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Chapter Text

In hindsight, Neal Caffrey should’ve realized nothing good could’ve come from Peter Burke smiling at him with such a mischievous glint in his eyes. But Neal was nothing if not a little too optimistic—a little too romantic—to not croon gleefully when Peter had described the two month vacation to Paris he was taking Elizabeth on.

“I mean, personally, I don’t exactly see the appeal of the Eiffel Tower when we have plenty of our own buildings here in New York, but Elizabeth is entranced by the idea of taking pictures and eating authentic French croissants—”

“Kwa-ssonts,” Neal corrected with a jaunty tip of his hat, donning his signature pretentious French accent, looking up at Peter’s frustrated (but endeared) expression while flipping through their latest case file.

“Yes, those,” Peter chuckled, “and she also said something about a fashion show? I’m a little lost on the details, but as soon as I brought up Paris she already had the whole itinerary planned so I have a feeling she’ll be the one acting as the tour guide and I’ll just be along for the ride.”

Neal grinned, “Send me a postcard, then.”

Peter smiled, but Neal could tell from the soft hesitance in his gaze that there was something unspoken still in the air.

“Neal…” Peter began haltingly, “There’s, uh— been a slight change of plans in terms of where you’ll be for the next two months, though.”

The case file Neal had been holding slipped from his grasp, falling from his hands in a quiet snowfall of paper and laminated sheets. He didn’t move to pick it up.

“Where I’ll be?” Try as he may to keep a cool, unflappable exterior at all times, there were certain things that even Neal Caffrey couldn’t brush off as no big deal. Prison was one of them.

“You’re not… sending me back are you?” Neal stepped back, eyes searching frantically in Peter’s expression for an answer.

“No, no, Neal,” Peter put a hand up, waving away his concern, “That’s not what I meant. Sorry, I could’ve worded that better. You’ll be moving departments.”

“Moving… departments?” Neal asked, eyes narrowing slightly. He bent down to pick up the papers that had scattered across the carpet—a good excuse to keep his face down so Peter wouldn’t be able to scrutinize his expression, “How would that work?” He asked, careful to keep his tone neutral, but judging by the apologetic purse of Peter’s lips, he hadn’t been entirely successful.

“I know, it’s not exactly ideal,” Peter hedged, hands in his pockets, “but Organized Crime has been looking into a case involving a violent turf war between two rival crime families in New York—the Moreno Syndicate and the Castellano Crew. Old-school outfits with new-school money streams. They launder drug and alcohol profits through bars, nightclubs, and high-end art auctions. Bodies have started turning up, and they want to loop in someone from White Collar because both families are funneling profits through forged art, fake charities, and offshore accounts.”

“And that someone from White Collar…” Neal trailed off, halfheartedly shuffling the papers in his case file.

“… is you,” Peter finished.

“But if you’re gone…” Neal started again, and this time he didn’t even try to keep the plaintive note out of his voice.

“… you’re getting a new handler.”

“Seriously, Peter?” Neal sighed, “All the people from Organized Crime hate me.”

“Hey, don’t say that!” Peter attempted to nudge Neal’s shoulder playfully, but the CI wasn’t having it. “Who could resist that infamous Caffrey charm?”

“I can name twelve special agents right now. Included but not limited to,” Neal counts the names on his fingers, “Russo, Alvarez, Desai, Williams, Smith, Kelton— oh my gosh, and don’t even get me started on Rourke. I bumped into him one time in the hall on accident and I swear he gave me a death glare. If looks could kill I’d be dead.” Neal shivered.

Peter looked at him sympathetically, “Well, at least you’ll have ample time to convert him to the Caffrey fan club.”

“Ample time…?” Neal questioned. He watched a slow smile bloom on Peter’s face as the gears turned in his head.

“No…” Neal gasped, “Peter you can’t be serious. Is Rourke my new handler?”

“Yes, he is,” Peter conceded, “but Neal, trust me on this one, I think this is gonna be really good for you.”

“Yeah,” Neal laughed sarcastically, running a hand through his hair, “It’ll be really phenomenal being attached to the hip of a six foot seven brick wall of pure muscle and hatred. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Hey, Rourke might have a reputation for being a little tough, but he has some of the best closure rates for cases. High eighties, just like us. Stick it out on this case and you’ll make some new friends.”

“Or enemies,” Neal muttered under his breath.

“Neal,” Peter said seriously, placing a heavy hand on the CI’s shoulder. Neal looked up.

“Elizabeth and I are leaving for our vacation this weekend. I know, it’s short notice, but I didn’t want to tell you earlier and have you stressing about it.”
Neal had a half-formulated protest ready about how he would never stress about anything, so much as plot out a few contingency plans with Mozzie, but one look at Peter’s stern expression and the words died on his lips.

“This vacation means a lot to us,” Peter continued, “and I’m most likely not going to be using my phone. El has been stressed lately with work and the last thing I wanna do is bring my work with me. So…” Peter’s tone lightened marginally as he stretched his arm out for a handshake, “just for these two months, can you promise me you’ll stay out of trouble? No contacting me unless it is absolutely necessary and no shenanigans either. You do what Rourke tells you to do and you do it with a smile on your face. Deal?”

“Deal,” Neal agreed, shaking Peter’s hand, albeit begrudgingly. “But only for Elizabeth. God knows she deserves a luxury vacation after all the things you put her through,” Neal tutted jokingly.

Peter laughed. It was genuine and hearty and a sound Neal found himself missing sorely in the days after he left.

In hindsight, Neal wishes he never would’ve shaken Peter’s hand. He wishes he would’ve begged the man to stay, to assign him to someone else—anything. But at the time, the whole conversation had just seemed like an unfortunate blip in an otherwise straightforward four year deal.

Oh, if only Neal had known just how wrong he was.

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The first thing Neal learns about Special Agent Thomas Rourke is that he despises the idea of a lunch break.

And it wasn’t even just the idea of taking an hour off from the case that bothered him, Neal slowly began to learn, it was the mere sight of anyone else eating any sort of food or beverage except water, and on rare occasions, coffee.

Except… that wasn’t quite it either. Neal had come to this realization slowly throughout the week, when he’d seen Agent Dominic Russo munching on a bag of potato chips without a second glance from Rourke. And then Agent Naomi Smith had a whole turkey sandwich at her desk which she ate in its entirety without a single comment. And then it was Desai’s thermos of noodles, and Kelton’s container of lasagna, and even Rourke himself indulged in no less than six hard boiled eggs at lunch and a box of chicken and rice for dessert— but God forbid Neal try to eat a granola bar!

He’d barely gotten done with tearing open the wrapper when he felt Rourke’s gaze burning into him from across the room.

“Caffrey! I thought I gave you an assignment to do. Now is not the time to take a break. Stop being lazy and get your ass back to work. You’re out of prison so you can help us with this damn case, not stuff your face. Get back to work!” Rourke punctuated the command by throwing his stack of papers on his desk with an unceremonious thud.

Neal had opened his mouth to protest, seeing as the other agents were eating and highlighting financial reports simultaneously, but one look at Rourke’s murderous glare had him shutting his mouth and opening his notebook immediately.

It’d gone about the same way day after day. At some point, Neal realizes that even two almonds is a little too luxurious for someone of his position— “good-for-nothing leech” “lazy” “criminally stupid” “worthless" "ridiculous”—and other such insults Rourke continuously murmurs under his breath that makes Neal feel a unique kind of horrible, but he also feels stupid for feeling bad about it. He’s a grown man, for heaven’s sake. He’s not supposed to be offended by a couple insults.

But sometimes Rourke comes up behind him and gets so close to him he can’t breathe, and clamps a meaty hand on his wrist and whispers in his ear about one wrong move and you’ll be back to prison and I’ll make sure your stay will be as miserable as possible and the vitriol in his voice is so strong it physically burns and Neal can feel his eyes water, and his voice trembles as he says something about how yeah, he’ll stay late and have the analysis done by tomorrow morning.

But Rourke doesn’t leave and Neal looks longingly at his phone, mentally drafting a message to Peter. Begging him to come back. To make Rourke stop. But then he hears Peter’s voice… “just for these two months, can you promise me you’ll stay out of trouble? No contacting me unless it is absolutely necessary and no shenanigans either. You do what Rourke tells you to do and you do it with a smile on your face. Deal?”

And Neal picks up his phone and shoves it back into his desk and looks through the papers and tries to ignore the ticking of the clock that reads 8:37 PM and Rourke’s beady eyes from across the room and the violent, nauseous churning of acid in his stomach.

Chapter Text

The second thing Neal learns about Special Agent Thomas Rourke is that he’s touchy. Like really, really, touchy.

Even for things that would ordinarily require no physical contact whatsoever, Rourke somehow finds a way to grab Neal’s wrist, slam an elbow into his back, clamp a hand on his shoulder. It’s the type of careless manhandling the guards used to do back in prison, except the fact that Rourke only does it to him and no one else makes him think maybe it’s a lot more thoughtful than it is careless.

But Neal is nothing if not easily adaptable, and a little bit of extra concentration on Rourke’s nonverbal cues allows him to ascertain within a few seconds when exactly Rourke is about to use a vice like grip on Neal’s wrist to stop him from “taking a file he wasn’t supposed to” or whatever that means. Of course, all the other agents are allowed to peruse whatever files they damn well please, but with Rourke, it’s like Neal is playing by some unwritten set of rules and the only way he can find out what they are is by meticulous—and painful—trial and error.

