IT doesn't, no. But, fine, if you like it, wear the blue tie.
Also, we'll need two tracking dots, every copy of the NYT within four blocks of your place, and your briefcase. Empty, please. It wasn't a gift, was it?
[ Caffrey circles the area, lingering with his glass and inspecting this way and that. He's never not impressed by Stark's skills. He has the elegance of an artist in that his work is never compromising. Neal appreciates that. More so than that, he finds Tony's balls-out way of living his life inspiring. He doesn't hide or apologize, he's accountable, he takes care of his own. And he's haunted, but who isn't? Not so miserable he can't smile, and that feels relevant.
Neal puts his nose in the glass and breathes in the fine wine, swirls it, smells it again, but waits to try it. When he's seen enough of the project, he turns back to Tony and raises his shoulders. ]
You know how it is: Things build, people get antsy.
[ No real details, but he's not deluded enough to think Tony couldn't find out, just confident he won't try. ]
[Normally, Tony might object to anyone prowling around his workspace, but over the years Neal has prowled around often enough that Tony knows he won't touch anything that doesn't look like it should be touched, and anything else, Tony can spare.]
I know how that is, yeah. Especially the tomorrow part. Mm, nice pick. I forgot I had this.
[He won't try. Neal's business is Neal's business, always has been, and military contracts aside, Tony is generally allergic to the government.]
How is your agent, and Mrs. Agent? She did a nice reception this weekend. Just a small thing.
[ Now that Stark's said so, Caffrey takes the time to sip the wine, nodding thoughtfully — he knew it would be a good choice — and then finding a place to rest his hip along the workbench, well out of the way. ]
El's good. She'd said she was doing something exciting, but I figured that meant big, not small.
[ He should know better. Elizabeth excels in details just like her husband, but she's often more ruthless with how precise her application happens to be. A smaller endeavor would require a much more defined eye, a singular vision, the kind of conditions where she thrives. ]
Peter's stewing, I'm sure.
[ He sips a little pointedly, though, despite how nonchalantly he says so, not really bothering to hide his irritation ]
Pep's good. She's in Sydney this week. I'll tell her you said hi.
[Pep's still a little sore about that Rothko, but sore with Tony, not with Neal. It's a fun and familiar little rant she goes on whenever he brings it up, he'll enjoy it when she gets home.
That spike of irritation doesn't go unnoticed. Okay, so he claims he doesn't want to talk about it, but he's still annoyed enough to let it affect him. Tony isn't going to ask directly again, but he'll tease it out of him eventually.]
It was a private party, an anniversary thing, exclusive, high-end, you know how they are. Pepper and I stopped in before she flew out, I was impressed. They're usually over the top, and you know I never mind that, but everything was low key, really tasteful. Pep will push some business her way, I think. That ought to make them happy, the two of them.
[Because Peter's happy when El's happy, although El's happy right now and Peter isn't, why is that?]
Just over a month had passed since Veronica helped the FBI take down Martin Walsh and the handful of stock thugs who worked for him. It had earned her a congratulatory lunch with two of the junior partners, but so far, that was it. One of the partners intimated they wanted to segregate more money for the burgeoning government liaison program, but they'd need to see more results than the smattering of cases she and the other attorney had worked. Veronica had duly passed that along to Peter's team, and they'd promised to loop her in when they could with Veronica promising the same.
Luckily (was it lucky?) crime never slept, and one of the firm's clients needed FBI intervention. The Dalton School, a private day school in Neal's neighborhood, suspected one of their newly tenured educators had lied about his credentials. The prestigious school couldn't afford the black eye if news were to go public, so they wanted to investigate quietly, and since the school offered a program partly subsidized by government grant money, the lead attorney on the case thought they could loop the Feds in. It seemed like a great fit and the perfect opportunity to drop in on the White Collar offices.
Peter was already waiting for her at the elevators when she arrived.
"You missed us, huh?" Peter said, greeting her with a friendly handshake and walking her to Neal's desk. A few other familiar faces perked up, waving hello from their desks as well. She really had missed everyone, not to mention the general frenetic energy of the White Collar offices. It was a much more lively place than her very traditional, somber law office.
"My regular job just doesn't quite compare to going undercover with the FBI."
Neal, who was just arriving (late, as it were), caught on to the tail end of the conversation on his way through the door.
"Maybe one of these days the FBI will let me go undercover at the law firm," he suggested brightly as he shouldered through to his desk. Normally he would have been right on time, but the way his arms were labored with a coffee tray and a couple greasy white bags in-hand it was clear he'd made a stop along the way.
"Not a chance," Peter said, but he seemed in too good a mood himself to sounds like a curmudgeon. Without missing a beat, Burke plucked the bags from Neal's grasp and dropped them on his desk, which got him a grin for the assist.
