Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tony fought the urge to fidget as Don Macaluso stared him down. He'd had no idea what he was getting himself into when he'd started, but it was far too late to back out now. At least there was one benefit to being a pretty boy who liked the finer things in life, it was harder to peg him as a cop, although he could have done without all the hazing he'd endured before learning to adapt.

"The Triads are encroaching on our territory," Macaluso said, steepling his fingers as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his desk.

"I will take care of it," Tony said, walking the line between confident and cocky, even as he came up with several plans to do so, only one of which actually necessitated killing the men involved. His handler would probably have a few things to say about that but the guy was next to useless anyway. Tony was better off on his own. He always had been.

"I have made other arrangements," Macaluso said and he smiled then, cold and hard. "We cannot afford interference now, not when the police are already giving us trouble. There aren't enough of our people on the force.

It hadn't exactly been a comfortable realisation to discover an entire underground society that included a number of the police and various agencies that helped keep their secrets. At least the only ones that knew Tony was undercover were his handler and the chief. It meant he was unlikely to be recognised at an untimely moment at least. Still, the society was extensive and organised and Tony knew Macaluso was just the tip of the iceberg. Taking him out might help in the short run, but in the long run someone else would just take his place.

"We need to send them all a message," Macaluso added.

Tony was just happy Macaluso wasn't looking to take the situation out on him. Macaluso wasn't the Don for nothing; he was ruthless and cunning, and Tony had never quite been as terrified of anyone in his life as he was of Macaluso when the man decided someone had outlived their usefulness.

"Of course, sir."

Tony nodded and waited for Macaluso to give him a dismissive wave before he turned to leave. A tall, pale man with his long hair tucked behind his ears strode in and Tony stood to one side of the door to let him enter first. There was something about him that made the hairs on the back of Tony's neck rise and he turned, keeping the man in his field of view. The man paused briefly, glancing at Tony, evaluating and dismissing him in one look, then continuing on into the room.

"Mr Wick," Macaluso said with a strangely deferring tone. "I'm so glad you agreed to this meeting."

Tony didn't hear any more as the door was shut behind him.

...

“Some time today, DiNozzo,” Gibbs yelled and Tony shook himself, forcing himself to put his feelings about the crime scene to one side so he could start processing it. It was unusually brutal; not excessively violent in a deliberate way, not like someone took joy in it, just efficient and vicious.

“Yes, Boss,” Tony said, his voice just a little too flat to be his usual upbeat. He followed Gibbs through the scene, clearing it before they got to work, but it was routine. No one was left alive. Finally, he pulled out his camera and began to take pictures, cataloguing the bodies and the evidence.

He took his time, weighing his options, because he’d seen a scene like this before, the aftermath of a mob turf war and he knew he’d have to tread carefully. If he wasn’t careful Gibbs would have his hide for not doing his job properly or the secret criminal society he’d stumbled upon years ago would have his life.

The last time he’d had no idea what to expect, not just because his experience with the mob had been limited to movies and what he picked up as he went, but he’d also only had a few years behind him as a cop. Most of that had been walking the beat. Massacres hadn’t really been part of it. This time he knew that if they hadn’t cleaned up after themselves, they were sending a message. He just didn’t know who to or why, just that solving that might cost him his life. Or Gibbs’.

“DiNozzo,” Gibbs said in that tone that had Tony rubbing the back of his head even though Gibbs wasn’t near him.

“On it, Boss.”

Tony stowed his camera and took out his sketch pad whie he wondered if he should mention the last time he’d seen something like this was when he was with Macaluso.

...

Tony wondered into the lobby of the Continental in New York still not entirely sure what he was doing there or why his uncle’s lawyer wanted to speak to him. He knew he hadn’t got anything in the will and that Crispin had said he wanted to call in the loan with interest, but Tony had been fairly certain he was joking.

“I’m here to see Charles Danworth,” Tony told the concierge.

“He said to expect you, Mr DiNozzo. Room 106,” the man said, handing over a key.

“Thanks.”

Tony headed to the elevator, shifting out of the way as another man exited the elevator. He looked down at the key in his hand as he pressed the button, considering the meeting that was awaiting him.

“Will you be checking out, Mr Wick?” the concierge asked and Tony looked up sharply, recognising the name, just as the elevator doors closed. He briefly caught sight of a tall man in a tailored suit standing at rest in front of the desk, his long, dark hair tucked behind an ear. It seemed too much of a coincidence and, as Gibbs would say, there was no such thing.

He remained tense as the elevator opened on the right floor and he headed to the room. There was no one in the corridor, no one suspiciously hanging around, but that didn’t make him feel any more relaxed. He opened the door to the room slowly, one hand on the gun he’d hidden at his back, beneath his jacket.

“That won’t be necessary, Agent DiNozzo,” Danworth said. He was sitting in one of the chairs by the window and he was alone.

