last. “What was the price to sell us out?”
Liam snorted.
“Money, my life, and not having my entrails carved out and shown to me.”
Eames sneered, his lip curling.
“Is that all?”
“It was a compelling offer,” Liam admitted. He tilted the gun, pointedly, reminding him just who held the upper hand. Eames saw the movement and his expression immediately closed off, gaze darting to Neal and Arthur. Remembering what he had to lose.
“Alright,” he said quietly, holding his arms out to the sides, “You have me. Let Arthur and Neal go.”
Liam raised an eyebrow. Neal’s stomach plummeted.
“Ah, that’s not how this works, Eames,” the man chided. “I know how you work. You wouldn’t break under torture, would you? Pain isn’t the way to get to you. At least,” he glanced toward Arthur, “Not your own.”
“No!” Eames took a jerky step forward, panic in his eyes. “You have me, let them go.”
“I have you, but you’re not enough,” Liam explained. “Prazak wants the team. You were the easiest to find, since you left Her Majesty’s service-but Olivia and Jacob are still working there. I know you keep in contact with them.”
“You want me to sell them out?” Eames growled. Liam smiled.
“Here’s the thing, Eames. You are going to die, and probably in great pain. Prazak will see to that. Whether or not the people you care about suffer as well is up to you.”
“You piece of-”
Liam’s grip tightened on the gun, and it moved from Eames to Arthur, cutting Eames off mid-tirade. Arthur stiffened, eyes dark and angry and defiant, and Neal scooted away, closer to the end of the couch. Eames bowed his head.
“Olivia was reassigned to a team in Brussels,” he said, his voice ragged. “Jacob’s still in England. Ipswich.”
Liam smirked.
“And here I thought you were loyal.”
Eames looked away. Neal wanted to scream, wanted to yell that Eames would never betray anyone-that the only reason he would ever turn was if the people he loved were in danger. If Neal or Arthur were in danger. The boy glared pure hatred as Liam levered to his feet, a broad smile on the Brit’s face as he shifted his aim back to Eames.
“As soon as we’re away, I’ll call an ambulance for your sweet Arthur. No need to be uncivilized.” He chuckled. “Well, at least until I get you to Prazak.”
Arthur snarled, struggling against the zipties as Liam swiftly crossed the sitting room. Eames turned around obediently at his motion, crossing his wrists behind his back. And as Liam lowered his gun slightly, reaching into his pocket for another tie, Neal moved.
He didn’t think. He just lunged, dropping to his knees on the floor and yanking the pistol from the holster strapped beneath the endtable. Time slowed into stop-motion speed. Arthur looked at him, eyes wide. Eames turned his head in confusion. Liam jerked around, trying to bring his gun to bear.
Neal fired.
Blood splattered across the de La Tour hanging on the wall, bright red flecks against the black of the canvas. Chunks of matter speckled its surface, smearing as they slid down in pink and white blobs.
Neal stared at the body on the floor. The pistol trembled in his grip. He watched, eyes wide, as crimson slowly seeped from the ruins of Liam’s head into the beige carpet.
Then he dropped the gun, crumpled to his knees, and threw up.
Neal came back to the world in stages.
The stench of blood and bile assaulted his nose. The dizziness faded slowly, leaving him shaky and covered in a cold sweat. His vision was narrowed to a swatch of navy-colored glen plaid fabric.
It was only then that he realized he was curled up on the floor, cradled against the uninjured side of Arthur’s chest; leaning back against the sofa as he trembled. Arthur’s arm was tucked around his shoulders, his voice murmuring a soft litany of soothing nonsense as Neal regained his senses.
“…okay now, Neal. It’s okay. You’re safe now. We’re safe now. It’s going to be okay…”
Neal shuddered, pressing his face into Arthur’s neck. A gentle hand carded through his hair: Eames, crouching next to them with a bottle of water and a first aid kit. He set the kit on the floor and uncapped the bottle, stroking his thumb across Neal’s temple as he tilted his head up, tipping some of the water past his lips. Neal managed a few gulps before he felt the strength enough to take the bottle himself, Eames making sure he had a good hold before he let go of it.
“Now for you,” the thief murmured, snapping open the kit. Arthur’s arm remained draped over Neal’s shoulders, holding him close, and he seemed disinclined to move. Eames fished out a pair of scissors and began cutting the bloody waistcoat and shirt away, taking care of the wound with an expertise lacking in Neal’s slipshod dressing. He tossed the pieces of the tattered fabric away, and Neal’s gaze followed them with a kind of numb detachment.
With one of the sections of waistcoat came the inner pocket; Neal blinked as a small red die tumbled onto the carpet. It landed edge-up, caught within the soft weave of fabric. Without thinking, he reached to pick it up.
“Don’t touch that.”
Neal froze.
He raised his eyes slowly, hand still outstretched. Eames’ voice had a tone he’d never heard before: one of panic and fear, with a kind of edge that demanded absolute obedience. He was frozen in place just like Neal, unmoving with a roll of surgical tape partway pulled out. The situation might have been comical but for the utter seriousness emanating from the two men: Eames’ face was pale, and Arthur looked just as worried.
The moment was broken as Arthur reached out awkwardly with his good hand, grabbing the innocuous little die. He tucked it into the pocket of his slacks and returned his arm to its previous position, pulling Neal closer.
“We’ll explain later, okay?” he murmured as Eames resumed treating the wound. “Everything. We’ll tell you everything; just continue to trust us for now.”
Neal nodded slowly. He’d never stopped trusting them.
“You’re going to have to get out of here,” Arthur said quietly, watching Eames’ fingers deftly smooth the bandage over the wound. It was only a short-term dressing: something that would last until a doctor could be reached.
Eames shook his head, sharply. “I’m not leaving you here. You’re hurt.”
“And you’re wanted by the police, the FBI and Interpol,” Arthur pointed out with a twitch of his lips. “I can take care of this, but you can’t be here when my agents arrive.”
“I won’t leave you.”
Eames’ voice was hoarse, strained, and Arthur gently disentangled himself from Neal in order to reach up, cupping the thief’s cheek in his palm.
“Hey,” he said softly. “This isn’t your fault. Okay? This wasn’t your fault.”
Eames shook his head, teeth gritted. The guilt he felt was palpable, rolling off his hunched shoulders in waves; written in the lines around his eyes. It wasn’t a look Neal often saw on his guardian’s face.
“He hurt you,” Eames said harshly. “He hurt you and he would have hurt Neal, and I led him right to you.”
“And you were prepared to lose everything for us,” Arthur replied. His voice was quiet, intense, and the look he gave Eames was for him alone. All three of them knew what would have happened if Eames had actually been delivered to Prazak.
Eames lowered his eyes.
“I could never see you hurt. Either of you. I’d die before I lost you.”
“I know,” Arthur murmured. He reached up, sliding his hand around the back of Eames’ neck. “I know that. So let me take care of this, for both of you. You look after Neal-go to the Queens apartment. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”
Eames hesitated for a second more, but eventually he nodded, albeit reluctantly. He helped Arthur to his feet, pulling Neal with them. Neal latched onto Eames’ side, struggling to keep from looking over the couch. But his gaze was drawn, helplessly, to where Liam’s body lay.
It was covered with a sheet. Crimson was seeping through the fabric, but at least it was covered. Neal breathed out a shaky sigh and Eames’ arm wrapped around him, pulling him close.
“You’re ringing Cobb?”
Arthur nodded, shifting his bad arm. Eames had fashioned a makeshift sling for it out of the ruined tie and a roll of gauze, keeping it from jarring the wound in Arthur’s shoulder.
“He’ll help me take care of it. I’ll think of something to file it as CIA-related business. But you should get going now.”
“I could stay until they get here.”
Arthur smiled, leaning over to brush a kiss to Eames’ lips. “I’ll be fine. Neal’s the one who needs looking after right now.”
He turned to said boy, who was still having trouble keeping from swaying on his feet. Arthur combed his fingers through Neal’s hair, bending down to kiss his forehead gently.
“You were brave tonight,” he said softly. “You protected the people you care about, and that’s what matters. That is what’s important.”
Neal nodded, numbly, but he hung onto the words like a lifeline. Arthur’s hand lingered on the nape of his neck before dropping away, pulling out his phone as he turned to take care of things.
And if Neal let Eames’ hand cover his eyes as they walked past the body, blindly guided to the door, he consoled himself with the fact that at least Eames was still there to do so.
The ride to Queens was quiet.
Neal slumped in the passenger seat of the car, staring unseeing out the window as the lights of the city flickered past. They’d taken Arthur’s car: a black Volvo S40 that was both sleek and nondescript, the essence of everything Arthur looked for in a car. It was fast enough to handle high-speed chases, casual enough to not attract attention, and it wasn’t a huge investment if he ever had the need to drive it into the Hudson. Their three emergency duffels were in the trunk, filled with clothes and identities and weaponry in case anything ever happened.
Eames pulled up to a red-brick apartment building just off the botanical gardens in Flushing, steering the car into the underground parking lot. Neal pried himself from the seat, taking his own bag as Eames took his and Arthur’s. Eames’ arm tucked around his shoulders as he led Neal up the stairs, to the top floor studio apartment.
Which, apparently, wasn’t empty.
Neal blinked as Eames opened the door to the sound of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture playing from a high-end stereo system in the corner of a rather bare sitting room. There was a couch and a few cushioned chairs, but mostly shelves lined the walls, filled with what looked to be art and forging supplies. A row of frames were lined in one corner, and precious art was placed around the room in seemingly haphazard array: on the walls, on a bureau near the back, on the coffee table in the middle. It resembled a storage space more than a home.
Eames grimaced, leaving Neal by the door as he went over to the stereo system. He turned it off abruptly.
