White Collar - A Study of Reality
Title: A Study of Reality
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Neal, Peter, Mozzie, Diana, Jones, Elizabeth
Warnings: Dark
Summary: Neal has a feeling he's being watched, and it only escalates from there. Beta'd by the awesome and helpful tj_teejay. Written for swanpride and nayahchan at collarcorner. Prompts found here and here.
A Study of Reality
There was a perfection to Caffrey's personality that should have made him a cliché. If anyone else tried to wear those clothes, smile that charmingly, come off as that friendly, it would have made them a caricature that society would have laughed at. But for Caffrey, it worked. For Caffrey, it was a tool, a weapon, a way of life that got him what he wanted. He was so damn perfect in looks and action it was easy to wonder if there was anything real about him, or if he wore masks like he wore his skin.
Not for the first time since Agent Burke took Caffrey under his wing like some dog rescued from a shelter, he wondered what, if anything, about Neal was real. Three years and nothing about Caffrey seemed to change.
Maybe he wasn't real. Maybe it was all just one big, stupid game. He kept wondering, and then wondered how one went about finding out.
---------------------------
It was too nice a day to stay inside and stare at fake passports and IDs. Sunny, clear, mid seventies - you didn't often get weather this perfect, and when you did, you didn't waste it. A two-mile radius didn't offer anything new or exciting but was kind enough to offer places where Neal could sit and bask. It felt like basking was a commodity. Sure, he could sit, but sitting wasn't the same as basking. It was hard to enjoy a leisurely sit at the park when a part of you was forever looking over your shoulder.
Neal had come to enjoy no longer having to remain on alert. It was nice, just relaxing on the wooden bench, staring up through the park's trees at the lazy clouds wandering by. Thoughts of running hovered on the horizon of his future, tried to butt in, but he wouldn't let them - not on a day like today. Today, it was all about the here and the now and enjoying it, as though tomorrow were a million miles away.
Tired of the clouds, Neal shifted his attention to the people passing by; families, couples, a woman on a bike, a man in a brown suit, but their features were obscured by the sunlight and shadows dappling their faces. It was only when the man in the suit, just standing there under the shade of an oak, took a sip from a familiar brown cup that Neal realized what was missing - a good cappuccino. Neal left the park and headed to his favorite coffee place.
A day off beyond the weekend was a commodity as well. Neal would never in a million years revel over Peter getting time off to nurse a sprained ankle, but deep inside a secret guilty part of him was glad for it. Between this whole deal with the manifest, Mozzie a broken record hounding Neal to pick something to fence, and their last case that turned into two weeks of fast talking and still having to run for his life, Neal had needed the break. He'd taken a nap the other day. The only time he'd ever taken a an honest to goodness, deep-enough-to-dream nap was on the flight back from Copenhagen and after he'd been drugged at the Howser Clinic.
A cup of his favorite cappuccino in hand, Neal meandered his way back to the park where he'd seen a small troupe of actors prepping for a little Shakespeare. The troupe performed in the same place, usually at the same times, often enough for people to anticipate it, and while the actors pieced together their stage of two-by-fours and store-bought curtains, patrons laid out blankets and set out baskets of food. It would be a fun way to pass the time until his appointment at the Burkes' for dinner, followed by an evening swim at the gym. Neal settled himself on a bench giving him an unobstructed view of not only the small stage but his fellow on-lookers; families, couples, kids and a man in a suit standing under the shade of a tree, holding a familiar brown cup.
-------------------------
Caffrey was unreal. A genius, a connoisseur of the arts, friend to the head of the white collar unit, athletic but lean. He should have hated Caffrey on principle for being everything most people wanted to be, and then some. But hate didn't seem feasible as he watched Caffrey cut through the water of the gym's Olympic-sized pool, strokes as smooth as the silk ties Caffrey adored so much. He was fascinated. Not sexually, not even intimately. It was purely aesthetic, what he was feeling. He'd read up on the crimes Neal was suspected of, familiarized himself with what Neal was capable of, of the impossible things he made possible, and he had found it beautiful.
Caffrey reached the edge of the pool on and hauled himself out, taking a break, flanks and chest heaving like a self-satisfied race horse, tired but happy, athletic but lean.