“Mr Danworth,” Tony said, still not dropping his guard as he stepped further into the room.

“Please have a seat, Agent DiNozzo.”

Something made Tony pause and he turned as another man slipped from the bathroom and closed the door to the room, blocking it. Tony shifted so his back was to the wall and drew his gun.

“You’re the one who’s been following me since the airport,” Tony said, aiming at the new arrival but keeping the lawyer in sight too.

“You have good instincts. That will make this easier,” the man said, unconcerned.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t ask one.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Marcus. Before his death, your uncle engaged my services to protect you.”

“Protect me from what?” Tony said, not lowering his gun. “I don’t need protection.”

Danworth cleared his throat and gestured to the chairs.

“I believe that’s where I come in,” he said, unruffled as he waited for Tony to take a seat. “There is a society running in parallel with the one you’re familiar with. It is highly regulated, with those under the table and those above it. Your uncle had a seat at the High Table, one of twelve, and he designated you as his successor.”

“What?”

...

“Hello, Marcus,” Tony said, stepping out of the shadows of the stairwell and out onto the roof.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Marcus said, not looking up from his scope which was focused on the building across the way.

Tony hadn't seen him in years, not since Marcus had deemed him capable of surviving the High Table, but they'd kept in contact. And Tony had kept an eye on him, even if it was from a distance. He had resources to do that now. If there was one thing he'd learned, it was that the High Table didn't let go of anyone they had their hooks in. It was a lesson that had been drummed home more than once in those early days. There was only one man who'd ever managed it.

“You shouldn’t be here either.”

Tony shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat and leaned against the column Marcus was using to hide himself from the taller buildings in the area.

“What I’m doing here isn’t exactly within the rules,” Marcus told him.

“They’re more like guidelines anyway,” Tony said with a grin.

“They’re really not,” Marcus said with a sidelong look. “Not for those of us under the table.”

“My uncle picked you to guide me for a reason. Because you’re a good man with a code of ethics,” Tony said, ignoring Marcus’s raised eyebrows. “That’s got to mean more than archaic rules and a rigid social structure.”

Marcus pretended not to hear Tony’s commentary of the table system the way he always had. Because Tony had never been entirely happy with it and Marcus had bought into it fully, the way the society had to for it to function.

“Your new guards aren’t very good.”

“Well, I did tell them I was busy entertaining this evening and not to disturb me.”

“They’re still not very good.”

“Maybe not,” Tony said with a shrug. “You still haven’t said what you’re doing here.”

“You obviously have an idea otherwise you wouldn’t have known where to find me.”

“You took the contract for John Wick.”

“Yes.”

Tony glanced across the way, following the line of Marcus’s scope to a warehouse. The windows were dusty and it wasn’t easy to see through into the gloomy interior, but Tony could just make out several men surrounding a sitting man. It was no secret that John Wick had taken a room at the Continental after years of being out of the game and that he was gunning for Iosef Tarasov. Tony just so happened to know the building belonged to Viggo Tarasov.

“And yet.”

Because Marcus' line of site was clear as the man in the chair leaned forward, yelling something they couldn’t hear. Marcus was too good to miss his shots, not from this range, not when the target wasn't moving.

“And yet,” Marcus echoed, still not giving a straight answer, which left Tony with only one explanation.

“You took it to protect him.”

Marcus looked up at him then before he returned his gaze to the window across the way. Tony watched as Marcus breathed in and squeezed the trigger on the exhale. The man behind Wick jerked and dropped to the ground. Marcus didn’t move, keeping an eye on the action through his site.

“Is he worth it?” Tony asked, because he’s learned enough over the last few years about the High Table to realise that the rules were mostly just a smokescreen for those with seats to get away with whatever they wanted while everyone else suffered the consequences.

“He’s a friend.”

That was all Tony really needed. Marcus was a good man despite his profession and Tony trusted his judgement.

“Okay,” he said, watching as Marcus started to break down his rifle. A moment later Wick burst through the doors, chasing after the men who’d held him captive.

...

Tony had kept an eye on Wick’s exploits since the man’s return and everything he’d seen had shown the man to be a relentless force of nature. That was something Tony could admire, even when he was up against the High Table. Possibly especially then.

A seat at the High Table wasn’t exactly something that could be turned down. Ever since his Uncle Clive had left it to him, Tony had been trapped by the expectations of his position. He could understand why Clive had made the decision he had - Crispin was entirely unsuitable for the position, he was clever, but not creative, obstinate rather than determined – but it didn’t mean Tony was happy with how things had played out.

He’d had to learn to swim in the shark infested waters fast because a single wrong move and he’d be lucky if he was just dead. None of that was put to the test quite so much as right this moment as he stared at the Elder.

“You’ve made quite an impression, Mr DiNozzo,” the Elder said.

