Composition in Black and White (part two) 5/
4/
He couldn’t remember.
The hardest part was that everything felt normal. It felt like there was nothing wrong, except all over the place things most definitely were. The technology was smaller, sleeker, more popular. Everyone had headphones in when Neal reached the street. Everyone had phones. Everyone was wearing clothes that were just that little bit different to how Neal remembered they should be. Eight years was a long time. It was a different decade to the one he remembered. Things were similar but they weren’t the same and that’s the thing. He’s out of place. He doesn’t belong, and while he had made a career out of pretending he does, this time he can’t quite get a handle on it as well as he’d like.
He wasn’t drawing too much attention to himself in the scrubs he’d stolen thank god, hidden under another poor bloke’s jacket. But as if to make up for that, he was already exhausted by the time he made it to the street and there was still a way to go. He didn’t even know if Mozzie’s old safe houses were even going to be safe anymore. Or available. They could - for all intents and purposes - be filled with other people, families or single businessmen or full of boxes, like storage units were meant to be furnished.
He didn’t have a clue and it’s a little bit alienating, but at the same time, it was soothing that he could still hail a cab no matter where he was, and he could still prattle off a reasonably easy story to believe as he told the driver an address and hoped that he’d be in luck. It wasn’t hard, it was like riding a bike and while he was tired, weak and sore and the throbbing in his head and his abdomen growing stronger as time wore on, he still knew the spiel and he knows he’s still good at it and he knows that there’s nothing else wrong. Not that being unable to remember eight years of his life isn’t something particularly alarming and wrong in every way imaginable. But it is somewhat soothing that he can still talk and smile and con like all he did was go to sleep eight years ago and woke up in the future. He doesn’t feel… broken.
Which is nice.
What isn’t nice is the way his stomach lurched as the cabbie turned too quickly, or how he slumped back against the seat and had to close his eyes because his vision was taking turns to blur out at the edges or swim rather violently as he tried to keep his eyes open. He should have stayed at the hospital, he knew that much now. He knows it deep in his gut that he should have trusted Mozzie; that Moz would have his reasons for Neal being there. For being Neal. For the Feds. For staying. Moz always had some sort of reason.
He’d be able to tell him why Kate wasn’t there. Surely after eight years he’d have found her.
Neal’s stomach made an anxious roil as he sat up, the thought floating unbidden to the forefront of his mind. Maybe the Feds had Kate, maybe that was why they were there waiting for him. Why Kate wasn’t there. Or maybe, maybe he’d never got her back; maybe she’d left him such a damn long time ago. Maybe he’d been running so long that he’d given up and let Burke catch him, maybe that’s why the fed was there.
And that was all in the space of why he’d woken up with a fed beside him. A fed who he didn’t recognize, but who certainly seemed to recognize him.
She was pretty. No, pretty wasn’t the word. She was bossy, determined. Gorgeous. That was a better word. And uninterested. He knew that much just from looking at her. But he wasn’t sure as he remembered her face whether it had been instinct upon waiting or something else, something half remembered. Neal frowned and glanced out the window at Manhattan moving past him.
It had been a long time since he’d seen the view running past him and at that thought Neal had to frown. In his own head, the head that made sense and felt real he’d been out this way only two days ago. They hadn’t gone to the Island because they never did. The Island was just that, cut off from any other place unless they were free or desperate. The Island was Mozzie’s paranoic pride and joy.
And it was a lot further away from Lenox Hill than he remembered. Not that he made a point of arranging safe houses near hospitals. That could probably be of use though. Maybe Mozzie had already thought of that somehow. Maybe he had somewhere he hadn’t told Neal about close to Bellevue or something. Neal scrunched his eyes closed for a moment and pushed himself upright again, watching the world go blurring past again.
He hoped that the drive ended soon. He wasn’t feeling his best and at that moment there seemed like nothing better in the world than somewhere that wasn’t moving in any way. Neal closed his eyes again and winced. His body was pulsing now, beating louder and louder.
“How much longer?”
He heard a voice rasp and it took him a moment to realize his mouth had opened and vomited out the question revolving around in his head.
“Couple of blocks. Not long,” the driver answered and Neal murmured his thanks, leaning back against the seat and bracing himself against the window.
He needed drugs. Drugs and somewhere not moving and a damn burner phone so he could call Mozzie and figure out what the hell had happened. Because there was obviously something massive they weren’t telling him. There was so much missing in that eight year gap, but Neal could feel something huge hanging over Mozzie’s head. There had to be, otherwise Moz would have just said. Your parachute didn’t open, you landed on your head, Alex hit you with a wrench, Wilkes ran you over, Keller’s gone mental, you got shot - something. Mozzie would have said something.
He just had to find out what it was he hadn’t said.
That, and stop the world spinning. He needed it to stop spinning and he needed his damn eyelids to not feel like they were packed with cement and he needed to find out about Kate and Burke and why he couldn’t remember.
He needed to -
He needed.
“We’re here, buddy.”
He needed… to pay the driver.
***
Peter knew there was no use blaming anyone.
He was very much aware of the fact that when Neal Caffrey wanted to disappear, he did. He could cook up the biggest stupidest plans for the smallest reasons. He would con the entire FBI for a five minute conversation that could get him nowhere. He would buy a bakery so he could construct an awning on the side of a building. He would get himself arrested for the risk of seeing his missing girlfriend.
Neal managed grand feats for the simplest reasons, there was little stopping him when his reasons were anything but simple, and in Neal’s view, this was a very complex situation indeed.
And he wasn’t wrong.
“How on earth can a man who has been in a coma for three days and has four broken ribs get past two fully trained FBI agents and the entire hospital staff in a hospital gown? How? How is that possible?”
The group of milling agents who had meant to be looking after Neal, shuffled awkwardly and looked suitably abashed. All the same, Peter was fuming.
“I want you all back at the office at eight am. We pick this up first thing.”
They all nodded and guiltily disbanded. Peter watched them go, still fuming.
Peter knew it was a useless tirade, but he needed someone to berate, someone to take this anger out on, because he could barely stand keeping it in any more. Neal was gone, the Neal he remembered and liked and damn well spent every day with. The Neal he would take a damn bullet for if it meant sparing him one, was damn well gone and it was all Peter’s fault.
It was Nikolai Volkov’s doing.
But it was Peter’s fault it had happened.
Volkov had been trying to punish him, and he’d done it by attacking Neal, and now Neal was gone. Neal had disappeared out of the hospital before Peter had even been able to accept that he was still alive. He’d woken up and erased everything they’d been through together and left Peter the Bad Guy, the Good Cop out to put the Dashing Theif behind bars again and he almost wasn’t wrong.
Peter was half incensed to put Neal back in prison if it meant he could stop anything else happening to him. Solitary Confinement. No visitors.
And he’d do it if it meant keeping Neal safe.
Except Neal wasn’t safe, he was missing and he was Neal.
He was the Neal of eight years ago. The Neal who stole a Raphael to try and get his girlfriends attention, who screwed over Ryan Wilkes for half a million and a hatred of guns, who ran a scheme with fake gems worth over four million dollars. This was the Neal Caffrey they taught about in criminology class. And he was injured and in pain and couldn’t remember a single thing about how far his loyalties had turned and therefore he was expecting none of the ramifications.
He was as vulnerable as Neal had ever been in his life.
“Tell me what’s' going on to change this situation?” he asked, still annoyed. Diana didn’t look pleased herself.
“It looks like he snuck into the lockers and swapped his clothes. Morrison’s pulling footage of the front doors. I’m guessing he hailed a cab.”
“Given the state of him he wouldn’t be walking,” Peter scowled, reaching into his pocket for his phone. Mozzie hadn’t picked up when Peter had called, but as he’d been halfway to the hospital he’d received a text message saying he was on his way. Peter was still waiting.
“If he hailed a taxi I’ll see if we can pull traffic logs and see where he went,” Diana said. She looked tired. She needed a break. They all did.
Dammit Neal.
One night, could they not have had one night?
“Good. I’ll check with the little guy. Hopefully he’ll be able to tell us if he’s got a damn safe house Neal would go to.”
“We could answer all those questions before we caught him with this, boss,” Diana said, her voice edged with an attempt to be humorous, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes and Peter nodded.
“Might be able to close a few of those cases, too. Look out James Bonds, the FBI knows all about you.”
Diana barely had time to snort derisively before Peter’s phone buzzed.
Mozzie.
Was outside.
Peter fumed and glanced at Diana.
“I’ll be back,” Diana nodded.
“I’m going to head to the office, get an early start on those tapes.”
“I’ll let you know if the little guy has anything,” Peter said and Diana nodded, the pair of them heading for the elevator together.
Mozzie was waiting near the ambulance bay. Peter wanted to throttle him. Was now really the time to start getting all up in his habits again?
“Has he contacted you?” he asked pointedly the moment he had the man in his sights. Mozzie looked a little annoyed himself.
“Would I be here if he had, Suit?” Mozzie scowled.
“Where is he, Mozzie?” Peter pressed. Mozzie watched as the lines on Peter’s face became more pronounced and there was this fierce glint in his eyes that was a little disarming. This was the man who chased criminals, who caught them.
“I’m telling you, Suit, he hasn’t contacted me.”
“And if he did, would you be telling me?”
“Given the circumstances, Suit, I want him back just as much as you do. He needs to know the mess working for you has got him into.”
“That’s not an answer Mozzie. If anything that sounds like you’re planning on warning him and disappearing for good.”
“You’re paranoid.”
“Tell me you haven’t thought about it, Haversham.”
“I’m not going to acknowledge your ridiculous accusations.”
“At six o’clock, Mozzie, Neal woke up not remembering a damn thing. It’s three am, and he’s gone. Now tell me, he can’t remember ever working for me, tell me that’s not tempting to make him cut and run. He’s not wearing the anklet.”
“He hasn’t contacted me, Suit. Given the state of him, you should have the NYPD out on the beat looking for him. He’s probably unconscious on the side of the road.”