Truthfully and wholeheartedly, Caffrey was excited to see Mars again. They'd gotten particularly close during their last operation, but in the time since, they'd only had a chance to pass the occasional text message or e-mail back and forth. Neal's radius kept him pretty locked down, and Veronica's life did the same for her. But none of the time passing seemed to tamp down the exuberance or camaraderie they shared, nor did it stop Neal from pressing a perfect cup of coffee into her hand, trading it for a kiss on the cheek. "I'll get the hug in a bit," he told her before going about passing out the other coffees — one each to Clinton and Diana, the last two reserved for himself and Peter. "Also, I brought pastries." Hence the half-dozen small greasy bags filled with individual favorites.
Peter looked amused. "Someone's in a good mood."
Neal was, in fact, in an incredible mood. He was about to team up with one of his favorite people, and from what he'd heard, he got to go back to high school to do it. Most people would dread such things, but not Caffrey, who thought teenagers were probably the scariest, most calculating minds he'd ever run across. They were all potential little con artists. Certainly, they possessed a sense of challenge Neal rarely had a chance to face (and beyond that, he wanted intensely to understand the mind of a person who might fake their credentials to teach at a private High School, of all places, so he wanted to meet this suspect as well).
He cleared his throat. "So, do we get a second to catch up? Orrr..." Caffrey looked pointedly at Burke who raised an eyebrow at him but since he'd already shoved half a pastry into his mouth nodded his head toward to briefing room, held up his hand to signify they had five minutes, and then left with two bags for the other two waiting to start.
Neal turned to Veronica. Everything with him must feel like a whirlwind because he's hardly even given her a second to respond. "It's great to see you," he finally managed. "Please tell me you're free for dinner. Mozzie's been bugging me all morning over it."
"I can be free for Mozzie." She'd already told Piz not to expect her home at her usual time. She hadn't seen Neal for weeks, so she guessed they'd have some catching up to do, preferably over drinks and something delicious. Plus Veronica was interested in what had come of the Cézanne scan.
She took a drink of the coffee which was excellent as expected. Neal's tastes tended to run toward the best of what New York had to offer. She thanked him and carried her little mystery snack to the conference room. "Did Peter tell you what we've got?"
Before Neal could answer, Peter ushered them into the room. "No spoilers now - I want this to be a surprise." He gave Neal a pointed look that wasn't short of amusement. He'd already given him the basic outline, but Peter was particularly excited to reveal the personnel records the research team had put together.
Jones waited until Veronica and Neal settled in before launching into the presentation on Dalton. Veronica had already been briefed on the highlights, but the FBI had of course gone into greater detail and established identities for Neal, Veronica, and Diana. The upshot was that Diana was going to be working in the school's administrative offices so she could hunt through records unimpeded. Neal and Veronica were partnering again, this time as a visiting university professor and his undergraduate research assistant. The research team had designed it so the pair would only be on the hook for one class each day, freeing them up for recon as needed. And of course, Neal did have other cases and work to attend to.
Before they revealed just what Professor Grant Reynolds taught, Jones and Peter exchanged a look. Jones kept his demeanor professional, but even Veronica could detect his amusement as he clicked over to the final slide bearing Professor Reynolds' specialty.
"Humility," Peter announced, looking directly at Neal. "This six-week course is on the concept of humility in literature." He chuckled, handing over a syllabus with works by Homer, Michel de Montaigne, and Martin Luther King, Jr.
Veronica looked a little startled. She was sure there was a joke in all this, but for her, it'd been a few years since she'd actually been an undergraduate. "Is this required reading?"
Peter laughed. "Well, you aren't required to turn in any essays, but you do need to teach, so the research team has put together a couple dossiers that should give you each what you need to fake it. Neal, you might want to start by consulting a dictionary." That earned a chuckle from the assembled team.
"You know, Peter, I really appreciate you believing in me enough to trust me with something like this," Neal said as he looked over the syllabus, effortlessly flipping to page two before glancing over it to fix his handler with a serene expression. "'We must in strength and humility meet hate with love,'" he quoted, and for what it was worth, he hoped that really stuck in Peter's craw.
Burke, by now, was so used to Caffrey's crap, he didn't seem the least bit fazed despite everyone else in the room cracking a smile on their way out. "Uh-huh. You'll make a good show of it, I'm sure."
"I always do." Neal raised his hands, grinning wide. Honestly, he wouldn't brag so much if it didn't get a rise out of Peter. Wait, no, he absolutely would. But that wasn't the point.
Peter clasped his hands together and lingered at the doorway. "There's a schedule in your packets. You'll report tomorrow for orientation, so make good use of your day." He sounded like a parent, although in his directive, it was clear he was only slightly dubious about Mars and Caffrey spending time together. After the last operation, he still wasn't convinced Veronica was ignorant of everything that happened in the background of the art auction featuring the forged Cézanne.