The first time Rourke hits Neal outright is on Thursday night. The two of them are the last to leave the office at 9:14 PM, not that Neal hadn’t desperately tried to leave earlier, but Rourke refuses to let “the criminal under my care” out of his sight.

Despite the lingering tensions from earlier in the day, Rourke seems almost amicable on the walk home. The cold air is biting and having someone tall walk in front of him allows Neal to avoid having to face the torrent of rough wind head on.

Neal can almost fool himself that he’s walking home with Peter. Basking in the soft kind of silence that comes from a hard day of weary, but productive work. Except suddenly Rourke starts talking, and his words seem fairly innocuous on the outside, but underneath runs a current of barely detectable anger that even Neal can only hear because he’s so used to it.

“And I’m thinking that there’s no way in hell we can just let the operation continue without sending someone in, which is why you’re expected to go undercover immediately. First thing tomorrow.” He spits the words out more than says them, a series of veins bulging from his neck, and against his better judgement, Neal tries, just for a moment, to protest.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? I think we should debrief the rest of the team first and make sure—”

And Neal can’t even finish the thought before he feels Rourke’s whole arm smashing against the side of his face. Neal stumbles back, eyes wide with shock.

Rourke’s chest is heaving and he steps closer, “Care to say that again, pretty boy? Because I think you’ve just shown you don’t have the ability to put your money where your mouth is.” The declaration is punctuated by another shove, and Neal realizes with slowly dawning horror that he’s back against the corner of an alleyway and judging by the rapidly increased breathing coming from Rourke’s flaring nostrils that this assault isn’t about to stop anytime soon.

At some point, he completely zones out. Neal isn’t exactly sure if it happens during the second strike, or the third time Rourke jabs his knee into his stomach, causing him to double over. He coughs for a few seconds, bringing up a faintly red string of saliva. Blood.

Rourke looks at the sight in mock surprise, “Wow, Caffrey. Bleeding already? I’ve barely laid a hand on you. I have no idea how you survived prison.”

The situation seems so completely and utterly ridiculous that Neal Caffrey—smooth talking silver tongue, con artist extraordinaire—finds himself speechless. What is he even supposed to do in this situation? Beg? Scream? Persuade?

In the end, he settles for silence. He isn’t sure if the aching behind his ribs is from soreness or hunger, but it's all encompassing and just painful enough for him to focus in on, anything to distract from Rourke’s sharp fingernails digging into the skin of his neck.

“I want you to understand something, Caffrey.” Rourke whispers into his ear, “You deserve this. You think you could commit crime after crime and get away with a little tracking anklet on your leg?” He steps on Neal’s foot demonstratively, and Neal twists awkwardly under Rourke’s grip, trying to figure out some way for the handler’s full two-hundred pound body weight to not feel like a grinding axe. Something crunches ominously underneath Rourke’s foot and Neal isn’t sure if it's the anklet or his bone.

“People like you make me sick. You may have gotten away with a good deal, but I promise you. You’ll regret the day you met me.”

“I’m sorry,” Neal breathes. He’s used to leveraging apologies and charm like another bargaining chip at his disposal, but something about Rourke’s genuine fury makes him feel terrified. Fills him with a cold, aching dread—the knowledge that this isn’t going to be the kind of situation that he gets out of unscathed.

“I’m really, really, sorry,” Neal tries again, more urgently this time as Rourke’s jaw seems locked into a perpetual clench, eyes trained on Neal’s jugular like he’s waiting for the right chance to strike. “I don’t know how to make it up to you, but, please, stop, I'm sorry—”

“Oh, shut the hell up, Caffrey,” Rourke slams him so hard into the brick wall of the building behind him that for a second, Neal’s vision goes white.

“I don’t need your fake apologies and your fake smiles. I need to solve this case, I need a promotion, and I need to wipe loathsome scum like you off the face of the earth. But since I can’t exactly do that, I’ll settle for the next best thing.” Rourke steps back, and Neal is almost tempted to breathe a sigh of relief, but the adrenaline pumping through his veins means he can’t quite get his heart rate down low enough to do so.

“And you know something, Neal?” Rourke asks as he steps away. Neal’s name sounds like a curse on his tongue, and with the acrimony on Rourke’s lips it might as well be, “Don’t bother telling anyone about our little rendezvous tonight. Under ordinary circumstances, I might tell you that no one would believe you, which is correct, of course, but if we’re being completely honest with ourselves, the real truth is… no one would really care.”

And just like that, Rourke leaves. His boots thud against the concrete and Neal waits until they become quiet, quieter, quieter, and slowly fade away. Only after he’s completely certain he’s safe, does he slowly get up.

His phone is lying in a cold puddle of water near his foot, Neal idly realizes. He reaches down for it and can’t stop the gasp of pain from the wrenching of his shoulder.
The edges of his mouth turn down as he looks through his voicemails. Nothing from Peter.

And standing there, cold, and wet with blood and sweat, Neal thinks about what Peter’s CI would do in this situation.

Peter’s CI would be clever enough to talk his way out of this kind of situation. Or at least competent enough that it never would have happened in the first place. But Neal isn’t Peter’s CI now. He’s Rourke’s CI. And Rourke’s CI is not charming, or strong, or brave, or charismatic.

No, Neal ponders as he stumbles his way back to his apartment, gingerly stepping to avoid putting weight on his bruised ankle.

No, Rourke’s CI is scared. Scared, and cold, and tired, and starving, and stupid and worthless… and at some point Neal isn’t exactly sure when his own internal voice stops and where Rourke’s begins.

Maybe Peter’s CI could find a way out of this.

But all Rourke’s CI knows how to say is… please.

Stop.

I’m sorry.

Chapter Text

The third thing Neal learns about Special Agent Thomas Rourke over the next weeks is that he genuinely, truly, could not care less if Neal died. He is simply a means to an end. A way to increase Rourke’s case closure rate. A valuable asset, a tool to be used and discarded as needed, with no emotional attachment whatsoever.

Neal realizes this quite abruptly, in the middle of an interrogation, as a matter of fact. Except, instead of Peter being the one doing the interrogating as Neal stands back and observes the minute facial expressions of a felon, Neal is the one being interrogated.

By none other than one Marco Castellano.

Marco—as Neal quickly learns throughout the course of the interrogation—is especially fond of getting so close to Neal that he can smell the man’s overpoweringly artificial cologne, chemical hair grease, and the stale cigarette smoke on his breath all at the same time.

“So… why exactly do you want to join our little crew here, uh…”

“Valen Cross,” Neal supplies automatically. His chosen alias for the current op.

“Valen, huh?” Dante Ricci, the muscle of the group, inquires from the shadows. His voice is vaguely reminiscent of a rake scraping against dry gravel and it takes all of Neal’s wherewithal to keep his face perfectly neutral.

“Short for Valentino,” Neal answers, allowing a small, secretive smile to play on his face before settling back into his careful default expression. “You guys aren’t the only ones with certain… connections, you know.”

“I like this guy,” Another voice chimes in from the dark. This one a little more playful than Neal would ordinarily be comfortable with.

“Do you now, Lucas?” Marco asks dryly.

And that’s the only warning Neal gets before a fist collides with his temple. Neal gasps. He can feel warm, wet blood trickle down his face and the taste of iron in his mouth.

“Why’d you do that?” Lucas asks, except his voice is more childishly petulant than genuinely indignant—as if Marco has just ruined one of his favorite toys.

If this was a normal operation, there would be FBI agents swarming the facility by now. Peter was always firmly insistent that Neal would never get hurt under his watch, to the point he’d pull him out of ops if he had even the faintest suspicion that Neal was in danger.

Rourke, on the other hand, remains eerily silent on the other line of Neal’s communication device, and the FBI agents remain noticeably absent.

It dawns on Neal that Rourke hadn’t even thought (or maybe he’d purposefully neglected) to give him some kind of codeword or phrase as a signal to pull him out.

“Hey, you spaced out already?” Dante pushes a careless hand against Neal’s forehead, watching as his head lolls back with minimum resistance.

“Just waiting for it to be over,” Neal says, trying to sound bored, but the subtle trembling of his voice undermines his efforts, “I can handle a beating, I assure you. One has to in order to make it anywhere in this line of business.”

“Oh, really?” Marco asks, interest decidedly piqued, “We’ll see about that. Dante, give Valen here a little taste of what happens if he ever tries to betray us. If he’s able to walk out by the end of it, he’s welcome to join us again at our meeting next week. If not, well… ” he smirks at opening on the other side of the alley, “I’m sure there’s a dumpster nearby where you can dump the body.”

Marco waves goodbye and then walks away, combat boots thudding on the wet concrete beneath them. And maybe it’s the repeated head trauma, but Neal can’t help but feel hopelessly confused.

“Wait, where is he…?” He asks dazedly.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Lucas reassures him, pulling up a wooden stool right next to the foldable chair where Neal is sitting.

“Typical hazing ritual for newbies. Easy and quick,” Dante agrees, except the way he cracks his knuckle with each syllable makes Neal think that no matter how quick this whole affair is about to be, it’ll be anything but easy.

Over the next few hours, Neal zones out more than once. He’s almost grateful for the beatings he’s gotten used to taking from Rourke. At least now, he doesn’t need to hear the vitriolic threats that normally accompany every assault.