Peter hated the way his body flinched at the idea. Please God, please don’t let that be true…
“You’re telling me, Mozzie, that Neal broke out and he didn’t tell you.”
“Considering I didn’t tell him he’s working for you, Suit, he’s not exactly open to trusting openly. I told him I wouldn’t help him escape, so he did it on his own.”
“You didn’t help him with this?”
“I’m a criminal, Suit, I’m not stupid. He could barely stand. He could barely stay awake.”
“Then where would he go, Mozzie?”
“Somewhere safe. We had this little place, back when - “
Mozzie didn’t get any further, there was a faint buzzing and the small man stopped talking to reach for his phone. The look on his face as he looked at the ID was almost priceless. Peter didn’t see what the screen said, but the light in Mozzie’s eyes as he looked up at him said enough.
“It’s Neal,” Havernsham said without needing to. Peter closed his mouth, watching as Mozzie answered the phone.
“Neal?”
“Mozzie?” Neal’s voice was faint in the cool night air. Peter could barely hear it as Mozzie held the phone to his ear. But Peter could. Just.
It was stupidly relieving. He couldn’t quite remove the image of Neal slumped in the gutter somewhere, eerily, terrifyingly reminiscent of seeing him in that damn storage container…
“Neal, where are you? You should be still in the hospital.”
“I had to get out, too much going on. Why was I there under my own name? Who brought the Feds in, Moz? What isn’t anyone telling me? ”
Mozzie looked warily at Peter then before he looked away pointedly and started speaking again.
“These are all valid questions that can be answered in good time, mon frère, if you tell me where you are.”
“What's going on, Mozzie?” Neal sounded confused. Almost… childlike. There was a simplicity to his question that was a little alarming. Peter wanted to touch him in that moment more than was really necessary. Just touch him so he was sure the damn kid was breathing and at least a little bit sane. That he knew who he was.
Was that too much to ask? To just have Neal back? The way he was, the Neal who trusted him implicitly, who smiled and laughed and worked with him. Was it too much to ask to have his partner back?
And then he looked at Mozzie, and the realization hit him like a bolt of lightning.
Could Mozzie be asking the same thing? Wasn’t this like the world giving Mozzie back his partner? The Neal who had belonged to Mozzie and Kate and had never thought about working for the FBI. Who had teased and taunted Peter and run any risk and any con the pair (or three of them) could think of. Wasn’t this like offering Mozzie his parner back without reproach?
Peter swallowed, his throat tight. He stared at Mozzie on the phone, at the link between the con and their friend. The compassion. This was the man who had spent every waking moment with Neal, hoping for him to wake up. The man who had come whenever Neal called; who had stuck by him. Who had searched for him and then waited so diligently for him to wake up while Peter was off fighting battles with his own guilt.
What was going on?
Such a simple question, such a complex answer.
What would Mozzie tell him?
Mozzie’s eyes flickered nervously up to Peter. The moment they connected Mozzie looked away again, his expression tight.
“I'll tell you if you tell me where you are, Neal. If you're not careful you're going to bust a lung. Then what are we going to do?”
“I'm alright Mozz. ”
That sentiment.
I’m alright.
How often had Peter heard that phrase?
After Kate?
After Sara.
After Thompson.
I’m alright.
Neal’s hands trembling and he couldn’t make them stop. His gaze distant, clouded in pain.
I’m alright.
Peter snapped.
“You're not alri-“ Mozzie was saying but Peter couldn’t stop himself. Couldn’t stay quiet any longer.
***
“Give it here.” Peter interrupted, motioning for the phone. His expression grieving and tight.
Mozzie's heart sank.
“Is that? ' Neal asked, while Peter motioned for the phone again, his hand outstretched.
“Pass it here.”
“You knarked Mozzie?” Neal asked, and he sounded hurt more than outraged, but the sentiment was there all the same, echoing in the back of his voice. Then before Mozzie could say a thing, or Peter could yank the phone out of his grasp, all he could hear was the dial tone as Neal hung up on him.
***
Neal’s brain felt thick and fuzzy and his limbs were heavy as he eyed the phone on the opposite couch where he’d tossed it. All he really wanted to do was lay down and sleep. Take a few pills for the thumping pain running through him that was beginning to sharpen the longer he was on his feet. He was tired.
But beyond the pain there was a slow burning anger in his gut and it kept him on his feet.
Mozzie.
Mozzie and Burke.
What the hell had been going on these past years?
Neal shuffled across the room towards where he’d dumped the stolen coat he’d come with. The Island had been well cared for over the years. It was just as it had always been and that alone had been strangely warming. It was familiar and soothing where everything else felt turbulent.
He couldn’t remember and he’d never felt so damn alone in his life.
Mozzie was with Peter Burke, and he wouldn’t tell Neal what was going on and where the hell was Kate?
Neal winced and had to take pause against the wall for a moment as the world swayed.
As much as he wanted to crash, to just slump down on the couch and let them find him, he couldn’t. He had to go, find somewhere where he could rest, somewhere close. Somewhere safe, where Burke couldn’t find him, because Burke would be looking. Burke had always been looking.
Neal took a deep breath in and glanced silently back at the apartment. He’d been so sure he’d be safe here, but it seemed these days, even The Island wasn’t as safe as it once could have been.
***
The Bureau was all but deserted now, bar the agents who had been at the hospital supposedly guarding Neal, and the few she’d called in. It was quiet. After all, it was stupidly early. Everyone was meant to be asleep. Trust it to Neal to go missing in the middle of the night. Regardless of the movement as they all tried to pull up everything they could on the hospital and the case and Neal it was still much less of a minefield of movement than when Diana had called past about eight. The fact that Neal Caffrey was not only back, but awake had been a relief to most of the floor.
None of them knew the real complications of that waking up. Just the annoyance that he’d upped and disappeared.
But as hesitant as most of them had been some three and a half years ago, Neal had earned his place amongst them and the news of his recovery and subsequent disappearance again had spread throughout the office. It was uplifting and disappointing in turn. But they were nothing if not a community and Diana couldn’t help the tiny smile that broke through as she took pause in front of the white board in the break room.
There was a betting pool on the whiteboard, in true white collar style.
There’d been a betting pool when Kirsty had her baby, one for the sex and subsequent name, one for the date and just for kicks, one for the father. Jones had won out in the first one, Neal had won the second. Kirsty had smacked the pair of them when they owned up to running the third, but forgiven them when it was clear Neal’s winnings had gone into the rather expensive capsule full of knick knacks delivered to her room. They’d run a betting pool when Hughes had announced he was going to retire twelve months ago, Peter had won that. Hughes hadn’t lasted three weeks before he retracted the request. When Blake had started acting quiet there had been a betting pool guessing his secret. Girlfriend had been the obvious choice, Jones had been outlandish and called that he was dating twins. It had been Neal once again who had figured it all out and put an end to it quietly when he realized there was more to Blake’s quiet stretches than just a secret girlfriend. When the young agent had to take a week’s leave when his niece passed away, no one said a word about the betting pool, but no one asked for their money back either and Diana heard Blake thanking Neal quietly after his return for the bouquet he’d sent on behalf of the office and the accompanying cheque for their donation to cancer research.
There had been bets placed on everything and anything over the years, and it made so much sense to see it pinned to the board.
Peter catching Neal the favored bet.
Neal turning himself in, running a close second.
Neal breaking out to go get Pizza a completely outlandish third option.
Diana stared at the board and sighed, clutching her coffee mug to her. She glanced across the bull pen and up into the conference room. Blake was leaning up against the table staring at the screen intently. Diana poured a second cup and headed up the stairs.
“I think I know the last bits of the heist,” Blake said quietly as Diana sat down next to him and she couldn’t help the rush of relief that ran through her. Because as good as it felt knowing that they already had Volkov, there were still pieces missing and Diana wanted it all flush. She wanted to know everything.
And this was one step further towards obtaining that.
And she needed good news. There had been too much bad. Far too much.
“It was all to do with the wife,” Blake said as Diana stared up at the screen.
Blake clicked the remote.
“She disappeared after Peter arrested Volkov the first time for smuggling. Volkov never saw her again. When he went inside, Salina’s brother, Alexander Restovin took over the business. He laid low, slowly building the business back up. When Volkov gets out, his men aren’t loyal to him anymore. But they are to the business. He makes a deal with Restovin. Restovin gives him the resources he needs in exchange for an addition to his private and increasingly illegal collection of Russian art. Including, several already by Kandinsky.”
“But why the forgery and then the robbery?”
“The robbery came first. It was switched before it even entered the gallery. Restovin had it since the tenth. Mandy Brenner had been painting reproductions of all the works coming through the gallery as practice. Apparently when Luccson came in to case the place, they were talking about it. He bought her reproduction that afternoon. Based on the encrypted transcript Forensics sent up, Luccson traced the painting back to its owner and swapped them out in transit. The gallery owner never realized it was a fake he unpacked in the first place. Based on that info and what Mandy Brenner told us, we traced Volkov’s private muscle, Ivan Korvesky to an exchange with Restovin on the eleventh, where we found footage across the road of Korvesky dropping off an art folder to Restovin’s private luncheon at café Trevane. Organized Crime’s had the place under surveillance for weeks. Agent Martin showed me the footage last night.”
“And there we have it,” Diana murmured, staring at the screen.
She stared at the image of Korvesky on the screen in front of her. Tall, broadbuilt, Russian, with a tattoo climbing up the side of his neck. There was their driver of the SUV.
A part of her settled.
They had them.
Volkov had set the entire thing up. He’d needed art to pay his brother in law for his revenge plot and had used a hacker looking to get himself a better rep to do it. From there, he’d sent Peter and Neal the threats and then used his hired muscle to take Neal.
It was all wrapped up, the artworks, the notes, Luccson, the SUV and Neal.
They didn’t need anything else to convict anyone else they could lay their hands on.
With this sort of info, all they needed to do was find Korvesky and put him away and they were fine. The evidence spoke for itself.