“I aim to please.”

“Indeed,” the Elder said, pouring two cups of coffee and handing one to Tony. Tony accepted it with a grateful nod. “And how is your cousin?”

“Struggling to recoup his losses from his latest investment.”

Tony was sure the Elder knew this already, knew everything there was to know about everyone with a seat at the High Table and anyone else who’d managed to accumulate some power. And while Tony wasn’t going to throw his family to the sharks, especially when they weren’t involved in this side of things, his loyalty didn’t extend to hiding their missteps either.

“It seems your Uncle chose his successor well.”

“I can only hope to live up to his faith in me,” Tony told him, sipping at the coffee that he found far too strong when he didn’t particularly like coffee to start with.

One of the Elder’s men rushed in and dropped to his knees, bowing his head immediately.

“John Wick has been found wandering the desert. They are bringing him here,” he said, breathless from his hurrying.

“Very well,” the Elder said and the man bowed his way out of their presence. “Mr Wick has become quite the thorn, worrying away at the soft flesh of the High Table.”

Tony remained silent until the Elder looked at him, eyebrow raised as he prompted a response.

“He’s certainly exposed a number of weaknesses,” Tony said carefully, not entirely sure what take would serve him best given the circumstances.

“What would you do in my position?” the Elder asked and Tony knew he was on thin ice. Too much confidence and it might be inferred that he was interested in assuming leadership of the High Table, not enough and his own position might be compromised.

“You could kill him,” Tony said conversationally. “But you'd just be killing the man. The legend would survive and grow.”

The Elder looked at him for a long moment, his expression giving nothing away. Tony held still, refusing to fidget under the scrutiny, and the Elder finally gave him a short nod.

“Your words have wisdom,” he conceded, turning away as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But he must not remain unpunished.”

“He was willing to sacrifice the principles of the High Table for his wife. It would be interesting to see what he would be willing to sacrifice for the High Table,” Tony offered.

“It would indeed.” The Elder turned back, a speculative look in his eyes as he added in an undertone, “Quite an impression.”

...

The High Table was in chaos. Oh, they'd put their spin on it. An adjudicator bringing order and retribution down on those who'd strayed, and maybe most of those under the table had bought it, but Tony had a seat. He knew better. Something had fundamentally changed. Someone had challenged the High Table, had questioned orders, and they'd lived to tell the tale. Even if reports said it was just barely.

That was how Tony found himself setting into a dark and oppressive room. So different to the open rooftops that used to be the Bowery King's domain. Cassian stayed at his side, the only protection Tony had bothered with, because if he found what he was looking for, more protection wouldn't be worth a damn. And Cassian would fight twice as hard so as not to lose another client.

“You're playing a dangerous game, Anthony,” the Bowery King said from his throne. He didn't have any obvious guards, only figures huddled around the edges of the room, but Tony knew better than to underestimate them.

“My first Captain did tell me I didn't have two brain cells to rub together,” Tony said with the same vapid smile he'd given the Captain.

“And yet you've held on to your seat for years and even earned the ear of the Elder.”

“Well, I do have a nice smile.”

“You sought me out for a reason. You might want get to the point,” the Bowery King said, standing up from his seat. The figures around the edges of the room shifted slightly, but Tony gave no sign of realising.

“I have a proposition.”

“Well, as you might have seen, my circumstances aren't what they used to be. I might be open to hearing more.”

“I want to bring down the High Table.”

“Is that so,” the Bowery King said, leaning forward on his throne. “Seems to me, that wouldn’t benefit you very much, unless you wanted to put yourself at the top of the new world order.”

“Not really my thing. I didn’t ask for the seat I have and if I’d had a choice I would have turned it down,” Tony said.

“There are many who would do just about anything for a seat. Many who have killed for one.”

“They’re the ones who think power is freedom, when really it’s only obligations and restrictions. The only true freedom is not to play the game at all.”

“Interesting,” the Bowery King said without giving his own feelings on the matter away, but Tony knew enough of his history to know he’d probably appreciate the sentiment even if he thought it was impossible. He kept his silence, waiting for the other man to make his decision.

“There’s someone you should meet,” the Bowery King said finally and he gestured for a man in the shadows to step forward.

“John Wick,” Tony said, not entirely surprised to see him in the company of the Bowery King. He’d been counting on it. Wick cocked his head, taking a moment to place him.

“I remember you,” Wick said, voice a rough rasp. “You were with the Elder at his camp.”

Cassian stepped forward, clearly intending to step in front of Tony to protect him. He gestured sharply and Cassian gave him a hard look but held back.

“Well, someone had to convince him that controlling you was a better show of power than killing you,” Tony said with a nonchalant shrug as his eyes followed Wick's movement further into the room. “I couldn't have him ruining my plans before they got started.”

