Chapter Text
Neal briefly considered walking and trying to enjoy the early twilight of New York in the autumn, but decided against it. The function at the gallery would begin in half an hour, and he didn’t want to risk being late.
He hailed a cab with practiced ease, and smiled to himself as he climbed in and gave the address. It was good being home. It had been 3 weeks since he got back to New York, but everything still seemed fresh, crisp, almost unreal to him. He inhaled deeply, trying to grasp the reality of the moment. It failed him, and all he got was a lungful of sweat and cigarette smoke mixed in with cheap cologne.
He wasn’t sure why everything felt so surreal to him. He was back in the city he loved, working with Peter again, and even back in his loft. He could certainly afford his own place with the money he was making as an independent consultant to the FBI, but he liked living with June, and he liked the view. No, there was nothing missing in his life. Everything was in place, yet he still felt somehow out of sorts in his new-old life. It was like he remembered all the steps to a dance, but someone had changed the music. He went to work, joked around with Peter, solved cases, and enjoyed the occasional dinner with Elizabeth and little Neil. But something was different, something was off in the alignment of his old habits, and he couldn’t pinpoint it. It made his whole reality seem fragile, somehow.
The cabbie dipped into a one-way street in the wrong direction, and pulled up in front of the gallery. “That’s 25 bucks,” he said, looking at Neal through the rearview mirror.
“Come on, I’m not a tourist, man,” Neal said, smiling with the charm of familiarity. “We barely went ten blocks. I’ll give you fifteen.”
The driver made a disgruntled sound, and started ranting in Italian, but he put his arm back to take the money without further negotiating.
Neal stepped out of the cab and straightened his tie. Even if the music was off, he wasn’t going to miss any steps. He was going to enjoy tonight.
~*~
Elizabeth stood in front of the sculpture, trying to admire it but sadly failing. The artist had tried to translate the Greek classics to Art Nouveau, and the results were less than inspiring. Unless they were trying to comment on linearity of culture? She shook her head, and turned to a champagne flute that materialized at her side.
“Oh, Neal! I didn’t see you come in. Thank you,” she said, as she took the glass. “I was just looking at…” She squinted at the title, and rolled her eyes. “Daphnis and Chloe: #Totally. Who was this person’s advisor at art school?”
Neal laughed softly, and stood beside her to review the piece. “I don’t know. It has a certain charm. Maybe it’s a commentary on the cyclical nature of…” He dropped off. He opened his mouth to say something else, then shut it again. Finally he said, “I got nothing. It’s pretty bad.”
Elizabeth clinked her glass with his. “Yup.” They turned to the next piece in the exhibit, a very literal interpretation of An Eye for an Eye. It too was terrible. It always surprised Elizabeth that terrible artists could get their work displayed in the most prominent art galleries in town, but as the owner of this specific gallery, she knew all too well the politics that went into such decisions. Normally, it was question of who taught whom in art school, and who’s aunt was running for state senate. Today, though, was different.
Peter had asked her to throw together a show on extremely short notice. As usual, the idea had come to him while he was having an argument with Neal. They had been standing outside the FBI building, Peter and Neal just parting for the day, when Elizabeth walked up to them.
“Peter, we’re never going to catch these guys by following a paper trail, they’re too good.”
Elizabeth saw Peter shift his weight and put one hand in his pocket, gesturing with the other. He was getting frustrated with the argument, she could tell. “But it’s the only option left, Neal. They’ve hit 5 galleries in the last 8 months. I know they’re good. They’re careful. We’re not going to catch them in the act.”
“No, but maybe we can get a lead on what gallery they’re targeting. I still have some contacts, I coul—“
“It’s not how we do things anymore, Neal.” Peter’s tone was final, and a little dark. Elizabeth jumped in, pretending not to notice how Neal stood a little straighter, a little further away.
“Hi, hon,” she said, and stood on her tippy-toes to kiss Peter. “Still no luck with the gallery robberies?” she asked, looking from Peter to Neal.