“Oi!” he called, seeming to be speaking to the apartment at large. “It isn’t Sunday!”
A rather short man brandishing a wooden spoon appeared from what seemed to be the kitchen. He was in his mid-twenties but already balding, with thick glasses perched on his nose. His eyes were bright, intelligent, and decidedly suspicious as he regarded Neal and Eames.
“Circumstances occurred that resulted in a need to change my schedule,” he said primly. “This is now my Thursday residence.”
Eames grunted noncommittally, dropping the bags on the floor near the sofa. He reached for Neal’s, taking it from the boy’s hand and piling it atop the others. Neal wasn’t unused to the idea of having different safehouses in the city-they’d spent a week at Arthur’s condo on Staten Island when their apartment had flooded from a broken pipe-but he didn’t know that they occasionally came with guests.
“Moz, this is Neal. Neal, this is-” Eames paused, “What are you going by currently?”
“Haversham,” the man said with a self-satisfied look. “Dante Haversham. It references-”
Eames waved a hand, cutting him off. “Whatever. Just call him Mozzie.”
“ ‘Mozzie’?” Neal echoed skeptically. His nose twitched as he caught a whiff of whatever was cooking in the kitchen: pepper and onion, coriander and cumin. Something Indian. His stomach roiled at the idea of food, even though he’d only had a quick sandwich for lunch.
Eames shook his head. “Don’t ask. In any event-since I don’t use the flat that often, Moz comes by once a week to look after it. That way I don’t have dust collecting on my things and he doesn’t have a trail of forged real estate papers. I trust him.”
Mozzie snorted, even as Neal relaxed fractionally at the reassurance. Eames grimaced and shot the other man a look.
“I trust that he knows I would hunt him down if he ever stole anything from me,” he corrected.
“Which I don’t understand, seeing as you don’t care about half of this stuff anyway,” Mozzie mourned, looking around the room. “You don’t give them the attention they deserve.”
Eames shrugged. “It’s the sentimental value. I like keeping track of things I’ve nicked.”
“Reliving past glories already? You’re getting old.”
Eames cut him an unamused look. He turned to Neal, dismissing the other man from his attention entirely.
“Do you need anything to eat?” At Neal’s firm shake of his head, he nodded. “Alright. The bedroom’s right through that door; Mozzie’s is down the hall. Why don’t you go lay down for a bit while we talk?”
Neal nodded, quietly. He picked up his duffel and wandered to the indicated room, closing the door gently behind him. The bedroom was almost Spartan in its furnishings: there was a dresser and a bed, but nothing else.
The décor was a completely different story.
A stunning replica of Michelangelo’s ‘Creation of Adam’ from the Sistine Chapel was painted directly onto the east wall, taking up its entirety. The north wall was hung with artwork: a large Titian took up a space by the curtained window, and below it were copies of three of Ghiberti’s panels from the Gates of Paradise. Neal stopped in the middle of the room, turning a full circle as he gazed around in awe.
When his brain was finally done processing all of the exquisite pieces, Neal managed to drag himself through the half-open door that led to a small bathroom. He poked through his bag, pushing aside three different passports and an unloaded revolver, which he shuddered to even touch. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, pulled them on, brushed the bitter taste of bile out of his mouth and went to collapse in the bed.
He wanted to sleep. He wanted to forget, to pretend that the night had never happened, but it was a futile hope at best. Instead he curled up on his side, staring blankly at the Michelangelo on the wall.
Neal didn’t know how much time passed before Eames entered the room. The thief was quiet, as usual, barely making a sound as he toed off his shoes. He slid onto the bed and Neal turned to him immediately, pressing his face into the curve of Eames’ neck and shoulder; fist clenching tight in his shirt.
Eames’ fingers stroked through his hair and Neal’s shoulders trembled, his breath coming harsh and fast, but he refused to cry.
He didn’t regret what he had done.
Neal wasn’t aware he’d drifted off until he was waking up again, quiet voices speaking over his head.
“…Cobb suspect anything?”
“Of course. But he let it go.”
Some of the tightness in Neal’s chest loosened at the sound of Arthur’s voice. Still half-asleep, he rolled over with an incoherent mumble, out from under Eames’ arm to tuck himself against Arthur’s chest. The worry he’d felt at leaving Arthur-who was admittedly very capable-finally eased at the feel of him there, whole and breathing and alive. There was the scratchy material of a sling pressed against his cheek but Neal didn’t care, burrowing closer as Arthur chuckled.
“Surprising,” Eames said, his voice dry.
“You give him too little credit.”
“He wants to put me in prison. I don’t like prison.”
“Most reasonable people want to put you in prison.”
“Are you calling yourself unreasonable?”
“I’ve always been unreasonable when it comes to you.”
Neal rolled his eyes. As much as he loved the two men, he didn’t feel any desire to listen to them make sappy comments at each other. He raised his head, a little blearily, squinting at Arthur’s fond expression.
“ ’s there food?”
Arthur laughed, the sound warm and pleasant. He was lying on his side, his right arm tucked into a sling, and wearing a simple button-up dress shirt.
“Yes, Neal, there is food. And then there will be answers.”
Neal nodded, slowly, glad Arthur was addressing the unvoiced knot in his stomach.
“Okay.”
They wandered out to the kitchen, with Eames very pointedly Not Fussing over Arthur’s injury. Neal was a little surprised to see the beginnings of dawn peeking through the window curtains: he hadn’t thought he’d slept that long. He was not surprised, however, to see his favorite cereal waiting on the table.
Eames and Arthur always took care of him. Neal knew that. And that was what made him able to eat his breakfast without giving over to the flood of questions begging to be answered.
They were sitting in relative peace when the bedroom down the hall opened, and Mozzie appeared, carrying a small duffel bag. He caught sight of them and wandered over. His eyes narrowed as he saw Arthur.
“Suit,” he greeted disdainfully.
Arthur chuckled.
“Nice to see you, too, Moz.”
Mozzie sniffed, dismissing the CIA agent from his attention as he turned to Eames.
“As it is no longer Thursday, I will be taking my leave. And you will no doubt find that I have not stolen or replaced any precious items here.”
“I never said you did, Moz,” Eames replied in amusement. The man shrugged.
“I like to cover my bases. It was a pleasure to meet the doted-upon ward of my landlord,” Mozzie tipped an invisible hat in Neal’s direction, “And given your parental figures, I’m sure I will see you again-on one side of the law or another.”
Arthur snorted into his cup of coffee. Mozzie waggled his fingers and disappeared from the kitchen, the sound of the front door closing signaling his departure. Neal looked at Eames with a bemused expression.
“Where did you meet him?”
“Chicago,” Eames said. “I had to quietly get rid of a Warhol I’d nicked from the Art Institute; Mozzie was my fence. When he moved out here to civilization, we got in touch again.”
Neal nodded. They finished eating in a comfortable, peaceful quiet, though the questions and anxiety started to bubble up in Neal’s chest again. He was picking at the remnants of his toast when Arthur finally pushed his plate away, folding his hands on the table.
“So. What are your questions?”
Neal looked at him, then back down at the table. He could recall the previous night in perfect, absolute clarity, down to the details of the blood on the wall and the mangled shape of Liam’s head. All of the other things he wanted to know-the stealing of secrets, the jumping into peoples’ minds-were secondary to the fact that last night, he had killed someone.
He raised his eyes.
“Who was he?”
Arthur glanced at Eames, clearly ceding the question. The Brit leaned back in his chair.
“He was part of my team, once. Liam, Olivia, Jacob and I. We worked together back home, and then we were sent over here as part of a joint CIA-SAS operation.” Eames chuckled, a little darkly. “I never did like the bugger. Too cocky, too arrogant; only ever cared for himself. I think I always knew he would flip on us, deep down.”
Neal studied his hands, laced together on the table in front of him.
“Why did he want to take you away?”
“Because of the work we did,” Eames said, his voice gentle. He seemed to know Neal was still rattled over almost losing him. “Because a former mark-Anton Prazak-discovered how we ruined his company.”
“How did you do it?”
Eames exchanged a quick look with Arthur.
“By using dreamsharing technology.”
Neal blinked. He looked between the two, brow furrowed.
“What?”
“It was first developed for use by the military,” Arthur explained. “The technology-the PASIV device, and the Somnacin drug it uses-allows people to share a dream. And, if they’re taught lucid dreaming, they can change things within that dream.”
Neal frowned. “Why? I mean, what’s the purpose? It’s just a dream, right?”
Eames shook his head.
“Dreams are the doorway to the subconscious. When we’re awake, we guard our secrets. But when you’re asleep, that barrier is gone.”
“Dreamsharing was originally used for training purposes,” Arthur said. “That’s where I was first introduced to it. Because your brain works faster when you’re asleep, you have more time in dreams compared to reality. The CIA wanted to use it to cut down on training time for soldiers, as well as give us an outlet for other things. See, if you die in a dream, you just wake up. There are no repercussions.”
Neal stared at him.
“That sounds awful.”
Arthur chuckled. “It can be. But once the technology was established, the CIA saw other uses for it: namely, the ability to find out information from someone who would otherwise refuse to cooperate.”
Neal’s mind raced as he took in all of the new information. The application for the idea was astounding-it was frightening. The possibilities for use and misuse-someone going inside his head, going through his secrets, looking into his thoughts-made a chill run down his spine. Neal stole things, but he couldn’t imagine stealing from someone’s mind.
He looked up.
“Show me.”
The coffee shop was like any of the hundreds that permeated New York.