Which was lucky, because Volkov wasn’t willing to say a thing, and Peter refused to talk to the man again regardless. That’s if Hughes would even have let him on the same floor as the man. That part was off limits, and given Neal’s state - well, it was hidden there as well. They simply wouldn’t know what had happened in those four days.
And a part of her was content for it to stay that way.
Diana continued to stare at the screen. She was hesitant to say it, but she could almost feel some of the weight starting to lift. Almost.
They had Volkov, they would find Korvesky and they would get Neal back, memories and all. They would.
Diana reached for her phone and punched in a text and Jones’ number. The poor bastard had been texting her daily for updates. He’d love this.
TEXT MESSAGE
Send To: JONES
Time: 06:25 .
Jones, just thought
I’d let you know.
We’ve ID’d the
driver. Ivan Korevsky.
She wasn’t expecting a reply. Not at six am when he was supposed to be on leave.
All the same, her phone was beeping in reply before she could even set it down.
TEXT MESSAGE
Sender: JONES
Time: 06:27 .
Excellent.
Diana smiled.
TEXT MESSAGE
Send To: JONES
Time: 06:28 .
He wont know
What’s about to
hit him.
She punched in her reply, feeling a little more vindictive than felt normal.
But then again, this had not been a normal case.
***
The Suit was an arse.
But he was smart enough, and he had a brilliant wife.
And his dog wasn’t bad either.
But he certainly wasn’t in Mozzie’s top ten favourite people.
Never the less, he was smart and bossy and right at that moment, Mozzie hated him.
If he had just waited - Mozzie frowned again. He’d been doing it the whole trip over, and it still wasn’t doing him any good. All he could focus on was the damn sound of Neal’s not-quite-there voice as he accused him of the one thing Mozzie had sworn never to do.
Knark. Tell. Flip.
Mozzie wasn’t a snitch. He didn’t betray people.
He wouldn’t.
Not Neal.
He’d never betray Neal.
He’d done some things in his life he wasn’t proud of, but he wasn’t heartless. He wasn’t corrupt or, or. He was loyal. He watched Neal’s back. After all, hadn’t he stayed?
They’d had millions, no, billions in lost treasure and he’d stayed because Neal had asked him to. He’d been prepared to leave, to pack it all in and leave and the feeling still haunted him. But Neal had asked, he’d looked Mozzie in the eyes and he’d dropped all pretenses and he’d asked Mozzie to stay, to not make him choose because he couldn’t choose between Mozzie and Burke. It hadn’t been fair. It still wasn’t fair. Mozzie had kept Neal’s back, he’d been there no matte what through all of it and two years with Burke and it was almost for nothing.
Except it wasn’t nothing because Neal had asked him to stay, to stay with him and help him because Neal couldn’t do it alone.
And so they’d stayed, the treasure had gone into storage. His blessed Big Score packed away as best he could and kept hidden and now they were here. They were three and a half years in plus a little more and Neal had been knocked back further than square one and Mozzie had no idea what to do anymore. Neal trusted Burke, except he didn’t now and Mozzie didn’t know how to tell him he did. Tell him that they were partners and that he wanted to stay when the Neal he’d have to tell it to would double take and laugh and Mozzie could just say the word treasure, and I did it, I beat Adler, let me show you what I found and there would be nothing that Burke could do to stop them just disappearing and Neal would be all his again.
There’d be no more New York, but there’d be no more tracking anklet and no more radius and no more security details and planning and plotting around the Burke’s notice or Diana’s notice or Jones’ or any of them. They could have their island. Their safe haven, the dream they’d conjured day after day, night after night - outlandish and brilliant and a bit crazed and oh so perfectly capable of coming true.
But this was New York, and Peter was Peter and El was El and June was June and they were why Neal had asked to stay and why Mozzie had agreed, they were why he was so careful fencing that Picasso, why it had been so brilliant when it had just slipped into the ether and they were six million richer in barely a blink. They were why he made sure to be specific and careful about the fence he found for the black pearls just last week. They were why Neal had started getting restless. Why he’d been sleeping badly and pretending he wasn’t. They were why Neal had walked around with his long hidden hesitancies rising to the surface and why Mozzie was restraining himself as he unlocked the door to the Island.
Neal didn’t want to leave. The Neal Mozzie knew, had watched blossom out of prison in a way that was amazing and terrifying in equal parts. They’d done things in the last three and a half years they’d not have dreamed of before. And now they were here, fighting for a place to stand.
And so much of it was Burke’s fault and not at the same time and Mozzie couldn’t stand it.
When he opened the door he braced himself and tried to be prepared for anything he'd find, but hoping that regardless of his apparent change of allegiance, Neal had stuck around.
It was obvious this was where he’d gone and a part of Mozzie smiled smugly, while the rest of him sighed in contemp.
All it took was two seconds inside the apartment made to make it very clear that while Neal had been there, it was no longer the case. Neal's - disturbingly bloody - hospital disguise was discarded over the couch, as Mozzie walked through the main section into the weave of bedroom and study he found Neal's cupboard open and empty. Hurrying into the bathroom Mozzie’s heart sank as he took in the open cupboard, empty of pretty much everything. Which that meant Neal had enough pain meds to get himself delusional for six months solid. Which considering the scrubs in the main room was both a blessing and a curse and Mozzie couldn’t help but hope it would be enough to at least slow Neal down. Because if Neal had left The Island, their mutual Last Resort Emergency Halfway House, that meant quite a few things Mozzie didn’t bear thinking about. Neal was clearly angry, hurt and in pain. He wouldn’t have taken the drugs if he wasn’t. Neal wasn’t fond of needing something to keep himself going and if he’d cleared the place out that was obviously the case.
The only upside to the situation Mozzie could find as he battled to keep down the roiling terror and guilt swirling inside of him, was that they had a doped Neal to chase, who, depending on how many pills he'd taken would determine on how sharp his mind was. And that determined whether or not Neal was still in the city. One thing Mozzie knew, was that Neal wouldn’t take anything until he was somewhere he could trust himself, somewhere he could lock himself away, and if he was bleeding, then he was probably not going to be far. But all the same, if he'd left The Island that meant he was going somewhere Mozzie couldn’t find him.
***
Mozzie was right, the moment Neal saw him again in the state he was in, he was going to run the other way.
All the same, Peter didn’t like feeling usless. So he’d come back to the bureau to wait for Mozzie’s call. His phone didn’t take to being stared at, and for the first time in over a week, Peter couldn’t focus on punishing the man responsible for this whole mess.
He wanted his damn phone to ring and for Mozzie to perk up and tell him he’d found Neal and the idiot had gone and remembered everything and they could all go home.
Peter knew he wasn’t going to have any sort of luck like that in the slightest.
It didn’t stop him hoping that the Little Guy had at least found Neal when his phone started to buzz on the table in front of him.
“Mozzie, tell me you have good news.” Even Peter could hear the gruff desperation in his own voice as he answered.
“No good, Suit. He’s not here. ”
Peter sighed, feeling his heart plummet.
Dammit.
“Where else could he be?”
“The possibilities are infinite, g-man, Neal’s in the wind. He’s gone. ”
Mozzie’s voice was tinged with disappointment to match Peter’s and he didn’t wait around to let Peter say anything, and to be honest, Peter didn’t have much to say anyway.
What could he say to the smaller man?
Neal was gone; he had gone just after they’d got him back. He’d disappeared and he had been the one to screw up the only viable link they had with the Neal currently running around New York City. It was his fault Neal no longer trusted Mozzie.
And he’d be damned if he let it sit that way.
Neal needed them, whether he knew it or not.
Peter sighed and stared at the boxes Diana had had the probies carry up from storage while Peter was talking (or arguing) with Mozzie.
Six years of files collected from James Bonds to Neal Caffrey. From the initial investigation to the beginning of Peter’s, when Neal’s cocky Atlantic Bonds landed on his desk courtesy of a lazy agent taking advantage.
The boxes had been staring at him since he arrived and a part of him was still hoping that he wouldn’t have to open them. That Neal would show up somewhere.
But a larger part of him was finally starting to accept the truth for exactly what it was; Neal couldn’t remember him short of the man on his tail, he couldn’t remember a single day he spent in prison or since he left it.
The Neal currently on the streets of New York was seven years younger, and he was not the man that Peter knew. That Peter could trace and trust.
The Neal he needed to find was the Neal that had taken him three years to corner with a backhanded ploy using his only weakness; the Neal in the boxes in front of him.
And after three years working side by side, he wasn’t sure he wanted to open up the past with everything that lay behind them.
But if he was going to find Neal, it was the only thing he could do.
Peter sighed, and stood up.
They had come a long way in the last eight years, since Diana had first suggested why they hadn’t staked out Neal’s girlfriend. Why they hadn’t gone after Moreau.
After all, it had all been about Moreau. Peter had been furious with himself he hadn’t seen how much of Neal’s spree had been for Moreau’s benefit and having Diana just suggest it had been well - a case breaker.
It had been about Kate.
And just like she’d been all those years ago, Kate proved to be the eye of the storm and Peter almost had to hit himself as it suddenly occurred to him.
How could he have been so stupid?
Peter reached into the files, searching until he found the one he was after.
How could this have not occurred to him sooner?
Peter smiled.
“I know where you are, Neal,” he said to himself quietly as he stared down at the page.
“I know where you are.”
***
“Agent Berrigan?”
Diana and Blake both turned towards Cooper who was standing nervously in the doorway. Diana was immediately reminded of how Blake had been standing just days ago in a similar position looking just as nervous holding a card in his hands with the number three written across the front of it.
Diana’s blood ran cold.
“What is it, Cooper?” she asked, tentatively. Cooper swallowed and then straightened.
“We just got an alert on Ivan Korevsky’s mobile.”
She glanced at Blake, who shrugged.
“I set it up once I ID’d him,” he said simply and Diana turned back to Cooper.
“What was it?”
“It was a call from the Marshall’s offices. Holding cells. It was Volkov.”
“Volkov?” Diana stood up, warily looking between Blake and Cooper.
“It only lasted twenty seconds.”
“Call the Marshall’s I want to know what was said in that phone call,” she said darkly. Cooper blushed.