He frowned. All that perfection made him itch. Caffrey was like a character borne out of a movie or a book, stepping from fiction fully formed. He was tempted, so damn tempted, to step forward out of the shadows and clip Neal's shoulder with the back of his hand, just to see if he was real.
But Neal slid back into the water and swam lazily away.
---------------------
“It's futile, Neal. It's always been futile. And, yet, still you try.”
“It's watercolor, Moz,” Neal said, examining the art shop's collection of midnight blues and royal blues with mild dissatisfaction. They were not only too dark, they were like a single color hiding behind an alias.
“You'd have more luck breaking into Fort Knox.”
Neal mostly ignored the statement, all eyes for the rainbow array of tiny tubes washing over his mind in a wave of colors and possibilities. He smiled, pleased at finally finding cobalt blue and being able to add it to the five other tubes of other colors piled in the corner of the shopping basket.
“Good thing this is just a hobby and not breaking and entering,” Neal said. He smiled again on finding a pine green. “Besides, what about my watercolors has been futile? Kate always liked them. Sara likes them. Elizabeth likes them. June likes them...”
“Only because they'd rather not hurt your feelings,” Mozzie said, arms crossed with finality. Neal chuckled to himself while he added one color after another to the small pile. Mozzie didn't approve of any of Neal's purchases unless it happened to be wine or anything they could use in a job. Had it been oils in Neal's basket, Mozzie would have been giddy as a kid in a candy store. But watercolors were and always had been Neal's guilty artistic pleasure. Although guilty was probably the wrong choice of words. He had never forged a watercolor, at least not for any switch, so the better way to put it would be “innocent” pleasure.
Neal liked watercolors, the softness, the wistfulness - like looking into a dream, happy or sad. There was just something so peaceful about it, and most of the time he didn't care if his works were superb or mediocre at best, it was a relaxing challenge.
But he was an artist, fresh soil for the seeds of doubt, and for a gut clenching moment, he was tempted to switch water colors for oils just to hear some encouragement and make the seeds go away.
Doubt turned into annoyance, one moment changing to the next in which his skin heated in irritation at Mozzie's insistence, making Neal regret he hadn't left sooner and avoided Mozzie's sporadic arrival. But Neal kept his smile fixed in place like he always did, pretending to ignore Mozzie's words, and added three more colors to the pile.
A chill slithered down Neal's spine, snapping his body straight and his head up like a hound catching a scent. His gaze darted all over his surroundings. Moz took quick notice and mirrored him.
“What? What is it? What?”
The little art shop was nearly empty, only them, the cashier, a woman in purple with more purple streaked in her hair, and the people flowing by the windows.
“Nothing,” Neal said.
----------------------
Even Caffrey's posture was perfect; spine erect but not stiff, head held high and shoulders back but not a strutting peacock. His was the stance of absolute self-assurance, his smile the smile of a man with the world in the palm of his hand, as though misery and sorrow things that didn't compute.
But he imagined that if Neal was sorrowful, it would be perfect, too. He'd read what happened to the girlfriend, Kate, had heard the tales of a star-crossed lover losing the thing he loved. But he couldn't begin to imagine what that must have looked like, if a broken and hurting Neal was even possible, because all he saw was that posture and that smile.
Did Neal cry for Kate? Did he sob, his face slicked with tears and snot, putting a dent in the perfection?
Did Neal Caffrey cry?
He wanted to touch him, pick up the pace and clip him hard in the arm to see him flinch. But the short guy was in the way. Then his phone started to buzz. It was time to get back. Caffrey was going to have to wait.
----------------------
Peter wondered what it said about him that he'd actually missed gleaning through mortgage fraud case files. He blamed it on sitting around at home doing nothing but watching whatever game happened to be on TV. He liked to relax as much as the next guy but relaxing was always so much more rewarding after a day of having accomplished something, and with a twisted ankle he hadn't been able to so much as fix the sink, and it had brought on an early bout of cabin fever.
Now his ankle was healed, he was back at work, had gone through thirty case files and it was almost lunch, time for a well earned break. Setting case file number thirty-one aside, he caught himself before hopping carelessly to his feet (the ankle might have been better, but he'd still been instructed to go easy on it) and eased himself up instead. Peter headed from his office into the bullpen toward Neal, thoroughly engrossed in whatever number case file he happened to be on.