"Sorry, you're not invited," Neal teased.
Peter raised a hand and wiggled his fingers. "Tell Mozzie I said hi." And then he was gone.
It takes a particular kind of person to handle a Warehouse case, and in this particular instance, they needed to beg, borrow, or steal the person in question. Luckily, Neal Caffrey was a CI for the FBI, which made borrowing him a little easier. Claudia was leaning against a desk pretending not to watch the fireworks as Mrs. Frederick explained to Agent Burke what was needed. The new puzzle ring she'd picked up at a flea-market in Kalamazoo was helping occupy her hands, since she couldn't bring her cell phone inside as a visitor.
Several agents had already given her the side-eye for her decision to have a pin for an indie rock group nobody had heard of adorning her almost business attire. It went with the dyed hair and otherwise goth-punk outlook. The whole situation had her struggling not to just grin ear-to-ear with how bass-ackward things seemed to be.
Twenty-something girl being put in charge of one of the FBI's most notorious con artists? Definitely not the usual run of things.
Neal, all the way from the conference room, had sensed the tossup the moment their visitors had walked through the door. Peter hadn't allowed him to follow when he'd excused himself to have a conversation, but Caffrey was privy to the spectacle of Frederick and Burke as well as Claudia observing-but-not-observing from afar.
It took him a couple minutes to weasel his way out to her, but Caffrey knew the moment he saw her, Claudia was going to be holding whatever cards were in this particular game. That she was young was the only reason he coould imagine for Frederick leaving her behind, especially considering the few snippets of information he'd been able to glean from the gossiping Jones and Barrigan.
"You," Neal said, cheerily, "look like exactly the kind of person this office needs. Please tell me you're here for some kind of exciting collaborative effort and you're going to abscond with the FBI's most valuable criminal informant for an undetermined amount of time." He felt it wasn't a coincidence she'd leaned on his desk, so he purposefully took a seat in his uncomfortable chair, grabbed up his rubber band ball, and put his feet up. "If you are, I'm Neal." He offered his hand. "If you're not, I'm Clinton."
"I'm exactly the kind of person every office needs. Too bad it would feel like a demotion to get stuck here for any length of time," Claudia said, finally grinning, sliding the ring back on her finger with a few deft motions. "As for your guess, there is a bit of business that seems to be right up your alley, and if I were you, exciting would be the last thing I'd want it to be."
Because, really, in her experience, exciting ended up with things like chasing a guy with Typhoid Mary's knife across town, or misplacing a brother for over a decade.
"However, in the spirit of interdepartmental cooperation, I'm sure you won't mind spending a little time with the Treasury for a change of pace. Some artworks that we've had an interest in are being offered up for private sales. For the sake of National Security, you know?" And if he really bought that, Neal wasn't the guy they thought he was.
"I'm Claudia. I met Special Agent Jones on the way in, but nice try."
He held out his hands, a seated shrug. "Can't blame a guy for trying," he suggested, although he knew enough that impersonating a federal agent was a pretty big no-no, so he was probably as much pushing boundaries as he was making a joke about how little he appreciated the doldrums often created between high profile cases.
"I will say, I've been looking for a change of pace, and I'm a huge fan of the Treasury department." Of course, they weren't much of a fan of his. He'd helped in more than a handful of cases — clearly more straightforward than this — and every time they look at him like he's walking out with the keys to the place.
Neal leaned in, grinning, and said quietly, "Isn't it interesting how often they have to outsource experts around here?" Neither of them were agents, but both were employed by the government in some manner; it was instantly clear they were being relied upon for a very sensitive matters because there were others that just couldn't cut it.
Neal might have been the cheapest babysitter the government could requisition, but for as inconvenient as Peter always made it out to be when he asked for the favor, Caffrey always agreed readily and never asked for anything in return. It was an opportunity to stretch his legs, to visit Satchmo, and to check in on Eliot, who the CI was just getting to know.
Eliot had been around for a couple weeks, installed in a nearby prep school and staying with Peter and Elizabeth. It wasn't the greatest arrangement — especially when both the Burkes were apt to travel — but few people could ensure a safe environment like Peter and his large collection of FBI loyalists. And Neal, who had a soft spot for kids, didn't mind doing his part, either.
The lights were on but low, and as Neal let himself in, he was careful to shift around the pizza and stack of movies he'd brought along with him. It wasn't exactly his idea of a relaxing night — he preferred wine and lightly dressed pasta for his quiet evenings — but since he's dealing with a teenager, he can't imagine his choice wouldn't be at least a bit more well-received.