“I already called. They’re sending the recording over, but the Marshall I talked to was Volkov’s supervising guard on that call. He only said one thing.”
“What was it?”
“He said ‘checkmate’ and then hung up.”
Checkmate.
Diana felt a hand crawl up her spine like a spider. She spun to stare at the image of Korevsky still staring out from the screen.
Checkmate.
It rang too many bells for something so simple. Checkmate.
Then it came back to her.
Checkmate. Peter.
One, two, three, check.
The notes.
Peter.
“Find me Peter. Someone find me Agent Burke!” Diana called, barging past Blake and Cooper and hanging out over the side of the bull pen, pulling out her own phone as she did.
She faced Cooper for a moment.
“When was this?” she asked pointedly. Cooper went a little redder. The curling pit of fear in her stomach at that moment increased just a little.
“When was Volkov’s call?”
Flustered, Cooper finally answered.
“About an hour ago. We haven’t had the alert on Korevsky on long. It took time to come through.”
“Diana what is it?” Blake asked, following her out, looking between her and Cooper. She spun to face him.
“Checkmate. The notes, Blake. When Volkov was talking to Peter about why he took Neal he said something, he said ‘one, two, three, check’. That’s exactly what the notes said. Neal’s abduction was number three. Check was getting him back, checkmate has to be Peter.”
Blake went a little pale and went running past her down towards his desk.
“Come on, Peter,” Diana murmured as she held her phone to her ear and listened to it buzz.
“Come on, pick up, please,”
***
One thing was made very obvious to Neal the moment he broke into the apartment: it hadn’t been used in a long time.
It was empty.
Or, at least, mostly empty. The furniture was completely gone, the decoration, the life they’d once had had been all stripped away and it was jarring - he could remember being here yesterday. He could close his eyes and know where everything had been, everything he’d put down just the day before. It was all gone. There was a rusted old bike on one wall, and a half dozen boxes in the far corner.
Wincing, Neal limped over to the boxes. They weren’t labeled but he almost knew as he opened the first box that this would be what was in the others too. Files. Manila folders. Bureau issue files and photographs and Neal stared as he reached into the box and pulled out the top folder.
His name was written across the top. It was blue, the FBI brand embossed into the cardboard.
Neal opened the folder, his pulse racing.
His face stared back at him. He was holding one of those blasted boards with the details of his arrest scrawled across it. His arrest. His arrest. Neal gulped, staring at the page.
He was arrested on the 27th of January 2006. He’d been arrested.
He turned the page.
Four years.
He’d been in jail for four years.
Neal turned page after page. Suspected cases, links, evidence. Reports.
He grunted as he pulled the box down off the pile and set it on the ground, lowering himself to the ground. His vision whitened out again for a moment and he held his breath before he opened his eyes again and focused on the box of files. He pulled the second out and opened it.
Four years in prison. Infirmary files. Reports.
Four years with the FBI.
He was a fed. A snitch. He worked with Peter Burke. He worked with Peter…
Work release.
Escape risk.
Suspected cases.
Closed cases.
Files and files of them.
Aliases he’d used and hadn’t even thought of yet. Jobs he’d pulled and jobs he couldn’t remember doing. A frustrated noise caught in Neal’s throat and he pushed the first box aside and pulled the second close, rummaging through it.
He didn’t get far.
Right on top was a black and white photograph. Kate.
A man’s hand on her shoulder.
Kate.
Neal hesitantly reached out for the photo and held it closer to him. His brain still felt thick from the meds and he ached from the dull pain, but God - her face. There was a man’s hand on her shoulder and she didn’t look happy. She looked… scared and Neal felt a white hot flash of fear run through him. It was instinctual. It was beyond what he knew, what he could remember and all of a sudden he didn’t want to know what was in the files in front of him. He didn’t want to know.
But it was almost already too late.
In the back of his head he could feel this piercing furious heat on his back and this bright white light in the corners of his vision and Neal cried out, letting go of the picture.
He could feel the brace of someone’s arm around his chest and this aching fear running through him.
The folder down had her name on it.
Kate Moreau.
Neal’s hands were shaking.
He couldn’t make them stop.
The first page was a report from the FAA.
Explosion near the door.
Semtax A Grade Explosives.
Fatalities: Jordan Pleasance, pilot.
Kate Moreau, passenger.
Neal felt the world slip out from under him. The file hung loose in his grasp.
Neal stared at the page in front of him, the information staring back at him with a stark clarity it was impossible to blame on bad eyesight. How was it possible? It couldn’t be possible. She could be - how could they have… Neal stared.
Kate was dead.
“You found it then.”
Neal nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Peter Burke’s voice. The sound of it still made his stomach tighten into a knot, or at least it would have if he could feel anything at all. He scrambled painfully to his feet.
“I wondered where Mozzie had stashed all those files.”
Neal didn’t say anything. He listened as Peter took several measured steps towards him.
“Neal,” the man murmured and it could have been the start of some grand speech or reprimand but it faded back at him and then disappeared. He didn’t follow it with anything, and that’s when Neal realized what it was: a plea.
“Kate. She, uh, did she?” the rest of his words seemed to trap themselves in his throat and he didn’t get any further either. He was alone, he felt suddenly horrifyingly alone and completely under scrutiny.
Peter’s face crumpled.
“It happened before she had time to know, Neal.”
Neal nodded, still staring at the page still grasped in his hands. Kate was dead. Kate was dead; that much was truth. It wasn’t 2005 anymore, that much was true as well. How much had changed in eight years? How much had he lost? His freedom, Kate, himself? How much more was left to go?
“You know, I’d almost forgotten how much of a chase you were. The last few times you haven’t really given me much of a go.” Burke’s voice was light and vaguely goading and completely see through. The man was horrible at trying to lighten the mood, or whatever that had been. But the sentiment was nice.
“How many is there?”
Peter frowned at him, not quite understanding what he meant. Neal cleared his throat and tried again.
“How many times have you caught me?”
Burke smiled, just a tiny thing, but easing, it settled that little bit of tension hanging between them. Peter laughed a little, a low chuckle that stayed mostly in his throat.
“This makes eight.”
Neal closed his eyes. Eight times.
“You have left me clues for most of them, and for a lot of them you weren’t running; you wanted to be found. So it doesn’t really count.”
“You’re good at finding me, then.”
“I’m good at finding you, Neal,” Peter said simply, nodding. He took another step towards Neal and Neal felt himself tense. It was an unconscious feat, but he felt the tension rise up again.
“Sorry,” he murmured, glancing up at Burke. The man was looking at him sadly.
“It’s okay.” He had a look in his eyes, like he understood. Neal wished he damn well did.
“Are you alright, Neal? You holding up?”
Neal nodded mutely.
“You let me out,” Neal said after a moment, glancing back up. Burke had moved a few steps closer and even though his brain wanted to tense, his body wouldn’t comply. His body was used to Peter, how he moved and reacted. It was like muscle memory. He couldn’t be wary around this man; he was far too used to trusting him.
That was a shock, something felt in the memory of his bones more than in his head. It went beyond years of documented papers as proof, beyond sense with everything that had happened, all the interactions he’d had with Mozzie since he woke up suddenly falling into line. No, this was beyond all that and both scarier and more calming than anything else either.
“I did,” Peter said softly as he took another step closer.
“I work for you.”
“You do,” again that soft spoken answer.
“Is it your fault I’m like this?”
Peter was quiet this time. Neal looked up at him, stared him in the face and watched the guilt fight for place in Peter’s expression. The man’s determination won out, but it was still there in his eyes, this hesitancy that couldn’t be anything else.
“It started with a case, yes,” Peter said, but Neal could see through his conviction, it had started with a case, yes, that part he believed because Peter Burke had always been an honest man. Even the Burke Neal knew and recognized. That he remembered. As little memories he had. Burke had been a fair player. A relentless player. A smart player. He had chased Neal hard for a long time, sometimes just a step behind and it had been thrilling. Or it was thrilling. Or it had been. Had been. Peter had stopped chasing him now. Or had he? Peter had chased him this time, hadn’t he? He was here, and hadn’t he said that he’d found him every single time he’d run?
Neal bowed his head.
This was all too much.
“I’m sorry, Neal,” Peter said quietly and Neal opened his eyes. The raw intensity in Peter’s voice was impossible to ignore. He turned to look at Peter, who was standing right beside him, staring at him with this look on his face that made Neal feel awkward and … cared for. He swallowed, battling over this rising feeling in his stomach he couldn’t discern when in the corner of his eye he saw something in the corner. A spark of movement, a shadow tall and dark and he tensed, staring behind Peter, moving just an inch and that subtle movement gave him that tiniest sliver of better view and his blood ran cold. There wasn’t time to think as he focused on the shadow in the doorway as there was the tiniest glint of metal as the man aimed his gun.
Neal lunged sideways, grabbing hold of Peter and pushing him with him. Peter let out a shocked grunt as he tripped over himself, dragging Neal down with him in a mess of limbs. Neal gasped as he hit the ground. It was instinct that took over from there. Afterwards he couldn’t pin down a conscious decision at all as he’d rolled over, taking Peter’s sidearm with him, flicking the safety off as he slid onto his back, one leg bracing his body as he held the gun with both hands and fired, twice, at the shadow in the opening of the room. The man had taken two steps forward into the room in the time it had taken Neal to push Peter out of the way and fire the agent’s gun. It seemed to take far longer for the man to fall, and it was only when he did that the noise seemed to turn itself back up in a rush that was disorientating.
He’d shot someone.
“Jesus, Neal - “ Peter was saying something, but Neal couldn’t hear it. He pushed himself wearily to a sitting position but didn’t move to go any further, he couldn’t, the world spun and it took everything he had not to vomit or pass out. Instead he just sat and stared down at the gun in his hand.
He’d shot someone, and he had no idea whether it was the first time he had or not. Surely that would be something he’d remember - surely. Only he couldn’t. He couldn’t remember Kate dying. Had that part of him changed too? Had he lost everything about himself that he knew now?