An eclectic collection of furniture was scattered around the dimly-lit room, comfy cushioned chairs ringing low tables. Indie rock played over the speakers, matching the customers perfectly: mostly college students wearing European scarves and t-shirts printed with obscure quotes. The occasional businessman wandered in to wrangle a cup of black coffee and a newspaper, winding between the tables of laptops and hipsters.
Neal barely touched the chai sitting in front of him, marveling out the window at the pedestrians wandering down the sidewalk.
“I still can’t believe none of this is real.”
Eames chuckled, taking a sip of his tea. Neal had to admit that, for a dream, the sensations were incredibly real. His chai tasted amazing, the room felt cool, the table beneath his fingers was solid and worn.
“And these projections-they’re yours?”
Eames nodded. “I’m the subject of the dream; Arthur is the dreamer. He builds the world and my mind populates it.”
“And I..?”
“You are just sitting there, for now,” Arthur smiled. “We didn’t want to give you any control over the dream, not yet.”
“Is it dangerous?” Neal asked, finally tearing his gaze away from the passersby. They looked so real.
Eames and Arthur exchanged a glance. There was hesitance there, and uncertainty, but they’d never lied to Neal before. They didn’t now.
“Pain in the dream world still feels like pain,” Arthur explained. “And when you die, you still feel it. The projections are calm at the moment because we’re not doing anything. But if you change something in the dream-a window to a door, a dead end to a street-they’ll start to take notice.”
“And projections can get rather nasty,” Eames added, shooting Arthur a wry look that spoke of experience. “Especially with minds that have had training.”
“Training?”
“You can train your subconscious to defend against intruders. Arthur and I have both had it; most people involved in extraction have. Someday, eventually-when you’re ready-we’ll train you.”
Neal considered it. The idea of someone able to go into his mind and ferret out his secrets was not a comforting thought. He nodded.
“I would appreciate that.”
He climbed to his feet, unable to restrain himself any longer. Eames and Arthur followed him indulgently as he pushed open the door of the café, heading down the street outside. The city wasn’t New York, but it had similar buildings and layout. The people all had a tendency toward more European wear, which he assumed was Eames’ influence.
“So you said you’re a forger, right?” Neal asked, turning slightly to address Eames as they walked. “Arthur collects information on the target, and you imitate people within the dream?”
“Oh, I do more than imitate, darling.”
Neal stopped dead in his tracks, spinning around at the sultry feminine voice. His jaw dropped as he stared at the spitting image of a demure Marilyn Monroe, wearing the infamous white dress and everything. Arthur was regarding the woman with something torn between amusement and critical appreciation, as though he were looking for potential flaws. She pouted at him.
“I’ll have you know I’ve spent a lot of time on this image,” she sniffed.
“Holy crap,” Neal said faintly.
Marilyn-Eames grinned.
“Does he have any repressed gender issues I should know about?” Neal asked Arthur warily.
Marilyn-Eames made a face at him. The next instant, her form shimmered, like a heat mirage. She gained height and broader shoulders and switched genders, and then Neal was staring at himself.
“ ‘Does he have any repressed gender issues I should know about?’ ” Eames mimicked snidely. His voice was annoyingly accurate.
“My teeth don’t look like that,” Neal groused. He caught sight of Eames’ reflection in the window behind him and pointed: it displayed the forger’s true form. “And you’re showing.”
Eames glanced back. “Yeah, that happens. I usually control the reflections as well, but I didn’t bother for this dream. There’s no one trying to kill me, here.”
He flickered again, reverting back to himself. Neal glanced around. The projections were walking around them as though they weren’t there, for all intents and purposes ignoring their existence.
“I thought you said projections get riled up when you change things.”
Eames chuckled. “Changing yourself is different from changing the environment. Besides, these are my projections-they’re used to me mucking about in here.”
Neal opened his mouth to ask another question, but was interrupted by the sudden sound of drums, followed by some warbling electric piano. He blinked.
Arthur turned to Eames with a horrified expression as the world began to fade away around them.
“What did you do to Edith Piaf?”
‘My daddy was a bank robber, but he never hurt nobody…’
“I thought it would liven things up!” Eames protested half-heartedly, a grin on his lips. Arthur glowered.
“Do not screw with my Piaf, Eames. I will hurt you.”
‘He just loved to live that way-and he loved to steal your money.’
Neal awoke laughing.
The new apartment elicited a jumble of conflicting emotions in Neal.
On the one hand, it wasn’t home. There was no Roger, no yappy chihuahua on the fifth floor, no pizza delivery guy who knew Neal by name. There was no blue stain on the sitting room carpet from an accidental paint spill; no nick in the wall of the foyer where they had dropped the futon when replacing it with Neal’s bed. None of the memories-from late-night dinners talking about CIA profiling to plotting a route to the Matisse at the Met that Neal really wanted to steal-had moved with the furniture. They were still at the building on 59th: the place Neal had spent almost two years calling home.
On the other hand, the new apartment was almost directly across from the Met.
It was an old pre-war hotel, converted by the floor and half-floor into residences. The entire complex was ridiculously opulent, sporting a private fitness center and wine cellar storage and even an indoor swimming pool. They’d taken a half-floor apartment that had three bedrooms, so Arthur got to have a study again, and the balcony opened up to a marvelous view of Central Park.
The new apartment also contained no memories of blood-spattered de La Tour paintings, which Neal was pathetically grateful for.
They had stayed in Queens for a few days after that night. Arthur was in and out, attending to the necessary CIA paperwork and inquiry, while Eames stayed with Neal. The forger pulled out a chunk of clay and a stack of pictures of the Winged Victory, and set Neal to work making a miniature replica. The task was painstaking, but it was also comfortingly mindless-and it kept his hands busy.
It gave him the time to digest.
“How are you doing?” Arthur asked, leaning against the doorframe of the new study-storage-art room. Neal was sitting at one of the work benches, a scraper in one hand and a ribbon tool in the other as he worked on the fine detailing of Nike’s wing. He set down the instruments, blowing a stray bit of hair out of his face as he turned around.
“The cloth is giving me some trouble,” he admitted, wiping his hands on a damp towel nearby. “I’m going to need a finer sculpting tool.”
“I meant you, personally,” Arthur said with a smile.
Neal ducked his head. He stared at his fingers, picking at the remaining bits of clay.
“I’m trying not to think about it,” he said honestly, his voice soft. “Sometimes I wish I could forget the last few days.” He raised his eyes. “I mean, I’m glad I know what you do at work, now. And the PASIV technology really is amazing. Someday I’d like for you to teach me how to keep other people out of my head, but the whole business, the world of dreamsharing… I don’t think I could ever deal in that. Not with the lengths people go to because of it-not with the things that you can do with it.”
“We never said you should, Neal,” Arthur replied gently. “There’s no reason you should follow in our footsteps. Dreamsharing can be even more dangerous than reality-that’s why we hadn’t told you about it yet. We didn’t want you getting involved in our world.”
Neal nodded, no small amount of relief blossoming in his chest. Two years ago, he’d had no aspirations above getting by from day to day. But that was before Arthur and Eames; before he’d gained two people he never, ever wanted to let down. Something unknotted inside of him at the sight of Arthur’s fond smile.
“Come on, Eames just got back with dinner. And we have something for you.”
Neal followed him out to the kitchen curiously. Eames was pulling out plates and silverware, take-out Indian boxes scattered on the table. The forger looked up, and there was something like nervousness in his eyes when he caught sight of them. Neal looked between Eames and Arthur with a frown, seeing that same tension in Arthur’s shoulders. He stopped short in the doorway, folding his arms across his chest.
“Oh, I know those looks. I’m not sitting down until you tell me what’s going on.”
Eames let out an amused snort, setting the plates down on the table.
“Nothing gets by you, does it?”
Neal narrowed his eyes, not budging. Eames exchanged a glance with Arthur. He shrugged.
“Right, before food it is.”
Eames disappeared back into the master bedroom for a few minutes, returning with a sheaf of papers in his hands. He held them close to his chest, careful and almost protective, that uneasy look still in his eyes as he crossed the room to stand next to Arthur.
“Now, before you say anything, these don’t have to go through,” he said. “Not if you don’t want them to.”
“We were going to wait until your birthday,” Arthur added, “But because of the past few days, we just…wanted to reaffirm this.”
“You’re starting to worry me,” Neal murmured as he took the papers from Eames’ outstretched hand. He glanced down at them. And blinked.
They were adoption papers.
“These are adoption papers,” he said blankly. Out of instinct he looked over the quality of the paper, the ink and the signatures. On the front page, at the bottom, was a pair of familiar names that Neal rarely ever saw used.
“These are very good,” he choked, mouth dry. Eames quirked a smile at him.
“They’re not forged. They’re real. Official.”
“We wouldn’t do anything less for you,” Arthur added quietly.
Neal finally looked up, his hands trembling. When he met their gazes he finally comprehended the tension from before: they had been waiting on him; waiting to see his reaction. Waiting to see if he would say yes.
He’d lived with the men for almost two years, learned countless things from them and been astounded by their collective brilliance, but Neal could swear they were still hopelessly dense sometimes.
He crossed the room in a few quick strides, throwing his arms around the both of them.
“You,” he rasped, “Are the only family that’s ever mattered to me.”
Neal pressed his face into Eames’ shoulder; tightened his grip on Arthur’s side. Something deep inside him shattered, cracking and crumbling and falling away like dust. He leaned into the arms that held him, wetness in his eyes and a feeling of lightness in his chest that he hadn’t known in years.
He was the son of a CIA agent and a thief; he was a grifter and a forger and a con artist. He was a trickster and a sometimes-liar, and he was someone who knew the power of dreams.
He was home.