Not for the first time, he wishes that there was something he could say or do to get himself out of this situation, but the reality is Rourke has already made it abundantly clear that his value to the bureau extends only as far as his will to be a human punching bag, and Neal isn’t quite sure he’s ready to be useless yet.

He’s lost so much blood the edges of his vision have started to blur, and keeping his eyes open is harder than ever.

And yet, despite the vicious assault to his physical body, his emotions somehow manage to stay in tact. His attackers, while violent, aren’t exactly… hateful.

In fact, if he didn’t know any better, he’d almost be tempted to say that Lucas is being fairly… encouraging?

“Wow, Dante, you really didn’t have to hit him in the ribs again,” Lucas whines, ruffling Neal’s hair, “That’s gotta hurt,” he murmurs sympathetically.

“It’s okay, I can…” Neal can’t quite summon the willpower to say confidently that he can handle it so he settles for a small smile, wincing at the way the motion pulls at his split lip.

“Good boy,” Lucas croons—and whacks him upside the head with so much force Neal’s vision goes black.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough,” Lucas says some indiscriminate amount of time later. Between the pounding of his head and the thrumming in his ears Neal has long since stopped keeping track of the minutes passing, and the lack of windows in the strange alleyway-basement-alcove he’s been dragged makes it difficult for him to even know if it’s still daytime.

“Wow, Lucas,” Dante laughs mockingly, tossing up a steel pipe a few feet in the air and catching it with a deft grab, “Looks like someone’s getting soft. It’s barely five o’clock. You tired already?”

Lucas rolls his eyes, “Obviously not, but I have better things to do then beat a dead horse—no offense,” he directs the last part of the statement to Neal with a small smirk, something coy, verging on predatory dancing in his eyes.

“None taken,” Neal chokes out, suppressing a cough.

“Eh, whatever,” Dante finally tosses the pipe on the ground. It rattles on the floor with a clanging rattle and Neal breathes a sigh of relief. That would’ve gotten painful fast…

Lucas helps him up from the chair, whispering a soft, “You passed. Good job. See you soon,” in his ear as he passes him a phone.

“Use that for the job only.” Dante directs him, and practically shoves him out.

Neal pauses for a moment to wipe the blood from his nose, then flashes a smile.

Maybe Rourke’s CI is good for something after all.

Chapter Text

Mozzie prides himself on many things—his brilliant ability to pull off elaborate criminal escapades without getting caught, his mastery of eccentric disguises, his innate distrust of all government agencies, but most of all—his patience.

Mozzie knows when to push and when to pull, when to pry and when to stay silent, and importantly, when to act and when to wait.

Except, Mozzie’s been waiting for Neal to offer some kind of explanation as to why he keeps walking into the apartment day after day looking like he’s being run over by progressively larger trucks, and Neal still has yet to indicate he’s any closer to telling him.

He decides he’ll wait until the weekend.

On Saturday morning, Mozzie strides into the apartment accompanied by Neal’s usual chorus of, “You know there’s this new cool trend called ‘knocking’ maybe you should try it sometime!” which he cheekily ignores.

He tosses Neal his new gadget—a multi-purpose lock pick (with an impressive array of fourteen different variations based on the safe or doorknob model) with an attached drill, all disguised in a sleek rectangular piece of metal. Heavy, but small and unassuming.

“I call it… the three-speed four-socket seven-combination lock drill,” Mozzie pronounces proudly, “Name could probably still use a little work, but it fits pretty good for now.”

Except Neal doesn’t immediately stretch out his hand while looking at something else and catch the gadget while bragging about his fast reflexes.

He watches as the lock drill arcs precariously close to him in the air, then thuds unceremoniously at his feet.

But Mozzie doesn’t miss the way Neal reflexively reaches out, only to stifle a small hiss of pain as he reaches for his ribs.

He tries to hide it by turning his back and busying himself with his latest artistic endeavor (a forgery of a famous Caravaggio Rourke wanted him to paint to lure out a counterfeiter trying to make a quick buck), but Mozzie isn’t having it.

“Neal, what happened to your ribs?” He asks immediately, dispensing with all pretenses of trying to act casual. He drops his bag next to the couch and sits beside Neal, reaching for his shirt.

“Hey, hey!” Neal shouts defensively, scooting farther away to the edge of the couch, “Trying to undress me already? At least buy me dinner first, will you? Geez!” He huffs in playful indignation, but Mozzie remains stiffly unamused.

“Neal,” he attempts again, this time making a conscious effort to soften his tone. “I need you to let me take a look. I know you’re working on that rough case about the Moreno Syndicate and the Castellano Crew. And I also know that word on the street says they’ll beat up anyone who breathes within a ten foot radius of them.”

Neal hesitated for a moment, the words dancing on his lips for a few moments before they finally come out in a rushed, unpracticed tumble, “Look, Moz, it’s really not that bad. I mean come on, I’ve been in prison before, it’s not like I can’t handle a little—”

“Then you should have no problem showing me,” Mozzie interrupts.

Finally, with an exaggerated sigh and eye roll, Neal lifts the edge of his shirt. It’s a sight to behold. Blacks and blues all over his lower stomach bloom into paler yellows towards his sides, angry crimson gashes punctuating the ridges of his ribs. A veritable canvas of violence and destruction.

Mozzie inhales sharply, eyes widening in shock. “What the hell, Neal? There’s more colors across your torso than in a Picasso.”

Neal opens his mouth, presumably to make a joke about how oh, well Picasso in his Blue Period really only used one color but Mozzie doesn’t let him.

“Lie back. I’m getting the first aid kit. Now. And I’m stealing your Bordeaux. This is gonna be a long night.”

Mozzie makes quick work of the most pressing of Neal’s injuries, patching up the open wounds after a careful disinfecting while tutting under his breath.

“Seriously, Neal, all these bruises have gotta hurt. I mean, thankfully it doesn’t look like anything was broken but…” he shakes his head.

Neal at least has the decency to look thoroughly chastised, though the slight curl of his lips lets Mozzie know he’s not so hurt as to be unable to find a bit of humor in the situation.

“I knew you were one of the best legal minds in the nation, Moz, but I had no idea you were a medical genius too,” Neal wiggles his eyebrows.

Mozzie bats the praise away with his hand as he puts a bandaid over the last gash on Neal’s side. “Oh, please. I’m a jack of all trades. You should know this by now. It’s how I manage to stay undetected by prying government eyes.”

Neal hums in absentminded agreement, eyelashes fluttering for a moment, and Mozzie can immediately tell his friend is a lot more tired than he’d previously let on.

He’s just about to wrap up with the first aid and then quietly slip out the door when…

“Wait. Neal.”

Neal takes a second to wake himself from his dazed state, blinking hard. “Huh? Sorry, what? Think I nodded off for a bit there.”

“When did you say you were assigned the undercover detail with the Moreno Syndicate?”

“Like…” Neal pauses to think, “maybe three days ago? Why?”

“Neal…” Mozzie sighs, “a lot of these bruises are from a lot longer than three days ago.”

He waits for a response. Mozzie isn’t exactly even sure what he wants Neal to say. That he’s mistaken, obviously. That the bruises are just from a different undercover op, and have nothing to do with a certain new man in Neal’s life.

One whom Neal has remained conspicuously silent about, but Mozzie never misses the way Neal now flinches a little every time his phone rings.

How he’s no longer excited whenever a new case at the FBI opens, how he stays late at the office more out of obligation than genuine desire.

How it no longer matters what restaurant Mozzie gets takeout from, Neal always looks at the food like the mere sight of it makes him nauseous, and Mozzie’s caught him disguising a gag as a harsh swallow more than once. Neal’s always been a nervous vomiter, though you’d never know it from looking at him.

Mozzie never calls him out on any of it, and Neal’s never give any indication that he should, but now… Mozzie isn’t so sure he can ignore the signs any longer.

The silence stretches as his statement hangs in the air, and Mozzie waits for what seems like an eternity for an outright denial, or at least a half-truth with some missing information.

But Neal’s silence is more damning than an answer ever could be.

Chapter Text

Prying the information out of Neal the following Sunday morning is an experience Mozzie can only compare to the time he tried to tightrope during a heist in Italy in ‘04—with the support wire attached to the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

And like the ‘04 heist, Mozzie’s palms are slick with sweat and he feels the beginnings of a headache thumping behind his temples, but this time it's not from the anxiety of a fatal drop, but with sheer disbelief and fury.

In the past half hour, Neal had buttered the same piece of toast three times, meticulously dissected each individual layer of an almond croissant, and cut off the ends of eleven strawberries, all without a single piece of food actually entering his mouth, mind you.

And in that same hour, Mozzie has tried to determine whether he might need to begin considering whether committing homicide might be worth it if it meant Neal would never have to lay eyes on a certain handler ever again.

“Look, Moz,” Neal says passionately, a warm glint in his eyes that Moz is intimately familiar with from whenever his friend is trying to justify an increasingly convoluted train of thought, “You need to just hear me out on this one.”

“I have it all figured out,” Neal continues, gesticulating wildly. He’d gone from denying Rourke had ever done anything to him at all, to severely downplaying serious workplace abuse, to acknowledging it and then justifying it as if his life depends on it. Which, Mozzie supposes, in some abstract way it does.

Maybe believing you deserve your punishment makes it hurt less.

