Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“Neal!” you hissed under your breath. A tear leaked out the side of your eye, falling onto the floor. It wasn’t something the product of sadness — it was of pain.

You were pinned beneath the museum gate like a fox with its tail caught in a trap.

“Neal!” you pleaded again. A heist that was supposed to be ten minutes in and ten minutes out slammed down on you. Hard.

The security door had just caught you by your ankles, and no amount of wriggling under the heavy iron would free you. It hurt to move, and every second passing as your blood strained to pump past the block made your breathing shallower.

The man you’d once thought to be beautiful, with his dark brown hair that turned light in the sun and icy blue eyes that were playful with his conning smile searched to free you. His nimble fingers you loved running through your hair and down the contours of your back played across the bars, searching for some magical switch that’d release you. Sirens wailed outside and you couldn’t estimate how many seconds were left until the police came charging in with their guns and handcuffs. Neal had to get you out now.

“I’m sorry,” he suddenly blurted out. What? He was standing now — you had blinked when he got up — and he was… backing away. That wasn’t right. Neal wouldn’t leave you. He’d promised on that hot and sticky summer night, when you were both drunk and young and ready to conquer life head on.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

The delicate clink of wine glasses was musical in the silent night. You sipped the red wine, one you couldn’t name but loved all the same, allowing your trained palate to detect flavors of cranberry and oak.

“It’s delicious,” you commented quietly. Neal had chosen the celebratory drink, as he always did, and you never were able to find fault. His warm body found its way close to you, radiating warmth in the already damp air as his smooth and toned shape pressed against your softer one.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, just as softly, into the nape of your neck. The words blew strands of hair aside, making you shiver.

“Always the romantic, prissy wine guy,” you retorted, making him laugh. He bit the lobe of your ear playfully, earning a giggle in return as you set your glass down.

“Well, that’s why you love me, isn’t it?” he said in a tone you couldn’t discern from seriousness or plain teasing.

You paused to think about his words. Skeptically, you responded, “Oh. I love you now, do I?”

“I do.” He propped himself up to look at you closer. You were turned slightly away from him. Shifting the sheet along with you, you allowed his hand on your waist to guide you to face him and pulled yourself up to equal height.

“Can I trust that from a conman?” You raised your eyebrow.

“Can I trust you?”

There was silence.

You took your glass back from the birch bedside table and held it up. The reflection of the burgundy filled glass reflected off of his eyes that balanced between a deep blue and grey in the low candlelight.

“Cheers?”

Your gaze was challenging now. He smirked in the way in which he knew he had won, and held up his own glass. You watched as he touched it to yours again, but more deliberately, and looking at you he said back,

“Cheers.”

You drank, and he kissed you, stealing the red from your mouth as he did with your love.

Your feet were numb under the metal grate. You could feel your skin chafing off to your bone, but what hurt more was the dismissal in Neal’s eyes.

He was leaving you.

“Neal, get back — help me! Help me, goddammit!” you didn’t care to be unheard any longer. The NYPD surely already knew you were there; it was just a matter of time as to when they’d show up. Your voice was high and shrill as your hand fell in a fist against the tiled floor, tears welling in your eyes. You trusted him.

He left without another word.

“Neal!”

You shut your mouth when the police showed minutes after, so that they wouldn’t find him. The only thing keeping you from telling off the cowardly bastard was the hiccupping sobs that racked your body, not allowing you to even speak of your newborn hatred.

You made your way pleasantly up the elevator of the NYC Federal building, all the way up to the White Collar division. You’d been called in for assistance on a case, something that the agent claimed was ‘too sensitive for the phone’ but in reality was most likely too lazy to debrief you.

The elevator was slow. You pulled a hair elastic around your wrist absentmindedly, being reminded of the cuffs that had once been there instead…

“No,” you said to yourself aloud sternly. “I’m past that.”

You probably looked crazy on camera, just talking to yourself, but it helped. You ejected the memories from your brain, and felt the elevator come to a stop.

You stepped off, feeling awkward without a briefcase to hold that all the agents swarming around you were. You weren’t one of them, not technically, so you supposed you deserved the self-consciousness of stares that followed you as you opened the glass doors.

A CI, they called you. Criminal Informant, Confidential Informant — whatever the old guys liked to call you. You had skills. Good skills, good knowledge, and a generally good heart. You didn’t mind working for the FBI, since it meant you were out of jail and —

No, no more thinking about jail. A sear of pain flashed across the scar that went from your ankle bone to across your Achilles’ heel, but you ignored it and kept walking. You confidently smiled at everybody as you made your way up the stairs to the office you sought.

There it was. Burke. At least, you thought that was how it was spelt. You peered through the glass wall. Two men were in — one sitting and one standing. They both weren’t facing you. You knocked gently three times.

The one standing turned and nodded at you with a smile, waving you in after he uncrossed his arms.

The door easily pushed open, and you smiled politely to what looked to be Agent Peter Burke. The cheap suit sold it for you.

“Hello, you called for me?” You introduced yourself afterwards by name, and the recognition took light in his eyes.

“Um… yeah. Yeah, I did. Haha, I almost forgot! Sorry to have to call you in so suddenly, I mean… I heard you were the best at these types of things. Pleased to meet you, I’m — ”

“Agent Peter Burke, of course. I’ve heard lots of good things about you!” you grasped the outstretched hand of the rambling older man, shaking it once before releasing it.

“Did you?” he asked, chuckling to himself. He crossed his arms. “Me and my CI were just talking about the case.”

“Oh?” you asked, not knowing Peter had another CI under his belt. Quite the collector, you thought to yourself. “I haven’t been fully debriefed myself, so if you would mind…”

“Of course not. Neal, can you go…”

Neal?

“…forms. I’ll call you up when we’re ready.”

“Gotcha’, Peter.”

Your heart seemed to start beating again, and you inhaled sharply when Neal Caffrey turned around.

Blue eyes that bordered with green and grey, dark hair that turned light in the sun, and a strong jaw that boasted smug smiles of all assortments.

“…you,” you breathed, riding it out on the exhale. Neal froze in front of you, his eyes searching your features as if not quite sure you really stood in front of him.

You waited for him to say something. Anything at all.

But instead, he just smiled. “Sorry, have we met?”

You felt a sickening taste in your mouth, like you’d just taken a sip of wine and found it to be blood.