Peter's hand fell on Neal's shoulder. He didn't even have his mouth open to announce it was lunch time when Neal did a full-body jolt so hard it sent him rolling back a whole three feet. Peter quickly snatched his hand away like it had been burned, staring at Neal trying feebly to recover from the reaction.
“Feeling a little skittish, there, Neal?” Peter said carefully, watching him just as carefully. In all the years Peter had worked with Neal - hell, in all the years he'd been chasing Neal - he'd never even thought it possible for the great and unflappable Neal Caffrey to ever be jumpy. And that put Peter on high alert.
“Sorry,” Neal said, rubbing one hand across his eyes. “Sorry. I don't know why I did that.”
“Well I'm sure there's a reason, one I sincerely hope you plan to share with me. People don't jump like that for no reason, Neal.”
“Yeah, I know,” Neal said, almost snappish Peter could have sworn. But when he looked back up at Peter, his expression was almost imploring. “I swear, Peter, nothing's going on.” He furrowed his brow thoughtfully. “At least I don't think anything's going on. I don't know why I'm jumpy I just... am.” And by the way he ended that sentence on a long exhale, he too realized how lame it sounded.
Peter sighed. As much as he knew better, and as much as his brain still on high alert scolded him not to, Peter decided to cut the kid a little slack. “Maybe you're just hungry. Come on, time for lunch. I'll even let you pick the place as long it's within my budget.”
That seemed to perk Neal up considerably, making it twice as tempting to assume that he wasn't actually up to something. But three days off and the kid still looking tired and wired at the same time wouldn't let Peter. A subdued Neal was a Neal you couldn't let your guard down around. Technically you could never let your guard down where Neal was concerned, but some days it was possible to relax that guard more than others.
Except lately. Which was why as soon as they were in the car, Peter brought it back up. Or was about to when Neal opened his mouth first.
“Are you having me tailed?”
Peter chuffed until he realized Neal was being serious. “What? No! Why would I even need to put a tail on you when your tracker's working just fine?”
Neal shrugged. “I don't know. To learn the more intimate details of my life?”
“Yeah, I think I pretty much know the intimate details. Well, the ones I need to know about. The ones I want to know about.” Except for the one he would like to know about, concerning a certain treasure, but when it came to the deeper, darker secrets of Neal Caffrey, patience was a virtue and silence golden. Coming to know the truth was a waiting game Peter had played enough to know how to bide his time.
Mostly, though, he just didn't want to get into it, to wonder, again if he'd jumped to conclusions or if Neal had finally broken the promise of never having lied to Peter.
“Why would you think I'm having you tailed?” He narrowed his eyes that flickered between Neal and the road. “What's going on? Is someone following you.”
But Neal only shrugged. “I don't know. Feels that way.”
“Feels that way?”
“Yes, feels.” Neal huffed. “And it's a feeling I've been having all week.”
“Sure Mozzie's paranoia isn't starting to rub off on you?” Peter asked.
Neal smiled. “I think it's rubbed off on me as much as it's going to.”
“Let me, guess - not enough to his liking?”
The smile turned into a smirk, then was just as quickly dropped. “Let's just say being watched is a feeling I've gotten to know - intimately.”
“No surprises there.”
Neal didn't argue this. “Therefore, it's a feeling I know well. And from what I've been feeling, that's the only way I can describe it. You've got your gut instinct, Peter, and I've got mine. And mine's telling me I need to pay better attention to my surroundings.”
“And have you?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And I'll have to get back to you on that. It's New York, Peter. If you want to spot a specific face in the crowd, you have to know what you're looking for, and I have no idea what I'm looking for. If there's even anything to look for.”
Peter remained silent as he digested this. His knee-jerk reaction was to dismiss it as Mozzie's distrust being contagious, or Neal not getting enough sleep, or the stress of harboring one too many secrets. But for him to argue against gut instinct would only make him a hypocrite. There was always a certain amount of instinct borne out of whatever one's profession, and the more of a gamble the profession, the sharper the instinct. If law enforcement and living a life of crime had one thing in common, it was the danger factor, and Neal hadn't gotten as far as he had, doing what he did on luck and charm alone. To argue against Neal's instincts would be bordering on stupid.