“Uh huh,” Mozzie deadpans, doing his best to sound perfectly neutral when in reality all he wants to do is break each of Rourke’s stupid fingers knuckle by knuckle. “Please enlighten me, Neal. What exactly do you have figured out?”

“Peter’s gonna be back in like three or four weeks, all I have to do is put up with Rourke in the meantime. Just keep my head down and do what he says, just like Peter told me. I don’t need to cause any trouble, I don’t need to make another enemy. Peter told me I have a chance of getting my sentence commuted soon if I keep helping the FBI close cases like this.”

“But that’s just the thing, mon frere,” Moz implores with a burst of passion, neutrality be damned. “You shouldn’t just have to put up with it. I mean, come on, Rourke’s a damn Suit! He’s supposed to be in the business of law enforcement, not breaking the law and—”

“It’s not a big deal,” Neal says, and he doesn’t even get the thought out fully before Mozzie opens his mouth to reply.

But then Mozzie registers the edge of desperation in Neal’s voice. And he starts to realize that maybe this whole conversation is just Neal trying to cope the best he can.

“If I told anyone, including Peter, Rourke would just deny it. And I mean, come on, Moz. Who do you think people are gonna believe? A con artist vying for sympathy or a well-respected
agent of the FBI?”

“…Fine,” Mozzie concedes, “but that still doesn’t explain why you didn’t tell me. We’re partners in crime, we’re supposed to be able to tell each other everything!”
Neal hesitates, a muscle in his jaw twitching before he finally opens his mouth to answer. “It’s not that I didn’t want to tell you, it’s just…if I told you then… it would mean it’s real.”

“Real?”

“Like it’s actually happening. I’m not just imagining it. Someone else knows about it. He always…” Neal sucks in a trembling breath, “he always… does it when one else is there.”

The words come out a whisper but Mozzie feels them with as much force as if Neal had shouted them. And he doesn’t need to ask a follow-up question to know that “it” could probably be anything ranging from a violent threat to a severe beating.

“And then the next day he just hands me a file and tells me to research and I can’t help but feel like maybe I just imagined it all.”

The anger simmering in Mozzie’s veins threatens to come to a boil, and he tries to calm himself by taking an aggressive sip of his espresso, though he can’t help but crave something stronger.

The reality of the situation is, as much as Mozzie doesn’t want to admit it, Neal is probably right.

There’s no way to get evidence, not really. And trust him, Mozzie’s been scouring his mind trying to look for a way out from the moment Neal opened his mouth. Even if they could attempt to get some sort of audio or video recording, Rourke finding out about it would undoubtedly make Neal’s life phenomenally worse.

“You know what?” Neal shakes his head, pushing his chair back and standing to his feet, “I’m probably making this all sound so much worse than it actually is. It’s just another month, Moz, it’s not like he’s going to kill me.”

Mozzie nods hesitantly, uncertainty marring his features.

As dreadful as the prospect of another month of watching his friend suffer is, he has no faith that The System would side with a convicted felon against a well-respected FBI agent over workplace abuse with only circumstantial evidence. As clear as the bruises are… they could’ve come from anywhere. There’s no way to pin them back on Rourke.

“Fine,” Mozzie finally agrees, rousing himself from his spiraling reverie, “But only under one condition. No matter what happens, you tell me. No leaving things out. You can’t just carry this all by yourself. A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother..” Mozzie proclaims, twisting his wrist with a flourish.

“Really, Moz? We’re quoting Proverbs, now?” Neal asks, unimpressed.

“Yeah, well, if there was ever a time for divine intervention, it would be now,” Mozzie shoots back. Neal laughs, and the sound is almost jarring to Mozzie’s ears. It’s been awhile since
he’s heard Neal laugh, he realizes. It’s a beautiful sound—carefree, yet refined in its dignity. Uniquely... Neal.

And in that moment, Mozzie swears to himself. He’ll do whatever it takes to preserve that sound. No matter what the cost.

────────────────────────────────────────

Rourke has a certain set of tells, Neal learns, that are perfect for evaluating exactly how likely it is he’ll be able to end the workday physically unscathed.

If Rourke’s fingers are twitching? Neal will end up with bruises around his wrists that’ll last for at least three days.

A long sigh? Neal will be on the other end of a veritable barrage of threats on his way home, which he will be expected to sit down and take without much more than a yes, sir when Rourke deems it appropriate.

But some days…

Some days aren’t so bad.

Occasionally, Neal makes a breakthrough on the case.

He figures out some obscure detail based on a huge ledger of financial reports. Or he makes out a signature hidden in the background of a forged painting.

And Rourke raises an eyebrow and one side of lips quirks upward—the closest Neal’s ever been to making him smile—and moments like that are worth their weight in gold.

When Rourke lays a heavy arm on Neal’s shoulder, except instead of feeling oppressive, it feels warm, and when he makes a jab about Neal’s ability to charm a thousand dollars out of a bank vault it feels like a compliment instead of an insult.

And Neal becomes pretty good at bending himself backwards. He gets Rourke his coffee, just the way he likes it, with three packets of Stevia. He’s especially careful about that, given that the last time Neal messed up and added the wrong sweetener he’d ended up with burns on his arms from where Rourke had “spilled” it, although Neal is entirely certain it wasn’t
an accident.

Neal learns to keep his mouth shut too, and that’s a new development. Sometimes Jones or Diana will give him an odd look from across the conference room, as if they’re expecting a clever quip or an out-of-the-box idea, but Neal just smiles and nods and then smiles some more.

”Caffrey, stay back until you’ve finished going through these files and cross-referencing from the ones we got from the investment firm last week.”

“But that’s going to take until two in the morning…”

”Then shut the hell up and get to work.”

Rourke likes it when Neal says yes. And he especially likes it when he doesn’t ask follow-up questions.

Except the burden of his demands and the severity of his punishments keeps escalating and Neal isn’t exactly sure where his breaking point is, but he knows well that he’s about to reach it.

”Caffrey, there’s another meeting with the Castellano crew this weekend. You need to get into their inner circle as quickly as possible if we’re going to be able to take them down. I don’t care if they ask you to take a branding iron to the chest with their logo on it, you do it.”

“A branding iron? That’s insane. No, I’m not going to—”

”What did you just say to me?”

”Yes, sir.”

The hours bleed into days bleed into weeks, but the end still doesn’t feel any nearer. Rourke’s grip on his arm gets tighter around his wrist and his words feel like a wrist around Neal’s neck.

Eventually, he forgets what it’s like to say no.

And when Moz asks about how work is, he says Rourke has mellowed out. He doesn’t yell as much, doesn’t hit as much. But maybe it's just that Neal’s pain tolerance has gotten higher.

What hurts the most is that it seems like everyone else is adjusting to Rourke just fine. He and Jones laugh over football teams and Hughes respects the man’s work ethic. Diana talks about how it’s good Neal has someone else to rein him in while Peter’s on vacation.

Maybe Neal really is the problem.

Besides, hasn’t he earned this? A lifetime of bending rules, of using charm to get what he wants—isn’t it fair that someone finally bends him back?

Chapter Text

Stepping off of the elevator that Monday morning, something doesn’t quite feel right. Peter can’t quite put his finger on it. The air still smells like the slightly stale, calcified coffee at the bottom of the pot and the atmosphere is full of the typical hustle and bustle of the beginning of the week, but something is missing.

Peter is just in the midst of trying to figure it out, almost through the entirety of his morning routine when he sees the email.

To: Special Agent Peter Burke

Subject: Neal Caffrey’s Handler Assignment

Special Agent Burke,

It has come to our attention that Agent Thomas Rourke has requested that Neal stay under his watch until the end of their current case assignment due to its delicate nature.
Once the current case has been handled, you will resume your duties as Neal’s handler.

Until then, Agent Rourke will oversee Neal’s duties at the FBI. You may participate in the investigation at his discretion, provided you understand that Agent Rourke retains full authority over case strategy, operational decisions, and Caffrey’s deployment. We trust you will extend him your full cooperation during this period and refrain from unnecessary interference.

Regards,
Deputy Director Samuel R. Whitmore,
Federal Bureau of Investigation

He’s about to shoot Neal a text and ask if he’s aware of this, and is trying to figure out how exactly to word it when he hears a voice that he can only really liken to the sound of crunching gravel.

“Caffrey, what the hell are you doing? You’re seven minutes late! This case depends on you being able to keep yourself together for once in your goddamn life, you can do that, can’t you?”

Peter—almost out of instinct—gets up from his chair before he even realizes it and steps down the stairs. He’s about to open his mouth, maybe make a joke and try to diffuse the situation, when he makes eye contact with Rourke himself.

The man’s eyes narrow, and he waves a meaty hand in Peter’s direction, “If it isn’t Agent Burke, huh?” His tone is amicable, but his hand is a steel clamp on Neal’s forearm.
“Oh, hey Peter!” Neal greets him with a smile, but there’s something a little hollow in his eyes. A glint of something—but it’s gone before Peter can analyze it any further.

“Hi,” Peter nods, glancing at Neal’s direction before turning his attention back on Rourke, “What’s going on? Did Neal cause any trouble?”

Rourke laughs humorlessly and Peter feels a chill down his spine. Not again. What did Neal do now?