“Not yet,” Peter said. “We know that they hit high-end exhibition openings and rob the patrons, leaving all the art. They plan well-enough to have avoided violence so far. They are in and out before anyone realizes anything’s been taken, they leave no prints, and no security footage. Nothing besides confused eye-witnesses, and we can’t make heads or tails of their testimony.”
Elizabeth gave Peter a sympathetic pout, and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’m sure you’ll think of something, hon. You always do.”
She could see Peter begin to soften, and was about to suggest they drown his sorrows in some sushi, when Neal spoke. His eyes seemed to sparkle, and his smile was barely contained.
“What if we were the eye-witnesses, Peter?” She waited for him to elaborate, but Peter seemed to pick up the thought where Neal left off.
“We know they only hit galleries on the East Side,” he said, and took his hand out of his pocket. He took half a step closer to Neal, and lowered his voice. “We also know that they always operate on Fridays, when security is thinnest, and that they hit small galleries hosting big, exclusive events.
"Yes!” Now Peter was smiling too. Elizabeth could see he already had his sights set on the robbers. “All we need is a gallery that would be willing to host an art show next week, and get the word out that it’s an event for the finest of Manhattan. That’s good work, Neal,” Peter said, and Elizabeth stood back to make room for him to clap Neal on the shoulder.
But Peter just nodded once, and put both his hands back in his pocket. “But what gallery will ever allow us to host a robbery?”
Neal smiled brightly, his hair gently blowing in the September breeze. He too put both his hands in his pockets, and just looked from Peter to Elizabeth, and back again. His smile grew.
~*~
It was the fastest Elizabeth had ever thrown together an exhibition, and she was proud of the work she’d done. While the art itself was pitiable, it was just good enough to seem informed to anyone who didn’t really care about it. Neal had helped her find the artists and secure their pieces. He also helped her with layout and design, and even with the caterer.
She looked around the busy gallery, and was pleased with the buzz in the air. Neal had seen to it that there be a fair representation of Manhattan’s second-tier socialites, and they were all wearing the finest glass Jewelry the FBI had to offer. It looked stunning, even if it was all fake.
“I have to say, Neal. We put together a pretty nice event. If Peter ever quits the FBI, we should all go into business together. No thank you,” she added as a server pressed between her and Neal with a platter of salmon pâté. Neal grabbed a bite and smiled brightly as the server. She was a redhead, and cute, and Elizabeth was happy to see him behaving life himself again. He always made an effort to be carefree around her, but she could tell that there was an underlying tension to him since he returned. She noticed the same in Peter, though both denied whenever she tried to discuss it. She noticed that while the server turned to offer pâté to some other patrons, she stayed nearby. But she was wondering where her husband was. The event had officially begun half an hour ago, and she was going to have to give her opening remarks, soon.
“Speaking of Peter, where is that partner of yours?” Elizabeth asked, and took her phone out of the small purse she was holding. She pressed the button, and turned the phone towards Neal. Her lock-screen image was the picture of him and Peter in their tuxes, from the gambling sting they ran that time. “Remember this? Gosh, you boys looked so handsome in your tuxes.”
She called Peter, but he didn’t answer. She hoped that meant he was busy parking. She frowned and put her phone away. “Neal, Peter’s not here yet, but people are getting antsy to begin. Should I start my remarks, or wait for him?”
Neal waited for a moment before answering her, then tapped his ear gently. “Jones and Diana say you can start. They’re in the van across the street, and they’ve set up a perimeter around the block. These guys probably don’t even carry weapons, so we should be fine until Peter gets here.”
Elizabeth nodded, picked up a fresh flute of champagne, and made her way to the front of the gallery.
~*~
Elizabeth got the attention of the room, and spun a tale of marvelous lies and half-truths about the art they were gathered to appreciate. Neal was impressed. When she finished, she invited the patrons to follow the docents to hear a little about the exhibition. She stepped down to light applause, and joined Neal.
“Now what?” She asked.