Art referenced:
Andrea del Verrocchio: David
Leonardo da Vinci: The Last Supper
Georges de La Tour: Magdalen with the Smoking Flame
Michelangelo: Creation of Adam (Sistine Chapel)
Titian: The Allegory of Age Governed by Prudence
Lorenzo Ghiberti: Gates of Paradise
Andy Warhol: Mao
Henri Matisse: Seated Odalisque
Winged Victory of Samothrace
Music referenced:
Pyotr Tchaikovsky: 1812 Overture
The Clash: Bank Robber
Fandoms: Inception, White Collar
Characters: Neal, Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13
For the prompt: Arthur and Eames adopt a kid and raise that kid into Neal Caffrey.
Arc Two in the series.
Living with Arthur and Eames was a little like riding a rollercoaster.
There were the peaks: uphill climbs of anticipation, the knowledge that something incredible was happening. Reaching the top of accomplishment, and then the plunging dives; heart-in-your-throat bursts of exhilaration tangled with helpless fear. There were twists and turns and through it all, the thrill of experiencing something novel and wonderful.
They set down rules, of course. Neal didn’t expect to be in such an extraordinary situation without it having some downsides. Having to actually show up to school was the worst: Neal considered it a waste of time when he was feeling magnanimous, and wanted to blow it up when he wasn’t. Arthur pulled strings to get him admitted to Calhoun, an exclusive little school near the Hudson. It was close enough to the apartment that he could take his bike there-blue and shiny and new-and while the desire to ditch and wander over to Museum Row instead was a daily struggle, he found himself almost always attending. When he didn’t, Arthur would always know; and then he would make that non-judgmental-but-nevertheless-disappointed face at him.
Neal hated that face.
Eames seemed to share his aversion of higher education, but he always agreed with Arthur on the subject of Neal’s schooling-although he did confide to Neal that as soon as he was able to forge school records on his own, he could drop out. Arthur had not been pleased to learn of that conversation.
He’d been even less pleased when he’d finished making dinner to find Eames showing Neal how to forge his CIA badge. But he hadn’t stopped them, which said something about his own view of the rules.
The interplay between Eames and Arthur never ceased to fascinate Neal. The two men seemed like complete opposites on paper: a CIA agent and a thief; a lawmaker and a lawbreaker. Yet Arthur never questioned the less-than-legal skills Eames was teaching Neal; and when the two were together, they fit so seamlessly it was hard to imagine one without the other. They bickered and they snarked and they argued the points of Aristotle versus Plato, but the surface tension was only ever that: a surface. Neal knew them well enough to see beyond that-to see the live wire connection that bound the two together.
It was more than a little humbling to know that link now included him as well.
Eames and Arthur made sure he was never alone: if one was gone on a job, the other wouldn’t be. If Arthur had to be called away, Eames made sure to cancel whatever business he might have had. When Eames was out of the country stealing things and causing chaos, Arthur limited himself to strictly office-hours work.
Arthur taught Neal French and Japanese and how to shoot a gun, though he didn’t push very hard because of Neal’s aversion of the things. He showed him how to hotwire a car and the difference between Zegna and Dunhill, took him to the latest exhibitions at the Met and introduced him to the wonders of wine and caviar. Over late-night dinners he explained the workings of the American judicial system, what would get you caught and what policemen and FBI agents and Interpol looked for when profiling suspects.
Eames tried to teach Neal German and Swahili, which was when Neal discovered that Eames was a fantastically horrible teacher. Things came naturally to the thief, so he didn’t entirely comprehend how to instruct someone else. Once Neal got the basics down, however, Eames was able to expand exponentially on his knowledge. He honed Neal’s lockpicking and pickpocketing and broke down the basics of an average person’s wants and needs so better to manipulate them. Through him, Neal was introduced to forgers and thieves and fences and fraudsters, and it wasn’t long before he knew both the high-class side of New York as well as the city’s seamy underbelly. With diagrams and blueprints Eames showed him how to avoid security cameras, how to pinpoint the best route to a target and the importance of avoiding squeaky tile while wearing sneakers.
Arthur showed Neal the rules.
Eames showed him how to break them.
And through it all, inexplicably, Neal found himself remembering what it was like to be part of a family. The study was cleared out of file cabinets and storage to make room for a wardrobe, for his clothes and his books, a space to call solely his own. Eames made him breakfast in the morning when he stumbled out bleary-eyed and half-asleep; Arthur helped him with his homework after school. He settled into the kind of rhythm that only came with knowing others would be there for you, finally believing he had a place and people to call home.
Then, just a few weeks shy of his fifteenth birthday, everything came crashing down.
Neal never took any of his friends back to the apartment.
Admittedly, part of the reason for that was the fact Neal didn’t really have many friends. It wasn’t for lack of opportunity-the half of his classmates who didn’t adore him envied him instead-but simply that Neal didn’t like anyone enough. Most of his peers were self-absorbed, clueless or just plain dumb, and none were at all interesting. Neal knew how to get them to do what he wanted, of course, and even teachers had a tendency to fawn over him-but he saw them as little more than means to an end. They were fun in their own way, and he did have a few groups he would hang out with on occasion, but no one he really connected with.
No one he trusted.
Neal wasn’t used to having a family. Now that he had Arthur and Eames, he was fiercely protective of their bond. He never invited anyone over because he didn’t think anyone yet had the right to intrude on their home. It was a place and an idea that he guarded keenly, leery even to put the address on school forms.
Roger helpfully opened the door when he spotted Neal wheeling his bike toward the apartment lobby: now a part of their after-school ritual. The concierge had warmed up to Neal, eventually, forgiving him his uncouth ways as it became clear the boy was there to stay.
Also, Eames had made him apologize.
‘A concierge,’ he had said, ‘Is the God of a block of flats. He sees all and he knows all, and you Do Not Piss Him Off.’
Roger was one of Neal’s first examples of keeping friends with those who were in a position of power. Eames always chatted with the man, and so Eames always knew what was happening in the apartment building at any given time. If the Bauers were fighting again or the Sherwoods broke another water pipe, Eames was one of the first to know. It wasn’t that Roger was a gossip-just that Eames had taken the time to insinuate himself as someone the concierge could talk to. And when an unfortunate pigeon tore through the screen door of their balcony one day, Roger made sure someone was there to fix it within the hour.
The same principles applied to the barista at the coffee shop down the street, who would always add extra cinnamon to Neal’s chai, and to the man who worked at the news stand on the corner of 110th and Manhattan who tossed in a free pack of gum with Neal’s daily purchase of the Times. People-especially those working service jobs-liked to be treated as people, and they liked familiar, friendly faces. It didn’t take a lot of effort to gain someone’s favor: a smile, a laugh, asking how their day was.
“Anything interesting happen today?” Neal asked as he wheeled his bike toward the back storage room just off the lobby. Roger helped him with the door, holding it open while Neal locked his bike to the rack located inside. The lights in the building had been on the fritz again, and a pair of electricians were working over in the corner.
“The Darzis’ chihuahua got out again,” Roger reported with a twitch of his lips. “Aside from that, things have been quiet.” He tilted his head. “Mr. Eames is due back today, is he not?”
Neal nodded, unable to hide his grin. Some jobs Eames didn’t tell him about, but the recent one was a little heist in Florence that involved a very good replica of Verrocchio’s ‘David’. He’d seen the cast before Eames left for Italy-the attention to detail was astounding.
“His flight should land in an hour or so. He promised he’d bring me back something, too.”
Never mind that when Eames promised a gift, it was usually something he’d stolen.
Roger waved Neal into one of the elevators, holding it open as one of the electricians trotted after him. The week Eames had been gone, Neal had spent his time going over an intellectual challenge the thief had left him with: apparently, Eames wanted to steal The Last Supper.
Despite the fact it was a mural.
Neal was watching the elevator numbers tick up, pondering the merits of laser cutters versus precision waterjets, when the unmistakable weight of a gun muzzle pressed into the small of his back.
“Take me to Eames.”
He has a gun.
He knows who I am. He knows who Eames is.
He has a gun.
He knows we live here. He knows my schedule.
He has a gun-
“He’s not here,” Neal rasped. He refused to let the fear choking his throat be heard in his voice, shunting that scared part of him somewhere deep at the bottom of his stomach. His mind raced as he cobbled together the pieces of information he knew about his assailant.
He knows Eames. His accent is British, from around Yorkshire-he probably worked with Eames before, maybe with the SAS. He knows who I am, which means he’s gotten past all of the security Arthur put around our identities. He knows where we live and what my schedule is, so he’s been watching for a while. He’s smart. Patient. Knows how to handle a gun. Knows how to crack CIA-level defenses.
A heavy hand landed between his shoulder blades as the elevator reached the fifteenth floor.
“Then let’s go wait for him to get home, shall we?”
Neal licked his lips as he was pushed inexorably from the elevator, holding his arms carefully away from his sides. Not that he had any weapons on him: he knew how to use them, certainly, but both Arthur and Eames were leery about him actually handling them.
He never thought there would be an instance when he disagreed with them.
Neal moved agonizingly slowly, taking tiny bunny-hopping steps as he was forced down the hallway. He mentally counted down the apartment numbers: 1501, the Caseys; 1502, the McConnells. 1503 was Mrs. Grahn. She was off on some cruise in the Bahamas; wouldn’t be back for another week. Neal stopped at her door, fumbling for his keys, trying to gain more time to think, to evade.
The ploy failed. The man behind him cuffed him hard on the side of his head, and Neal saw stars for a few painful seconds.
“Don’t try, boy. I know where you live. Apartment 1507, let’s go.”
“Who are you?” Neal demanded, teeth gritted. “What do you want?”
The man chuckled.
“Call me Liam. And my business is with Eames, not with you.”
“Apparently, it is with me,” Neal snapped. “Considering you have a gun in my back.”