“Neal,” Peter sighs exasperatedly, “I left you alone for a month. Just one single month. Please tell me you didn’t manage to irrevocably screw up a case that quickly. I got an email from Samuel freaking Whitmore this morning, how did you manage to—”

“I’m the one who requested that email be sent, Burke.” Rourke interrupts him smoothly, “We’re dealing with the Castellano Crew and Moreno Syndicate. Big time mafia players, and there’s been chatter underground of a potential heist. Neal’s our man undercover.”

“Oh,” Peter rubs a sheepish hand on the back of his neck, “Well that makes more sense, I guess. The email was pretty vague. Uh, I could definitely help—”

“Your assistance is most likely unnecessary, but I’ll contact you if you’re needed.” Rourke answers. It's the second time he’s interrupted Peter and the confusion he was feeling before has now morphed into thinly veiled irritation.

“Now, Caffrey. Follow me.” Rourke snaps, tugging Neal toward the conference room.

Peter lingers for a beat, watching the way Neal’s sleeve rides up under Rourke’s grip, pale skin showing where his forearm is pressed too tightly. Neal’s smile flickers—reassuring, playful on the surface, if a little brittle. Peter blames it on the CI having to adjust to a new handler. But before Peter can say anything, the door shuts firmly behind them.

For the rest of the morning, Peter buries himself in case files, fielding calls and half-drafting reports. But his focus keeps slipping back toward the closed conference room door. He’s not used to being cut out, not when Neal’s involved. By noon, though, the door swings open and Neal and Rourke emerge, mid-conversation.

To Peter’s surprise, Neal is… laughing. It’s a little sharp at the edges, but still, he’s clearly engaging. Rourke claps him on the shoulder, the kind of heavy-handed gesture Peter usually associates with football coaches and drill sergeants.

Neal looks a little thinner now, Peter suddenly realizes. His cheekbones are more prominent, and there’s a visible bend to the bones in his wrists. It’d been bugging him for awhile, a small difference that made their earlier interaction seem a little off, but now when he sees Neal stumble at the force of Rourke’s pat on the shoulder, it's so obvious he doesn’t know how he’d missed it.

“See? He can hold his own when he puts his mind to it,” Rourke remarks, pulling Peter out of his reverie.

Peter finds himself chuckling under his breath. “Neal? Hold his own? Color me shocked.”

Neal glances at him, smiles a little too bright, but he plays along. “You wound me, Peter.”

The easy banter makes Peter relax, and—reluctantly—he admits to himself that Rourke seems to be managing Neal with a kind of no-nonsense authority that works. Rourke doesn’t have to worry about Neal stealing millions of dollars from behind his back, or forging a Van Gogh when no one is watching. Where Peter coaxes, negotiates, and argues, Rourke simply demands. And Neal… Neal is listening. Complying.

By the second day, Peter even finds himself appreciating Rourke’s presence. The man is undeniably competent. He has a commanding grasp of the Castellano files, and the agents under him move like clockwork when he barks an order. Peter can’t help but respect efficiency when he sees it.

It’s a complicated case, with countless moving parts and secret codes that Peter would loathe to deal with by himself, but having another lead agent has been, surprisingly enough, a relief.

At one point in the afternoon, Rourke invites Peter into the tactical briefing. “Burke, why don’t you sit in? You might actually learn something about how we run things around here.” The jab is good-natured on the surface, though it stings. Still, Peter lets it roll off. He isn’t the head agent in charge anymore, Rourke is.

But it seems like the Castellano case is close to coming to an end. It could just be Peter’s unrealistic optimism, but the speed of the team has been ruthless and for once Peter’s never the last one to leave the office anymore. It's always one of Rourke’s subordinates who clocks out after midnight—or worse yet, in the case of Naomi and Dominic, who pulls two consecutive all-nighters before Rourke had finally realized they’d been wearing the same clothes for 48 hours and finally sent them home.

Say what you want about Peter being a workaholic, but he’d never keep his agents in the office for two straight days. Rourke’s methods are… questionable, but the results are undeniable.

The meeting is sharp, pointed, and brutally effective. Rourke steers the room like a captain at the helm, agents frantically scribbling notes and nodding along. Neal is seated at Rourke’s side, occasionally offering insights, though only if he’s specifically asked for them.

“High-value bearer bonds are typically altered to pass preliminary scans," Neal explains, with the casual authority of someone who's lived it. He turns his attention towards the letter on the screen of the conference room, and the probies keep scribbling.

"If you look at the coded phrases,” Neal continues, “the midnight shipment isn't actually about timing at all. It's about the type of paper stock smuggled in from Europe. Oh, and the three candles burning is an old thieves’ shorthand for a three-man crew going in on a job.”

Every time he speaks, though, Rourke’s hand lands on the back of his chair—or sometimes his shoulder—with just enough weight to make Neal falter a fraction of a second before continuing.

Peter doesn’t notice that detail at first. He only notices that Neal looks… well, disciplined. Focused. Maybe even better behaved than usual.

Afterward, Rourke pulls Peter aside. “I can see why you like working with him,” he admits, grudgingly. “He’s slippery, but he’s sharp. Just needs the right leash.”
Peter exhales, tension he didn’t realize he was holding slipping out of his chest. “Yeah. He’s slippery all right.” He almost says more, but Rourke’s tone—the conviction in it—makes him pause. Maybe Neal really does need someone with a heavier hand, someone who won’t let him wriggle out of the rules.

Later that night, as Peter’s packing up, he glances across the bullpen. Rourke is leaning down close to Neal at his desk, speaking low and firm. Neal nods quickly, too quickly, his hands folded tight on the table. Rourke straightens, gives a tight smile, and strides out.

Try as he might, Peter can’t hear a single word they’re saying. He assumes it’s more details about the case. Rourke is like a bloodhound with a good lead, once he catches the scent he can’t drop it, and it's led to almost all his agents working overtime.

Neal stays behind, shoulders tense until Rourke’s figure disappears through the glass doors. Then, only then, does he let out a long, shaky breath.

That seems a little odd. But… It's been a stressful day after all. And Rourke isn’t exactly the emotionally cognizant type. His leadership style is more strict than Neal’s used to, but he’s adapted to it well. Peter’s probably just reading something into nothing. Typical overeager FBI agent mindset, always trying to find a problem, even when one doesn’t exist.

Peter frowns, hesitating with his coat in his hand. But before he can cross the bullpen, Neal looks up, catches his eye, and flashes an easy grin. It’s charming. Familiar.

“See you tomorrow, Peter. Say hi to Elizabeth for me.”

The grin doesn’t reach his eyes.

And Peter, for all his instincts, lets it go.

Chapter Text

Peter likes cases that involve daylight, public places, and the kind of criminal who thinks an “offshore account” is a Cayman vacation fund rather than a carefully laid shell network. Today’s assignment—tailing a mid-tier Castellano associate through the Met—is exactly his speed.

Compared to hours sweating in an unmarked van with Jones and stale bagels, this feels almost like a field trip.

“You have to admit,” Neal says, strolling half a step ahead of him like he owns the marble floors, “this is the most civilized surveillance you’ve ever done. Paintings, sculptures, climate control. No sweaty warehouses, no cramped vans. I think this might even count as a date.”

Peter grunts, pretending to study the gallery map. “I’ll admit it’s nicer than a dumpster stakeout. But I still don’t see why Castellano’s guy would pick an art museum for a meet.”
“Because it's the perfect cover,” Neal replies breezily. His voice lowers just enough that the passing tourists don’t overhear. “Blends in with the crowd, pretends he’s here for culture, and if anyone asks questions, he points at a Rembrandt. Easy.”

Peter shoots him a stern look, though he can’t help the way his lips naturally curl into a small, bemused smile, “You sound awfully familiar with the strategy.”

Neal flashes his quicksilver grin. “Purely hypothetical, of course.” He adds, with a jaunty tip of his hat.

It’s comfortable, this rhythm. Neal teasing, Peter scowling, both of them alert without looking it. Their mark—a Castellano crew leader with a taste for overpriced suits—drifts through the Impressionists with the same distracted air as the tourists, and Peter almost lets himself relax.

Almost.

Because then he notices Neal.

Not the smile, not the glib commentary—but the way his hand lingers on the edge of a display case, fingers tightening just enough to whiten the knuckles. The way his color looks just a little off in the gallery’s soft lighting.

“You okay?” Peter murmurs, keeping his eyes forward.

“Fine.” Too quick. Neal adjusts his tie, posture straightening like he can will away whatever it is. “Just a little warm in here.”

Peter frowns. He’s seen Neal bluff marks, judges, whole juries with smoother delivery than that. And now that he’s looking closer—yeah, Neal is pale. A sheen of sweat glints at his temple. His shoulders are tense, not in that alert, ready-to-run way but like he’s holding something back.

They keep walking, Peter with one eye on their man, the other on Neal. He hates to admit it, but Neal looks thin. Thinner than he did a few weeks ago. Peter isn’t sure when it started—maybe Paris distracted him, maybe he just didn’t notice under the suits—but now that he’s paying attention, it’s obvious. And he can't stop noticing.

The Castellano man pauses to study a Monet. Neal makes a show of critiquing the brushstrokes of a piece a few feet away as a cover for their proximity, leaning close to Peter like he’s sharing some witty aside, but Peter catches the way his smile falters when a pair of tourists pass by holding croissants from the café.

