NCIS: LA/White Collar, G Callen/Neal Caffrey - "Plausible Deniability."
so, it turns out that I had to write a prequel to last night's comment fic, since there was some backstory that kind of needed to be told. this story is set several years prior to the start of both "White Collar" and "NCIS: LA," so no spoilers herein, other than to some aliases used on the show. :)
Plausible Deniability
March, 2004
Neal pressed his ear against the safe, latex-encased fingers carefully turning the dial. They'd been out to sea for nearly thirty-eight hours and this was the first time that'd he'd managed to get into this room by himself, which was practically leaving this job to the very last minute. The tiny hearing aid that Mozzie had gotten for him "from this guy on the internet in China" wasn't the ideal piece of equipment for such a delicate operation, but it was small and discreet and it was going to have to do, especially considering that his weekend host had a fondness not only for supermodels and ostentatious shows of consumption, but also for large Pacific Islander bodyguards with biceps the size of your average NFL linebacker's thigh. Add in the stash of undoubtedly-illegal guns Neal had spied outside the galley and the rumoured-but-not-yet-seen pet cheetah Sergei was said to keep in his cabin - _not_ in a cage, since it was apparently a member of the family - and Neal really didn't want to be spending any more time here than necessary.
He heard tumblers fall into place, counting to himself, a satisfied grin sweeping over his face when he heard the final tell-tale 'chungk.' He grasped the handle and twisted it, pleased when the heavy metal door swung open, revealing more guns, an impressive amount of cash - all American, probably genuine - and the object of Neal's quest, a small black-velvet case.
It was exactly the size and shape that Moz had told him it would be, and Neal opened it up, resisting the urge to whistle at the flawless yellow diamond necklace it revealed. He'd seen pictures - quite an extensive set had been required for him to create its twin, but thankfully the auction house had been very comprehensive in their cataloguing prior to the sale last year - yet still, none of them did justice to this piece. It was so difficult to capture the fire of diamonds in a photograph.
He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out another box, opening it up. He admired the two necklaces side-by-side; it had taken a while, but he felt he'd come up with a good fake. It would definitely take a very close examination to discover that his wasn't the real thing, and by that time, he'd be long gone and his prize would be winging its way to its eager buyer. That was the thing about auctions - they had a tendency to produce some very sore, but very eager, losers.
He put the fake into the safe, and slipped the real piece into his pocket. A quick click and turn and the safe was locked up again, and he stood up, peeling the gloves from his fingers and stealing a glance at the ornate, hideously tacky clock on Sergei's desk. He'd been in the room less than six minutes.
He was halfway out of the room when he was suddenly pushed back inside by another man, branishing a wicked-looking handgun, who peered through the crack of the door. Neal, instinctively, stepped backwards three feet and put his hands up. "You got me," he said.
"No offense, but it's not you I'm interested in," G said.
"None taken." Neal could tell he wasn't one of the bodyguards, since he wasn't big enough and was obviously American. The only Americans on board the yacht, besides himself, were the entertainment - a slew of long-legged, honey-maned models who lounged around in tiny bikini bottoms and drank copious amounts of Sergei's champagne - and this guy. Neal had seen him before, but took pains to stay off his radar, suspicious that he might either get in the way of this trip's business or make a grab at the necklace himself. Still, the gun didn't seem to mark him as a thief, at least not one that Neal was familiar with. It certainly wouldn't do him any good if one of the wall-of-flesh bodyguards caught him doing whatever the hell it was he was doing there.
"Dammit," G said, and shut the door, leaning against it. His eyes swept over the room and finally settled on Neal, who was still standing with his hands raised. "What's your name?" he asked, stepping forward.
"What?"
"Your _name_ - what is it?" G asked again, a little irritated, tucking the gun into the back of his jeans, the bulge hidden underneath his jacket.
"Nick," Neal lied, smoothly. 'Nick Halden' was the guy who had made friends with Sergei in a Long Island bar two weeks ago, and had charmingly gotten himself invited to this little seabound party.
"Nice to meet you, Nick. I'm Tony. I'm sorry for this, but it can't be helped."
