WC: By Choice - Part 1.1
White Collar -- Fanfiction
Disclaimer:
All recognizable characters are property of Jeff Eastin and USA Network.
No copyright infringement intended.
Title: By Choice - Part 1.1
- Rating: PG-13
- Category: Hurt/Comfort, Drama
- Spoilers: None
Author's notes:
We're told the upcoming season three is about choices. This is my take on a few of those choices. The story is written in two parts. Due to post length restrictions I had to subdivide. A massive thank you to nice_disguise for burning the midnight oil on the beta and for always telling me like it is. All remaining mistakes, factual incorrectness and scarcity of gratuitous shirtlessness are entirely my fault.
This is post 1 of 4.
Summary:
Wrong choices. Impossible choices. Choices made against our better judgment.
BY CHOICE
PART 1.1
1.
Neal Caffrey has a love-hate relationship with Wednesday.
He loves it because Wednesday has become a home away from home. 1.96 miles away from home, to be exact. Wednesday is one of only two of Mozzie’s lairs that he can reach on his 2-mile electronic tether. Barely. What makes Wednesday preferable to Sunday, the other hideout within his radius, is that Wednesday comes with an alibi. Tucked away below a popular Korean BBQ hole-in-the-wall, Wednesday also comes with great food.
Two months into his deal with the FBI, Peter had pulled him aside. He had slapped a stack of matrix printer printouts onto the conference table and had pecked his index finger at one of the numerous flagged addresses on Neal’s tracking records. Neal remembers that, at the time, it had galled him to discover another layer of Peter’s diligence in keeping tabs on him. Quite literally, if the half-inch Post-it arrow flags stuck neatly along the edge of the printout were any indication. He had wondered if the different neon shades of the flags had any meaning. Perhaps Peter simply had the aesthetic preference of a pre-teen girl. And what respectable FBI agent still used matrix printers, anyway?
Neal had hidden his annoyance at the agent’s inquisition behind a wide grin and had announced that Peter should buy him lunch. The Bulgogi and Kimchi had been delicious. Peter had not only been happy to pay for the meal, but had also taken the restaurant’s coordinates off his list of suspicious whereabouts for his personal felon.
Nowadays, more than a year later, Neal still makes sure he has a matching credit card charge whenever he visits Wednesday. He tips for dine-in, not for the takeout he gets. There is no harm in being careful. Peter trusts him. And Peter verifies. Neal rarely takes this personally anymore.
Neal comes to Wednesday about once a week. Often on Sundays, when Mozzie is here, increasingly on Wednesdays, when Mozzie is not. Mozz doesn’t take this personally either.
Neal hates Wednesday because Wednesday is cramped and dark and dank. Mozzie’s tasteful arrangement of antique furniture in 1930s speakeasy ambience fits the basement space perfectly. But interior design can’t hide the fact that the ceilings are low and that the windows are too small and too filthy to let in appreciable amounts of daylight. Neal comes here to read and to think and sometimes to make a few extra bucks beating Mozzie’s poker buddies. Neal doesn’t sleep here. One con man’s cozy den is another one’s jail cell.
It’s Monday, and Neal is sitting across from Mozzie, ladling tofu soup from the takeout container into bowls. Mozzie makes no move to eat and continues to fidget nervously in his seat. Neal sighs heavily. His friend’s paranoia has risen to new levels over the last three days.
“I don’t have a choice, Neal,” the short man squeaks. “Lorenzo hurts people for sport. And that’s just before lunch!”
“This isn’t the first time someone is asking you for a favor, Mozz.” Neal spreads a cloth napkin over his lap and grabs his spoon. “Just tell him no.”
“Do you have any idea what he did to the last guy who told him no?”
Neal shakes his head and takes a spoonful of soup.
“Nobody does!” Mozzie shrieks. “The guy disappeared without a trace fifteen years ago. Look him up. His name is Johnny the Peach. Was Johnny the Peach!”
Neal frowns. Ridiculous mobster nicknames aside, his friend looks to be in serious distress. Even on Mozzie’s scale.
“Why now?” He asks. “Why does Lorenzo contact you after all these years?”
“Because he has a buyer.” Mozzie’s restless fingers are pulverizing the fortune cookie in its wrapper. “The economy has hit those Detroit guys hard. They don’t pass up an opportunity to make a couple million bucks. He’s not asking, Neal!”