“And don’t you forget that,” Liam agreed easily. He ground the gun into Neal’s spine, proving his point-and allowing Neal to make out the distinct shape of a silencer attached to the barrel.
They reached the apartment. Neal stood there for a few seconds, trying helplessly to come up with a way to stall longer, but Liam knew what he was doing. He prodded the gun forward, waiting as Neal unlocked the door stiffly. His heart fell as they walked into the foyer and he caught sight of Arthur’s suit jacket draped over the back of a chair.
“Neal?” Arthur’s voice called from the direction of his bedroom.
Liam nudged him. Neal cleared his throat, projecting a waver into his voice, trying to somehow signal Arthur to get out, get out now.
“It’s me.”
Liam snorted, pushing him forward into the sitting room, putting distance between them. Neal spun around the second he was away, but the pistol was still aimed at his heart. He froze. There was an endless period of silence that could have lasted only a few seconds-and then Arthur was ducking out of the hallway that led to the bedrooms, leading with his gun.
He stopped the instant he saw Neal.
“Be a good lad and put the piece away, yeah?” Liam drawled, flexing his grip on the gun pointedly. Something foreign and bizarre flitted across Arthur’s features as his eyes darted between Neal and Liam-and it took Neal a moment to realize that the expression was fear.
He knew Arthur could beat Liam. He knew that with absolute certainty. But Arthur’s gaze was fixed on the gun pointed at Neal’s chest, intent in a way Neal rarely saw him. Slowly, the CIA agent lowered his weapon. He placed it on the bureau near the hall entry, stepping away with his hands raised and a cold mask settling over his face.
“Liam. It’s been a while.”
Neal blinked. He hadn’t factored Arthur into his assessments. So Liam knew Eames and Arthur-that made him almost certainly ex-SAS.
“Yes, nearly four years now,” Liam drawled. “And you’re still working at the agency, I hear.”
“And you’ve gone rogue,” Arthur said. His voice was icy. Liam simply laughed.
“You’re shagging a mercenary Forger, pet. You’re not allowed to play the high-and-mighty card with me.”
Neal frowned, catching the emphasis on ‘forger’. It was said like a title, not a job description. He shifted curiously and Liam’s hand moved with him, tracking his movement even as he continued looking at Arthur.
“Eames would never take the jobs you do,” Arthur snapped. “I heard about the Rosenberg case, what your team did to that girl-”
“I gather information,” Liam interrupted. “I play point, that’s all. What the client wants is the client’s business. If the rest of the team mucks up in the mark’s head, that’s not my problem.”
“You’re still responsible.”
Liam sneered. “Spare me the lecture.” He twitched the gun in Neal’s direction, nodding toward the kitchen table. “Boy, drag one of those chairs over. You’re going to help me secure dear Arthur here.”
Neal bristled. He didn’t understand all of what the two men were talking about, but he knew an order he didn’t like.
“I will not-”
“Neal,” Arthur said softly, and the words stuck in Neal’s throat. He looked over, seeing the steady reassurance in Arthur’s gaze. “It’s okay. Do as he says.”
Neal bit his lip. He trusted Arthur; he always would.
He went to get the chair.
Liam directed Neal like some kind of twisted conductor, ordering him around with flicks of the gun. He kept him well within range for an easy shot, even as he had him use zipties to secure Arthur to the slats of the chair. Neal tried to leave them loose, to give Arthur a chance to slip free, but Liam made a pointed tsking noise and forced him to tighten them fully.
Liam sat with his back to a corner of the room, eyes on both Arthur and Neal. He set Arthur up half-facing the door, and ordered Neal onto the loveseat, gun never straying from the boy’s chest.
Neal didn’t protest. He didn’t protest because there was an H&K pistol strapped to the bottom of the endtable next to him. He knew how to get it; he knew how to use it. All he needed was a chance: a matter of seconds to get it free.
He was not given that chance.
“You know, I never pinned you as the settling down type,” Liam commented. He was watching Arthur, but his aim never strayed from Neal. Arthur managed to put scorn and disdain and a bitingly cool hatred into one single look.
“And I never took you to be a moron. Just what do you think you’re doing here, Liam?”
Liam narrowed his eyes. The bantering Brit was replaced, for a moment, by someone hard-edged and deadly. Neal had seen glimpses of that same kind of person before, lingering behind Eames’ eyes; behind Arthur’s.
“Did you really think what we do doesn’t have repercussions?” Liam said derisively. “That you can jump into someone’s mind and steal their secrets, disassemble corporate empires and affect worldwide politics without anyone taking notice? Despite what your CIA likes to pretend, the PASIV technology is becoming known. And the world is finding out what we do.”
“Is that what this is about?” Arthur said, voice low. “A mark figured you out? Liam, we can help you-”
“Oh, shut it,” the Brit said irritably. He glanced at his watch, then motioned to Neal. “Give me your mobile.”
Neal blinked, still reeling from all the new information. He pulled the cell phone from his pocket numbly, looking between the two men as he tried to make sense of what Liam had said. Going into people’s minds? Stealing secrets? He glanced at Arthur, but the agent’s face was a blank slate.
He tossed Liam the phone. There were only four numbers in it: Eames’ cell, Arthur’s cell, the apartment and the pizza delivery place down the street.
Liam scrolled through the numbers, picking one out. He switched the phone to speaker, holding it casually in one hand, the gun still unwavering in his other.
“Hey, Neal,” Eames’ voice said after a few rings, tinny and distorted. He sounded tired. “I just got off the plane-”
“Hello, Eames,” Liam purred.
There was dead silence on the other end. Then, very tightly, Eames spoke again.
“Where is Neal?”
Liam raised an eyebrow at the boy. Neal cleared his throat, speaking up.
“I’m here.”
“Neal is here, Arthur is here, I’m here-everyone’s here but you, pet.”
“I swear to god, Liam,” Eames snarled, his voice harsher than Neal had ever heard it, “If you hurt them-”
“You’ll do what?”
“I will kill you.”
The words were cool, matter-of-fact, and a little chill went down Neal’s spine when he heard the absolute conviction in Eames’ voice. He’d always known the thief was dangerous. He just never thought he would see that side of him so coldly on display.
“Bold words from a man who’s half an hour away,” Liam scoffed. “And don’t try to involve the authorities on your way back, Eames. I’ll know if you do.”
“Don’t you dare come here,” Arthur snapped, sudden and sharp and startling them all. “Eames, get the hell out of New Yo-”
It happened quickly. One second the gun was pointed at Neal, and the next it flicked over to Arthur. A shot rang out and Arthur arched up against his bindings, an inhuman sound ripped from his throat; blood seeping into the fabric of his waistcoat high on the right sight of his torso over his clavicle. Neal screamed and over the phone Eames shouted in helpless rage, but Liam’s voice was completely calm.
“Hurry home, Eames. We’re waiting.”
Eames made it to the apartment in exactly twenty-one minutes. He had no weapons in hand when he slammed open the front door; there was no swat team or policemen or CIA agents behind him. He had on jeans and a white t-shirt that almost matched the pallor of his face, and when he took in the room with a sweeping glance, his panicked gaze fixed on Arthur, slumped forward in the chair.
Arthur raised his head slowly, eyes dark and unfocused. He managed a strained smile, trying to convey reassurance through the pain.
“Idiot. I told you not to come.”
A dishtowel from the kitchen was stuffed beneath Arthur’s waistcoat; the tie he’d been wearing was looped over his neck and under his shoulder, tied in a knot and applying pressure to the wound. There was blood on the towel, on the glen plaid of Arthur’s waistcoat; staining his shirt beneath and soaking into his fine Italian tie.
There was also blood on Neal’s hands, beneath his fingernails and flaking off his palms, but Neal very resolutely did not think about that.
Neal was back on the couch, ordered there after Liam relented and let him treat Arthur. He’d been taught basic first aid, of course, so he knew what to do-but knowing, he found, was far different from doing. Learning how to treat a puncture wound didn’t cover the tangy smell of iron, the slick of blood or the feel of someone you care about shuddering in pain beneath your hands.
The gun switched lazily from Neal to Eames, Liam’s attention focused on the newly-arrived thief. Arthur was injured and tied up and Neal didn’t pose a threat-and Eames was the one Liam came for. Something hot and angry curled in Neal’s stomach as Liam smiled easily. The man had invaded his home. He’d hurt Arthur-hurt Neal’s family. The fear from before was almost completely expelled, replaced with rage and something Neal was distantly aware of as a burning desire for revenge.
Eames offered Arthur a tight, pained smile, for once lacking any of his usual quips and banter. He turned to Liam.
“What do you want?”
Liam affected a hurt look. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
“I didn’t like you when we worked together, and I sure as shit don’t like you now,” Eames snapped. “Tell me what you want so I can get Arthur to a surgeon.”
“Do you remember Anton Prazak?”
A flicker of recognition passed over Eames’ features. His brow furrowed.
“The crooked oil baron in Almaty? We did that job years ago.”
“And it’s taken him all those years to find out what we did. After we ruined his company, he spent all of his remaining money and all of his time searching for the people who destroyed his life.”
Eames was quiet for a few long moments. Neal could almost see his mind working, dashing from conclusion to conclusion, settling the information into neat compact sections. A shuttered look closed off the thief’s eyes.
“How much is he giving you, Liam?” he asked softly, at last. “What was the price to sell us out?”
Liam snorted.
“Money, my life, and not having my entrails carved out and shown to me.”
Eames sneered, his lip curling.
“Is that all?”
“It was a compelling offer,” Liam admitted. He tilted the gun, pointedly, reminding him just who held the upper hand. Eames saw the movement and his expression immediately closed off, gaze darting to Neal and Arthur. Remembering what he had to lose.