“We wait,” Neal replied. “Try and keep an eye out for our thieves. All we do is walk around, chat, and wait for the team to find someone trying to leave the gallery with a sack full of glass diamonds. There’s Peter,” Neal added, and pointed his flute toward the other end of the room. Peter had just walked in from the back, closely followed by a tall, well-dressed man Neal didn’t know. Peter glanced around the room, caught Neal’s eye, and tilted his head a fraction. Something was wrong.
“Diana, we may have a pro—“ Pandemonium followed. Diana was in his ear asking what was happening, as several guns fired into the center of the room. People panicked. But the exit was blocked by three men holding heavy firearms, and the doors were barred shut behind them. Several more armed men and women lined the gallery, surrounding the guests and blocking the corridors towards the back of the gallery.
“Neal, are those gunshots? Stay down, don’t identify as FBI. We’re trying to find Peter,” Diana said in his ear, calmly and urgently. “He’s here, and he’s in trouble, Diana. I-“
Before Neal could finished the sentence, the room quieted around him, almost instantly, as though someone pressed a pause button on the gallery. He saw that all eyes were on the front of the room, where Peter was now standing, hands held above him, and the stranger behind him with a gun to his head.
The man spoke calmly, as though he were the next scheduled speaker at the event. His gentrified British accent rang false.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please do not move. I’d hate to have my associates shoot anyone. Indeed, we’re terribly sorry to have to disturb you tonight. Normally we’d go about our business and rob you blind with none of this hullabaloo, but for now we’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way. Down on the ground. My people will be by to collect your phones and bind your hands. You’ll notice they’re armed. Should anyone try anything untoward I’m afraid they’ll die.”
Some servers and some—for lack of a better word—thugs walked between the guests of the exhibition opening, collecting phones and binding people’s hands in front of them with zip ties. Neal was surprised at how well organized they were. For a team that has never resorted to violence before, they brandished their guns with frightening casualness. Neal and Elizabeth gave up their phones and let their hands be bound, and sat down on the floor.
When the thugs finished their rounds, the man behind Peter spoke again. “You see how cordial it can be when everyone cooperates? Lovely. My colleagues will be around in just a moment to collect your valuables. Now, as I was saying, I was loath to spoil your evening, but it seems we have an FBI agent here tonight. Now, agent Burke, what are you doing here? How many other agents are there, and how do my men and I get out safely? Do elaborate.”
Diana spoke up. Neal didn’t like how loud and clear she was. It felt like everyone in the room could overhear her. “Neal, we caught that. We think we know who it is. His name is Stuart Talma. He’s dangerous. Don’t get involved, Neal, do you understand? We’re waiting for SWAT to arrive and get into place, it should be eight minutes. Don’t do anything, do you hear?”
Neal had no way of answering her, but it didn’t really matter. It just saved him an argument, because didn’t think that Peter had eight minutes. He closed his eyes for a moment, visualizing the room behind him. There were least 8 to the team. Peter could tell them about the perimeter and how to escape, but he would never risk an operation and perhaps bystanders, not even to save his own life. So he could either left-flat out refuse, which would get him shot, or stall. And Neal didn’t see how Peter would be able to stall eight minutes with a very nonchalant gun aimed at his head. Neal grabbed blindly for El’s hand.
When Peter answered his voice was solid, calm. “I’m not here on the job, I swear. I’m just here for the exhibition opening.”
The man behind him smiled, and cocked the gun. It echoed in the silent gallery. “You’re lying. A man dressed like you does not come to exhibition openings. Unless…” He poked Peter’s left hand with his gun. “Oh, my. Am I interrupting date night?”
He kicked Peter in the back of the knee, hard. Peter fell to the ground and the man stepped closer, pressing his gun directly to the back of Peter’s head. “I recommend Mrs. FBI come forward, or I will shoot this man in the head. You have till three. One.”
Elizabeth drew a strangled sob, and opened her mouth.
“Two.”
Neal grabbed her hand and pulled her back, hissing “Stay quiet!”
“Th—“
Neal stood up, awkwardly raising his bound hands. He made his way to the front of the gallery. On his left hand Elizabeth’s wedding band glimmered. “I’m married to agent Burke.”