“I suppose I could have someone tail you to see if you're being tailed. Maybe post someone outside of June's. Other than that...”
“Yeah, I know,” Neal sighed. “Not much you can do about it.”
“Sorry.”
Neal waved it off. “Maybe Mozzie is rubbing off on me.” He grinned, though it seemed more self-deprecating than humorous. “But at least if I vanish, you'll know why.”
Peter snorted derisively.
---------------------
They were eating, talking and laughing like old friends rather than cop and robber, and it was both wrong and mesmerizing. Neal was like a wizard or a witch, the villain of fairy tales casting blinding spells, and he was the only one gifted to see through the glamor.
He left Caffrey and Burke to their illusion of camaraderie, because lunch was nearly over, and he had things to do.
It was wrong, so very wrong and would get him into so much trouble, and yet he didn't care. It would mean the end of his career, his freedom, because sooner or later, he knew he would be caught.
Unless he wasn't. Unless he could be perfect like Caffrey and cast his own spells. To know Caffrey, maybe you could become Caffrey and be perfect so that even if caught, it wouldn't matter, because the world would still be yours for the holding.
He wouldn't know until he tried.
-----------------
There was only so much you could do to shake a possible tail when you only had a two-mile radius to work with. Neal altered his route home, taking the long way, sometimes using a cab, then switching it for the subway. The trick wasn't just losing the tail but putting yourself in a position where the tail had less of a chance to try anything. Sometimes the creeping feeling that came with being watched wasn't there, other times it was and other times it felt like whoever was doing the watching was right at Neal's back.
Mozzie tried to help, calling in a few favors and enlisting a few friends to do what Peter had tried to offer - to follow Neal to see who was following him. A much better course of action, Mozzie had said, because suits were a lot easier to spot than the guys who made a business out of moving through the populace unseen. But whoever was watching had either caught on, knew what they were doing or didn't make stalking a 24/7 habit; Mozzie's tails didn't have a whole lot to report that was all that helpful.
“Sure this isn't about the treasure?” Mozzie said over his third glass of red wine.
Neal, at his easel, touching up his recent watercolor, rolled his eyes. “Not everything is about the treasure, Moz.” It was both a scene and a portrait of the New York crowds, as though capturing them on canvas could shake up the recesses of his brain and produce a face he had seen once too often but had yet to realize.
“Au contraire, Neal,” Mozzie said, his voice edging toward hard. “Very much au contraire. If someone knows and thinks you're the key to finding it, they might grow impatient - so impatient they decide brute force a more productive option.”
Neal hated to admit it, but Mozzie had a point.
“It's either that, or the Suit lied,” Mozzie said. “And does have a tail on you.”
“He wouldn't lie, Moz.”
“He would if he was fed up - no pun intended.”
“I would know it,” Neal said. Peter being an undercover agent had a silver tongue of his own, but where Neal preferred to deflect and dance around the truth, Peter preferred telling it straight or saying nothing at all. Peter also liked being honest with Neal, mostly to teach Neal the benefits of telling the truth, and possibly with a smidgen of not wanting to look like a hypocrite on the side.
“Then I pin this on some over-eager rookie wanting to please the almighty Peter Burke,” Mozzie said. He tossed back the last of the wine in his glass, which meant he was buzzed but not yet drunk. “I'm going to head home, see if I can't hack into some video feed of your various haunts.” He pointed a stern finger at Neal. “Don't go anywhere.”
“Hadn't planned on it,” Neal said bitterly. He was itching to go swimming, having missed doing so the past two nights, but thankfully not to the point of dismissing common sense just to satisfy routine.
Once Mozzie was gone, Neal set about cleaning up. It was a new habit, bleeding off the energy normally shed after a few laps around the gym pool. He wiped the counters, swept the floor, then bundled the full trash out the door to the bin situated just outside the gate since tomorrow was trash day.
Neal tossed the trash into the bin. Then, so sudden that it was a second before Neal really felt it, something stung his neck. His hand reached up and felt a thin, alien object stuck in his skin. It was then that he felt a sensation, like ice spreading through his veins. He started to fall, and before blacking out completely, felt arms catching him before he hit the pavement.