"Hey, Satch!" he greeted the dog at the door, sliding past the wriggling golden retriever. "Hey, kid," he said to Eliot, holding out the precarious pizza, silently asking for assistance. "Did Peter tell you I was coming by? Sorry if it's a surprise. He said he'd text."
Eliot looked up from his book when he heard the man’s footsteps. “Neal!” His mouth turned up into a bright smile. “Yeah, Peter said you were coming. How’s work?”
He set the book down and got up to help Neal with the stuff he was carrying. “How late are ya stayin’ tonight?”
The thankful look the young man received said more than Neal could probably put into words. Free of the pizzas, he deposited the movies on to the coffee table and headed for the kitchen, taking the pies back on his way past, ever the whirlwind of direct intent.
"I've got a couple hours," he said, although he only low-balled the number because Peter had cautioned him against taking advantage when he had this special exception to his usual radius. "Work's good. Well, boring," Neal admitted, laughing. Without Peter around Neal was relegated to helper duties, which usually meant playing office assistant to a dozen active agents. He didn't mind it, but it sure didn't hold a candle to even a smelly afternoon in the undercover van with the usual suspects. He grabbed some plates from the cabinet, collecting napkins next. "How's school?"
The packet arrives for Natasha some time in late afternoon. In a large, plain envelope there is a collection of pages with massive blocks of text. Some things have been redacted, while the rest is in code. Inside is also a picture of two men shaking hands.
Some time later, Natasha’s phone lights up with a message. It’s from a burner phone, of course, and it’s quite simple: A cipher, a time, and some coordinates.
When deciphered, the collateral tells a strange tale of a theme park owner worth billions. The redacted section seems to add some level to the story, and in the margins Neal had encoded his own message: ‘CIA?’. If Natasha cares to do some digging, she’ll find the other person pictured is a CIA agent, shaking hands with the theme park owner. The person is also one of the most vocal local members of an anti-mutant organization, and quite the art collector, apparently.
What additional mysteries lie ahead remains to be seen, but for the time being, Neal is absolutely calling on the Avengers for help.
Natasha sighs as she looks through the materials. She didn't know how the hell Neal got her number but this is getting ridiculous. Of course it's useful intel but that is beside the point. They have to talk about this and soon.
So the next time Neal goes to get coffee he'll find a familiar redhead cutting in line behind him. "You know, I was hoping you'd use my number to ask me out for a drink sometime, not to give me more work."
The smile that creeps on to his face is absolutely full of mirth, and he turns to look at Natasha, thoroughly pleased to have gotten her attention so quickly.
"And who's to say that wasn't what I was doing? You're here, aren't you?" Maybe not exactly as intended, but already he's pulling out his wallet, intending to pay. "So, you got my message, I take it. You're welcome. It's useful, isn't it? Although, I'm a bit curious why nothing's been done. Is it possible that I, a lowly informant, stumbled on this information before the esteemed Avengers?"
"It's Nick. Holden, right. H-O-L-D-E-N, that's exactly correct. Uh-huh. Right, right. No, that's— Did you—?
"Oh, no. Ohhhh. No no no. This is bad. Listen, listen, you have to check again, okay? Check again, please..."
He's got eyes that beg with a sincerity that easily hides his deceit, but make no mistake that Nicholas Holden, also known as Neal Caffrey, is acting with anything but altruistic intent. He's found himself a very nice but very young teller and as he whispers his woes across the counter, she seems to be cautiously considering giving in to his demands.
"If you call this number—" The business card slides across counter in the the nearly silent bank and clicks as he releases it close to the teller's hand. "—my boss can confirm everything. He's a busy guy so you might need to try a couple times, but he'll answer. Please, Courtney, could you do that for me?" His pinball smile makes her blush and the girl takes the card tentatively as she pushes her hair behind her ear and skitters away to do as she was asked.
The moment she's gone, Neal is sighing in relief. He's had to think on his feet to get this far and now succeeding in his current task is slightly more within his reach. Still, he's sweating from his little impromptu performance and still trying to determine the next three steps ahead of him. Certainly not expecting a familiar face.
There's a certain metronomic consistency to life in the city that suits Matt well. To look at the man sometimes, he might appear something of a contradiction. Routine and order providing a rather tenuous mask for a man who often feels outside of his own control. Crisp suits concealing bumps and lacerations. A friendly smile that still manages to hold people at a distance. It's an illusion of control that he has learned to manage with particular grace, and he didn't wake up this morning with the expectation that a chance encounter could throw him off his center.
But what Neal has always been, is a force of disruption in an otherwise carefully orchestrated life. A splatter of vibrance on a stark white canvas. As boys, their friendship was one of the most honest things that Matt had ever known. Even now, he can think of no one who holds quite as many truths about him as his old friend.
