Chapter Text
26 FEDERAL PLAZA: MONDAY, 0900
The bullpen was humming with the usual Monday morning energy, but the conference room was a different beast entirely. Gibbs had already caught an early bird back to D.C., leaving Tony with a single, characteristically blunt instruction: “Wrap it up, DiNozzo. See you at the Yard next Monday. Don’t get arrested... again.”
Tony walked into the debrief room, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, looking like a man who hadn't quite decided to let go of the weekend yet. Tony clocked Neal and smiled. “Hey there, Croker,” he said easily, then flicked a glance toward Peter. “And… Burke.”
Neal didn’t look up from his coffee. “Says the man playing Linus.” A faint smile ghosted at the corner of his mouth.
Tony’s smirk widened. “I don’t see a security blanket, Caffrey.”
Neal finally lifted his gaze, unhurried. “Charcoal three-piece,” he said. “You’ve been wearing it like one all weekend.”
A beat. Tony held his eyes, something sharper sliding in behind the humor. Then—
“Careful,” he murmured. “You’re getting very specific.”
Neal’s expression didn’t shift. “Only when it’s accurate.”
"Alright, alright," Peter interrupted, though he looked more amused than annoyed. "Let’s get this on the record so we can all go home. Jones, you’re up."
The Recap: The Gala
Jones clicked through the monitor. "The Gala was a textbook recovery. Once Valenti’s security was bypassed, we confirmed the transfer of the Treasury Bonds. The buyer was intercepted at the north exit. Recovered one hundred percent of the assets. The museum's insurance is happy, and the DOJ is ecstatic."
The Recap: The Urn Incident
Diana took over, her expression deadpan as she pulled up a photo of the shattered ceramic. "And then there’s the 'Urn Incident.' Forensic sweep of the ballroom floor recovered the primary fragments. Unfortunately, the Ming Dynasty piece is a total loss. However, the distraction provided by the—and I quote the police report—'unorthodox wrestling match' between our UC and the suspect allowed the tac-team to move in without a single shot fired."
The Closing: Motive and Arrest
Peter stood, folding his arms. The tension that had been hanging over the New York office for the last forty-eight hours finally seemed to dissipate.
"The motive was personal," Peter said, his voice carrying across the quiet room. "Special Agent Hadley wasn't looking for the bonds; he was a mole with a family vendetta dating back to Philly. He used Detective Salerno as a pawn to pull Tony into a jurisdictional trap. Both have been processed and are being held at a secure facility. The mole is out of the system."
Across the room, Tony caught Neal’s eye. They made eye contact and held it—a long, steady beat of shared relief and understanding.
Peter looked around the room, a rare, genuine sense of pride in his expression. "Excellent work, everyone. Dismissed."
As the team stood up, Peter walked over to Tony. He reached out and shook Tony’s hand firmly. "Thanks, Tony. I mean it. I’m not sure we would have cleared the SoHo meet without you."
"Part of the service, Burke," Tony said.
Peter stepped back, then paused. "So, are you heading back to D.C. right now, or staying around for a bit?"
Tony shifted the strap of his duffel. "Not sure yet."
Peter nodded, then held his hand out again. Tony stared at the hand. He looked at Peter, then back at the hand, then lifted a confused eyebrow at Neal. Hesitantly, Tony reached out to shake it a second time.
Whack.
Peter slapped Tony's hand away with a groan. "Give me the damn keys, DiNozzo. The Aston Martin. I know you still have the spare set."
Tony burst out laughing, digging into his pocket and tossing the keys to Peter. "Honestly? I forgot I even had them."
Tony turned to Neal. "You heading out or staying?"
"I'm going," Neal said, grabbing his hat. "Let's go get coffee."
As they were heading out, they stopped to say goodbye to Diana and Clinton. Diana leaned back in her chair, a knowing smirk on her face. She reached into her drawer, pulled out a half-size legal envelope, and slid it across the desk toward Tony.
"Look it over later," she said.
Tony tucked it into his duffel. He looked at Neal as they cleared the doors. "So, I need to find a new hotel. Had to check out of the Pierre."
"You can stay at my place," Neal offered, then quickly backtracked. "I mean—June offered. She’s got a guest room on the floor below mine. She’d love to have you."
Tony adjusted his bag, a slow grin spreading across his face. "The floor below yours, huh? Lead the way, Caffrey."
The guest room was too quiet once Tony got settled. It wasn't unfamiliar—just… different. No hum of a hotel HVAC unit, no distant city noise bleeding through thin glass. Just the muted stillness of a place that had been lived in long enough to settle.
Tony sat on the edge of the bed and reached into his duffel, pulling out the envelope Diana had given him. He tore it open and tilted four 5x7 glossy photos onto the bedspread, along with a clipping from a society page.