Before Neal could ask what exactly G was sorry for, he found himself pinned back against Sergei's mahogany desk, wrists grasped by a pair of surprisingly strong hands. He had a couple of inches on his 'assailant,' but that advantage was overcome both by the element of surprise and by the power of compact lean muscle. Neal was pushed down on the corner of the desk and startled momentarily by the fact that one of G's very blue eyes _winked_ at him, just before he was kissed on the mouth.
He didn't struggle, aware still of the gun in G's waistband and the fact that he couldn't grab it while his wrists were pinned down. He was reasonably certain that he was in no danger of being assaulted, given the fact that G had apologized to him first, so he went with the kiss. Beyond the fact that he had little choice in the matter, it wasn't as though it was _unpleasant_, after all.
The door opened about fifteen seconds later and two of Sergei's mountainous guards stumbled in. Neal thought that he could feel the room shake from their very presence, but he might have been wrong about that.
G didn't stop kissing him right away, instead pushing his tongue in between Neal's lips. Neal was only vaguely aware that his wrists weren't being held quite so firmly when G finally broke the kiss and turned his head towards their spectators, who were gaping openly at them. "Gentlemen," G said, with a wicked, wet-lipped grin, "Is it too much to ask for a little privacy?"
Neal was pretty sure that one of the guys threw out a not-particularly-flattering oath, but it was the second guy who said, "You two shouldn't be in the boss's office."
"Oh," G said, looking around, as if he'd only now realized that's where the two of them actually were, "Huh. I guess not. We should probably take this back to my place, shouldn't we?" he asked Neal.
"Absolutely," Neal agreed, and let G take his hand, their fingers knit together, and lead him towards the door. There was a second or two when he was worried that they wouldn't be let past, but the second guard eventually elbowed the first, apparently more homophobic one, and he somehwat grudgingly stepped out of their way.
G was grinning the entire time, and he pulled Neal down the hallway to one of the dozen private cabins that Sergei's guests had been assigned for this pleasure cruise. He opened the door to the last one and ushered Neal inside, closing and locking the door behind him, the smile not fading from his face until the flimsy lock slid firmly into place. "I'm telling you this right now, you really need to get out of here."
"We're in the middle of the ocean," Neal said, dryly. "I'm not that good a swimmer."
"Then I'd suggest that you start practicing, because as soon as this boat gets within three miles of the US shoreline, it's going to be raided by a joint international task force led by the Coast Guard. I have a feeling that it might not be in your best interests to be caught in that kind of net."
Neal frowned. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You stole the necklace, didn't you?" G asked. Neal didn't say anything. "Look, I don't care what happens to that piece - Sergei bought it legitimately at that auction in New York, which is practically the only time the word 'legitimately' can be used in regards to any of his business dealings over the past fifteen years."
Neal shook his head. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I've watched you for the past two days," G said. "You're the only person here who wasn't the slightest bit interested either in any of the piles of drugs that were on every flat surface, or in the stash of weapons that Sergei's been creaming himself over."
"I hate guns."
"That's probably a healthy life choice," G nodded. "What isn't is going on a pleasure cruise hosted by one of Russia's up-and-coming mafia bosses."
"How do you know I won't just go to Sergei and tell him everything you just told me?"
"Do you really want to be responsible for me ending up at the bottom of the ocean with a bullet in my head?" G asked. "Besides that, you'd probably end up right beside me, once Sergei's goons shake you down for that necklace."
"Right," Neal sighed. "So what the hell am I supposed to do?"
"We'll be passing close by one of the islands tomorrow morning, within a mile or so - I'd suggest you take one of the inflatables and get the hell out of here," G said. "Or, stay and take your chances. Sergei _may_ decide to go down without a fight."
"Yeah, that could totally happen," Neal said, with a sigh, scrubbing his hands through his hair. "I don't suppose you happen to know if there are sharks in these waters?"
"Nothing you can't handle," G said. "And, I hate to say this, but you should probably stay here tonight. With me."
"What?" Neal asked, but realized that undoubtedly trying to get back to his own cabin - at the opposite end of the hallway - would lead him past at least one of those bodyguards they'd just escaped. "Oh, right."
G shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on the bed. "So, you play gin?" he asked, with a half-grin.
"I might be able to remember how," Neal said, sitting down at the small table. "It's been a while."
"I'm not playing you for money," G said, retrieving a pack of cards.
"Too bad." Neal picked up the cards and started to shuffle them. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Shoot," G said, sitting down opposite him.