Or had he just given it away then?
***
next
He couldn’t remember.
The hardest part was that everything felt normal. It felt like there was nothing wrong, except all over the place things most definitely were. The technology was smaller, sleeker, more popular. Everyone had headphones in when Neal reached the street. Everyone had phones. Everyone was wearing clothes that were just that little bit different to how Neal remembered they should be. Eight years was a long time. It was a different decade to the one he remembered. Things were similar but they weren’t the same and that’s the thing. He’s out of place. He doesn’t belong, and while he had made a career out of pretending he does, this time he can’t quite get a handle on it as well as he’d like.
He wasn’t drawing too much attention to himself in the scrubs he’d stolen thank god, hidden under another poor bloke’s jacket. But as if to make up for that, he was already exhausted by the time he made it to the street and there was still a way to go. He didn’t even know if Mozzie’s old safe houses were even going to be safe anymore. Or available. They could - for all intents and purposes - be filled with other people, families or single businessmen or full of boxes, like storage units were meant to be furnished.
He didn’t have a clue and it’s a little bit alienating, but at the same time, it was soothing that he could still hail a cab no matter where he was, and he could still prattle off a reasonably easy story to believe as he told the driver an address and hoped that he’d be in luck. It wasn’t hard, it was like riding a bike and while he was tired, weak and sore and the throbbing in his head and his abdomen growing stronger as time wore on, he still knew the spiel and he knows he’s still good at it and he knows that there’s nothing else wrong. Not that being unable to remember eight years of his life isn’t something particularly alarming and wrong in every way imaginable. But it is somewhat soothing that he can still talk and smile and con like all he did was go to sleep eight years ago and woke up in the future. He doesn’t feel… broken.
Which is nice.
What isn’t nice is the way his stomach lurched as the cabbie turned too quickly, or how he slumped back against the seat and had to close his eyes because his vision was taking turns to blur out at the edges or swim rather violently as he tried to keep his eyes open. He should have stayed at the hospital, he knew that much now. He knows it deep in his gut that he should have trusted Mozzie; that Moz would have his reasons for Neal being there. For being Neal. For the Feds. For staying. Moz always had some sort of reason.
He’d be able to tell him why Kate wasn’t there. Surely after eight years he’d have found her.
Neal’s stomach made an anxious roil as he sat up, the thought floating unbidden to the forefront of his mind. Maybe the Feds had Kate, maybe that was why they were there waiting for him. Why Kate wasn’t there. Or maybe, maybe he’d never got her back; maybe she’d left him such a damn long time ago. Maybe he’d been running so long that he’d given up and let Burke catch him, maybe that’s why the fed was there.
And that was all in the space of why he’d woken up with a fed beside him. A fed who he didn’t recognize, but who certainly seemed to recognize him.
She was pretty. No, pretty wasn’t the word. She was bossy, determined. Gorgeous. That was a better word. And uninterested. He knew that much just from looking at her. But he wasn’t sure as he remembered her face whether it had been instinct upon waiting or something else, something half remembered. Neal frowned and glanced out the window at Manhattan moving past him.
It had been a long time since he’d seen the view running past him and at that thought Neal had to frown. In his own head, the head that made sense and felt real he’d been out this way only two days ago. They hadn’t gone to the Island because they never did. The Island was just that, cut off from any other place unless they were free or desperate. The Island was Mozzie’s paranoic pride and joy.
And it was a lot further away from Lenox Hill than he remembered. Not that he made a point of arranging safe houses near hospitals. That could probably be of use though. Maybe Mozzie had already thought of that somehow. Maybe he had somewhere he hadn’t told Neal about close to Bellevue or something. Neal scrunched his eyes closed for a moment and pushed himself upright again, watching the world go blurring past again.
He hoped that the drive ended soon. He wasn’t feeling his best and at that moment there seemed like nothing better in the world than somewhere that wasn’t moving in any way. Neal closed his eyes again and winced. His body was pulsing now, beating louder and louder.
“How much longer?”
He heard a voice rasp and it took him a moment to realize his mouth had opened and vomited out the question revolving around in his head.
“Couple of blocks. Not long,” the driver answered and Neal murmured his thanks, leaning back against the seat and bracing himself against the window.
He needed drugs. Drugs and somewhere not moving and a damn burner phone so he could call Mozzie and figure out what the hell had happened. Because there was obviously something massive they weren’t telling him. There was so much missing in that eight year gap, but Neal could feel something huge hanging over Mozzie’s head. There had to be, otherwise Moz would have just said. Your parachute didn’t open, you landed on your head, Alex hit you with a wrench, Wilkes ran you over, Keller’s gone mental, you got shot - something. Mozzie would have said something.
He just had to find out what it was he hadn’t said.
That, and stop the world spinning. He needed it to stop spinning and he needed his damn eyelids to not feel like they were packed with cement and he needed to find out about Kate and Burke and why he couldn’t remember.
He needed to -
He needed.
“We’re here, buddy.”
He needed… to pay the driver.
***
Peter knew there was no use blaming anyone.
He was very much aware of the fact that when Neal Caffrey wanted to disappear, he did. He could cook up the biggest stupidest plans for the smallest reasons. He would con the entire FBI for a five minute conversation that could get him nowhere. He would buy a bakery so he could construct an awning on the side of a building. He would get himself arrested for the risk of seeing his missing girlfriend.
Neal managed grand feats for the simplest reasons, there was little stopping him when his reasons were anything but simple, and in Neal’s view, this was a very complex situation indeed.
And he wasn’t wrong.
“How on earth can a man who has been in a coma for three days and has four broken ribs get past two fully trained FBI agents and the entire hospital staff in a hospital gown? How? How is that possible?”
The group of milling agents who had meant to be looking after Neal, shuffled awkwardly and looked suitably abashed. All the same, Peter was fuming.
“I want you all back at the office at eight am. We pick this up first thing.”
They all nodded and guiltily disbanded. Peter watched them go, still fuming.
Peter knew it was a useless tirade, but he needed someone to berate, someone to take this anger out on, because he could barely stand keeping it in any more. Neal was gone, the Neal he remembered and liked and damn well spent every day with. The Neal he would take a damn bullet for if it meant sparing him one, was damn well gone and it was all Peter’s fault.
It was Nikolai Volkov’s doing.
But it was Peter’s fault it had happened.
Volkov had been trying to punish him, and he’d done it by attacking Neal, and now Neal was gone. Neal had disappeared out of the hospital before Peter had even been able to accept that he was still alive. He’d woken up and erased everything they’d been through together and left Peter the Bad Guy, the Good Cop out to put the Dashing Theif behind bars again and he almost wasn’t wrong.
Peter was half incensed to put Neal back in prison if it meant he could stop anything else happening to him. Solitary Confinement. No visitors.
And he’d do it if it meant keeping Neal safe.
Except Neal wasn’t safe, he was missing and he was Neal.
He was the Neal of eight years ago. The Neal who stole a Raphael to try and get his girlfriends attention, who screwed over Ryan Wilkes for half a million and a hatred of guns, who ran a scheme with fake gems worth over four million dollars. This was the Neal Caffrey they taught about in criminology class. And he was injured and in pain and couldn’t remember a single thing about how far his loyalties had turned and therefore he was expecting none of the ramifications.
He was as vulnerable as Neal had ever been in his life.
“Tell me what’s' going on to change this situation?” he asked, still annoyed. Diana didn’t look pleased herself.
“It looks like he snuck into the lockers and swapped his clothes. Morrison’s pulling footage of the front doors. I’m guessing he hailed a cab.”
“Given the state of him he wouldn’t be walking,” Peter scowled, reaching into his pocket for his phone. Mozzie hadn’t picked up when Peter had called, but as he’d been halfway to the hospital he’d received a text message saying he was on his way. Peter was still waiting.
“If he hailed a taxi I’ll see if we can pull traffic logs and see where he went,” Diana said. She looked tired. She needed a break. They all did.
Dammit Neal.
One night, could they not have had one night?
“Good. I’ll check with the little guy. Hopefully he’ll be able to tell us if he’s got a damn safe house Neal would go to.”
“We could answer all those questions before we caught him with this, boss,” Diana said, her voice edged with an attempt to be humorous, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes and Peter nodded.
“Might be able to close a few of those cases, too. Look out James Bonds, the FBI knows all about you.”
Diana barely had time to snort derisively before Peter’s phone buzzed.
Mozzie.
Was outside.
Peter fumed and glanced at Diana.
“I’ll be back,” Diana nodded.
“I’m going to head to the office, get an early start on those tapes.”
“I’ll let you know if the little guy has anything,” Peter said and Diana nodded, the pair of them heading for the elevator together.
Mozzie was waiting near the ambulance bay. Peter wanted to throttle him. Was now really the time to start getting all up in his habits again?
“Has he contacted you?” he asked pointedly the moment he had the man in his sights. Mozzie looked a little annoyed himself.
“Would I be here if he had, Suit?” Mozzie scowled.
“Where is he, Mozzie?” Peter pressed. Mozzie watched as the lines on Peter’s face became more pronounced and there was this fierce glint in his eyes that was a little disarming. This was the man who chased criminals, who caught them.
“I’m telling you, Suit, he hasn’t contacted me.”
“And if he did, would you be telling me?”
“Given the circumstances, Suit, I want him back just as much as you do. He needs to know the mess working for you has got him into.”
“That’s not an answer Mozzie. If anything that sounds like you’re planning on warning him and disappearing for good.”
“You’re paranoid.”
“Tell me you haven’t thought about it, Haversham.”
“I’m not going to acknowledge your ridiculous accusations.”
“At six o’clock, Mozzie, Neal woke up not remembering a damn thing. It’s three am, and he’s gone. Now tell me, he can’t remember ever working for me, tell me that’s not tempting to make him cut and run. He’s not wearing the anklet.”
“He hasn’t contacted me, Suit. Given the state of him, you should have the NYPD out on the beat looking for him. He’s probably unconscious on the side of the road.”