“Why you? What makes him think you’re the man for the job?” Neal’s eyes bore into his friend’s as he shoves his bowl aside. He’s lost his appetite. “We’ve been through this. The only way into that gallery is through a ventilation duct and up the handicapped-access elevator shaft. No offense, Mozzie, but we both know that those kinds of acrobatics are not your strong suit. You’ve never stolen a thing from the Whitney.” Neal stops and reconsiders for a moment. “Unless you count that gaudy tie you lifted from the museum gift shop.”
“No, I haven’t stolen a thing.” Mozzie’s gaze shifts to the wrapper full of fortune cookie crumbs in his hands. “But-“
“I have,” Neal finishes. He sits back in his chair, shakes his head in disbelief and ponders just how similar to Peter he looks and sounds at this very moment. “What were you thinking, Mozzie, taking credit for someone else’s work?”
“Look who’s talking,” Mozzie retorts petulantly. “You took credit for stealing the music box and at least a dozen other trophy pieces.”
“Yes, and I’ll be spending another two years wondering if the hair that damn anklet is chafing off my leg will ever grow back!” He yanks up his left pant leg to expose his tracker.
“This was a long time ago,” Mozzie adds quietly. “You had yet to be retrofitted into the tragic con man version of the Electric Horseman. Into the living, breathing cautionary tale of youthful hubris gone awry. Into the broken-winged-“
“I get it!” Neal cuts him off. He sits silently for a few breaths, eyeing his friend who has torn a small hole in his cookie wrapper and is shaking a few crumbs onto the tabletop. “Electric Horseman? Really, Mozzie?”
The short man raises his eyebrows.
“I admit the light show isn’t quite as impressive.” He vaguely gestures into the direction of the anklet. “But there are certain parallels in the way the suits have tamed you and are parading you around, don’t you think? And you wear a hat, too.”
“Peter isn’t parading me around.” Neal mumbles sullenly.
Mozzie only shrugs and adjusts his glasses.
“But he will parade my sorry behind straight back to jail if he catches me stealing that painting for you,” Neal adds.
“So you’ll do it?” Across from him, Mozzie perks up visibly. “I wouldn’t ask if this wasn’t serious, mon frère.”
Neal scowls. It irks him that Mozzie is pointing out their quasi-fraternal bond when asking for a favor. It’s Mozzie’s underhanded way of saying ‘You owe me’. Neal doesn’t like feeling manipulated. But Mozzie is right. He does owe him. For sticking with him through all of it. For still accepting him as a friend when that friendship now comes with the baggage of everything Mozzie has despised for most of his life. For taking a bullet. For being a warm body that fills his space and drinks his wine, invited or uninvited. For opening his home to him when he needs a place to feel unwatched. Well, one of his homes, anyway. He sighs.
“No promises, Mozz!” Neal knows these words are as good as a handshake to seal the deal.
“Anything you need for the job, just say the word.” Mozzie finally tears the fortune cookie wrapper open and the fine crumbs spill across the table. Absentmindedly, Neal brushes a few off his tie.
“How much time do we have?” Neal asks, his mind already reeling as it formulates, discards and reformulates workable strategies for the museum heist.
“He wants the painting by the end of the week. His buyer is leaving the country.”
“You’re joking.” Neal glares at his friend who shrinks another inch or two. “How long have you known about this?”
“A day or two,” Mozzie lies blatantly and elicits an exasperated sigh from Neal.
They have less than a week to break into a world-class gallery. Neal feels a familiar tingle manifests itself somewhere in his stomach. It’s a feeling he used to live for.
“I’ll need to be out of the anklet for this.” Neal notes quietly.
“You could ask the Suit to take you off the radar for a weekend.”
“He’s going to say no.“ Neal rubs his forehead. “I’ll have to lie to him. Mozz, this could end my deal.”
Mozzie doesn’t appear concerned with his friend’s dilemma as he studies the remains of the dismantled cookie. When he finally unfolds the fortune his face lights up with a knowing smile. Through his thick-rimmed glasses he locks eyes with Neal as he uses his index finger to silently push the small slip of paper across the table. Neal picks up the note and reads.
“How did you do this?” He cocks his head with a puzzled look. “How’d you cheat on a fortune cookie?”
“You’re giving me too much credit. I swear it’s legit.”
With a skeptical frown Neal pulls his FBI consultant ID from his pocket and slides the fortune underneath the clear plastic window. He throws one last look at note.
We meet by chance, by choice we become friends.
He sighs. He is going to regret this.
2.
“No.”
Sometimes Neal hates to be proven right. He hurries down Lexington Ave, barely able to keep up with Peter’s long strides.
“It’s just for a weekend, Peter,” he pleads. “Just for Saturday night even.”