Part Two
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Neal, Peter, Mozzie, Diana, Jones, Elizabeth
Warnings: Dark
Summary: Neal has a feeling he's being watched, and it only escalates from there. Beta'd by the awesome and helpful tj_teejay. Written for swanpride and nayahchan at collarcorner. Prompts found here and here.
A Study of Reality
There was a perfection to Caffrey's personality that should have made him a cliché. If anyone else tried to wear those clothes, smile that charmingly, come off as that friendly, it would have made them a caricature that society would have laughed at. But for Caffrey, it worked. For Caffrey, it was a tool, a weapon, a way of life that got him what he wanted. He was so damn perfect in looks and action it was easy to wonder if there was anything real about him, or if he wore masks like he wore his skin.
Not for the first time since Agent Burke took Caffrey under his wing like some dog rescued from a shelter, he wondered what, if anything, about Neal was real. Three years and nothing about Caffrey seemed to change.
Maybe he wasn't real. Maybe it was all just one big, stupid game. He kept wondering, and then wondered how one went about finding out.
---------------------------
It was too nice a day to stay inside and stare at fake passports and IDs. Sunny, clear, mid seventies - you didn't often get weather this perfect, and when you did, you didn't waste it. A two-mile radius didn't offer anything new or exciting but was kind enough to offer places where Neal could sit and bask. It felt like basking was a commodity. Sure, he could sit, but sitting wasn't the same as basking. It was hard to enjoy a leisurely sit at the park when a part of you was forever looking over your shoulder.
Neal had come to enjoy no longer having to remain on alert. It was nice, just relaxing on the wooden bench, staring up through the park's trees at the lazy clouds wandering by. Thoughts of running hovered on the horizon of his future, tried to butt in, but he wouldn't let them - not on a day like today. Today, it was all about the here and the now and enjoying it, as though tomorrow were a million miles away.
Tired of the clouds, Neal shifted his attention to the people passing by; families, couples, a woman on a bike, a man in a brown suit, but their features were obscured by the sunlight and shadows dappling their faces. It was only when the man in the suit, just standing there under the shade of an oak, took a sip from a familiar brown cup that Neal realized what was missing - a good cappuccino. Neal left the park and headed to his favorite coffee place.
A day off beyond the weekend was a commodity as well. Neal would never in a million years revel over Peter getting time off to nurse a sprained ankle, but deep inside a secret guilty part of him was glad for it. Between this whole deal with the manifest, Mozzie a broken record hounding Neal to pick something to fence, and their last case that turned into two weeks of fast talking and still having to run for his life, Neal had needed the break. He'd taken a nap the other day. The only time he'd ever taken a an honest to goodness, deep-enough-to-dream nap was on the flight back from Copenhagen and after he'd been drugged at the Howser Clinic.
A cup of his favorite cappuccino in hand, Neal meandered his way back to the park where he'd seen a small troupe of actors prepping for a little Shakespeare. The troupe performed in the same place, usually at the same times, often enough for people to anticipate it, and while the actors pieced together their stage of two-by-fours and store-bought curtains, patrons laid out blankets and set out baskets of food. It would be a fun way to pass the time until his appointment at the Burkes' for dinner, followed by an evening swim at the gym. Neal settled himself on a bench giving him an unobstructed view of not only the small stage but his fellow on-lookers; families, couples, kids and a man in a suit standing under the shade of a tree, holding a familiar brown cup.
-------------------------
Caffrey was unreal. A genius, a connoisseur of the arts, friend to the head of the white collar unit, athletic but lean. He should have hated Caffrey on principle for being everything most people wanted to be, and then some. But hate didn't seem feasible as he watched Caffrey cut through the water of the gym's Olympic-sized pool, strokes as smooth as the silk ties Caffrey adored so much. He was fascinated. Not sexually, not even intimately. It was purely aesthetic, what he was feeling. He'd read up on the crimes Neal was suspected of, familiarized himself with what Neal was capable of, of the impossible things he made possible, and he had found it beautiful.
Caffrey reached the edge of the pool on and hauled himself out, taking a break, flanks and chest heaving like a self-satisfied race horse, tired but happy, athletic but lean.