The Bowery King laughed then, long and hard.

“Oh, I like you,” the Bowery King said.

“I'm very easy to like,” Tony said, smile just a little too sharp. Wick looked at him from under the shadow of his hair, eyes intense and wary, recognising Tony as a threat.

“We have work to do,” Wick said.

Chapter Text

Neal looked around the room, casually eyeing the crowd for anyone out of place. The only problem was it was a party for the rich and famous. Probably two thirds of the people at the party were out of place in one way or another. Certainly the FBI agents dotted around the room stood out with their roving eyes and tense postures. Aubrey Copeland, the collector, was showing off his collection for a single night in a charity gala and, after some chatter about a credible security threat, Peter and his team were running security.

"You see anything?" Peter asked, voice soft in Neal's earpiece. Neal carefully avoided looking at the agent and giving away their positions.

"Not yet," Neal said softly, keeping his smile fixed.

Someone bumped into him and he turned to see a handsome man with bright green eyes and a movie star smile.

“I’m so sorry,” the man said, steadying Neal with a lingering hand to his elbow. Neal knew all these moves, had used all these moves, and the man knew he knew from the knowing smile, but neither of them mentioned it. Not even when the man turned to snag two glasses of champagne from a nearby server and handed one to Neal.

“Enjoying the show?” Neal asked, sipping at the champagne.

"It is a beautiful collection," the man said, gaze sweeping over Neal's features.

"I've always considered myself a connoisseur of fine things."

Neither man looked away from the other.

"On your own time, Neal," Peter said and Neal glanced away, glaring at the floor for a moment.

“Although it’s a pity,” the man said, his forehead creasing in a frown as he gave a distracted look around the room. “I heard there was a Monet in the collection that I was hoping would be on show.”

“That is a pity. But I did see a Renoir if you’re interested in French Impressionists.”

“I’m definitely interested,” the man said, shifting to a bright smile, green eyes glinting with mischief. Neal smiled back, noting Peter’s glare from the corner of his eye. He sighed.

"Excuse me, there's someone I need to speak to," Neal said, hand lingering on Tony's arm.

"Of course," Tony said, leaning in close and straightening Neal's tie, fingers lingering against his chest before he stepped back. "Save a spot on your dance card for me though."

"Absolutely."

Neal walked away reluctantly and, when he looked back, the man was gone.

Less than half an hour later the entire event was shut down when one of the paintings went missing. Neal sidled up to Peter who was barking orders.

"So someone stole a painting from right under the eyes of the FBI," he said.

"I'm sure you're enjoying this," Peter said, glaring at everyone around him and Neal felt a little bad that Peter had been embarrassed by the theft but mostly he admired the boldness it took to steal from right under the noses of a party full of FBI agents.

"Maybe a little," Neal admitted, hiding a grin.

"They did this under your nose too."

"Intriguing, isn't it," Neal said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Peter rolled his eyes. “What was the painting that was taken?”

Peter gave Neal a hard look.

“A Monet.”

...

Neal looked around Copeland’s private office, noting immediately the empty spot on the wall where the Monet had hung. He turned slowly, gaze roving over everything, trying to find anything out of place. Peter was questioning Copeland who might just have been distressed at the theft, or was simply using the guise of distress to obstruct the investigation.

“How could this happen?” Copeland said, talking over Peter’s patient tone. “How did you let this happen?”

“I assure you, Mr Copeland,” Peter said, voice quiet but determined. “We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

It was Peter’s reputation on the line too. He’d never live down having a number of artworks stolen right from under him while he was in the next room, while he was providing security. The only thing he could do was hunt down the culprit and recover the artwork.

Neal noticed Copeland tensing when he approached the south wall of the office. He took a casual look around, not trying to spot anything specific necessarily, but just to see if there was anything out of place.

There were scratches along the side of the bookcase, deep and deliberate. Neal ran his fingers over them, skin catching on some of the splinters. They were fresh, the wood not at all discoloured, and that made Neal wonder.

He pushed. The bookcase moved, slowly but smoothly.

“What are you doing?” Copeland demanded, but Neal was already stepping into the space that had been revealed.

He was vaguely aware of Peter barking orders at the agents, and Clint and Diana coming to stand either side of Copeland. He was more interested in the paintings that were stashed in the small alcove.

“Is that a Pascin?” Peter asked, standing at Neal’s shoulder.

“It was stolen in Berlin in 2012,” Neal said, remembering hearing about it from Moz. It had probably been too large for the thief to take easily. There were a number of indents in the carpet that indicated that several canvasses were missing. The ones left behind were all large and, as Neal looked carefully through them, not too famous or worth all that much. It did make Neal wonder what might be among the missing pieces.