“I’m not letting you out of the anklet,” Peter remains steadfast and charges ahead without looking at the man at a near trot by his side. “Not until you give me a good reason. Preferably one that’s not a complete lie.”
Neal’s mind is racing along with his feet. He should have come better prepared, shouldn’t have relied on his charms to get his hall pass. Now the window of opportunity is quickly closing. Peter’s good mood from earlier in the day had started to take a nosedive the moment Neal had breached the subject of getting some unmonitored playtime over the weekend.
He needs to think fast.
“It’s for a date.” Neal blurts out. Peter looks unimpressed but at least slows his pace by a notch.
“Sara knows all about your leash,” the agent points out. “Come on, Neal. You’re the great romantic. I’m sure you can think of something new to do in your 2-mile radius. Be a little creative.”
“It’s not with Sara.” Neal grimaces as if that admission is painfully uncomfortable. From the corner of an eye he catches Peter’s surprised sideways glance before the agent comes to a sudden stop. He has Peter’s full attention. Good.
“I was under the impression that-“ Peter scratches his temple. He has him off balance, too. Even better. “I mean El thought you guys were, you know, exclusive.”
Neal shrugs nonchalantly.
“I don’t think we’ve defined ourselves in those terms yet.” He looks at Peter, his gaze casually brushing over his friend. Peter stands with his balled fists shoved into his coat pockets and his shoulders drawn up. He looks uncomfortable, even tense, certainly surprised. Neal straightens his spine, slips his left hand into his pant pocket and slowly spins on a heel. He picks up a leisurely pace down the sidewalk. Peter follows a step behind. His eyes straight ahead, Neal’s lips curl into a complacent grin. It feels good to be in charge.
“I’m just not sure I’m ready for a real commitment yet, Peter.” He explains. For a second he gives that claim some serious consideration, but then he brushes the thought aside. He needs to focus. “After Kate, I-“ he lets his voice trail off and shakes his head just slightly as he gazes off into the distance. Peter always gets a little squishy when he touches on the subject of Kate. Neal hates using her that way. Perhaps he even hates manipulating Peter.
Peter remains silent, his brow knitted.
“Listen, Peter,” Neal starts and checks his tone that threatens to become patronizing. “I knew you wouldn’t approve of me seeing other women. I didn’t want to put you into an awkward position with El or Sara. That’s why I was hesitant to tell you.”
There is still no reaction from Peter. The two men walk another half block in silence. For Neal, it is a victory march. He concentrates on keeping a telltale spring out of his steps. Peter is going to give his uneasy OK any second.
“I don’t care,” Peter suddenly announces. “You want to be a cad? Fine. You’re not getting out of your anklet. And that’s final.”
Neal stops in his tracks. He opens his mouth to protest.
“No.” Peter cuts him off and pats his back as he brushes past him. “Final answer.”
With a grunt Neal follows.
“You know, Caffrey, if your date can’t handle the tracker, she just ain’t right for ya, buddy. If a woman is getting involved with you, that piece of plastic is going to be the least of her problems.” Peter turns to flash a lopsided grin. “I’m just helping you navigate the dating pool, separate the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. You can thank me later.”
Neal stares at his partner’s back as Peter picks up the pace with long, springy steps.
“You and Sara still coming over for dinner tomorrow?” Peter asks and sounds perfectly casual. Perfectly in charge.
“Yeah,” Neal replies sullenly.
Damn.
3.
Neal has stolen for many reasons. Out of hunger twice, a long time ago. To impress a girl on occasion. To impress a Federal agent once, no, twice. For the love of a woman frequently. For the love of art countless times. For spite. For greed, perhaps. For kicks, certainly.
Stealing for a friend is not that big a stretch.
Stealing from another friend is.
In the shadows at the bottom of the Burkes’ staircase Neal stands and listens to the voices drifting into the house from the patio. There is Peter’s low-pitched chuckle from the corner of the backyard where he proudly mans his new grill. At the table, closer to the open door, El and Sara chatter and giggle, their heads almost touching as they sit hunched over an old photo album.
It’s a relaxing evening. Breezy. Fun. By conventional standards. By Peter’s standards, for certain. Peter seems intent to keep it this way. He doesn’t mention their conversation from yesterday afternoon. When Neal showed up at his partner’s doorstep two hours ago, holding hands with Sara, there was barely a hint of hesitation from Peter. Nothing more than a flicker of disapproval darkened the agent’s expression as his gaze had traveled from the couple’s entwined fingers to Neal’s face. Peter’s eyes had lingered there for a brief moment before his face had split into a wide, goofy smile. Wiping his hands on his apron, had accepted the bottle of wine Neal had brought and had ushered them into his backyard, smoothly morphing into the perfect host.