“Alright,” he said quietly, holding his arms out to the sides, “You have me. Let Arthur and Neal go.”
Liam raised an eyebrow. Neal’s stomach plummeted.
“Ah, that’s not how this works, Eames,” the man chided. “I know how you work. You wouldn’t break under torture, would you? Pain isn’t the way to get to you. At least,” he glanced toward Arthur, “Not your own.”
“No!” Eames took a jerky step forward, panic in his eyes. “You have me, let them go.”
“I have you, but you’re not enough,” Liam explained. “Prazak wants the team. You were the easiest to find, since you left Her Majesty’s service-but Olivia and Jacob are still working there. I know you keep in contact with them.”
“You want me to sell them out?” Eames growled. Liam smiled.
“Here’s the thing, Eames. You are going to die, and probably in great pain. Prazak will see to that. Whether or not the people you care about suffer as well is up to you.”
“You piece of-”
Liam’s grip tightened on the gun, and it moved from Eames to Arthur, cutting Eames off mid-tirade. Arthur stiffened, eyes dark and angry and defiant, and Neal scooted away, closer to the end of the couch. Eames bowed his head.
“Olivia was reassigned to a team in Brussels,” he said, his voice ragged. “Jacob’s still in England. Ipswich.”
Liam smirked.
“And here I thought you were loyal.”
Eames looked away. Neal wanted to scream, wanted to yell that Eames would never betray anyone-that the only reason he would ever turn was if the people he loved were in danger. If Neal or Arthur were in danger. The boy glared pure hatred as Liam levered to his feet, a broad smile on the Brit’s face as he shifted his aim back to Eames.
“As soon as we’re away, I’ll call an ambulance for your sweet Arthur. No need to be uncivilized.” He chuckled. “Well, at least until I get you to Prazak.”
Arthur snarled, struggling against the zipties as Liam swiftly crossed the sitting room. Eames turned around obediently at his motion, crossing his wrists behind his back. And as Liam lowered his gun slightly, reaching into his pocket for another tie, Neal moved.
He didn’t think. He just lunged, dropping to his knees on the floor and yanking the pistol from the holster strapped beneath the endtable. Time slowed into stop-motion speed. Arthur looked at him, eyes wide. Eames turned his head in confusion. Liam jerked around, trying to bring his gun to bear.
Neal fired.
Blood splattered across the de La Tour hanging on the wall, bright red flecks against the black of the canvas. Chunks of matter speckled its surface, smearing as they slid down in pink and white blobs.
Neal stared at the body on the floor. The pistol trembled in his grip. He watched, eyes wide, as crimson slowly seeped from the ruins of Liam’s head into the beige carpet.
Then he dropped the gun, crumpled to his knees, and threw up.
Neal came back to the world in stages.
The stench of blood and bile assaulted his nose. The dizziness faded slowly, leaving him shaky and covered in a cold sweat. His vision was narrowed to a swatch of navy-colored glen plaid fabric.
It was only then that he realized he was curled up on the floor, cradled against the uninjured side of Arthur’s chest; leaning back against the sofa as he trembled. Arthur’s arm was tucked around his shoulders, his voice murmuring a soft litany of soothing nonsense as Neal regained his senses.
“…okay now, Neal. It’s okay. You’re safe now. We’re safe now. It’s going to be okay…”
Neal shuddered, pressing his face into Arthur’s neck. A gentle hand carded through his hair: Eames, crouching next to them with a bottle of water and a first aid kit. He set the kit on the floor and uncapped the bottle, stroking his thumb across Neal’s temple as he tilted his head up, tipping some of the water past his lips. Neal managed a few gulps before he felt the strength enough to take the bottle himself, Eames making sure he had a good hold before he let go of it.
“Now for you,” the thief murmured, snapping open the kit. Arthur’s arm remained draped over Neal’s shoulders, holding him close, and he seemed disinclined to move. Eames fished out a pair of scissors and began cutting the bloody waistcoat and shirt away, taking care of the wound with an expertise lacking in Neal’s slipshod dressing. He tossed the pieces of the tattered fabric away, and Neal’s gaze followed them with a kind of numb detachment.
With one of the sections of waistcoat came the inner pocket; Neal blinked as a small red die tumbled onto the carpet. It landed edge-up, caught within the soft weave of fabric. Without thinking, he reached to pick it up.
“Don’t touch that.”
Neal froze.
He raised his eyes slowly, hand still outstretched. Eames’ voice had a tone he’d never heard before: one of panic and fear, with a kind of edge that demanded absolute obedience. He was frozen in place just like Neal, unmoving with a roll of surgical tape partway pulled out. The situation might have been comical but for the utter seriousness emanating from the two men: Eames’ face was pale, and Arthur looked just as worried.
The moment was broken as Arthur reached out awkwardly with his good hand, grabbing the innocuous little die. He tucked it into the pocket of his slacks and returned his arm to its previous position, pulling Neal closer.
“We’ll explain later, okay?” he murmured as Eames resumed treating the wound. “Everything. We’ll tell you everything; just continue to trust us for now.”
Neal nodded slowly. He’d never stopped trusting them.
“You’re going to have to get out of here,” Arthur said quietly, watching Eames’ fingers deftly smooth the bandage over the wound. It was only a short-term dressing: something that would last until a doctor could be reached.
Eames shook his head, sharply. “I’m not leaving you here. You’re hurt.”
“And you’re wanted by the police, the FBI and Interpol,” Arthur pointed out with a twitch of his lips. “I can take care of this, but you can’t be here when my agents arrive.”
“I won’t leave you.”
Eames’ voice was hoarse, strained, and Arthur gently disentangled himself from Neal in order to reach up, cupping the thief’s cheek in his palm.
“Hey,” he said softly. “This isn’t your fault. Okay? This wasn’t your fault.”
Eames shook his head, teeth gritted. The guilt he felt was palpable, rolling off his hunched shoulders in waves; written in the lines around his eyes. It wasn’t a look Neal often saw on his guardian’s face.
“He hurt you,” Eames said harshly. “He hurt you and he would have hurt Neal, and I led him right to you.”
“And you were prepared to lose everything for us,” Arthur replied. His voice was quiet, intense, and the look he gave Eames was for him alone. All three of them knew what would have happened if Eames had actually been delivered to Prazak.
Eames lowered his eyes.
“I could never see you hurt. Either of you. I’d die before I lost you.”
“I know,” Arthur murmured. He reached up, sliding his hand around the back of Eames’ neck. “I know that. So let me take care of this, for both of you. You look after Neal-go to the Queens apartment. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”
Eames hesitated for a second more, but eventually he nodded, albeit reluctantly. He helped Arthur to his feet, pulling Neal with them. Neal latched onto Eames’ side, struggling to keep from looking over the couch. But his gaze was drawn, helplessly, to where Liam’s body lay.
It was covered with a sheet. Crimson was seeping through the fabric, but at least it was covered. Neal breathed out a shaky sigh and Eames’ arm wrapped around him, pulling him close.
“You’re ringing Cobb?”
Arthur nodded, shifting his bad arm. Eames had fashioned a makeshift sling for it out of the ruined tie and a roll of gauze, keeping it from jarring the wound in Arthur’s shoulder.
“He’ll help me take care of it. I’ll think of something to file it as CIA-related business. But you should get going now.”
“I could stay until they get here.”
Arthur smiled, leaning over to brush a kiss to Eames’ lips. “I’ll be fine. Neal’s the one who needs looking after right now.”
He turned to said boy, who was still having trouble keeping from swaying on his feet. Arthur combed his fingers through Neal’s hair, bending down to kiss his forehead gently.
“You were brave tonight,” he said softly. “You protected the people you care about, and that’s what matters. That is what’s important.”
Neal nodded, numbly, but he hung onto the words like a lifeline. Arthur’s hand lingered on the nape of his neck before dropping away, pulling out his phone as he turned to take care of things.
And if Neal let Eames’ hand cover his eyes as they walked past the body, blindly guided to the door, he consoled himself with the fact that at least Eames was still there to do so.
The ride to Queens was quiet.
Neal slumped in the passenger seat of the car, staring unseeing out the window as the lights of the city flickered past. They’d taken Arthur’s car: a black Volvo S40 that was both sleek and nondescript, the essence of everything Arthur looked for in a car. It was fast enough to handle high-speed chases, casual enough to not attract attention, and it wasn’t a huge investment if he ever had the need to drive it into the Hudson. Their three emergency duffels were in the trunk, filled with clothes and identities and weaponry in case anything ever happened.
Eames pulled up to a red-brick apartment building just off the botanical gardens in Flushing, steering the car into the underground parking lot. Neal pried himself from the seat, taking his own bag as Eames took his and Arthur’s. Eames’ arm tucked around his shoulders as he led Neal up the stairs, to the top floor studio apartment.
Which, apparently, wasn’t empty.
Neal blinked as Eames opened the door to the sound of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture playing from a high-end stereo system in the corner of a rather bare sitting room. There was a couch and a few cushioned chairs, but mostly shelves lined the walls, filled with what looked to be art and forging supplies. A row of frames were lined in one corner, and precious art was placed around the room in seemingly haphazard array: on the walls, on a bureau near the back, on the coffee table in the middle. It resembled a storage space more than a home.
Eames grimaced, leaving Neal by the door as he went over to the stereo system. He turned it off abruptly.
“Oi!” he called, seeming to be speaking to the apartment at large. “It isn’t Sunday!”
A rather short man brandishing a wooden spoon appeared from what seemed to be the kitchen. He was in his mid-twenties but already balding, with thick glasses perched on his nose. His eyes were bright, intelligent, and decidedly suspicious as he regarded Neal and Eames.