Years may have passed. Both men have grown in age and distance, and life has undoubtedly transformed each of them uniquely. But when the first notes of that familiar voice reach his ears as he pushes open the doors of the bank, Matt's heart knocks against his ribcage with a profound, aching urgency. "Neal," he murmurs, despite the name the man has given the teller. Despite the distance that separates them from one another. Matt can hardly hear another heartbeat over the sound of his own aching in his chest. His cane is loud on the old tile as he approaches, and comes to wait in line just behind the other man.
Matt can't help but want to examine. He's taller and a little fuller now. No doubt better-fed than when they were both kids scrimping for cash. His voice is more mature and he smells like expensive cologne, but there's no doubt it's Neal. Matt's spent too long memorizing the spaces in that heartbeat. His throat feels suddenly dry, and he struggles to think of what to say.
Neal is busy in his own head for a few seconds, mind racing as its apt to do when he's in a pinch. He's not worried about executing — he always finds a way — but Courtney's help will certainly lessen the length of this wild trip and for too long than can be considered polite, he's focused on himself while ignoring the presence of another person right behind him.
He's staring, up on his toes, over the counter to where Courtney disappeared in the distance and when he lands back on the heels of his feet, he catches a glance out of the corner of his eye of a cane, white and red, and feels a wave of strange nostalgia. Which quickly turns to shame the moment he recognizes the person at the other end of the cane.
Turning away, he pretends not to recognize Matt, but even that comes with uncertainty because no matter what Matt's always been able to easily pick apart Neal like he's a puzzle made for a toddler. Like he's as transparent as cellophane.
Is he really going to do this? Is he really going to ignore his oldest, dearest, most heartfelt friend? Honestly, he thinks he'd better if it means avoiding admitting he's using a different name in order to swindle someone out of money. Times are desperate — arguably only any better than before because Neal has flouted the law — and he's not sure Matt would entirely approve.
Waving his hand to try to get Courtney's attention, he receives back a finger asking him to wait that he immediately attempts to disregard to make a hasty retreat around the familiar man standing so close Neal can smell the past memories waiting in the wings of his mind.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tfln overflow - igotoburke
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It's a tie. It doesn't have a philosophy.
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Also, we'll need two tracking dots, every copy of the NYT within four blocks of your place, and your briefcase. Empty, please. It wasn't a gift, was it?
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...No, it wasn't a gift. Technically. Why do we need my briefcase and every copy of the NYT?
Bless you for playing with me, ahhhh! I had to say so! <3 😍
I can't believe I ended up making this guy NOW tbh <3
😂 I'm still watching through (starting season 5 later today) and I'm worried for my life
iirc s5 does get a bit emotional. been a bit though
I'm pumped, tbh! It's been a delightful ride so far.
I've watched it in entirety a few times. it holds up as a top fav
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Wanna play this out some? I can set a scene. No big deal if not! o/
Yeah, let's go for it
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tfln overflow - notjustarmor
[ Caffrey circles the area, lingering with his glass and inspecting this way and that. He's never not impressed by Stark's skills. He has the elegance of an artist in that his work is never compromising. Neal appreciates that. More so than that, he finds Tony's balls-out way of living his life inspiring. He doesn't hide or apologize, he's accountable, he takes care of his own. And he's haunted, but who isn't? Not so miserable he can't smile, and that feels relevant.
Neal puts his nose in the glass and breathes in the fine wine, swirls it, smells it again, but waits to try it. When he's seen enough of the project, he turns back to Tony and raises his shoulders. ]
You know how it is: Things build, people get antsy.
[ No real details, but he's not deluded enough to think Tony couldn't find out, just confident he won't try. ]
Tomorrow it'll be like nothing happened.
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I know how that is, yeah. Especially the tomorrow part. Mm, nice pick. I forgot I had this.
[He won't try. Neal's business is Neal's business, always has been, and military contracts aside, Tony is generally allergic to the government.]
How is your agent, and Mrs. Agent? She did a nice reception this weekend. Just a small thing.
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El's good. She'd said she was doing something exciting, but I figured that meant big, not small.
[ He should know better. Elizabeth excels in details just like her husband, but she's often more ruthless with how precise her application happens to be. A smaller endeavor would require a much more defined eye, a singular vision, the kind of conditions where she thrives. ]
Peter's stewing, I'm sure.
[ He sips a little pointedly, though, despite how nonchalantly he says so, not really bothering to hide his irritation ]
Subject change: How's Pepper?
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[Pep's still a little sore about that Rothko, but sore with Tony, not with Neal. It's a fun and familiar little rant she goes on whenever he brings it up, he'll enjoy it when she gets home.
That spike of irritation doesn't go unnoticed. Okay, so he claims he doesn't want to talk about it, but he's still annoyed enough to let it affect him. Tony isn't going to ask directly again, but he'll tease it out of him eventually.]