It’s an easy theft. By Neal’s standards. His ears still tuned into the background noises, Neal’s fingers slip into right the pocket of Peter’s coat hanging by the front door. He stares at the key bunch in his palm.
Peter should know better. He shouldn’t be just another one of those people who have it coming for them. He shouldn’t be this careless. He shouldn’t invite a thief into his house and leave the thing that thief wants unattended. The very thing that thief had asked for just a day earlier. He shouldn’t.
The crime and cover-up take barely a minute. Fifteen seconds to twist the electronic key to his tracking anklet off Peter’s key ring and put a mockup in its place. Thirty more seconds to noiselessly hurry up the stairs and flush the toilet. Fifteen seconds of running the faucet in a ritual of simulated hand washing that Neal perfected at the tender age of three. Mission accomplished, he ambles down the stairs and into the kitchen to mix the very dirty martinis he promised the girls.
It takes another hour for guilt to hit him.
By that time Neal is sitting at the table and finishes the last of El’s rhubarb crisp. Next to him, Sara is wrapped in his jacket, her shoulder leaning heavily into his, her head tipped against his neck. She is more than slightly tipsy. A Caffrey martini will do that to a lightweight. At his other side, Elizabeth is in a similar state and complains with a passion about the new parking regulations in the neighborhood. Neal meets Peter’s eyes across the table. Leaning back in his chair and taking a sip from his beer, Peter shakes his head in mild amusement. Neal only grins. Peter should be grateful. That Caffrey martini will get him laid tonight.
Sara takes his right hand into both of hers and runs her fingertips over his knuckles. Raising his hand closer to her face she studies his nails and then rubs her thumb over his cuticles.
“You’re painting,” she says with a nod at the faint traces of pigment that have resisted his best efforts to scrub his hands earlier in the day.
“I believe I still owe you a Raphael,” Neal replies with a wink.
“First a print. Now a forgery? Maybe we can slowly work our way up to the real thing.” She nudges him.
“If one of my contacts ever comes across it, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Just for the record, I’m not dropping this, Caffrey,” Sara states as firmly as her degree of inebriation allows. Without letting go of it, she lets his hand sink to his lap and snuggles a little tighter against his arm.
“Can I get you guys anything else?” Elizabeth asks and moves to get up from her chair to clear the table. Peter lays a hand on her wrist.
“I got it, honey. Just relax.”
Dipping his fingers in his pocket to feel the electronic key hidden there, Neal watches his partner carefully. Peter gets to his feet, plants a quick kiss on the crown of Elizabeth’s head and then busies himself over the tabletop, stacking dirty plates and collecting used napkins. He looks ordinary, suburban and a little silly in his Licensed to Grill apron. And he looks perfectly content. As if there is nothing else to wish for on a balmy late summer night but to spend it with his brand-new barbecue, his wife and his best friend. Neal stumbles over that thought. Are they? Best friends? Under normal circumstances they would be. Is this the normalcy Peter longs for? Are these evenings Peter’s version of pretend play, a few of hours of downtime that allow him to forget his consultant’s past and the worries about his future and to simply accept Neal as someone he truly likes?
As if reading his thoughts, Peter glances up and meets Neal’s gaze. He smiles. There is no judgment in his eyes or mistrust. Peter is happy, simple as that. Neal feels his stomach churn in a bout of remorse, when he realizes that Peter is not simply happy for himself.
He is happy for him.
Mumbling an apology, Neal wiggles out from under Sara and follows Peter into the house. There is still time to make this right. There is still time to return the key, still a chance to talk to Peter.
His phone rings before he makes it to the kitchen.
4.
“Hold still.” Neal speaks softly as he tips Mozzie’s chin up to gently dab at the dried blood under his nose.
“I told you they were serious.” In his chair at Neal’s dining table, Mozzie nearly whimpers.
“Stop fidgeting.”
“It’s broken, isn’t it?”
“Your nose is fine,” Neal reassures him. His level voice hides the anger boiling in the pit of his stomach. He takes a fresh corner of the towel and cleans most of the remaining blood from his friend’s face. “There. Good as new.”
With light touch he probes the area around Mozzie’s left eye.
“Let’s put some ice on this to keep the swelling down. You’ll have a hell of a shiner, but you’ll be back to your classic good looks soon enough. Your glasses weren’t quite so lucky I’m afraid,” he adds with a regretful glance at the mangled remains of Mozzie’s vintage horn-rimmed spectacles laid out on his table.