He frowned. All that perfection made him itch. Caffrey was like a character borne out of a movie or a book, stepping from fiction fully formed. He was tempted, so damn tempted, to step forward out of the shadows and clip Neal's shoulder with the back of his hand, just to see if he was real.
But Neal slid back into the water and swam lazily away.
---------------------
“It's futile, Neal. It's always been futile. And, yet, still you try.”
“It's watercolor, Moz,” Neal said, examining the art shop's collection of midnight blues and royal blues with mild dissatisfaction. They were not only too dark, they were like a single color hiding behind an alias.
“You'd have more luck breaking into Fort Knox.”
Neal mostly ignored the statement, all eyes for the rainbow array of tiny tubes washing over his mind in a wave of colors and possibilities. He smiled, pleased at finally finding cobalt blue and being able to add it to the five other tubes of other colors piled in the corner of the shopping basket.
“Good thing this is just a hobby and not breaking and entering,” Neal said. He smiled again on finding a pine green. “Besides, what about my watercolors has been futile? Kate always liked them. Sara likes them. Elizabeth likes them. June likes them...”
“Only because they'd rather not hurt your feelings,” Mozzie said, arms crossed with finality. Neal chuckled to himself while he added one color after another to the small pile. Mozzie didn't approve of any of Neal's purchases unless it happened to be wine or anything they could use in a job. Had it been oils in Neal's basket, Mozzie would have been giddy as a kid in a candy store. But watercolors were and always had been Neal's guilty artistic pleasure. Although guilty was probably the wrong choice of words. He had never forged a watercolor, at least not for any switch, so the better way to put it would be “innocent” pleasure.
Neal liked watercolors, the softness, the wistfulness - like looking into a dream, happy or sad. There was just something so peaceful about it, and most of the time he didn't care if his works were superb or mediocre at best, it was a relaxing challenge.
But he was an artist, fresh soil for the seeds of doubt, and for a gut clenching moment, he was tempted to switch water colors for oils just to hear some encouragement and make the seeds go away.
Doubt turned into annoyance, one moment changing to the next in which his skin heated in irritation at Mozzie's insistence, making Neal regret he hadn't left sooner and avoided Mozzie's sporadic arrival. But Neal kept his smile fixed in place like he always did, pretending to ignore Mozzie's words, and added three more colors to the pile.
A chill slithered down Neal's spine, snapping his body straight and his head up like a hound catching a scent. His gaze darted all over his surroundings. Moz took quick notice and mirrored him.
“What? What is it? What?”
The little art shop was nearly empty, only them, the cashier, a woman in purple with more purple streaked in her hair, and the people flowing by the windows.
“Nothing,” Neal said.
----------------------
Even Caffrey's posture was perfect; spine erect but not stiff, head held high and shoulders back but not a strutting peacock. His was the stance of absolute self-assurance, his smile the smile of a man with the world in the palm of his hand, as though misery and sorrow things that didn't compute.
But he imagined that if Neal was sorrowful, it would be perfect, too. He'd read what happened to the girlfriend, Kate, had heard the tales of a star-crossed lover losing the thing he loved. But he couldn't begin to imagine what that must have looked like, if a broken and hurting Neal was even possible, because all he saw was that posture and that smile.
Did Neal cry for Kate? Did he sob, his face slicked with tears and snot, putting a dent in the perfection?
Did Neal Caffrey cry?
He wanted to touch him, pick up the pace and clip him hard in the arm to see him flinch. But the short guy was in the way. Then his phone started to buzz. It was time to get back. Caffrey was going to have to wait.
----------------------
Peter wondered what it said about him that he'd actually missed gleaning through mortgage fraud case files. He blamed it on sitting around at home doing nothing but watching whatever game happened to be on TV. He liked to relax as much as the next guy but relaxing was always so much more rewarding after a day of having accomplished something, and with a twisted ankle he hadn't been able to so much as fix the sink, and it had brought on an early bout of cabin fever.
Now his ankle was healed, he was back at work, had gone through thirty case files and it was almost lunch, time for a well earned break. Setting case file number thirty-one aside, he caught himself before hopping carelessly to his feet (the ankle might have been better, but he'd still been instructed to go easy on it) and eased himself up instead. Peter headed from his office into the bullpen toward Neal, thoroughly engrossed in whatever number case file he happened to be on.