It was a private party, an anniversary thing, exclusive, high-end, you know how they are. Pepper and I stopped in before she flew out, I was impressed. They're usually over the top, and you know I never mind that, but everything was low key, really tasteful. Pep will push some business her way, I think. That ought to make them happy, the two of them.
[Because Peter's happy when El's happy, although El's happy right now and Peter isn't, why is that?]
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Luckily (was it lucky?) crime never slept, and one of the firm's clients needed FBI intervention. The Dalton School, a private day school in Neal's neighborhood, suspected one of their newly tenured educators had lied about his credentials. The prestigious school couldn't afford the black eye if news were to go public, so they wanted to investigate quietly, and since the school offered a program partly subsidized by government grant money, the lead attorney on the case thought they could loop the Feds in. It seemed like a great fit and the perfect opportunity to drop in on the White Collar offices.
Peter was already waiting for her at the elevators when she arrived.
"You missed us, huh?" Peter said, greeting her with a friendly handshake and walking her to Neal's desk. A few other familiar faces perked up, waving hello from their desks as well. She really had missed everyone, not to mention the general frenetic energy of the White Collar offices. It was a much more lively place than her very traditional, somber law office.
"My regular job just doesn't quite compare to going undercover with the FBI."
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"Maybe one of these days the FBI will let me go undercover at the law firm," he suggested brightly as he shouldered through to his desk. Normally he would have been right on time, but the way his arms were labored with a coffee tray and a couple greasy white bags in-hand it was clear he'd made a stop along the way.
"Not a chance," Peter said, but he seemed in too good a mood himself to sounds like a curmudgeon. Without missing a beat, Burke plucked the bags from Neal's grasp and dropped them on his desk, which got him a grin for the assist.
Truthfully and wholeheartedly, Caffrey was excited to see Mars again. They'd gotten particularly close during their last operation, but in the time since, they'd only had a chance to pass the occasional text message or e-mail back and forth. Neal's radius kept him pretty locked down, and Veronica's life did the same for her. But none of the time passing seemed to tamp down the exuberance or camaraderie they shared, nor did it stop Neal from pressing a perfect cup of coffee into her hand, trading it for a kiss on the cheek. "I'll get the hug in a bit," he told her before going about passing out the other coffees — one each to Clinton and Diana, the last two reserved for himself and Peter. "Also, I brought pastries." Hence the half-dozen small greasy bags filled with individual favorites.
Peter looked amused. "Someone's in a good mood."
Neal was, in fact, in an incredible mood. He was about to team up with one of his favorite people, and from what he'd heard, he got to go back to high school to do it. Most people would dread such things, but not Caffrey, who thought teenagers were probably the scariest, most calculating minds he'd ever run across. They were all potential little con artists. Certainly, they possessed a sense of challenge Neal rarely had a chance to face (and beyond that, he wanted intensely to understand the mind of a person who might fake their credentials to teach at a private High School, of all places, so he wanted to meet this suspect as well).
He cleared his throat. "So, do we get a second to catch up? Orrr..." Caffrey looked pointedly at Burke who raised an eyebrow at him but since he'd already shoved half a pastry into his mouth nodded his head toward to briefing room, held up his hand to signify they had five minutes, and then left with two bags for the other two waiting to start.
Neal turned to Veronica. Everything with him must feel like a whirlwind because he's hardly even given her a second to respond. "It's great to see you," he finally managed. "Please tell me you're free for dinner. Mozzie's been bugging me all morning over it."
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She took a drink of the coffee which was excellent as expected. Neal's tastes tended to run toward the best of what New York had to offer. She thanked him and carried her little mystery snack to the conference room. "Did Peter tell you what we've got?"
Before Neal could answer, Peter ushered them into the room. "No spoilers now - I want this to be a surprise." He gave Neal a pointed look that wasn't short of amusement. He'd already given him the basic outline, but Peter was particularly excited to reveal the personnel records the research team had put together.
Jones waited until Veronica and Neal settled in before launching into the presentation on Dalton. Veronica had already been briefed on the highlights, but the FBI had of course gone into greater detail and established identities for Neal, Veronica, and Diana. The upshot was that Diana was going to be working in the school's administrative offices so she could hunt through records unimpeded. Neal and Veronica were partnering again, this time as a visiting university professor and his undergraduate research assistant. The research team had designed it so the pair would only be on the hook for one class each day, freeing them up for recon as needed. And of course, Neal did have other cases and work to attend to.
Before they revealed just what Professor Grant Reynolds taught, Jones and Peter exchanged a look. Jones kept his demeanor professional, but even Veronica could detect his amusement as he clicked over to the final slide bearing Professor Reynolds' specialty.