Peter hated the way his body flinched at the idea. Please God, please don’t let that be true…
“You’re telling me, Mozzie, that Neal broke out and he didn’t tell you.”
“Considering I didn’t tell him he’s working for you, Suit, he’s not exactly open to trusting openly. I told him I wouldn’t help him escape, so he did it on his own.”
“You didn’t help him with this?”
“I’m a criminal, Suit, I’m not stupid. He could barely stand. He could barely stay awake.”
“Then where would he go, Mozzie?”
“Somewhere safe. We had this little place, back when - “
Mozzie didn’t get any further, there was a faint buzzing and the small man stopped talking to reach for his phone. The look on his face as he looked at the ID was almost priceless. Peter didn’t see what the screen said, but the light in Mozzie’s eyes as he looked up at him said enough.
“It’s Neal,” Havernsham said without needing to. Peter closed his mouth, watching as Mozzie answered the phone.
“Neal?”
“Mozzie?” Neal’s voice was faint in the cool night air. Peter could barely hear it as Mozzie held the phone to his ear. But Peter could. Just.
It was stupidly relieving. He couldn’t quite remove the image of Neal slumped in the gutter somewhere, eerily, terrifyingly reminiscent of seeing him in that damn storage container…
“Neal, where are you? You should be still in the hospital.”
“I had to get out, too much going on. Why was I there under my own name? Who brought the Feds in, Moz? What isn’t anyone telling me? ”
Mozzie looked warily at Peter then before he looked away pointedly and started speaking again.
“These are all valid questions that can be answered in good time, mon frère, if you tell me where you are.”
“What's going on, Mozzie?” Neal sounded confused. Almost… childlike. There was a simplicity to his question that was a little alarming. Peter wanted to touch him in that moment more than was really necessary. Just touch him so he was sure the damn kid was breathing and at least a little bit sane. That he knew who he was.
Was that too much to ask? To just have Neal back? The way he was, the Neal who trusted him implicitly, who smiled and laughed and worked with him. Was it too much to ask to have his partner back?
And then he looked at Mozzie, and the realization hit him like a bolt of lightning.
Could Mozzie be asking the same thing? Wasn’t this like the world giving Mozzie back his partner? The Neal who had belonged to Mozzie and Kate and had never thought about working for the FBI. Who had teased and taunted Peter and run any risk and any con the pair (or three of them) could think of. Wasn’t this like offering Mozzie his parner back without reproach?
Peter swallowed, his throat tight. He stared at Mozzie on the phone, at the link between the con and their friend. The compassion. This was the man who had spent every waking moment with Neal, hoping for him to wake up. The man who had come whenever Neal called; who had stuck by him. Who had searched for him and then waited so diligently for him to wake up while Peter was off fighting battles with his own guilt.
What was going on?
Such a simple question, such a complex answer.
What would Mozzie tell him?
Mozzie’s eyes flickered nervously up to Peter. The moment they connected Mozzie looked away again, his expression tight.
“I'll tell you if you tell me where you are, Neal. If you're not careful you're going to bust a lung. Then what are we going to do?”
“I'm alright Mozz. ”
That sentiment.
I’m alright.
How often had Peter heard that phrase?
After Kate?
After Sara.
After Thompson.
I’m alright.
Neal’s hands trembling and he couldn’t make them stop. His gaze distant, clouded in pain.
I’m alright.
Peter snapped.
“You're not alri-“ Mozzie was saying but Peter couldn’t stop himself. Couldn’t stay quiet any longer.
***
“Give it here.” Peter interrupted, motioning for the phone. His expression grieving and tight.
Mozzie's heart sank.
“Is that? ' Neal asked, while Peter motioned for the phone again, his hand outstretched.
“Pass it here.”
“You knarked Mozzie?” Neal asked, and he sounded hurt more than outraged, but the sentiment was there all the same, echoing in the back of his voice. Then before Mozzie could say a thing, or Peter could yank the phone out of his grasp, all he could hear was the dial tone as Neal hung up on him.
***
Neal’s brain felt thick and fuzzy and his limbs were heavy as he eyed the phone on the opposite couch where he’d tossed it. All he really wanted to do was lay down and sleep. Take a few pills for the thumping pain running through him that was beginning to sharpen the longer he was on his feet. He was tired.
But beyond the pain there was a slow burning anger in his gut and it kept him on his feet.
Mozzie.
Mozzie and Burke.
What the hell had been going on these past years?
Neal shuffled across the room towards where he’d dumped the stolen coat he’d come with. The Island had been well cared for over the years. It was just as it had always been and that alone had been strangely warming. It was familiar and soothing where everything else felt turbulent.
He couldn’t remember and he’d never felt so damn alone in his life.
Mozzie was with Peter Burke, and he wouldn’t tell Neal what was going on and where the hell was Kate?
Neal winced and had to take pause against the wall for a moment as the world swayed.
As much as he wanted to crash, to just slump down on the couch and let them find him, he couldn’t. He had to go, find somewhere where he could rest, somewhere close. Somewhere safe, where Burke couldn’t find him, because Burke would be looking. Burke had always been looking.
Neal took a deep breath in and glanced silently back at the apartment. He’d been so sure he’d be safe here, but it seemed these days, even The Island wasn’t as safe as it once could have been.
***
The Bureau was all but deserted now, bar the agents who had been at the hospital supposedly guarding Neal, and the few she’d called in. It was quiet. After all, it was stupidly early. Everyone was meant to be asleep. Trust it to Neal to go missing in the middle of the night. Regardless of the movement as they all tried to pull up everything they could on the hospital and the case and Neal it was still much less of a minefield of movement than when Diana had called past about eight. The fact that Neal Caffrey was not only back, but awake had been a relief to most of the floor.
None of them knew the real complications of that waking up. Just the annoyance that he’d upped and disappeared.
But as hesitant as most of them had been some three and a half years ago, Neal had earned his place amongst them and the news of his recovery and subsequent disappearance again had spread throughout the office. It was uplifting and disappointing in turn. But they were nothing if not a community and Diana couldn’t help the tiny smile that broke through as she took pause in front of the white board in the break room.
There was a betting pool on the whiteboard, in true white collar style.
There’d been a betting pool when Kirsty had her baby, one for the sex and subsequent name, one for the date and just for kicks, one for the father. Jones had won out in the first one, Neal had won the second. Kirsty had smacked the pair of them when they owned up to running the third, but forgiven them when it was clear Neal’s winnings had gone into the rather expensive capsule full of knick knacks delivered to her room. They’d run a betting pool when Hughes had announced he was going to retire twelve months ago, Peter had won that. Hughes hadn’t lasted three weeks before he retracted the request. When Blake had started acting quiet there had been a betting pool guessing his secret. Girlfriend had been the obvious choice, Jones had been outlandish and called that he was dating twins. It had been Neal once again who had figured it all out and put an end to it quietly when he realized there was more to Blake’s quiet stretches than just a secret girlfriend. When the young agent had to take a week’s leave when his niece passed away, no one said a word about the betting pool, but no one asked for their money back either and Diana heard Blake thanking Neal quietly after his return for the bouquet he’d sent on behalf of the office and the accompanying cheque for their donation to cancer research.
There had been bets placed on everything and anything over the years, and it made so much sense to see it pinned to the board.
Peter catching Neal the favored bet.
Neal turning himself in, running a close second.
Neal breaking out to go get Pizza a completely outlandish third option.
Diana stared at the board and sighed, clutching her coffee mug to her. She glanced across the bull pen and up into the conference room. Blake was leaning up against the table staring at the screen intently. Diana poured a second cup and headed up the stairs.
“I think I know the last bits of the heist,” Blake said quietly as Diana sat down next to him and she couldn’t help the rush of relief that ran through her. Because as good as it felt knowing that they already had Volkov, there were still pieces missing and Diana wanted it all flush. She wanted to know everything.
And this was one step further towards obtaining that.
And she needed good news. There had been too much bad. Far too much.
“It was all to do with the wife,” Blake said as Diana stared up at the screen.
Blake clicked the remote.
“She disappeared after Peter arrested Volkov the first time for smuggling. Volkov never saw her again. When he went inside, Salina’s brother, Alexander Restovin took over the business. He laid low, slowly building the business back up. When Volkov gets out, his men aren’t loyal to him anymore. But they are to the business. He makes a deal with Restovin. Restovin gives him the resources he needs in exchange for an addition to his private and increasingly illegal collection of Russian art. Including, several already by Kandinsky.”
“But why the forgery and then the robbery?”
“The robbery came first. It was switched before it even entered the gallery. Restovin had it since the tenth. Mandy Brenner had been painting reproductions of all the works coming through the gallery as practice. Apparently when Luccson came in to case the place, they were talking about it. He bought her reproduction that afternoon. Based on the encrypted transcript Forensics sent up, Luccson traced the painting back to its owner and swapped them out in transit. The gallery owner never realized it was a fake he unpacked in the first place. Based on that info and what Mandy Brenner told us, we traced Volkov’s private muscle, Ivan Korvesky to an exchange with Restovin on the eleventh, where we found footage across the road of Korvesky dropping off an art folder to Restovin’s private luncheon at café Trevane. Organized Crime’s had the place under surveillance for weeks. Agent Martin showed me the footage last night.”
“And there we have it,” Diana murmured, staring at the screen.
She stared at the image of Korvesky on the screen in front of her. Tall, broadbuilt, Russian, with a tattoo climbing up the side of his neck. There was their driver of the SUV.
A part of her settled.
They had them.
Volkov had set the entire thing up. He’d needed art to pay his brother in law for his revenge plot and had used a hacker looking to get himself a better rep to do it. From there, he’d sent Peter and Neal the threats and then used his hired muscle to take Neal.
It was all wrapped up, the artworks, the notes, Luccson, the SUV and Neal.
They didn’t need anything else to convict anyone else they could lay their hands on.
With this sort of info, all they needed to do was find Korvesky and put him away and they were fine. The evidence spoke for itself.
Which was lucky, because Volkov wasn’t willing to say a thing, and Peter refused to talk to the man again regardless. That’s if Hughes would even have let him on the same floor as the man. That part was off limits, and given Neal’s state - well, it was hidden there as well. They simply wouldn’t know what had happened in those four days.