“Barbarians!” Mozzie whines. “Attacking a handicapped person at his weakest point.”
“You’re not handicapped, Mozz.” Neal lets go of his friend’s face and heads over to his freezer to grab an ice pack.
“Optically disadvantaged,” Mozzie insists. “Stomping on my glasses is like kicking a walker out from under an old lady. I barely found my way over here, Neal. Ouch!” He flinches when Neal presses the frozen gel pack against Mozzie’s left eye.
“Sorry.” Neal winces in sympathy. Seeing Mozzie hurt is painful to him, perhaps more so than to Mozz, no matter how loudly the short man may lament his current condition. “And I don’t believe that for a second. You would find your way to my wine collection blind-folded and on two broken legs, if that’s what it came down to.”
Mozzie nods his silent agreement and swats Neal’s hand and the cooling icepack away so that he can reach for the generous glass of Chateau Latour Neal has poured him. The glass is shaking precariously between his fingers.
“Easy,” Neal cautions. “That’s an 800-dollar bottle.”
“You’re insulting me. I wouldn’t dare spilling a molecule.” Mozzie closes his eyes as he savors the first sip. His face relaxes visibly. “I appreciate the gesture, by the way. It’s no Lafite, but it’ll do to numb the pain.”
Neal rolls his eyes. He is tempted to have a glass of the red, but he needs a clear head.
“Tell me again why your Detroit friends tried to rearrange your face?” He asks and starts to pace his living room. “I thought you had already agreed to get them the painting.”
“They said someone at the Feds accessed their files shortly after they talked to me.”
“I did,” Neal confirms. “But they couldn’t have known that there was any connection to you. I logged in using Agent Swanson’s password.”
“They didn’t know. But they wanted to make sure I wasn’t trying anything stupid.” Mozzie takes another sip of wine and shrugs. “Or maybe they felt they had to improve my looks.”
“So they have an insider at the Bureau?” Neal says more to himself than to his friend. “That’s bad. I was a second away from fessing up to Peter when you called.”
“Tell me you didn’t.” Mozzie snaps to attention. “Because if you did, I’m getting on the next bus to Toronto.”
“You realize Toronto is a lot closer to Detroit than New York?” Neal points out with an amused smirk. Mozzie throws up his hands. Neal takes a deep breath. Mozzie is right. This is serious.
“It’s late,” Neal says. “Why don’t you sleep here tonight. Take the bed.”
“I couldn’t.” Mozzie replies, with insincere reluctance. Neal knows Mozzie has no intention of going home. He enjoys to be asked, even more so, to be asked twice.
“I insist,” Neal runs through the motions with the saintly patience he reserves for Mozzie. “Your head took a pounding, I want to make sure you’re okay. Besides, I’d like you to get me more supplies tomorrow. I need you in top form.”
Neal collects the stained towel and carries Mozzie’s shattered vintage glasses to their unworthy final resting place inside his trashcan.
“Can I get you anything else?” He asks.
“I’m all set.” Mozzie gets to his feet, grabs the cooling pack, his wine glass and what is left of the bottle. “I’m sorry I ruined your evening with the Suits and the redhead.”
“It’s fine, Mozz. Get some rest.”
Neal watches Mozzie waddle off in the direction of the bedroom alcove. Rest. He doubts he’ll get much of it tonight. He checks the clock. He has merely six hours before Peter will pick him up on his way to the office. He must get more work done before morning. Neal ambles over to the canvas he has been painting since yesterday: a replicate of the Cézanne still life he is going to steal. He collects the stack of photographs Mozzie has taken of the original, picking up a few of them and studying them intently. They are helpful, but not the perfect template. He will have to swing by the museum to take another look at Cézanne’s brushstroke. He puffs up his cheeks and glances at the clock once again.
Neal lifts the easel into the far corner of the living area. He arranges the spotlights around the painting, leaving them off for the moment to give Mozzie a chance to drift off to sleep in the dimmed light.
He starts a pot of coffee and retreats to his closet to change out of his dress shirt. The sleeve still carries the faint scent of Sara’s perfume and of the vodka martini she spilled. She had been disappointed that he had to leave the Burkes’ in a hurry. So had he. He discards the thought of a missed night of passion along with discarding the dirty shirt onto the dry-cleaning pile. Kicking off his shoes and socks, he slips into a t-shirt.
Back in the living room, he pours himself a mug of strong coffee. For a moment he listens to Mozzie’s soft snore coming from the alcove. Then he turns on the spots and picks up his paintbrush.
Six hours until morning.
Three days until he’ll break another law.
On to Part 1.2