Peter gave Diana a look and a gesture and she removed her handcuffs from her belt and went to arrest Copeland. Their host was looking more than a little annoyed with them, but Neal wasn’t going to let that bother him. Not when there was a crime to unravel. It was always interesting to compare the method of the crimes they investigated with what he might have done if he’d been planning it.

"I want my lawyer," Copeland said before Diana could even begin to read him his rights.

And Neal wondered again about those scratches on the bookcase. There wasn’t anything necessary to opening the secret room that would make those marks, which meant that they’d been made for another purpose. Probably to draw the FBI's attention. The thief wanted them to know what they’d done, what Copeland had concealed. What Neal wanted to know was why.

...

They'd looked through the guest list Copeland had provided before he’d been implicated, getting background on everyone, but only one had really stuck out.

“Anthony Dominic DiNozzo Junior,” Diana said, and a picture of him appeared on the conference room screen. “Questioned in relation to a number of art thefts but never so much as arrested.”

“He’s good,” Neal said, looking over the list of suspected jobs.

“It’s all circumstantial. Most of the time he’s pulled in because he happens to be in the same city as a theft or was at the location, but considering how much he travels there's bound to be overlap," Diana continued.

“So what’s he doing here?” Peter asked.

“He was born here in New York. Long Island. Only child of an Italian-American father and English mother. His mother died when he was eight. His father disowned him at twelve and he was shipped off to boarding school,” Diana told them.

"Troubled childhood is a bit of a cliche," Clinton said

Neal ignored him, a little too aware that he resembled that remark. He stared at the photo of a handsome man with bright eyes and a mischievous smile. A man who might have stolen a small fortune in art while five FBI agents were watching and had managed to do it without hurting anyone. Neal was in awe of the skill it had taken and had to fight to hide his smirk because as much as he respected Peter and liked the team, he was what he was.

“He went to Ohio State on a sports scholarship; football and basketball. Looked like he was going pro before he injured his knee. Switched from phys ed to criminal justice and went into the police academy straight after,” Diana told them.

"I think I remember seeing some of his games. He was really good," Clinton said.

"So what happened?" Peter asked.

"He went to Peoria straight out of the academy, took the detective exam two years after that and transferred to Philadelphia. Just over a year after that he moved to Baltimore and was the reason Macaluso's now in prison. He quit altogether not too long after that and headed to England to track down his mother's family. Within months he'd changed his name to Anthony Paddington and was gallivanting across Europe."

"Paddington?" Peter said and then flipped through the file Diana had compiled until he found something that had him sighing. "Fantastic."

"As in Lord Clive Paddington?" Neal asked. He'd had a run in with the family once and had just barely escaped, without what he'd been after. Despite the contention that they were a family of bankers and lawyers, Neal was half convinced they were government agents.

"The very same," Diana said. "He carries a lot of political clout. We're going to have to step carefully."

Neal looked at the list again, something about the jobs and the dates tickling at his memory. He put it aside for the moment, sure that it would come to him eventually.

“I’ll see what Moz knows.”

Peter nodded, closing the file with a snap, before he rose to his feet, and gestured for Neal to follow him.

...

Neal looked around the sitting room they’d been led to by a woman identifying herself as Paddington’s personal assistant, but she held herself like an agent and Neal was fairly certain that the cut of her suit was disguising a gun.

Peter took a seat, perching uncomfortably on one of the couches, while Neal wandered the room looking at the art. From what he’d seen on the way to the living room, there were a couple of expensive pieces, but mostly of it was unknowns. Not exactly the sort of thing Neal would expect from a Paddington, not when they had a reputation to uphold.

The assistant kept a wary eye on them until Paddington sauntered into the room, after which she discreetly excused herself. Somehow, Neal was sure she'd still be monitoring them in some capacity.

“Agent Burke, Mister Caffrey,” Paddington said, his words designed to put them off kilter since they hadn’t introduced themselves yet.

“Mr Paddington,” Peter said, standing and shaking the man’s hand.

“Please, just call me Tony.”

His smile was wide and bright, magnanimous and fake.

“You have an interesting collection,” Neal said and Tony waved a hand dismissively as he came to stand beside Neal.

"It's a recreation," Tony told him, nodding to the Monet Neal was looking at. "My family provides scholarships to a number of art students, but it only covers fees and supplies, so sometimes I commission works to give them some extra spending money. I got the Monet from Emily Baxter."

Neal could see her signature in the corner which meant it was never meant to pass as genuine, not that it would. The brush strokes were too heavy and deliberate, the colour too artificial. Still, Tony’s interest in Monet would have made him a person of interest, even if he didn’t have a history of being in the vicinity of art thefts.

"There's one of her originals over there," Tony added, gesturing across the room. Neal walked over to a painting of a piano, bathed in sunset colours of red and gold. There was an open window behind it and a little bluebird on the sill. It wasn't the best Neal had ever seen, not when he'd seen masters, but it showed talent and a lot of promise. "Makes me feel hopeful."