“Circumstances occurred that resulted in a need to change my schedule,” he said primly. “This is now my Thursday residence.”
Eames grunted noncommittally, dropping the bags on the floor near the sofa. He reached for Neal’s, taking it from the boy’s hand and piling it atop the others. Neal wasn’t unused to the idea of having different safehouses in the city-they’d spent a week at Arthur’s condo on Staten Island when their apartment had flooded from a broken pipe-but he didn’t know that they occasionally came with guests.
“Moz, this is Neal. Neal, this is-” Eames paused, “What are you going by currently?”
“Haversham,” the man said with a self-satisfied look. “Dante Haversham. It references-”
Eames waved a hand, cutting him off. “Whatever. Just call him Mozzie.”
“ ‘Mozzie’?” Neal echoed skeptically. His nose twitched as he caught a whiff of whatever was cooking in the kitchen: pepper and onion, coriander and cumin. Something Indian. His stomach roiled at the idea of food, even though he’d only had a quick sandwich for lunch.
Eames shook his head. “Don’t ask. In any event-since I don’t use the flat that often, Moz comes by once a week to look after it. That way I don’t have dust collecting on my things and he doesn’t have a trail of forged real estate papers. I trust him.”
Mozzie snorted, even as Neal relaxed fractionally at the reassurance. Eames grimaced and shot the other man a look.
“I trust that he knows I would hunt him down if he ever stole anything from me,” he corrected.
“Which I don’t understand, seeing as you don’t care about half of this stuff anyway,” Mozzie mourned, looking around the room. “You don’t give them the attention they deserve.”
Eames shrugged. “It’s the sentimental value. I like keeping track of things I’ve nicked.”
“Reliving past glories already? You’re getting old.”
Eames cut him an unamused look. He turned to Neal, dismissing the other man from his attention entirely.
“Do you need anything to eat?” At Neal’s firm shake of his head, he nodded. “Alright. The bedroom’s right through that door; Mozzie’s is down the hall. Why don’t you go lay down for a bit while we talk?”
Neal nodded, quietly. He picked up his duffel and wandered to the indicated room, closing the door gently behind him. The bedroom was almost Spartan in its furnishings: there was a dresser and a bed, but nothing else.
The décor was a completely different story.
A stunning replica of Michelangelo’s ‘Creation of Adam’ from the Sistine Chapel was painted directly onto the east wall, taking up its entirety. The north wall was hung with artwork: a large Titian took up a space by the curtained window, and below it were copies of three of Ghiberti’s panels from the Gates of Paradise. Neal stopped in the middle of the room, turning a full circle as he gazed around in awe.
When his brain was finally done processing all of the exquisite pieces, Neal managed to drag himself through the half-open door that led to a small bathroom. He poked through his bag, pushing aside three different passports and an unloaded revolver, which he shuddered to even touch. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, pulled them on, brushed the bitter taste of bile out of his mouth and went to collapse in the bed.
He wanted to sleep. He wanted to forget, to pretend that the night had never happened, but it was a futile hope at best. Instead he curled up on his side, staring blankly at the Michelangelo on the wall.
Neal didn’t know how much time passed before Eames entered the room. The thief was quiet, as usual, barely making a sound as he toed off his shoes. He slid onto the bed and Neal turned to him immediately, pressing his face into the curve of Eames’ neck and shoulder; fist clenching tight in his shirt.
Eames’ fingers stroked through his hair and Neal’s shoulders trembled, his breath coming harsh and fast, but he refused to cry.
He didn’t regret what he had done.
Neal wasn’t aware he’d drifted off until he was waking up again, quiet voices speaking over his head.
“…Cobb suspect anything?”
“Of course. But he let it go.”
Some of the tightness in Neal’s chest loosened at the sound of Arthur’s voice. Still half-asleep, he rolled over with an incoherent mumble, out from under Eames’ arm to tuck himself against Arthur’s chest. The worry he’d felt at leaving Arthur-who was admittedly very capable-finally eased at the feel of him there, whole and breathing and alive. There was the scratchy material of a sling pressed against his cheek but Neal didn’t care, burrowing closer as Arthur chuckled.
“Surprising,” Eames said, his voice dry.
“You give him too little credit.”
“He wants to put me in prison. I don’t like prison.”
“Most reasonable people want to put you in prison.”
“Are you calling yourself unreasonable?”
“I’ve always been unreasonable when it comes to you.”
Neal rolled his eyes. As much as he loved the two men, he didn’t feel any desire to listen to them make sappy comments at each other. He raised his head, a little blearily, squinting at Arthur’s fond expression.
“ ’s there food?”
Arthur laughed, the sound warm and pleasant. He was lying on his side, his right arm tucked into a sling, and wearing a simple button-up dress shirt.
“Yes, Neal, there is food. And then there will be answers.”
Neal nodded, slowly, glad Arthur was addressing the unvoiced knot in his stomach.
“Okay.”
They wandered out to the kitchen, with Eames very pointedly Not Fussing over Arthur’s injury. Neal was a little surprised to see the beginnings of dawn peeking through the window curtains: he hadn’t thought he’d slept that long. He was not surprised, however, to see his favorite cereal waiting on the table.
Eames and Arthur always took care of him. Neal knew that. And that was what made him able to eat his breakfast without giving over to the flood of questions begging to be answered.
They were sitting in relative peace when the bedroom down the hall opened, and Mozzie appeared, carrying a small duffel bag. He caught sight of them and wandered over. His eyes narrowed as he saw Arthur.
“Suit,” he greeted disdainfully.
Arthur chuckled.
“Nice to see you, too, Moz.”
Mozzie sniffed, dismissing the CIA agent from his attention as he turned to Eames.
“As it is no longer Thursday, I will be taking my leave. And you will no doubt find that I have not stolen or replaced any precious items here.”
“I never said you did, Moz,” Eames replied in amusement. The man shrugged.
“I like to cover my bases. It was a pleasure to meet the doted-upon ward of my landlord,” Mozzie tipped an invisible hat in Neal’s direction, “And given your parental figures, I’m sure I will see you again-on one side of the law or another.”
Arthur snorted into his cup of coffee. Mozzie waggled his fingers and disappeared from the kitchen, the sound of the front door closing signaling his departure. Neal looked at Eames with a bemused expression.
“Where did you meet him?”
“Chicago,” Eames said. “I had to quietly get rid of a Warhol I’d nicked from the Art Institute; Mozzie was my fence. When he moved out here to civilization, we got in touch again.”
Neal nodded. They finished eating in a comfortable, peaceful quiet, though the questions and anxiety started to bubble up in Neal’s chest again. He was picking at the remnants of his toast when Arthur finally pushed his plate away, folding his hands on the table.
“So. What are your questions?”
Neal looked at him, then back down at the table. He could recall the previous night in perfect, absolute clarity, down to the details of the blood on the wall and the mangled shape of Liam’s head. All of the other things he wanted to know-the stealing of secrets, the jumping into peoples’ minds-were secondary to the fact that last night, he had killed someone.
He raised his eyes.
“Who was he?”
Arthur glanced at Eames, clearly ceding the question. The Brit leaned back in his chair.
“He was part of my team, once. Liam, Olivia, Jacob and I. We worked together back home, and then we were sent over here as part of a joint CIA-SAS operation.” Eames chuckled, a little darkly. “I never did like the bugger. Too cocky, too arrogant; only ever cared for himself. I think I always knew he would flip on us, deep down.”
Neal studied his hands, laced together on the table in front of him.
“Why did he want to take you away?”
“Because of the work we did,” Eames said, his voice gentle. He seemed to know Neal was still rattled over almost losing him. “Because a former mark-Anton Prazak-discovered how we ruined his company.”
“How did you do it?”
Eames exchanged a quick look with Arthur.
“By using dreamsharing technology.”
Neal blinked. He looked between the two, brow furrowed.
“What?”
“It was first developed for use by the military,” Arthur explained. “The technology-the PASIV device, and the Somnacin drug it uses-allows people to share a dream. And, if they’re taught lucid dreaming, they can change things within that dream.”
Neal frowned. “Why? I mean, what’s the purpose? It’s just a dream, right?”
Eames shook his head.
“Dreams are the doorway to the subconscious. When we’re awake, we guard our secrets. But when you’re asleep, that barrier is gone.”
“Dreamsharing was originally used for training purposes,” Arthur said. “That’s where I was first introduced to it. Because your brain works faster when you’re asleep, you have more time in dreams compared to reality. The CIA wanted to use it to cut down on training time for soldiers, as well as give us an outlet for other things. See, if you die in a dream, you just wake up. There are no repercussions.”
Neal stared at him.
“That sounds awful.”
Arthur chuckled. “It can be. But once the technology was established, the CIA saw other uses for it: namely, the ability to find out information from someone who would otherwise refuse to cooperate.”
Neal’s mind raced as he took in all of the new information. The application for the idea was astounding-it was frightening. The possibilities for use and misuse-someone going inside his head, going through his secrets, looking into his thoughts-made a chill run down his spine. Neal stole things, but he couldn’t imagine stealing from someone’s mind.
He looked up.
“Show me.”
The coffee shop was like any of the hundreds that permeated New York.
An eclectic collection of furniture was scattered around the dimly-lit room, comfy cushioned chairs ringing low tables. Indie rock played over the speakers, matching the customers perfectly: mostly college students wearing European scarves and t-shirts printed with obscure quotes. The occasional businessman wandered in to wrangle a cup of black coffee and a newspaper, winding between the tables of laptops and hipsters.
Neal barely touched the chai sitting in front of him, marveling out the window at the pedestrians wandering down the sidewalk.
“I still can’t believe none of this is real.”