The first photo was a wide shot of the limestone staircase. Tony and Neal were standing back-to-back in the wreckage of the Ming ceramic—the decorative piece that had been outside. Both were slightly disheveled. Tony’s jaw was set, his hands empty but ready, while Neal was adjusting a cufflink with a look of bored disdain that perfectly masked the adrenaline in his eyes.
The second was from a security feed near the elevators. Tony was leaning toward Neal, his hand a steadying weight on Neal’s shoulder. The dramatic lighting cast their profiles in sharp relief against the gold leaf of the gallery walls.
The third was pure theater—Tony, looking every bit his character, was mid-laugh at something Neal had said, a champagne flute in one hand while the other gestured toward a painting. Neal was looking at him with an expression that was genuine, appreciative, and entirely focused.
The fourth was the one that made Tony go still. It was a candid close-up taken through a long lens during the immediate aftermath on the steps. It captured a heavy, singular beat: Tony was slowly letting go of Neal’s arms, but his hand lingered for a second. He had reached up and used a steady thumb to wipe a smudge of white limestone dust from Neal’s lapel, his eyes locked on Neal’s and acting as if the task were the most important thing in the world.
Tony picked up the news clipping: “The evening’s glitter was momentarily eclipsed by an unknown power couple who reportedly charmed the room’s most elite collectors before being forced to shockingly defend themselves from a brutal attack... NYPD is withholding information, stating an ongoing investigation.”
Tony smiled at the shot of the lapel—the quiet focus of it—and propped the photo up against the lamp on the nightstand.
He rolled his shoulders, the remnants of yesterday’s tension still sitting somewhere between his spine and his patience. Tony dragged a hand through his hair, then stood, crossing to the door without overthinking it.
The smell of coffee hit first. Then the light.
The terrace doors were already open, the early New York sun spilling across the floor in long, clean lines. Neal was outside. He stood at the railing, sleeves rolled, coffee in hand, looking out over the city.
Tony paused in the doorway for half a second, then stepped out. “Can I get some of that coffee, Neil McCauley?”
Neal didn’t turn right away. “You’re late.”
Tony glanced at his watch. “I wasn’t aware we’d scheduled a meeting. How rude of me.” Tony took the second cup Neal had already poured. “Look at that. Domestic.”
Neal ignored that. “You get settled?”
Tony took a sip. “Sure.”
They fell into a quieter rhythm—coffee, city noise, the kind of silence that wasn’t empty so much as… unhurried. Tony leaned back against the railing. “You know who you reminded me of yesterday?”
Neal exhaled. “This should be good.”
“Thomas Crown,” Tony said. “The one who already knows how it ends.”
Neal tilted his head. “Confident.”
“Annoyingly so,” Tony agreed.
A beat. “And you?” Neal asked.
Tony huffed a quiet laugh. “I was thinking Frank Abagnale Jr. But after he’s figured out running gets old.”
Neal glanced at him then—really looked this time. “That’s a very specific read.”
Tony shrugged. “Occupational hazard.”
Neal studied him for a second longer than necessary, then nodded once. The moment shifted. Tony’s gaze drifted back out over the city. “My father used to do that,” he said, almost offhand. “Decide things. About people. About outcomes. Saved him the trouble of being wrong, I guess.”
Neal took a sip of his coffee. “And you?” he asked. “You still letting him decide things for you?”
It wasn’t confrontational. Just… precise.
Tony held his gaze for a second, then shook his head once. “No.”
Neal accepted that simply. A beat passed. Then—
“You’re wrong about mine.”
Tony didn’t react immediately. Just waited.
Neal set his cup down, fingers resting lightly against the edge of the table. “I already know where that path goes,” he said. Something in his tone made it clear that wasn’t theory.
Tony nodded once. “Good.”
The quiet stretched again—but it felt grounded now. Then Tony straightened slightly, like he’d made a decision. “There’s something else.”
Neal didn’t look surprised. “There is.”
Tony exhaled slowly. “If we acknowledge it,” he said, “it doesn’t stay simple.”
Neal’s gaze stayed steady. “No.”
“It means lines,” Tony continued. “Clear ones.” A beat. “No gray.”
That landed. Neal’s focus sharpened. “You think I can’t do that?”
Tony’s answer came without hesitation. “I think you can do anything. That’s why it matters.”
Neal held his eyes. “And you?” he asked quietly.
Tony didn’t look away. “I don’t get to be anything less than clean,” he said. “Ever. People can say whatever they want. I just can’t give them a reason to be right.”
The honesty of it settled between them. Neal exhaled softly. “That’s a very specific standard.”
Tony’s mouth curved faintly. “Yeah.”
Neal considered him for a moment… then gave a small nod. “Alright.”
The city moved around them, bright and indifferent. And this time, the silence that followed felt like something they’d both chosen.