They follow the mark into the atrium, where the smell of frying oil and bread drifts over from the cafeteria. Neal slows a fraction, almost imperceptible—but Peter catches it. Neal’s expression lingers somewhere between dazed and nauseous, like the smell turns his stomach.

“You hungry?” Peter asks casually, scanning the room as the Castellano man buys a sandwich and finds a seat.

Neal shakes his head. “I’ll pass.” His smile is thin now, strained at the edges. “You know me. I’m here for the art, not the hot dogs.”

“Mm.” Peter gives a noncommittal grunt, but files it away. Neal always has a story about where to find the best espresso, the best wine, the best anything. He doesn’t usually skip food entirely.

They settle at a table with a sightline on the mark. Neal slouches back in his chair like a man enjoying an afternoon off, making quiet commentary about how the Met’s cafeteria coffee ought to be a crime in itself. His voice has its usual sparkle, the cadence of someone used to charming a room, but Peter’s eyes keep catching the details that don’t fit: the way Neal’s hand trembles slightly when he reaches for his water glass, the way he presses his lips together too long after swallowing, like he’s willing down nausea.

By the time the Castellano man finishes lunch and leaves, Neal is already cracking a quiet joke about Degas’ ballerinas and FBI field agents in tights.

Peter barks a laugh, shaking his head. “That’s an image I don’t need.”

“C’mon, you’d look great in a tutu,” Neal teases, his grin almost convincing.

Peter rolls his eyes, but the concern doesn’t leave him.

Outside, the crisp fall air hits like a reset button. Neal tugs his coat tighter, posture loosening again, spinning a story about the perfect con you could pull in a place like the Met—something about swapping out a minor Impressionist for a forgery while the guards are distracted by schoolchildren on a field trip.

“Really, think about it, if you can get a few kids to start bawling about how they’ve lost their parents, it’d be incredibly easy to do a quick bait and switch before any employees have even finished their first phone call.”

Peter listens with half an ear, letting Neal’s chatter wash over him, but he keeps circling back to the sight of him in that café: pale, shaky, pushing away food like the smell alone was too much.

By the time they reach the car, Neal has him laughing again, sliding easily back into their familiar rhythm. Peter tells himself he’s imagining the tremor in Neal’s voice. He wants to believe that.

Neal’s con story winds to a close as they reach the stairs leading back to the Renaissance wing. Their Castellano man has disappeared into the crowd, his lunch meeting over. Peter is about to call it when his phone buzzes.

Jones.

“Boss, we’ve got movement,” his voice crackles through the line. “Museum security just flagged a silent alarm—third floor. Storage room.”

Peter’s stomach drops. “We’re on it.”

He snaps the phone shut and turns to Neal—except Neal isn’t there. He looks at his watch.

10:32 AM.

“Neal? Where the heck are you?”

The spot beside him is empty, just the flow of tourists chattering past. Damn it…

Peter swears under his breath and takes the stairs two at a time. The third floor is already in chaos: a cluster of guards shouting into radios, a curator wringing her hands. Through the open door of the storage wing, Peter catches a glimpse of empty hooks on the wall where a painting should hang.

“Stolen piece?” he barks. This is beginning to feel eerily familiar.

One of the guards nods, pale. “Seventeenth-century Dutch still life. Switched for a frame with the glass cut. Must’ve been minutes ago.”

Minutes ago. Peter’s pulse spikes. Panic turns to anger and swirls in his mind. Something definitely isn’t right about this.

The crowd thickens as word spreads. Tourists crane for a look, guards scramble to lock down exits, alarms finally blaring. And right in the middle of it, Neal appears—jogging up from the far hall, hair mussed, tie loosened, breathing hard like he’s sprinted the length of the building. His eyes seem especially blue in the light of the museum. And oddly watery, too.

“Peter!” Neal calls, waving an arm to catch his attention, as if everyone in a fifty foot radius isn't already staring at them.

Peter’s gut twists. The timing is too neat. Neal vanishes just before a painting disappears, then reappears looking like he’s just pulled off a job? He looks pale, panicked, almost guilty.

“What the hell, Neal?” Peter snaps, striding over. He keeps his voice low but his grip on Neal’s arm is iron. “You disappear for five minutes and a piece walks out of here? You expect me to believe that’s a coincidence?”

Neal blinks at him, startled. “What? No—I wasn’t—” He breaks off, swallowing hard, eyes darting around at the alarms and guards. “Peter, I swear—”

“Don’t give me that,” Peter cuts in, heat rising. “Was this you? Or Mozzie? Did you set this up?”

The hurt that flashes across Neal’s face is quick, almost invisible—but Peter catches it. Then Neal masks it with indignation. “I didn’t steal anything!”

It'd be a pretty convincing act. Except Peter knows that Neal can put on a show just as good as a Hollywood actor, if not even better.

Peter’s phone buzzes again. He ignores it, eyes locked on Neal. Disheveled, pale, shaky. Neal looks every inch the conman caught mid-act.

And for the first time since Paris, Peter feels the pillars of his trust begin to crumble.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Neal tells himself he’s fine. That’s the lie he’s been living on for weeks now—smooth it over with a smile, toss Peter a joke, and keep moving. But by the time they pass the café, the smell of frying oil and reheated meat hits him like a fist to the gut.

His stomach turns. His vision goes white at the edges.

All he can think about is Rourke. It’s so stupid. Ever since Peter’s gotten back, the man’s backed off considerably, but sometimes he gives Neal a look and it's like the world tilts.
Neal still hasn’t been able to eat in the office. He hasn’t even tried. Sometimes even looking at food makes him uncomfortable, like something slimy under his skin is trying to work its way up to the surface. The gnawing hunger in his stomach is infinitely preferable to the sticky feeling of Rourke’s eyes on him. The sight of food is one thing, but the smell is more than he can handle.

The nausea crashes down all at once, like waves on the seashore, and Neal nearly chokes on the bile rising in his throat. It’s only 10:30 but Neal is already desperate for the day to be over.

He manages to mumble something to Peter about checking the map, but he isn’t even sure he’s heard. Peter’s talking to someone over the phone. Jones? But he can’t even hear the voice on the end of the line over the ringing in his ears.

Neal peels off toward the side hall, walking fast, too fast. He finds the men’s room and staggers to the sink, bracing himself with both hands as he retches.

The sound echoes horribly off the tiled walls, and he thanks his lucky stars that no one else is here. His breath is sharp and ragged. Neal hates this. Hates the weakness, the lack of control. Rourke has already stolen too much from him—his ease, his calm, his sense of safety. Now he’s stealing Neal’s body too.

He splashes water over his mouth, straightens, tries to smooth his hair back into place. His reflection is ghastly: pale, hollow-eyed, tie hanging crooked. Fix it. You can fix this.
He staggers out, back down the hall, willing himself to look composed. That’s when he hears it—faint at first, then unmistakable. Sirens. Alarms. Raised voices echoing through the museum corridors.

Neal freezes.

No. No, no, no.

Something has gone down. Something big. And he's completely missed it.

His pulse jackhammers in his throat as he breaks into a run, weaving through startled tourists. He shoves his way up the stairs, lungs burning, panic clawing at the edges of his thoughts.

Because he knows exactly what it looks like. Neal Caffrey, disappearing just before a theft, reappearing minutes later flushed and disheveled. The oldest pattern in the book.
He reaches the third floor, heart hammering. Guards, curators, Peter in the middle of it all. Peter’s expression—tight, angry, betrayed—locks on him the second Neal appears.

And in that moment, Neal’s stomach drops harder than it did when he was doubled over in front of the bathroom sink.

Chapter Text

Peter doesn’t like the way Neal looks at him. Wide-eyed, startled, with that too-quick flash of indignation. It feels rehearsed.

He keeps his hand locked around Neal’s arm as guards scatter through the corridor, as tourists crane their necks to catch a glimpse of the commotion. Neal shifts under his grip, smooths his tie with his free hand like he can charm his way out of the optics—but Peter isn’t in the mood to be charmed.

“Walk,” Peter mutters, steering him down a quieter hall. He’s resisting the urge to grit his teeth. Just when he thinks his CI might’ve finally straightened himself out… he’s proved wrong again.

Neal goes, but his gait is off. Stiff. Almost dragging his feet. Peter files that away, irritation curling tighter in his chest. He wants answers, not theatrics.

“Peter,” Neal says once they’re clear of the crowd, his voice too soft, too careful, “I swear, I didn’t take it.”

“Then where were you?” Peter demands, rounding on him. “You disappear, alarms go off, and suddenly you come running in like you’ve just finished a job. Do you realize how that looks?”

Neal’s mouth opens, closes. His gaze flicks away, down the hall, anywhere but at Peter. His hand twitches at his side, like he wants to run it through his hair the way he does when he’s upset, but knows better.

And that’s what does it. That pause. That hesitation. Neal Caffrey doesn’t hesitate when he’s telling the truth.

“You can’t even look at me,” Peter says, quieter now, but sharper. “So what was it? You? Mozzie? Both of you working me while Castellano’s guy gives you cover?”

Neal’s jaw tightens. “That’s not fair.”

“Fair?” Peter snaps. “What’s fair is me sticking my neck out for you every damn day, Neal. And now—now I find myself in the middle of a museum theft with you missing in action. You think I don’t know what that looks like?”

Neal swallows hard. He looks pale—paler than usual—but Peter pushes the observation away. He’s not going to let sympathy cloud his judgment.