"Humility," Peter announced, looking directly at Neal. "This six-week course is on the concept of humility in literature." He chuckled, handing over a syllabus with works by Homer, Michel de Montaigne, and Martin Luther King, Jr.
Veronica looked a little startled. She was sure there was a joke in all this, but for her, it'd been a few years since she'd actually been an undergraduate. "Is this required reading?"
Peter laughed. "Well, you aren't required to turn in any essays, but you do need to teach, so the research team has put together a couple dossiers that should give you each what you need to fake it. Neal, you might want to start by consulting a dictionary." That earned a chuckle from the assembled team.
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Burke, by now, was so used to Caffrey's crap, he didn't seem the least bit fazed despite everyone else in the room cracking a smile on their way out. "Uh-huh. You'll make a good show of it, I'm sure."
"I always do." Neal raised his hands, grinning wide. Honestly, he wouldn't brag so much if it didn't get a rise out of Peter. Wait, no, he absolutely would. But that wasn't the point.
Peter clasped his hands together and lingered at the doorway. "There's a schedule in your packets. You'll report tomorrow for orientation, so make good use of your day." He sounded like a parent, although in his directive, it was clear he was only slightly dubious about Mars and Caffrey spending time together. After the last operation, he still wasn't convinced Veronica was ignorant of everything that happened in the background of the art auction featuring the forged Cézanne.
"Sorry, you're not invited," Neal teased.
Peter raised a hand and wiggled his fingers. "Tell Mozzie I said hi." And then he was gone.
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Several agents had already given her the side-eye for her decision to have a pin for an indie rock group nobody had heard of adorning her almost business attire. It went with the dyed hair and otherwise goth-punk outlook. The whole situation had her struggling not to just grin ear-to-ear with how bass-ackward things seemed to be.
Twenty-something girl being put in charge of one of the FBI's most notorious con artists? Definitely not the usual run of things.
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It took him a couple minutes to weasel his way out to her, but Caffrey knew the moment he saw her, Claudia was going to be holding whatever cards were in this particular game. That she was young was the only reason he coould imagine for Frederick leaving her behind, especially considering the few snippets of information he'd been able to glean from the gossiping Jones and Barrigan.
"You," Neal said, cheerily, "look like exactly the kind of person this office needs. Please tell me you're here for some kind of exciting collaborative effort and you're going to abscond with the FBI's most valuable criminal informant for an undetermined amount of time." He felt it wasn't a coincidence she'd leaned on his desk, so he purposefully took a seat in his uncomfortable chair, grabbed up his rubber band ball, and put his feet up. "If you are, I'm Neal." He offered his hand. "If you're not, I'm Clinton."
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Because, really, in her experience, exciting ended up with things like chasing a guy with Typhoid Mary's knife across town, or misplacing a brother for over a decade.
"However, in the spirit of interdepartmental cooperation, I'm sure you won't mind spending a little time with the Treasury for a change of pace. Some artworks that we've had an interest in are being offered up for private sales. For the sake of National Security, you know?" And if he really bought that, Neal wasn't the guy they thought he was.
"I'm Claudia. I met Special Agent Jones on the way in, but nice try."
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"I will say, I've been looking for a change of pace, and I'm a huge fan of the Treasury department." Of course, they weren't much of a fan of his. He'd helped in more than a handful of cases — clearly more straightforward than this — and every time they look at him like he's walking out with the keys to the place.
Neal leaned in, grinning, and said quietly, "Isn't it interesting how often they have to outsource experts around here?" Neither of them were agents, but both were employed by the government in some manner; it was instantly clear they were being relied upon for a very sensitive matters because there were others that just couldn't cut it.
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/gently makes some stuff up..... yikes
it's all good. We all have to do it....
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for minitreiver
Eliot had been around for a couple weeks, installed in a nearby prep school and staying with Peter and Elizabeth. It wasn't the greatest arrangement — especially when both the Burkes were apt to travel — but few people could ensure a safe environment like Peter and his large collection of FBI loyalists. And Neal, who had a soft spot for kids, didn't mind doing his part, either.
The lights were on but low, and as Neal let himself in, he was careful to shift around the pizza and stack of movies he'd brought along with him. It wasn't exactly his idea of a relaxing night — he preferred wine and lightly dressed pasta for his quiet evenings — but since he's dealing with a teenager, he can't imagine his choice wouldn't be at least a bit more well-received.
"Hey, Satch!" he greeted the dog at the door, sliding past the wriggling golden retriever. "Hey, kid," he said to Eliot, holding out the precarious pizza, silently asking for assistance. "Did Peter tell you I was coming by? Sorry if it's a surprise. He said he'd text."
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He set the book down and got up to help Neal with the stuff he was carrying. “How late are ya stayin’ tonight?”