And a part of her was content for it to stay that way.
Diana continued to stare at the screen. She was hesitant to say it, but she could almost feel some of the weight starting to lift. Almost.
They had Volkov, they would find Korvesky and they would get Neal back, memories and all. They would.
Diana reached for her phone and punched in a text and Jones’ number. The poor bastard had been texting her daily for updates. He’d love this.
TEXT MESSAGE
Send To: JONES
Time: 06:25 .
Jones, just thought
I’d let you know.
We’ve ID’d the
driver. Ivan Korevsky.
She wasn’t expecting a reply. Not at six am when he was supposed to be on leave.
All the same, her phone was beeping in reply before she could even set it down.
TEXT MESSAGE
Sender: JONES
Time: 06:27 .
Excellent.
Diana smiled.
TEXT MESSAGE
Send To: JONES
Time: 06:28 .
He wont know
What’s about to
hit him.
She punched in her reply, feeling a little more vindictive than felt normal.
But then again, this had not been a normal case.
***
The Suit was an arse.
But he was smart enough, and he had a brilliant wife.
And his dog wasn’t bad either.
But he certainly wasn’t in Mozzie’s top ten favourite people.
Never the less, he was smart and bossy and right at that moment, Mozzie hated him.
If he had just waited - Mozzie frowned again. He’d been doing it the whole trip over, and it still wasn’t doing him any good. All he could focus on was the damn sound of Neal’s not-quite-there voice as he accused him of the one thing Mozzie had sworn never to do.
Knark. Tell. Flip.
Mozzie wasn’t a snitch. He didn’t betray people.
He wouldn’t.
Not Neal.
He’d never betray Neal.
He’d done some things in his life he wasn’t proud of, but he wasn’t heartless. He wasn’t corrupt or, or. He was loyal. He watched Neal’s back. After all, hadn’t he stayed?
They’d had millions, no, billions in lost treasure and he’d stayed because Neal had asked him to. He’d been prepared to leave, to pack it all in and leave and the feeling still haunted him. But Neal had asked, he’d looked Mozzie in the eyes and he’d dropped all pretenses and he’d asked Mozzie to stay, to not make him choose because he couldn’t choose between Mozzie and Burke. It hadn’t been fair. It still wasn’t fair. Mozzie had kept Neal’s back, he’d been there no matte what through all of it and two years with Burke and it was almost for nothing.
Except it wasn’t nothing because Neal had asked him to stay, to stay with him and help him because Neal couldn’t do it alone.
And so they’d stayed, the treasure had gone into storage. His blessed Big Score packed away as best he could and kept hidden and now they were here. They were three and a half years in plus a little more and Neal had been knocked back further than square one and Mozzie had no idea what to do anymore. Neal trusted Burke, except he didn’t now and Mozzie didn’t know how to tell him he did. Tell him that they were partners and that he wanted to stay when the Neal he’d have to tell it to would double take and laugh and Mozzie could just say the word treasure, and I did it, I beat Adler, let me show you what I found and there would be nothing that Burke could do to stop them just disappearing and Neal would be all his again.
There’d be no more New York, but there’d be no more tracking anklet and no more radius and no more security details and planning and plotting around the Burke’s notice or Diana’s notice or Jones’ or any of them. They could have their island. Their safe haven, the dream they’d conjured day after day, night after night - outlandish and brilliant and a bit crazed and oh so perfectly capable of coming true.
But this was New York, and Peter was Peter and El was El and June was June and they were why Neal had asked to stay and why Mozzie had agreed, they were why he was so careful fencing that Picasso, why it had been so brilliant when it had just slipped into the ether and they were six million richer in barely a blink. They were why he made sure to be specific and careful about the fence he found for the black pearls just last week. They were why Neal had started getting restless. Why he’d been sleeping badly and pretending he wasn’t. They were why Neal had walked around with his long hidden hesitancies rising to the surface and why Mozzie was restraining himself as he unlocked the door to the Island.
Neal didn’t want to leave. The Neal Mozzie knew, had watched blossom out of prison in a way that was amazing and terrifying in equal parts. They’d done things in the last three and a half years they’d not have dreamed of before. And now they were here, fighting for a place to stand.
And so much of it was Burke’s fault and not at the same time and Mozzie couldn’t stand it.
When he opened the door he braced himself and tried to be prepared for anything he'd find, but hoping that regardless of his apparent change of allegiance, Neal had stuck around.
It was obvious this was where he’d gone and a part of Mozzie smiled smugly, while the rest of him sighed in contemp.
All it took was two seconds inside the apartment made to make it very clear that while Neal had been there, it was no longer the case. Neal's - disturbingly bloody - hospital disguise was discarded over the couch, as Mozzie walked through the main section into the weave of bedroom and study he found Neal's cupboard open and empty. Hurrying into the bathroom Mozzie’s heart sank as he took in the open cupboard, empty of pretty much everything. Which that meant Neal had enough pain meds to get himself delusional for six months solid. Which considering the scrubs in the main room was both a blessing and a curse and Mozzie couldn’t help but hope it would be enough to at least slow Neal down. Because if Neal had left The Island, their mutual Last Resort Emergency Halfway House, that meant quite a few things Mozzie didn’t bear thinking about. Neal was clearly angry, hurt and in pain. He wouldn’t have taken the drugs if he wasn’t. Neal wasn’t fond of needing something to keep himself going and if he’d cleared the place out that was obviously the case.
The only upside to the situation Mozzie could find as he battled to keep down the roiling terror and guilt swirling inside of him, was that they had a doped Neal to chase, who, depending on how many pills he'd taken would determine on how sharp his mind was. And that determined whether or not Neal was still in the city. One thing Mozzie knew, was that Neal wouldn’t take anything until he was somewhere he could trust himself, somewhere he could lock himself away, and if he was bleeding, then he was probably not going to be far. But all the same, if he'd left The Island that meant he was going somewhere Mozzie couldn’t find him.
***
Mozzie was right, the moment Neal saw him again in the state he was in, he was going to run the other way.
All the same, Peter didn’t like feeling usless. So he’d come back to the bureau to wait for Mozzie’s call. His phone didn’t take to being stared at, and for the first time in over a week, Peter couldn’t focus on punishing the man responsible for this whole mess.
He wanted his damn phone to ring and for Mozzie to perk up and tell him he’d found Neal and the idiot had gone and remembered everything and they could all go home.
Peter knew he wasn’t going to have any sort of luck like that in the slightest.
It didn’t stop him hoping that the Little Guy had at least found Neal when his phone started to buzz on the table in front of him.
“Mozzie, tell me you have good news.” Even Peter could hear the gruff desperation in his own voice as he answered.
“No good, Suit. He’s not here. ”
Peter sighed, feeling his heart plummet.
Dammit.
“Where else could he be?”
“The possibilities are infinite, g-man, Neal’s in the wind. He’s gone. ”
Mozzie’s voice was tinged with disappointment to match Peter’s and he didn’t wait around to let Peter say anything, and to be honest, Peter didn’t have much to say anyway.
What could he say to the smaller man?
Neal was gone; he had gone just after they’d got him back. He’d disappeared and he had been the one to screw up the only viable link they had with the Neal currently running around New York City. It was his fault Neal no longer trusted Mozzie.
And he’d be damned if he let it sit that way.
Neal needed them, whether he knew it or not.
Peter sighed and stared at the boxes Diana had had the probies carry up from storage while Peter was talking (or arguing) with Mozzie.
Six years of files collected from James Bonds to Neal Caffrey. From the initial investigation to the beginning of Peter’s, when Neal’s cocky Atlantic Bonds landed on his desk courtesy of a lazy agent taking advantage.
The boxes had been staring at him since he arrived and a part of him was still hoping that he wouldn’t have to open them. That Neal would show up somewhere.
But a larger part of him was finally starting to accept the truth for exactly what it was; Neal couldn’t remember him short of the man on his tail, he couldn’t remember a single day he spent in prison or since he left it.
The Neal currently on the streets of New York was seven years younger, and he was not the man that Peter knew. That Peter could trace and trust.
The Neal he needed to find was the Neal that had taken him three years to corner with a backhanded ploy using his only weakness; the Neal in the boxes in front of him.
And after three years working side by side, he wasn’t sure he wanted to open up the past with everything that lay behind them.
But if he was going to find Neal, it was the only thing he could do.
Peter sighed, and stood up.
They had come a long way in the last eight years, since Diana had first suggested why they hadn’t staked out Neal’s girlfriend. Why they hadn’t gone after Moreau.
After all, it had all been about Moreau. Peter had been furious with himself he hadn’t seen how much of Neal’s spree had been for Moreau’s benefit and having Diana just suggest it had been well - a case breaker.
It had been about Kate.
And just like she’d been all those years ago, Kate proved to be the eye of the storm and Peter almost had to hit himself as it suddenly occurred to him.
How could he have been so stupid?
Peter reached into the files, searching until he found the one he was after.
How could this have not occurred to him sooner?
Peter smiled.
“I know where you are, Neal,” he said to himself quietly as he stared down at the page.
“I know where you are.”
***
“Agent Berrigan?”
Diana and Blake both turned towards Cooper who was standing nervously in the doorway. Diana was immediately reminded of how Blake had been standing just days ago in a similar position looking just as nervous holding a card in his hands with the number three written across the front of it.
Diana’s blood ran cold.
“What is it, Cooper?” she asked, tentatively. Cooper swallowed and then straightened.
“We just got an alert on Ivan Korevsky’s mobile.”
She glanced at Blake, who shrugged.
“I set it up once I ID’d him,” he said simply and Diana turned back to Cooper.
“What was it?”
“It was a call from the Marshall’s offices. Holding cells. It was Volkov.”
“Volkov?” Diana stood up, warily looking between Blake and Cooper.
“It only lasted twenty seconds.”
“Call the Marshall’s I want to know what was said in that phone call,” she said darkly. Cooper blushed.