Eames chuckled, taking a sip of his tea. Neal had to admit that, for a dream, the sensations were incredibly real. His chai tasted amazing, the room felt cool, the table beneath his fingers was solid and worn.
“And these projections-they’re yours?”
Eames nodded. “I’m the subject of the dream; Arthur is the dreamer. He builds the world and my mind populates it.”
“And I..?”
“You are just sitting there, for now,” Arthur smiled. “We didn’t want to give you any control over the dream, not yet.”
“Is it dangerous?” Neal asked, finally tearing his gaze away from the passersby. They looked so real.
Eames and Arthur exchanged a glance. There was hesitance there, and uncertainty, but they’d never lied to Neal before. They didn’t now.
“Pain in the dream world still feels like pain,” Arthur explained. “And when you die, you still feel it. The projections are calm at the moment because we’re not doing anything. But if you change something in the dream-a window to a door, a dead end to a street-they’ll start to take notice.”
“And projections can get rather nasty,” Eames added, shooting Arthur a wry look that spoke of experience. “Especially with minds that have had training.”
“Training?”
“You can train your subconscious to defend against intruders. Arthur and I have both had it; most people involved in extraction have. Someday, eventually-when you’re ready-we’ll train you.”
Neal considered it. The idea of someone able to go into his mind and ferret out his secrets was not a comforting thought. He nodded.
“I would appreciate that.”
He climbed to his feet, unable to restrain himself any longer. Eames and Arthur followed him indulgently as he pushed open the door of the café, heading down the street outside. The city wasn’t New York, but it had similar buildings and layout. The people all had a tendency toward more European wear, which he assumed was Eames’ influence.
“So you said you’re a forger, right?” Neal asked, turning slightly to address Eames as they walked. “Arthur collects information on the target, and you imitate people within the dream?”
“Oh, I do more than imitate, darling.”
Neal stopped dead in his tracks, spinning around at the sultry feminine voice. His jaw dropped as he stared at the spitting image of a demure Marilyn Monroe, wearing the infamous white dress and everything. Arthur was regarding the woman with something torn between amusement and critical appreciation, as though he were looking for potential flaws. She pouted at him.
“I’ll have you know I’ve spent a lot of time on this image,” she sniffed.
“Holy crap,” Neal said faintly.
Marilyn-Eames grinned.
“Does he have any repressed gender issues I should know about?” Neal asked Arthur warily.
Marilyn-Eames made a face at him. The next instant, her form shimmered, like a heat mirage. She gained height and broader shoulders and switched genders, and then Neal was staring at himself.
“ ‘Does he have any repressed gender issues I should know about?’ ” Eames mimicked snidely. His voice was annoyingly accurate.
“My teeth don’t look like that,” Neal groused. He caught sight of Eames’ reflection in the window behind him and pointed: it displayed the forger’s true form. “And you’re showing.”
Eames glanced back. “Yeah, that happens. I usually control the reflections as well, but I didn’t bother for this dream. There’s no one trying to kill me, here.”
He flickered again, reverting back to himself. Neal glanced around. The projections were walking around them as though they weren’t there, for all intents and purposes ignoring their existence.
“I thought you said projections get riled up when you change things.”
Eames chuckled. “Changing yourself is different from changing the environment. Besides, these are my projections-they’re used to me mucking about in here.”
Neal opened his mouth to ask another question, but was interrupted by the sudden sound of drums, followed by some warbling electric piano. He blinked.
Arthur turned to Eames with a horrified expression as the world began to fade away around them.
“What did you do to Edith Piaf?”
‘My daddy was a bank robber, but he never hurt nobody…’
“I thought it would liven things up!” Eames protested half-heartedly, a grin on his lips. Arthur glowered.
“Do not screw with my Piaf, Eames. I will hurt you.”
‘He just loved to live that way-and he loved to steal your money.’
Neal awoke laughing.
The new apartment elicited a jumble of conflicting emotions in Neal.
On the one hand, it wasn’t home. There was no Roger, no yappy chihuahua on the fifth floor, no pizza delivery guy who knew Neal by name. There was no blue stain on the sitting room carpet from an accidental paint spill; no nick in the wall of the foyer where they had dropped the futon when replacing it with Neal’s bed. None of the memories-from late-night dinners talking about CIA profiling to plotting a route to the Matisse at the Met that Neal really wanted to steal-had moved with the furniture. They were still at the building on 59th: the place Neal had spent almost two years calling home.
On the other hand, the new apartment was almost directly across from the Met.
It was an old pre-war hotel, converted by the floor and half-floor into residences. The entire complex was ridiculously opulent, sporting a private fitness center and wine cellar storage and even an indoor swimming pool. They’d taken a half-floor apartment that had three bedrooms, so Arthur got to have a study again, and the balcony opened up to a marvelous view of Central Park.
The new apartment also contained no memories of blood-spattered de La Tour paintings, which Neal was pathetically grateful for.
They had stayed in Queens for a few days after that night. Arthur was in and out, attending to the necessary CIA paperwork and inquiry, while Eames stayed with Neal. The forger pulled out a chunk of clay and a stack of pictures of the Winged Victory, and set Neal to work making a miniature replica. The task was painstaking, but it was also comfortingly mindless-and it kept his hands busy.
It gave him the time to digest.
“How are you doing?” Arthur asked, leaning against the doorframe of the new study-storage-art room. Neal was sitting at one of the work benches, a scraper in one hand and a ribbon tool in the other as he worked on the fine detailing of Nike’s wing. He set down the instruments, blowing a stray bit of hair out of his face as he turned around.
“The cloth is giving me some trouble,” he admitted, wiping his hands on a damp towel nearby. “I’m going to need a finer sculpting tool.”
“I meant you, personally,” Arthur said with a smile.
Neal ducked his head. He stared at his fingers, picking at the remaining bits of clay.
“I’m trying not to think about it,” he said honestly, his voice soft. “Sometimes I wish I could forget the last few days.” He raised his eyes. “I mean, I’m glad I know what you do at work, now. And the PASIV technology really is amazing. Someday I’d like for you to teach me how to keep other people out of my head, but the whole business, the world of dreamsharing… I don’t think I could ever deal in that. Not with the lengths people go to because of it-not with the things that you can do with it.”
“We never said you should, Neal,” Arthur replied gently. “There’s no reason you should follow in our footsteps. Dreamsharing can be even more dangerous than reality-that’s why we hadn’t told you about it yet. We didn’t want you getting involved in our world.”
Neal nodded, no small amount of relief blossoming in his chest. Two years ago, he’d had no aspirations above getting by from day to day. But that was before Arthur and Eames; before he’d gained two people he never, ever wanted to let down. Something unknotted inside of him at the sight of Arthur’s fond smile.
“Come on, Eames just got back with dinner. And we have something for you.”
Neal followed him out to the kitchen curiously. Eames was pulling out plates and silverware, take-out Indian boxes scattered on the table. The forger looked up, and there was something like nervousness in his eyes when he caught sight of them. Neal looked between Eames and Arthur with a frown, seeing that same tension in Arthur’s shoulders. He stopped short in the doorway, folding his arms across his chest.
“Oh, I know those looks. I’m not sitting down until you tell me what’s going on.”
Eames let out an amused snort, setting the plates down on the table.
“Nothing gets by you, does it?”
Neal narrowed his eyes, not budging. Eames exchanged a glance with Arthur. He shrugged.
“Right, before food it is.”
Eames disappeared back into the master bedroom for a few minutes, returning with a sheaf of papers in his hands. He held them close to his chest, careful and almost protective, that uneasy look still in his eyes as he crossed the room to stand next to Arthur.
“Now, before you say anything, these don’t have to go through,” he said. “Not if you don’t want them to.”
“We were going to wait until your birthday,” Arthur added, “But because of the past few days, we just…wanted to reaffirm this.”
“You’re starting to worry me,” Neal murmured as he took the papers from Eames’ outstretched hand. He glanced down at them. And blinked.
They were adoption papers.
“These are adoption papers,” he said blankly. Out of instinct he looked over the quality of the paper, the ink and the signatures. On the front page, at the bottom, was a pair of familiar names that Neal rarely ever saw used.
“These are very good,” he choked, mouth dry. Eames quirked a smile at him.
“They’re not forged. They’re real. Official.”
“We wouldn’t do anything less for you,” Arthur added quietly.
Neal finally looked up, his hands trembling. When he met their gazes he finally comprehended the tension from before: they had been waiting on him; waiting to see his reaction. Waiting to see if he would say yes.
He’d lived with the men for almost two years, learned countless things from them and been astounded by their collective brilliance, but Neal could swear they were still hopelessly dense sometimes.
He crossed the room in a few quick strides, throwing his arms around the both of them.
“You,” he rasped, “Are the only family that’s ever mattered to me.”
Neal pressed his face into Eames’ shoulder; tightened his grip on Arthur’s side. Something deep inside him shattered, cracking and crumbling and falling away like dust. He leaned into the arms that held him, wetness in his eyes and a feeling of lightness in his chest that he hadn’t known in years.
He was the son of a CIA agent and a thief; he was a grifter and a forger and a con artist. He was a trickster and a sometimes-liar, and he was someone who knew the power of dreams.
He was home.
Art referenced:
Andrea del Verrocchio: David
Leonardo da Vinci: The Last Supper
Georges de La Tour: Magdalen with the Smoking Flame
Michelangelo: Creation of Adam (Sistine Chapel)
Titian: The Allegory of Age Governed by Prudence
Lorenzo Ghiberti: Gates of Paradise
Andy Warhol: Mao
Henri Matisse: Seated Odalisque
Winged Victory of Samothrace
Music referenced:
Pyotr Tchaikovsky: 1812 Overture
The Clash: Bank Robber