"What's your name?"
"Tony Zito," G said, without blinking.
"Nick Halden," Neal said. "Nice to meet you, Tony."
"Nice to meet _you_, Nick."
Plausible Deniability
March, 2004
Neal pressed his ear against the safe, latex-encased fingers carefully turning the dial. They'd been out to sea for nearly thirty-eight hours and this was the first time that'd he'd managed to get into this room by himself, which was practically leaving this job to the very last minute. The tiny hearing aid that Mozzie had gotten for him "from this guy on the internet in China" wasn't the ideal piece of equipment for such a delicate operation, but it was small and discreet and it was going to have to do, especially considering that his weekend host had a fondness not only for supermodels and ostentatious shows of consumption, but also for large Pacific Islander bodyguards with biceps the size of your average NFL linebacker's thigh. Add in the stash of undoubtedly-illegal guns Neal had spied outside the galley and the rumoured-but-not-yet-seen pet cheetah Sergei was said to keep in his cabin - _not_ in a cage, since it was apparently a member of the family - and Neal really didn't want to be spending any more time here than necessary.
He heard tumblers fall into place, counting to himself, a satisfied grin sweeping over his face when he heard the final tell-tale 'chungk.' He grasped the handle and twisted it, pleased when the heavy metal door swung open, revealing more guns, an impressive amount of cash - all American, probably genuine - and the object of Neal's quest, a small black-velvet case.
It was exactly the size and shape that Moz had told him it would be, and Neal opened it up, resisting the urge to whistle at the flawless yellow diamond necklace it revealed. He'd seen pictures - quite an extensive set had been required for him to create its twin, but thankfully the auction house had been very comprehensive in their cataloguing prior to the sale last year - yet still, none of them did justice to this piece. It was so difficult to capture the fire of diamonds in a photograph.
He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out another box, opening it up. He admired the two necklaces side-by-side; it had taken a while, but he felt he'd come up with a good fake. It would definitely take a very close examination to discover that his wasn't the real thing, and by that time, he'd be long gone and his prize would be winging its way to its eager buyer. That was the thing about auctions - they had a tendency to produce some very sore, but very eager, losers.
He put the fake into the safe, and slipped the real piece into his pocket. A quick click and turn and the safe was locked up again, and he stood up, peeling the gloves from his fingers and stealing a glance at the ornate, hideously tacky clock on Sergei's desk. He'd been in the room less than six minutes.
He was halfway out of the room when he was suddenly pushed back inside by another man, branishing a wicked-looking handgun, who peered through the crack of the door. Neal, instinctively, stepped backwards three feet and put his hands up. "You got me," he said.
"No offense, but it's not you I'm interested in," G said.
"None taken." Neal could tell he wasn't one of the bodyguards, since he wasn't big enough and was obviously American. The only Americans on board the yacht, besides himself, were the entertainment - a slew of long-legged, honey-maned models who lounged around in tiny bikini bottoms and drank copious amounts of Sergei's champagne - and this guy. Neal had seen him before, but took pains to stay off his radar, suspicious that he might either get in the way of this trip's business or make a grab at the necklace himself. Still, the gun didn't seem to mark him as a thief, at least not one that Neal was familiar with. It certainly wouldn't do him any good if one of the wall-of-flesh bodyguards caught him doing whatever the hell it was he was doing there.
"Dammit," G said, and shut the door, leaning against it. His eyes swept over the room and finally settled on Neal, who was still standing with his hands raised. "What's your name?" he asked, stepping forward.
"What?"
"Your _name_ - what is it?" G asked again, a little irritated, tucking the gun into the back of his jeans, the bulge hidden underneath his jacket.
"Nick," Neal lied, smoothly. 'Nick Halden' was the guy who had made friends with Sergei in a Long Island bar two weeks ago, and had charmingly gotten himself invited to this little seabound party.
"Nice to meet you, Nick. I'm Tony. I'm sorry for this, but it can't be helped."
Before Neal could ask what exactly G was sorry for, he found himself pinned back against Sergei's mahogany desk, wrists grasped by a pair of surprisingly strong hands. He had a couple of inches on his 'assailant,' but that advantage was overcome both by the element of surprise and by the power of compact lean muscle. Neal was pushed down on the corner of the desk and startled momentarily by the fact that one of G's very blue eyes _winked_ at him, just before he was kissed on the mouth.