“I already called. They’re sending the recording over, but the Marshall I talked to was Volkov’s supervising guard on that call. He only said one thing.”
“What was it?”
“He said ‘checkmate’ and then hung up.”
Checkmate.
Diana felt a hand crawl up her spine like a spider. She spun to stare at the image of Korevsky still staring out from the screen.
Checkmate.
It rang too many bells for something so simple. Checkmate.
Then it came back to her.
Checkmate. Peter.
One, two, three, check.
The notes.
Peter.
“Find me Peter. Someone find me Agent Burke!” Diana called, barging past Blake and Cooper and hanging out over the side of the bull pen, pulling out her own phone as she did.
She faced Cooper for a moment.
“When was this?” she asked pointedly. Cooper went a little redder. The curling pit of fear in her stomach at that moment increased just a little.
“When was Volkov’s call?”
Flustered, Cooper finally answered.
“About an hour ago. We haven’t had the alert on Korevsky on long. It took time to come through.”
“Diana what is it?” Blake asked, following her out, looking between her and Cooper. She spun to face him.
“Checkmate. The notes, Blake. When Volkov was talking to Peter about why he took Neal he said something, he said ‘one, two, three, check’. That’s exactly what the notes said. Neal’s abduction was number three. Check was getting him back, checkmate has to be Peter.”
Blake went a little pale and went running past her down towards his desk.
“Come on, Peter,” Diana murmured as she held her phone to her ear and listened to it buzz.
“Come on, pick up, please,”
***
One thing was made very obvious to Neal the moment he broke into the apartment: it hadn’t been used in a long time.
It was empty.
Or, at least, mostly empty. The furniture was completely gone, the decoration, the life they’d once had had been all stripped away and it was jarring - he could remember being here yesterday. He could close his eyes and know where everything had been, everything he’d put down just the day before. It was all gone. There was a rusted old bike on one wall, and a half dozen boxes in the far corner.
Wincing, Neal limped over to the boxes. They weren’t labeled but he almost knew as he opened the first box that this would be what was in the others too. Files. Manila folders. Bureau issue files and photographs and Neal stared as he reached into the box and pulled out the top folder.
His name was written across the top. It was blue, the FBI brand embossed into the cardboard.
Neal opened the folder, his pulse racing.
His face stared back at him. He was holding one of those blasted boards with the details of his arrest scrawled across it. His arrest. His arrest. Neal gulped, staring at the page.
He was arrested on the 27th of January 2006. He’d been arrested.
He turned the page.
Four years.
He’d been in jail for four years.
Neal turned page after page. Suspected cases, links, evidence. Reports.
He grunted as he pulled the box down off the pile and set it on the ground, lowering himself to the ground. His vision whitened out again for a moment and he held his breath before he opened his eyes again and focused on the box of files. He pulled the second out and opened it.
Four years in prison. Infirmary files. Reports.
Four years with the FBI.
He was a fed. A snitch. He worked with Peter Burke. He worked with Peter…
Work release.
Escape risk.
Suspected cases.
Closed cases.
Files and files of them.
Aliases he’d used and hadn’t even thought of yet. Jobs he’d pulled and jobs he couldn’t remember doing. A frustrated noise caught in Neal’s throat and he pushed the first box aside and pulled the second close, rummaging through it.
He didn’t get far.
Right on top was a black and white photograph. Kate.
A man’s hand on her shoulder.
Kate.
Neal hesitantly reached out for the photo and held it closer to him. His brain still felt thick from the meds and he ached from the dull pain, but God - her face. There was a man’s hand on her shoulder and she didn’t look happy. She looked… scared and Neal felt a white hot flash of fear run through him. It was instinctual. It was beyond what he knew, what he could remember and all of a sudden he didn’t want to know what was in the files in front of him. He didn’t want to know.
But it was almost already too late.
In the back of his head he could feel this piercing furious heat on his back and this bright white light in the corners of his vision and Neal cried out, letting go of the picture.
He could feel the brace of someone’s arm around his chest and this aching fear running through him.
The folder down had her name on it.
Kate Moreau.
Neal’s hands were shaking.
He couldn’t make them stop.
The first page was a report from the FAA.
Explosion near the door.
Semtax A Grade Explosives.
Fatalities: Jordan Pleasance, pilot.
Kate Moreau, passenger.
Neal felt the world slip out from under him. The file hung loose in his grasp.
Neal stared at the page in front of him, the information staring back at him with a stark clarity it was impossible to blame on bad eyesight. How was it possible? It couldn’t be possible. She could be - how could they have… Neal stared.
Kate was dead.
“You found it then.”
Neal nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Peter Burke’s voice. The sound of it still made his stomach tighten into a knot, or at least it would have if he could feel anything at all. He scrambled painfully to his feet.
“I wondered where Mozzie had stashed all those files.”
Neal didn’t say anything. He listened as Peter took several measured steps towards him.
“Neal,” the man murmured and it could have been the start of some grand speech or reprimand but it faded back at him and then disappeared. He didn’t follow it with anything, and that’s when Neal realized what it was: a plea.
“Kate. She, uh, did she?” the rest of his words seemed to trap themselves in his throat and he didn’t get any further either. He was alone, he felt suddenly horrifyingly alone and completely under scrutiny.
Peter’s face crumpled.
“It happened before she had time to know, Neal.”
Neal nodded, still staring at the page still grasped in his hands. Kate was dead. Kate was dead; that much was truth. It wasn’t 2005 anymore, that much was true as well. How much had changed in eight years? How much had he lost? His freedom, Kate, himself? How much more was left to go?
“You know, I’d almost forgotten how much of a chase you were. The last few times you haven’t really given me much of a go.” Burke’s voice was light and vaguely goading and completely see through. The man was horrible at trying to lighten the mood, or whatever that had been. But the sentiment was nice.
“How many is there?”
Peter frowned at him, not quite understanding what he meant. Neal cleared his throat and tried again.
“How many times have you caught me?”
Burke smiled, just a tiny thing, but easing, it settled that little bit of tension hanging between them. Peter laughed a little, a low chuckle that stayed mostly in his throat.
“This makes eight.”
Neal closed his eyes. Eight times.
“You have left me clues for most of them, and for a lot of them you weren’t running; you wanted to be found. So it doesn’t really count.”
“You’re good at finding me, then.”
“I’m good at finding you, Neal,” Peter said simply, nodding. He took another step towards Neal and Neal felt himself tense. It was an unconscious feat, but he felt the tension rise up again.
“Sorry,” he murmured, glancing up at Burke. The man was looking at him sadly.
“It’s okay.” He had a look in his eyes, like he understood. Neal wished he damn well did.
“Are you alright, Neal? You holding up?”
Neal nodded mutely.
“You let me out,” Neal said after a moment, glancing back up. Burke had moved a few steps closer and even though his brain wanted to tense, his body wouldn’t comply. His body was used to Peter, how he moved and reacted. It was like muscle memory. He couldn’t be wary around this man; he was far too used to trusting him.
That was a shock, something felt in the memory of his bones more than in his head. It went beyond years of documented papers as proof, beyond sense with everything that had happened, all the interactions he’d had with Mozzie since he woke up suddenly falling into line. No, this was beyond all that and both scarier and more calming than anything else either.
“I did,” Peter said softly as he took another step closer.
“I work for you.”
“You do,” again that soft spoken answer.
“Is it your fault I’m like this?”
Peter was quiet this time. Neal looked up at him, stared him in the face and watched the guilt fight for place in Peter’s expression. The man’s determination won out, but it was still there in his eyes, this hesitancy that couldn’t be anything else.
“It started with a case, yes,” Peter said, but Neal could see through his conviction, it had started with a case, yes, that part he believed because Peter Burke had always been an honest man. Even the Burke Neal knew and recognized. That he remembered. As little memories he had. Burke had been a fair player. A relentless player. A smart player. He had chased Neal hard for a long time, sometimes just a step behind and it had been thrilling. Or it was thrilling. Or it had been. Had been. Peter had stopped chasing him now. Or had he? Peter had chased him this time, hadn’t he? He was here, and hadn’t he said that he’d found him every single time he’d run?
Neal bowed his head.
This was all too much.
“I’m sorry, Neal,” Peter said quietly and Neal opened his eyes. The raw intensity in Peter’s voice was impossible to ignore. He turned to look at Peter, who was standing right beside him, staring at him with this look on his face that made Neal feel awkward and … cared for. He swallowed, battling over this rising feeling in his stomach he couldn’t discern when in the corner of his eye he saw something in the corner. A spark of movement, a shadow tall and dark and he tensed, staring behind Peter, moving just an inch and that subtle movement gave him that tiniest sliver of better view and his blood ran cold. There wasn’t time to think as he focused on the shadow in the doorway as there was the tiniest glint of metal as the man aimed his gun.
Neal lunged sideways, grabbing hold of Peter and pushing him with him. Peter let out a shocked grunt as he tripped over himself, dragging Neal down with him in a mess of limbs. Neal gasped as he hit the ground. It was instinct that took over from there. Afterwards he couldn’t pin down a conscious decision at all as he’d rolled over, taking Peter’s sidearm with him, flicking the safety off as he slid onto his back, one leg bracing his body as he held the gun with both hands and fired, twice, at the shadow in the opening of the room. The man had taken two steps forward into the room in the time it had taken Neal to push Peter out of the way and fire the agent’s gun. It seemed to take far longer for the man to fall, and it was only when he did that the noise seemed to turn itself back up in a rush that was disorientating.
He’d shot someone.
“Jesus, Neal - “ Peter was saying something, but Neal couldn’t hear it. He pushed himself wearily to a sitting position but didn’t move to go any further, he couldn’t, the world spun and it took everything he had not to vomit or pass out. Instead he just sat and stared down at the gun in his hand.
He’d shot someone, and he had no idea whether it was the first time he had or not. Surely that would be something he’d remember - surely. Only he couldn’t. He couldn’t remember Kate dying. Had that part of him changed too? Had he lost everything about himself that he knew now?
Or had he just given it away then?
***
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