“Peter, listen to me. I didn’t—” His voice is pleading, verging on desperation.

“Save it,” Peter cuts him off. He pinches the bridge of his nose, frustration clawing through him. The silence between them hums with tension.

When he finally looks back at Neal, he notices the sheen of sweat on his temple. The faint tremor in his fingers. The way he leans, just slightly, against the wall, like he needs the support.

For a half-second, Peter’s gut twists in something that feels dangerously like concern. Neal, surprisingly, doesn’t look like a man riding the high of a con. He looks… oddly wrung out.
“Until you give me a damn good explanation,” Peter says, his voice cold again, “you’re my prime suspect.”

Neal’s expression. Just a flicker. And Peter turns away before he can read anything more in it.

Because he can’t afford to.

——————————————————————————————————————————

The walls of the conference room feel too close, too bright. Fluorescent lights hum above, the kind of cheap buzz that always sets Neal’s teeth on edge. He sits across from Peter, hands folded neatly on the table like this is just another debrief. Like he isn’t unraveling.

Rourke is watching from outside. The glass is tinted enough that Neal can’t make out the minutia of his expression, but can’t tell his arms are crossed, and his jaw is locked. It’s the posture Neal’s grown to associate with a beating.

Peter’s eyes pin him in place. Stern. Steady. Too sharp to dodge.

“Start talking,” Peter says. His tone is measured, but there’s steel under it. “Where were you when the alarms went off?”

Neal forces a smile. Light. Easy. Harmless. “I told you. I stepped away for a minute. Just needed—” He falters. The word won’t come. Needed what? Air? A bathroom? An alibi? Every option feels flimsy.

Peter doesn’t blink. “Needed what?”

Neal’s throat goes dry. He could tell him the truth. That the smell of the cafeteria made him sick, that he barely made it to the sink in time. That he’s been fighting this gnawing weakness for weeks now. That he’s scared, really scared, and doesn’t know how to fix it.

That even now, with Peter just a few feet away, all Neal can think about is the heel of Rourke’s Italian leather dress shoes kicking against his ribcage. His hands pinning him against the brick wall of a dark alley. Either there are no witnesses, or the few people milling about make sure to steer clear. Neal isn’t sure which is worse.

But he sees how Peter’s looking at him—already suspicious, already hurt. If Neal says he threw up, Peter will think it’s a stall tactic, a story, another con.

And worse: if Peter does believe him, he’ll see it as weakness. The FBI doesn’t keep consultants around who can’t hack a simple surveillance op without falling apart at the smell of fried food. And what if it put his deal in jeopardy? What if this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back, the final thing that pushes Peter to really throw him back in his jail, just like he’d always promised?

So Neal swallows, smooths his cuffs, and leans back in his chair like none of this matters. “Coffee,” he says finally, the lie coming out too quickly, too polished. “The stuff in the cafeteria smelled like motor oil. I figured if I had to endure one more hour of it, I’d rather do it with something decent in my system. I ducked out, ran across the street, and grabbed an espresso. That’s why I came back looking like I’d sprinted—I didn’t want to lose our guy.”

He resists the urge to wince as the lie comes out of his mouth. Technically speaking, it’s neat. Plausible. Exactly the kind of minor rebellion Peter expects from him.

But Neal can tell from the way Peter’s jaw tightens that it doesn’t land. Not fully.

“You’re telling me you walked out, in the middle of an op, for coffee,” Peter says flatly.

Neal spreads his hands, feigning innocence. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Peter exhales through his nose, skeptical, angry, but—thank God—he doesn’t press. He just shakes his head, scribbles something on his notepad, like he’s filing Neal under “unreliable” again.

And Neal lets him.

Because as much as it hurts to see the distrust in Peter’s eyes, it’s safer than letting him see the truth.

The truth would ruin him.

——————————————————————————————————————————

The next morning, Peter gets out of bed and heads out to the museum before Elizabeth can even make him a deviled ham sandwich.

Peter tells himself he’s here for the caffeine.

Not for Neal. Not because the “coffee” story gnawed at him all night, replaying like a splinter he couldn’t ignore. Just because the case has him running on fumes, and the museum’s cafeteria brew really does taste like motor oil.

That’s the story he sticks to as he stands in line at the little cart across from the Met, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets.

The vendor greets each customer like they’re an old friend—loud, warm, cheerful, the kind of guy who could make a Monday morning feel like a holiday. When Peter steps up, the man beams at him.

“¡Buenos días! What can I get you, jefe?” The man asks, gesturing to the chalkboard menu on the side of the truck.

“Medium black,” Peter says automatically. Then, before he can stop himself, he adds, “Actually… Can I ask you something?”

The vendor arches a brow, friendly curiosity written all over his face. “Shoot.”

Peter shifts, suddenly aware of how ridiculous this could sound. “Yesterday afternoon. Did you see a guy come by here? Fairly tall, dark hair, blue eyes, expensive suit. The kind of guy who’d order a macchiato with extra foam and probably charm you into giving him a discount?” He means for the question to come out in a vaguely comedic way, but he ends up sounding hopelessly endeared, even to himself.

The vendor chuckles, shaking his head. “You’ve got a picture in your head, huh? But no, amigo. Nobody like that yesterday.”

Peter exhales, a strange mix of relief and disappointment. He was right. Something was wrong with the story after all. Neal had lied. Which… shouldn’t surprise him. But then again—if Neal didn’t come here, where the hell had he gone?

The vendor hesitates, eyes flicking to the side. For a second, it looks like he’s weighing something. But then he goes back to preparing the coffee, though his movements are stilted.
“What?” Peter asks, leaning in slightly. “What is it? You remember something?”

The man fidgets with the lid of a coffee cup. “Not yesterday. But…” He lowers his voice a little, like he isn’t sure if he should say it.

Peter’s pulse kicks up. “But what?”

“I saw a guy like that maybe… two weeks ago? Suited up, real pretty, polished, like you say. Only…” The vendor’s cheerful expression dims. “He looked bad. Real bad. Bruises on his face, bloody nose. And there was this big guy with him, yelling. Pushing him around. I almost called the cops, but they walked off before I could do anything.”

Peter’s chest goes tight. “Big guy? What kind of big?”

“Tall. Muscles, like a wall in a leather jacket.” The vendor shakes his head. “Mean eyes. You know the type.”

Something ugly twists in Peter’s stomach. He wants details, names, a description he can run through the system. But before he can press further, the vendor mutters something in Spanish, voice dipping low.

“¿Cómo alguien tan bonito puede estar tan roto?”

Peter blinks. “Sorry—I don’t…”

The vendor just sighs and shakes his head, slipping the coffee across the counter. “Forget it. I’ve already said too much. I don’t want any trouble, I’m no rat. Just—tell your friend to be careful, okay?”

Peter takes the cup, nods stiffly, but his mind is already spinning. Neal, bruised and bloodied, cornered by some muscle-bound thug. Two weeks ago. And he never said a word. Peter tells himself it could be a misunderstanding. Maybe the vendor mixed him up with someone else. Maybe Neal just got into a scuffle chasing a lead.

But the image won’t leave him: Neal, pale and shaky yesterday, lying through his teeth about coffee, and before that—getting roughed up badly enough for a stranger to remember.

Peter mutters a thanks and walks off, coffee in hand, pretending it’s just another lead he’ll file away.

But deep down, he knows better. This isn’t nothing.

And suddenly, his anger doesn’t feel nearly as steady as it did yesterday.

Peter spends the rest of the morning pretending to work.

He sits at his desk, files open, reports half-read, but his eyes keep flicking to the same blank spot on the wall. The vendor’s words loop in his head: bruises, bloody nose, big guy yelling.

He wants to dismiss it. Wants to file it under conman drama, none of my business. Neal’s life before the anklet was messy, dangerous—it’s not like shadows from that world don’t linger. But the problem is, shadows don’t usually leave fresh bruises.

And Neal sure as hell didn’t mention them.

Peter rubs his temples and sighs, then opens his laptop. He tells himself it’s just due diligence. A vague description, tall, built, leather jacket—he runs it through the system anyway. Known associates, priors, anyone recently released.

The results are useless, too broad. Dozens of names. Dozens of faces. He feels ridiculous. What is he even doing? Neal is a grown man. If he’s being targeted, he knows to speak up. But… his gut still won’t let it go.

By lunch, he’s pacing. Back and forth on the carpet of his office, waving away Jones when he gives him a concerned look. He even finds himself dialing Hughes, then hanging up before it rings. What would he even say? Hey boss, I think my CI lied about coffee and maybe got beaten up by a gorilla in leather. Approve surveillance?

Ridiculous.

So instead, he heads back out.

The museum. The stand. The streets around the Upper East Side. Peter retraces Neal’s supposed route, scanning for cameras, for any corner where a confrontation might’ve played out. He makes a note of businesses with security feeds he could pull later, though he knows half the owners won’t hand them over without a warrant. Still, it’s better than doing nothing.

When he finally circles back to the Bureau, Diana gives him a look. “You’ve been restless all day. What’s going on?”

Peter stiffens. “Nothing. Just working angles.”

“On the museum case?” Diana purses her lips, tilting her head in a way that indicates she knows Peter isn’t quite telling the full story.

He nods, too quickly. “Yeah. Just… tying up loose ends.”

Diana doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it go.