He didn't struggle, aware still of the gun in G's waistband and the fact that he couldn't grab it while his wrists were pinned down. He was reasonably certain that he was in no danger of being assaulted, given the fact that G had apologized to him first, so he went with the kiss. Beyond the fact that he had little choice in the matter, it wasn't as though it was _unpleasant_, after all.
The door opened about fifteen seconds later and two of Sergei's mountainous guards stumbled in. Neal thought that he could feel the room shake from their very presence, but he might have been wrong about that.
G didn't stop kissing him right away, instead pushing his tongue in between Neal's lips. Neal was only vaguely aware that his wrists weren't being held quite so firmly when G finally broke the kiss and turned his head towards their spectators, who were gaping openly at them. "Gentlemen," G said, with a wicked, wet-lipped grin, "Is it too much to ask for a little privacy?"
Neal was pretty sure that one of the guys threw out a not-particularly-flattering oath, but it was the second guy who said, "You two shouldn't be in the boss's office."
"Oh," G said, looking around, as if he'd only now realized that's where the two of them actually were, "Huh. I guess not. We should probably take this back to my place, shouldn't we?" he asked Neal.
"Absolutely," Neal agreed, and let G take his hand, their fingers knit together, and lead him towards the door. There was a second or two when he was worried that they wouldn't be let past, but the second guard eventually elbowed the first, apparently more homophobic one, and he somehwat grudgingly stepped out of their way.
G was grinning the entire time, and he pulled Neal down the hallway to one of the dozen private cabins that Sergei's guests had been assigned for this pleasure cruise. He opened the door to the last one and ushered Neal inside, closing and locking the door behind him, the smile not fading from his face until the flimsy lock slid firmly into place. "I'm telling you this right now, you really need to get out of here."
"We're in the middle of the ocean," Neal said, dryly. "I'm not that good a swimmer."
"Then I'd suggest that you start practicing, because as soon as this boat gets within three miles of the US shoreline, it's going to be raided by a joint international task force led by the Coast Guard. I have a feeling that it might not be in your best interests to be caught in that kind of net."
Neal frowned. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You stole the necklace, didn't you?" G asked. Neal didn't say anything. "Look, I don't care what happens to that piece - Sergei bought it legitimately at that auction in New York, which is practically the only time the word 'legitimately' can be used in regards to any of his business dealings over the past fifteen years."
Neal shook his head. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I've watched you for the past two days," G said. "You're the only person here who wasn't the slightest bit interested either in any of the piles of drugs that were on every flat surface, or in the stash of weapons that Sergei's been creaming himself over."
"I hate guns."
"That's probably a healthy life choice," G nodded. "What isn't is going on a pleasure cruise hosted by one of Russia's up-and-coming mafia bosses."
"How do you know I won't just go to Sergei and tell him everything you just told me?"
"Do you really want to be responsible for me ending up at the bottom of the ocean with a bullet in my head?" G asked. "Besides that, you'd probably end up right beside me, once Sergei's goons shake you down for that necklace."
"Right," Neal sighed. "So what the hell am I supposed to do?"
"We'll be passing close by one of the islands tomorrow morning, within a mile or so - I'd suggest you take one of the inflatables and get the hell out of here," G said. "Or, stay and take your chances. Sergei _may_ decide to go down without a fight."
"Yeah, that could totally happen," Neal said, with a sigh, scrubbing his hands through his hair. "I don't suppose you happen to know if there are sharks in these waters?"
"Nothing you can't handle," G said. "And, I hate to say this, but you should probably stay here tonight. With me."
"What?" Neal asked, but realized that undoubtedly trying to get back to his own cabin - at the opposite end of the hallway - would lead him past at least one of those bodyguards they'd just escaped. "Oh, right."
G shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on the bed. "So, you play gin?" he asked, with a half-grin.
"I might be able to remember how," Neal said, sitting down at the small table. "It's been a while."
"I'm not playing you for money," G said, retrieving a pack of cards.
"Too bad." Neal picked up the cards and started to shuffle them. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Shoot," G said, sitting down opposite him.
"What's your name?"
"Tony Zito," G said, without blinking.
"Nick Halden," Neal said. "Nice to meet you, Tony."
"Nice to meet _you_, Nick."