Peter's hand fell on Neal's shoulder. He didn't even have his mouth open to announce it was lunch time when Neal did a full-body jolt so hard it sent him rolling back a whole three feet. Peter quickly snatched his hand away like it had been burned, staring at Neal trying feebly to recover from the reaction.
“Feeling a little skittish, there, Neal?” Peter said carefully, watching him just as carefully. In all the years Peter had worked with Neal - hell, in all the years he'd been chasing Neal - he'd never even thought it possible for the great and unflappable Neal Caffrey to ever be jumpy. And that put Peter on high alert.
“Sorry,” Neal said, rubbing one hand across his eyes. “Sorry. I don't know why I did that.”
“Well I'm sure there's a reason, one I sincerely hope you plan to share with me. People don't jump like that for no reason, Neal.”
“Yeah, I know,” Neal said, almost snappish Peter could have sworn. But when he looked back up at Peter, his expression was almost imploring. “I swear, Peter, nothing's going on.” He furrowed his brow thoughtfully. “At least I don't think anything's going on. I don't know why I'm jumpy I just... am.” And by the way he ended that sentence on a long exhale, he too realized how lame it sounded.
Peter sighed. As much as he knew better, and as much as his brain still on high alert scolded him not to, Peter decided to cut the kid a little slack. “Maybe you're just hungry. Come on, time for lunch. I'll even let you pick the place as long it's within my budget.”
That seemed to perk Neal up considerably, making it twice as tempting to assume that he wasn't actually up to something. But three days off and the kid still looking tired and wired at the same time wouldn't let Peter. A subdued Neal was a Neal you couldn't let your guard down around. Technically you could never let your guard down where Neal was concerned, but some days it was possible to relax that guard more than others.
Except lately. Which was why as soon as they were in the car, Peter brought it back up. Or was about to when Neal opened his mouth first.
“Are you having me tailed?”
Peter chuffed until he realized Neal was being serious. “What? No! Why would I even need to put a tail on you when your tracker's working just fine?”
Neal shrugged. “I don't know. To learn the more intimate details of my life?”
“Yeah, I think I pretty much know the intimate details. Well, the ones I need to know about. The ones I want to know about.” Except for the one he would like to know about, concerning a certain treasure, but when it came to the deeper, darker secrets of Neal Caffrey, patience was a virtue and silence golden. Coming to know the truth was a waiting game Peter had played enough to know how to bide his time.
Mostly, though, he just didn't want to get into it, to wonder, again if he'd jumped to conclusions or if Neal had finally broken the promise of never having lied to Peter.
“Why would you think I'm having you tailed?” He narrowed his eyes that flickered between Neal and the road. “What's going on? Is someone following you.”
But Neal only shrugged. “I don't know. Feels that way.”
“Feels that way?”
“Yes, feels.” Neal huffed. “And it's a feeling I've been having all week.”
“Sure Mozzie's paranoia isn't starting to rub off on you?” Peter asked.
Neal smiled. “I think it's rubbed off on me as much as it's going to.”
“Let me, guess - not enough to his liking?”
The smile turned into a smirk, then was just as quickly dropped. “Let's just say being watched is a feeling I've gotten to know - intimately.”
“No surprises there.”
Neal didn't argue this. “Therefore, it's a feeling I know well. And from what I've been feeling, that's the only way I can describe it. You've got your gut instinct, Peter, and I've got mine. And mine's telling me I need to pay better attention to my surroundings.”
“And have you?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And I'll have to get back to you on that. It's New York, Peter. If you want to spot a specific face in the crowd, you have to know what you're looking for, and I have no idea what I'm looking for. If there's even anything to look for.”
Peter remained silent as he digested this. His knee-jerk reaction was to dismiss it as Mozzie's distrust being contagious, or Neal not getting enough sleep, or the stress of harboring one too many secrets. But for him to argue against gut instinct would only make him a hypocrite. There was always a certain amount of instinct borne out of whatever one's profession, and the more of a gamble the profession, the sharper the instinct. If law enforcement and living a life of crime had one thing in common, it was the danger factor, and Neal hadn't gotten as far as he had, doing what he did on luck and charm alone. To argue against Neal's instincts would be bordering on stupid.