By evening, Peter’s telling himself he’s not going to bring it up with Neal. Not yet. Neal lies when cornered, dances when pushed—Peter knows that pattern by heart. If Neal is hiding something, dragging it into the open now will just drive him deeper underground.

But he also can’t ignore the gnawing feeling that something is wrong. More wrong than just another scam.

That night, sitting at the dining table while Elizabeth chats about her day, Peter finds himself zoning out, imagining Neal’s face the way the vendor described it—bruised, bloody, trying to play it cool. The image sends chills down his spine.

And then his own words echo back from yesterday’s interrogation: Did you plan this with Mozzie? Did you play me?

He sets down his fork, appetite gone.

For the first time since this whole mess started, Peter isn’t sure what bothers him more: the idea that Neal might have stolen the painting—or the growing suspicion that he didn’t, and something far worse is happening just out of sight.

Chapter Text

Peter tells himself he isn’t worried.

He’s just being thorough. Responsible. The kind of agent who checks in on his CI when the case drags past its third month and the suspect list’s still long enough to paper a wall.

The FBI still has no idea who stole the missing painting, or if the theft was even related to the Castellano at all. Conveniently, all security cameras on the fourth floor had been disabled and replaced with a fake feed for exactly six and a half minutes—just enough time for the thief to grab a recently acquired Botticelli piece meant for inspection in the storage room, and flee the scene of the crime without anyone the wiser.

It’s a perfect crime, or as close to perfect one can get. A few witnesses reported seeing a suspicious-looking figure with a large black duffel bag, but the trail ends there.

Conversation with Neal has been stilted, half out of the fact that Rourke’s been pulling the CI out of the office for various tasks left, right, and center (less time for Neal to get himself into trouble, Peter thanks him for it) and half because Peter himself can’t help but feel a little frustrated that he still as no idea who stole the painting, and Neal’s been looking like hell lately.

They’ve put the stolen painting case on the backburner, considering how close they are to breaking Castellano’s laundering operation — long nights, back-to-back surveillance shifts, Rourke’s endless tactical drills, but a vague sense of unease simmers in Peter’s mind. Everyone’s tired. That’s normal. But Neal… Neal’s a different kind of tired.

He’s quieter, for one. He doesn’t sparkle the way he used to. His humor’s still there, but softer, like he’s rationing it. And his face—paler, hollower than Peter remembers.

So when Elizabeth makes a pot of split pea soup and Peter’s halfway out the door for a quick before-dinner drive, it feels easy to justify. “He won’t eat, El. Maybe this will make him.”

She smiles knowingly. “You’re definitely not worried.”

“Exactly.”

By the time Peter reaches June’s, the city’s humming with its usual weeknight buzz. Streetlights cast long gold streaks across the brownstones. It’s almost peaceful, except that Peter’s gut hasn’t stopped twisting since he parked.

He knocks once, then again. From inside, he hears voices—raised, tense.

Neal’s, sharp: “I said no!”

Another man’s, quick and low: “You think this is optional? Your little friend with the glasses threatened to report me to the Feds if I don’t give you these!”

Peter freezes. That doesn’t sound good.

Then something clatters to the floor. That’s enough. A million possible scenarios flits through Peter’s vision as he tries to think of what could possibly be going on, each one worse than the last. He pushes the door open (because Neal, conman extraordinaire, still hasn’t learned to keep it locked).

“Neal?” Peter asks, hand on the gun on his holster.

Both men whip around. Neal’s standing by the kitchen counter, flushed and startled, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, looking caught. Across from him, a tall, sturdy guy with a short beard and a satchel slung over his shoulder blinks like a deer in headlights.

The smell of something burnt hangs in the air.

“Peter!” Neal says too brightly. “This is—uh—” he turns to the man, “Your name, good sir?”

The other man snaps into action, shaking his head. “Leaving. I’m leaving.”

He’s already halfway to the door when Peter steps in his path. “Hold on. Who are you?”

“Just—nobody. I was—uh—delivering something.”

Peter’s eyebrow goes up. “At ten o’clock at night?”

The guy laughs nervously, sidesteps him, and mutters something about “wrong address” before disappearing down the stairs so fast Peter barely gets a name.

Peter turns slowly back toward Neal.

Neal, to his credit, looks like a man trying very hard not to visibly panic. “Before you say anything—”

Peter folds his arms. “Why do I always need to say anything? You start talking like you’re in front of a jury before I even open my mouth.”

Neal exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Because you have that look.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I know you did something illegal, Caffrey’ look.”

Peter deadpans. “That’s because you usually did do something illegal.”

Neal sighs. “That’s unfair.”

Peter gestures toward the door. “So who was that? And why does your apartment suddenly smell like smoke and lies?”

Neal opens his mouth, closes it again, and glances toward the kitchen counter like he’s hoping it’ll produce a better excuse. “He’s… a friend of Mozzie’s. Kind of a pharmacist.”

“Kind of?”

Neal winces. “He operates outside the FDA’s jurisdiction.”

Peter just stares at him.

“I wasn’t buying anything illegal,” Neal says quickly. “Mozzie was worried. He thinks I’ve been… run down lately, and he convinced this guy to stop by with some vitamins… among other things.”

Peter’s voice flattens. “You don’t need a black-market pharmacist to get vitamins, Neal.” Something about this story is off.

“I told him the same thing!” Neal says, half-exasperated. “But Mozzie’s persistent. I didn’t even want him to come.”

Peter’s not sure what’s worse—the possibility that Neal’s lying, or that he might actually be telling the truth.

His eyes drift to the cupboard half-hanging open near the counter. Something dark is sticking out — the edge of a duffel bag, half-zipped.

A black duffel bag. Shoot. And Neal’s been subtly eyeing it from the moment Peter stepped in.

Peter gestures toward it. “And that is?”

Neal blinks. “That?”

“Yes, that.”

“Nothing important.”

“Neal.”

Neal’s shoulders slump, the picture of a man resigned to his fate. “You’re not going to like it.”

“I never do,” Peter mutters, stepping forward and pulling the bag open.

He braces himself—for cash, a painting, something. Hell, he wouldn’t even be surprised if Neal somehow got his hands on a collection of rare diamonds while he wasn’t looking.
But what he finds instead are dozens of bottles. White plastic, plain labels. Some prescription, some not. Aspirin. Antiemetics. Painkillers. Iron supplements. Something with a name Peter can’t pronounce. Some with no name, just a serial number and a random string of letters.

Suddenly, Peter is acutely aware that Neal is gazing in the distance at some other part of the room, eyes off the bag for a few seconds. Before he can think better of it, Peter slips a few of the smaller bottles into his pockets. If he can find the source, maybe, just maybe, he can figure out whatever grand conspiracy Neal has gotten himself tangled up in this time.
Finding pills instead of a painting somehow feels both better and worse than he expected, and he’s not sure whether to breathe a sigh of relief or bury his head in his hands. He settles for crossing his arms. “This better not be what I think it is.”

“That depends on what you think it is,” Neal says carefully, turning his attention back to Peter.

Peter pulls out a bottle, reads the faded label. “You running an underground pharmacy now? Did Mozzie open a clinic? Was art theft not enough, you wanted to expand your horizons to illicit drug dealing?”

Neal exhales a weak laugh. “Nothing that dramatic. I just—didn’t want to go to a hospital. It’s not what you think.”

“Then what is it?”

Neal hesitates a fraction too long. Then: “Headaches. Stress. You’ve seen how much we’ve been working, and Mozzie panics if I sneeze. He thought these would help.”

Peter watches him closely. He’s lying — or half-lying. Neal’s too fluent when he’s telling the truth. This version of him hesitates between sentences like he’s translating from guilt to English.

Still, the words sound just plausible enough.

Peter sighs. It’s probably as close to the truth as he’s going to get. “You know, you could just… buy vitamins. At a store. Like a normal person.”

Neal shrugs, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes. “You know Mozzie. He thinks everything’s better when it’s illegal.”

That almost makes Peter smile. Almost.

He looks at Neal again, really looks this time — the shadows under his eyes, the faint tremor in his hand when he brushes his hair back. The way his smile’s still bright but doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore.

He wants to ask what’s really wrong. He doesn’t.

Instead, he picks up the thermos from where he left it by the door and holds it out. “Elizabeth’s soup. Split pea. Thought you might want something that you can actually, y’know, eat. Instead of just swallowing.”

Neal’s eyes flicker — surprise, then warmth, then something softer that almost hurts to see. “Thanks, Peter. That’s really nice.”

“Yeah. Don’t let Mozzie test it for poison first.”

“I make no promises.”

“Do you want to sit down for a bowl with me?” Neal asks.

Peter shakes his head, “Nah, it’s getting late. El will have my head if I’m not home before midnight. I’ve stayed late at the office every single day this week and I promised I’d be back soon.”

Neal smiles, and this time it's genuine. “Aww, look at you, family man! Finally prioritizing your wife over work. I won’t keep you, we can talk tomorrow at the office, okay? Say hello to El for me!”

“Of course. Good night, Neal.” Peter waves goodbye and then leaves, the door closing behind him.

Outside, the night air is cold and he can still smell the scent of burnt chemicals on his jacket.

“Okay, Neal,” Peter says, pulling one of the bottles out of his pocket, looking at its faded label under the moonlight, “I’m done playing it safe. It’s time to find out what you’re really hiding.”