Neal looked at Tony then who was staring at the painting with a wistful expression. Tony seemed unguarded in that moment, genuine and open, and Neal suspected that it wasn't all artifice. There was none of the teasing or wittiness Neal had seen in the last encounter. Then Tony turned to him, smirk firmly back in place and gestured to the seating. Peter sat stiffly again as Neal joined him and Tony settled opposite them.

“Thank you for taking the time to speak to us,” Peter said.

“Of course. I’m always willing to help law enforcement,” Tony said, “though I can’t say I know anything that’ll be useful.”

“You were a cop, you know sometimes witnesses notice things that don’t seem important at the time.”

Peter leaned forward as he watched Tony’s reaction closely.

“Of course,” Tony said, leaning back and looking completely unconcerned as he stretched his arms across the back of his chair and rested his left ankle on his right knee. “Although I’m not sure how much help I’ll be. I headed to the bathroom and when I came out everyone was all aflutter at the theft.”

Peter asked a few more questions but Tony’s answers were always helpful if vague, his features open and expressive, as though he had nothing to hide but Neal couldn’t shake the feeling that the man was laughing at them. Finally, Peter drew his questions to a close, and stood as he said his goodbyes.

“Feel free to contact me if you remember anything else,” Peter said, passing over a card with his contact information.

“Of course, Agent Burke.”

Peter nodded and headed out of the room without looking back.

“Mr Paddington,” Neal said with a nod as he placed his fedora back on his head, aware of Tony’s eyes on him the entire time.

“Mr Caffrey,” Tony called before Neal was completely out of the room and he paused in the doorway. "We never did get that dance."

Tony stepped in close and Neal was caught in his gaze.

"No, we didn't."

"How about we agree on a rain check until this is all over?" Tony asked. Either he was innocent or absolutely convinced he wouldn't be caught. Given the smallest curl of a smirk at the corner of his mouth, Neal was betting on the latter.

"I think I might like that."

The corners of Tony's eyes crinkled as he smiled, wide and genuine. Neal smiled back.

"I'll hold you to that."

Tony stepped into Neal's space and brushed imaginary lint off his shoulder, either as an excuse to touch Neal or neuro-linguistic programming, linking Tony touching him to positive emotions. Neal raised an eyebrow and Tony's smile turned a little sheepish when he realised what he'd been doing. Neal grinned wider and held his hand out to shake. He gripped Tony's hand in both of his, fingers caressing his wrist.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Anthony Paddington."

"And you, Neal Caffrey."

Neal lingered a moment longer then turned to follow Peter out of the building.

"I'd ask if that was personal or for the case, but it's probably better if I don't know," Peter said.

"Plausible deniability has served us well."

Neal grinned, glancing back to see Tony leaning against the door frame, watching him. There was a spring in his step as he went, anticipation thrumming through his veins at going up against someone as good as Tony seemed to be.

Chapter Text

“Thank you,” Peter said, speaking into his phone as he frowned across his desk at Neal. Neal didn’t even try to hide his amusement, knowing the other man would read it clearly anyway. “I appreciate you letting me know.”

Peter listened for a few more moments, impatiently exchanging pleasantries before he ended the call. His frown deepened into a glare as he looked at Neal, but Neal didn’t take it personally. Nothing about this case was going Peter’s way and the story of it had been caught by the media and was being built up more and more each day.

“I take it another painting has been recovered?”

Neal carefully smoothed out a smirk that was trying to show itself. This time Peter’s glare was definitely aimed at him, not just in his general direction.

“The Israeli embassy just received a Kandinsky,” Peter said, like he was ripping off a band aid, like he could deal with Neal’s blatant glee and get it over with quickly. “It was taken by Nazis and the family has been trying to track it down for decades.”

“So what does that make it? Four or five recoveries?”

Neal grinned, not bothering to conceal it any more, knowing it would bother Peter more at this point that he didn’t even try. Recoveries was perhaps too generous a word for the thief returning the items to their rightful owners.

“Six. As if you weren’t aware.” The words were forced through gritted teeth.

Neal shrugged. He might not have been all that diligent about hiding his growing spreadsheet about the recovered paintings, his estimations of their worth, and his judgement on if they were fakes or not. A small betting pool had started around the office.

“Maybe we should start calling him Robin Hood.”

“No.”

“He did rob from the rich.”

“Hmm.”

“And give, if not to the poor, then at least the righteous.”

It was like poking a bear, or testing a new security system. It was dangerous, and foolhardy. It would be safer to step back and re-evaluate, let someone else go first, let them take the risks so that you could learn from their mistakes. But you didn’t get to be an art thief without being at least a little bit of an adrenaline junky.

“We are not calling him Robin Hood.”