“I suppose I could have someone tail you to see if you're being tailed. Maybe post someone outside of June's. Other than that...”
“Yeah, I know,” Neal sighed. “Not much you can do about it.”
“Sorry.”
Neal waved it off. “Maybe Mozzie is rubbing off on me.” He grinned, though it seemed more self-deprecating than humorous. “But at least if I vanish, you'll know why.”
Peter snorted derisively.
---------------------
They were eating, talking and laughing like old friends rather than cop and robber, and it was both wrong and mesmerizing. Neal was like a wizard or a witch, the villain of fairy tales casting blinding spells, and he was the only one gifted to see through the glamor.
He left Caffrey and Burke to their illusion of camaraderie, because lunch was nearly over, and he had things to do.
It was wrong, so very wrong and would get him into so much trouble, and yet he didn't care. It would mean the end of his career, his freedom, because sooner or later, he knew he would be caught.
Unless he wasn't. Unless he could be perfect like Caffrey and cast his own spells. To know Caffrey, maybe you could become Caffrey and be perfect so that even if caught, it wouldn't matter, because the world would still be yours for the holding.
He wouldn't know until he tried.
-----------------
There was only so much you could do to shake a possible tail when you only had a two-mile radius to work with. Neal altered his route home, taking the long way, sometimes using a cab, then switching it for the subway. The trick wasn't just losing the tail but putting yourself in a position where the tail had less of a chance to try anything. Sometimes the creeping feeling that came with being watched wasn't there, other times it was and other times it felt like whoever was doing the watching was right at Neal's back.
Mozzie tried to help, calling in a few favors and enlisting a few friends to do what Peter had tried to offer - to follow Neal to see who was following him. A much better course of action, Mozzie had said, because suits were a lot easier to spot than the guys who made a business out of moving through the populace unseen. But whoever was watching had either caught on, knew what they were doing or didn't make stalking a 24/7 habit; Mozzie's tails didn't have a whole lot to report that was all that helpful.
“Sure this isn't about the treasure?” Mozzie said over his third glass of red wine.
Neal, at his easel, touching up his recent watercolor, rolled his eyes. “Not everything is about the treasure, Moz.” It was both a scene and a portrait of the New York crowds, as though capturing them on canvas could shake up the recesses of his brain and produce a face he had seen once too often but had yet to realize.
“Au contraire, Neal,” Mozzie said, his voice edging toward hard. “Very much au contraire. If someone knows and thinks you're the key to finding it, they might grow impatient - so impatient they decide brute force a more productive option.”
Neal hated to admit it, but Mozzie had a point.
“It's either that, or the Suit lied,” Mozzie said. “And does have a tail on you.”
“He wouldn't lie, Moz.”
“He would if he was fed up - no pun intended.”
“I would know it,” Neal said. Peter being an undercover agent had a silver tongue of his own, but where Neal preferred to deflect and dance around the truth, Peter preferred telling it straight or saying nothing at all. Peter also liked being honest with Neal, mostly to teach Neal the benefits of telling the truth, and possibly with a smidgen of not wanting to look like a hypocrite on the side.
“Then I pin this on some over-eager rookie wanting to please the almighty Peter Burke,” Mozzie said. He tossed back the last of the wine in his glass, which meant he was buzzed but not yet drunk. “I'm going to head home, see if I can't hack into some video feed of your various haunts.” He pointed a stern finger at Neal. “Don't go anywhere.”
“Hadn't planned on it,” Neal said bitterly. He was itching to go swimming, having missed doing so the past two nights, but thankfully not to the point of dismissing common sense just to satisfy routine.
Once Mozzie was gone, Neal set about cleaning up. It was a new habit, bleeding off the energy normally shed after a few laps around the gym pool. He wiped the counters, swept the floor, then bundled the full trash out the door to the bin situated just outside the gate since tomorrow was trash day.
Neal tossed the trash into the bin. Then, so sudden that it was a second before Neal really felt it, something stung his neck. His hand reached up and felt a thin, alien object stuck in his skin. It was then that he felt a sensation, like ice spreading through his veins. He started to fall, and before blacking out completely, felt arms catching him before he hit the pavement.
Part Two