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"I've got a couple hours," he said, although he only low-balled the number because Peter had cautioned him against taking advantage when he had this special exception to his usual radius. "Work's good. Well, boring," Neal admitted, laughing. Without Peter around Neal was relegated to helper duties, which usually meant playing office assistant to a dozen active agents. He didn't mind it, but it sure didn't hold a candle to even a smelly afternoon in the undercover van with the usual suspects. He grabbed some plates from the cabinet, collecting napkins next. "How's school?"
for latrodectus_mactans
Some time later, Natasha’s phone lights up with a message. It’s from a burner phone, of course, and it’s quite simple: A cipher, a time, and some coordinates.
When deciphered, the collateral tells a strange tale of a theme park owner worth billions. The redacted section seems to add some level to the story, and in the margins Neal had encoded his own message: ‘CIA?’. If Natasha cares to do some digging, she’ll find the other person pictured is a CIA agent, shaking hands with the theme park owner. The person is also one of the most vocal local members of an anti-mutant organization, and quite the art collector, apparently.
What additional mysteries lie ahead remains to be seen, but for the time being, Neal is absolutely calling on the Avengers for help.
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So the next time Neal goes to get coffee he'll find a familiar redhead cutting in line behind him. "You know, I was hoping you'd use my number to ask me out for a drink sometime, not to give me more work."
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"And who's to say that wasn't what I was doing? You're here, aren't you?" Maybe not exactly as intended, but already he's pulling out his wallet, intending to pay. "So, you got my message, I take it. You're welcome. It's useful, isn't it? Although, I'm a bit curious why nothing's been done. Is it possible that I, a lowly informant, stumbled on this information before the esteemed Avengers?"
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"Oh, no. Ohhhh. No no no. This is bad. Listen, listen, you have to check again, okay? Check again, please..."
He's got eyes that beg with a sincerity that easily hides his deceit, but make no mistake that Nicholas Holden, also known as Neal Caffrey, is acting with anything but altruistic intent. He's found himself a very nice but very young teller and as he whispers his woes across the counter, she seems to be cautiously considering giving in to his demands.
"If you call this number—" The business card slides across counter in the the nearly silent bank and clicks as he releases it close to the teller's hand. "—my boss can confirm everything. He's a busy guy so you might need to try a couple times, but he'll answer. Please, Courtney, could you do that for me?" His pinball smile makes her blush and the girl takes the card tentatively as she pushes her hair behind her ear and skitters away to do as she was asked.
The moment she's gone, Neal is sighing in relief. He's had to think on his feet to get this far and now succeeding in his current task is slightly more within his reach. Still, he's sweating from his little impromptu performance and still trying to determine the next three steps ahead of him. Certainly not expecting a familiar face.
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But what Neal has always been, is a force of disruption in an otherwise carefully orchestrated life. A splatter of vibrance on a stark white canvas. As boys, their friendship was one of the most honest things that Matt had ever known. Even now, he can think of no one who holds quite as many truths about him as his old friend.
Years may have passed. Both men have grown in age and distance, and life has undoubtedly transformed each of them uniquely. But when the first notes of that familiar voice reach his ears as he pushes open the doors of the bank, Matt's heart knocks against his ribcage with a profound, aching urgency. "Neal," he murmurs, despite the name the man has given the teller. Despite the distance that separates them from one another. Matt can hardly hear another heartbeat over the sound of his own aching in his chest. His cane is loud on the old tile as he approaches, and comes to wait in line just behind the other man.
Matt can't help but want to examine. He's taller and a little fuller now. No doubt better-fed than when they were both kids scrimping for cash. His voice is more mature and he smells like expensive cologne, but there's no doubt it's Neal. Matt's spent too long memorizing the spaces in that heartbeat. His throat feels suddenly dry, and he struggles to think of what to say.
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He's staring, up on his toes, over the counter to where Courtney disappeared in the distance and when he lands back on the heels of his feet, he catches a glance out of the corner of his eye of a cane, white and red, and feels a wave of strange nostalgia. Which quickly turns to shame the moment he recognizes the person at the other end of the cane.
Turning away, he pretends not to recognize Matt, but even that comes with uncertainty because no matter what Matt's always been able to easily pick apart Neal like he's a puzzle made for a toddler. Like he's as transparent as cellophane.
Is he really going to do this? Is he really going to ignore his oldest, dearest, most heartfelt friend? Honestly, he thinks he'd better if it means avoiding admitting he's using a different name in order to swindle someone out of money. Times are desperate — arguably only any better than before because Neal has flouted the law — and he's not sure Matt would entirely approve.
Waving his hand to try to get Courtney's attention, he receives back a finger asking him to wait that he immediately attempts to disregard to make a hasty retreat around the familiar man standing so close Neal can smell the past memories waiting in the wings of his mind.
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