“I’m pretty sure the papers already are.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Peter said, pointing a finger in warning at Neal. There was an edge creeping into his voice, moving from frustrated but playing along with Neal, to Peter being genuinely annoyed. Neal couldn’t resist one more poke.

“I think they called the heist daring and artful.”

A terrible pun, but Neal had appreciated it. A large part of him was hoping the papers weren’t overselling the heist, that Paddington really was that good, because this was the most fun Neal had had in ages and Paddington was a puzzle he wanted to take his time solving. It would be a let down if Paddington was easily caught, his case neatly closed and forgotten in a dark and dusty room, just like the man would be.

“Caffrey.” Neal raised an eyebrow in question. “Go do something useful.”

“I could use some coffee,” Neal said, rising from his chair. Peter rolled his eyes as his phone rang again and then raised a hand to stop Neal from leaving.

“Diana, how is the surveillance going?”

Peter gestured for Neal come closer as he turned to his computer and pressed a few keys. He leaned forward, immediately alert and attentive, as Neal crossed behind him to see what Diana had sent. The first few pictures just had Paddington walking through a park and approaching a food cart. He seemed friendly with the man running it if the chatting and easy smiles were any indication. The next few pictures had him walking away, cup of coffee in hand, and settling on a bench not too far away.

Diana had taken the opportunity to take photographs of everyone in the vicinity. She especially focused on a man who sat down on the other end of the bench to Paddington. The other man seemed to be talking on a cell phone and his face was shadowed by a cap and hood, but Neal knew why Diana had focused on him. The way the two men didn’t look at each other or otherwise communicate was a little too deliberate.

“Wait,” Neal said, frowning as Peter moved on to pictures of Paddington standing up and walking away, the coffee cup left behind. “What’s that?”

“He’s hiding something in the sleeve of the cup,” Peter said, zooming in on the coffee cup. It was lucky that Diana had caught anything at all given how deft and practised the move seemed. By the next photo, any sign of the sleight of hand was gone. A few photos later, the other man stood and walked past Paddington’s vacated side of the bench, the coffee cup disappearing as he passed.

“His contact isn’t anyone I recognise.”

“We’ll find a way to track him down.”

There was a knock at the door and Clinton stepped in, handing Peter an envelope.

“A courier just delivered it,” Clinton said as Peter flipped the envelope over to see it addressed specifically to him. Neal admired the brazenness, if nothing else. Although the calligraphy was masterful.

“It’s just an address,” Peter said, staring at the note. He looked up at Clinton. “Find out who we’re dealing with.”

...

They’d managed to get a warrant, not based on the anonymously sent address, but on the fact that the resident, Mason Keyes, was under a number of investigations already. Not least for trafficking, both drug and human.

“I don’t like this,” Peter said as they wandered around the first floor. There was nothing out of place, not a single indication that he was involved in anything untoward.

“I have a decorator I can recommend,” Neal said, deflecting with humour that was more than a little true. He winced at the glaringly awful zebra striped sofa. Peter rolled his eyes but continued on with a hint of a smile.

“Sir,” one of the agents called. “I think you should have a look at this.”

Neal followed Peter up the stairs to the attic where one of the agents had tossed a dust sheet aside to expose several paintings. The missing Monet was in front, almost as if posed to create the most incriminating display possible.

“He’s playing with us,” Peter said, his frame tense with frustration. It was obvious he didn’t mean Keyes.

“Not necessarily,” Neal said, staring at what he was sure was a genuine Monet that matched the copy in Paddington’s living room.

There was nothing in Mason Keyes file that showed he was either intelligent or charismatic enough to pull off a heist like this. He was little more than a hired thug with some powerful friends, but this might give the FBI enough leverage to get him to turn on them. It was a masterful strategy. The media would quickly shift from an apparently solved art theft to a developing trafficking case and the higher ups wouldn’t want to jeopardise such a high profile case by undermining the origin of the information that cracked it.

He caught Peter’s piercing look but shrugged it off. It was all speculation anyway, not evidence, and he could admit that he didn’t really want to pursue his theories, not for more than his own curiosity anyway.

“Just a thought.”

“Hmm,” Peter said, his sharp gaze not abating at all. Neal raised an eyebrow, staring back until Peter finally turned away to oversee the collection of the paintings, pulling his phone out of his pocket at the same time. “Diana, take Keyes into custody.”

...

Neal watched through the glass of Peter’s office as Peter argued with a bald man in a suit. He’d arrived a few minutes late only to see Peter well into his argument. Peter had his frustrated, obstinate face on and the other man looked entirely too smug.

“Who’s that?” he asked as he leaned against the edge of Diana desk. She glanced up from her report and then at Peter’s office, not even needing clarification.

“He didn’t say what he was here for, just introduced himself as Agent Kort and said that he would only talk to Peter.”

“Who do you think he is?” Neal asked just as Peter put a hand on his hip and pointed aggressively at the man who just folded his arms and looked unimpressed.

“Not FBI,” she said definitively. “NSA maybe, or CIA. One of the shady ones.”

Neal considered that and looked over the man again, evaluating his stance and stature. He was the right build to be the man Paddington had met with. The two men said a few more words to each other and Peter gestured to the door. The man stayed a moment longer before turning and walking out. He paused as he passed Neal and leaned in close to whisper in his ear.

“Betray him and I will hunt you down wherever you try to run.”

Neal jerked back to look at him, then narrowed his eyes as he took in the shape of his jaw and the line of his nose that had become familiar over the last few days. He glanced back at a frowning Peter who gave Neal the two finger point and gestured into his office. Neal looked back at Kort as he stepped onto the elevator without looking back. He watched a moment longer before turning and heading into Peter’s office and closing the door behind him.

“What did he say to you?” Peter asked.

“Just a warning.”

Peter rolled his eyes at the lack a of a real answer and Neal couldn’t help but smile a little.

“What warning?”

Because Peter had never accepted vagueness from Neal and he wasn’t about to start now.

“About Paddington,” Neal said and then at Peter’s continued stare, “To tread carefully.”

“Apparently Paddington is his asset. We’re to remain hands off, it seems,” Peter said, dropping down into his chair and leaning his elbows on his desk. Neal shrugged, unbothered. Copeland’s reputation as a legitimate businessman and philanthropist was ruined and would take years to recover, if it ever did. Keyes had been arrested for art theft and more charges were being laid as the investigation continued. It was a win, as far as Neal was concerned.

“The case is solved, all neat and tidy.”

Neal sank into the chair in front of Peter’s desk. They both knew that wasn’t the case, not really. They’d been given all the answers to satisfy the higher ups, but it was obviously a set up. Even if Keyes should have been locked up anyway. It was enough for Neal; all evidence showed that Paddington stole from people who traded in black market goods and that he returned most of the items to their rightful owners. It was more honest than any other thief Neal had met and more than a few agents too. But he also knew it would never be enough for Peter, not with his sense of justice and righteousness.

“All neat and tidy,” Peter said with a frown of distaste.

...

Neal headed downstairs when June’s front door bell rang, but stopped at the first floor landing when June opened the door.

“How can I help you, young man?” she said, opening the door wider. Tony stood on the doorstep, shoulders back and stance confident, charming smile already in place. Like Neal, the man clearly knew the value of a good suit and he wore it well.

“I’m here for Neal,” Tony began, his eyes widening in surprise as he looked more closely at June. “Mrs J?”

“Oh my, is that little Anthony?” June asked, stepping up to him and holding him by the shoulders. She stared up at him for a long moment before pulling him into a hug that he stiffly returned. “Only you ever called me that.”

“It’s nice to see you again, Mrs J.”

“I haven’t seen you since you were twelve. Your scoundrel of a father made himself scarce after that and Byron and I always worried he’d done something to you,” June admitted, cupping his cheeks. Neal knew that Byron and June had hardly been straight-laced citizens, so for them to call someone a scoundrel, they had to have seen something in him that was beyond the pale.

“Nothing outside the usual,” Tony said with a casual shrug, but Neal knew how easy it was to act like nothing was bothering you when things got too personal. Instead, he took his cue from June’s sad, regretful expression. “I ended up in boarding school. It was a good change.”

“Good, I’m glad,” June said, releasing him with a pat to his cheek. “I assume you’re here for Neal.”

Tony looked discomfited at having his intentions read so easily and Neal smiled faintly. The confident and witty man was fun and challenging, but it was this man, in the unguarded moments, that truly intrigued him.

“I am.”

“That’s wonderful. I’m sure you boys will do each other some good. I’ll just let him know you’re here.”

“I appreciate it, Mrs J.”

June turned and spotted Neal on the stairs. She smiled at him and winked, and Neal descended the rest of the way.

“Your guest is here, Neal,” she said, giving his arm a squeeze as she gestured to where Tony was waiting and then made herself scarce.

Neal headed to the door and gave Tony a bright smile in greeting. Neal traced Tony’s jawline and nose with his eyes and compared it to what he’d seen of Agent Kort the day before.

“So, Agent Kort? Brother?” Neal asked in lieu of a greeting and Tony laughed at the unexpected question.

“Cousin,” he corrected easily. “He really is CIA.”

“And you’re his asset?”

“After a fashion. I do favours for him on occasion.”

“And it’s useful to have a CIA agent owe you.”

“There’s always that,” Tony said and then he held out his hand with a wide grin. “But there is something much more important we need to address. You still owe me a dance.”

“Well I do hate to be in anyone’s debt.”

Neal placed his hand in Tony’s and let the other man draw him closer as they headed out.