Fragile Things (Part One)
Title: Fragile Things
Pairing: Neal/Emrys(Merlin), mentioned Peter/El, past Neal/Kate, past Arthur/Merlin with Mozzie, Cruz, and Jones!
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 10, 493
Spoilers: All of Season One for White Collar, not much background knowledge needed for Merlin
Warnings: language
Summary: Sometimes the difference between what you should want and what you really want is distance and time. Neal knows what he wants. Problem is...how does he go about getting it? (Merlin crossover)
“One man’s justice is another’s injustice; One man’s beauty is another’s ugliness; One man’s wisdom is another’s folly.” -Ralph Waldo Emerson
The sleek office building gleamed in the sliver of bright moonlight. The noise of the city was muted by state of the art soundproofing. All the lights were off and shadows danced on the walls. It was late enough that even the most dedicated work-a-holic had stumbled home or to the nearest bar. It was the type of quiet night that left the night security guard half asleep at his post, watching the latest Late show that he could find.
It was the perfect night to pull off a daring heist.
A mist curled down the hallway of the top floor of the building giving the effect of a fog on the English moors. It did a splendid job of clouding the surveillance cameras placed strategically up and down the hall. A young man appeared at the end of the hallway. Humming as if he was out for a midnight stroll, he walked through the fog. The hummed tune pierced the air. His shadowy form the only thing that would be seen on the security camera footage later.
He stood before the doorway of the company’s CFO, who had about twenty three million dollars made fraudulently with claims of made up sick children (while the very real ones suffered), awaiting in his office for the thief to transfer the cash to several banks across the world and then to several pediatric wards across the country that needed the money. The government would try to take the money back, but it would have exchange so many hands by that point that it would be impossible to prove that it was the corrupt CFO’s money by the time of identification. However, the investigators would have all the evidence needed to lock the greedy man up for a rather long time.
The young man smiled widely, revealing two rows of perfectly straight white teeth. His blue eyes with golden undertones were alight wickedly. He loved these easy jobs; usually meant he could hang around town without looking over his shoulder too much. Humming lightly, he slid on his butter soft leather gloves and turned on the computer. His lean muscled body easily folded into the plush, expensive executive office chair.
He made himself comfortable (and a mental note to buy one of these chairs for himself later). His eyes flashed gold as the password was almost magically filled in. The young man smirked, whistling the tune now.
It was time to put in a (dis)honest night’s work.
“One must always maintain one’s connection to the past and yet ceaselessly pull away from it. To remain in touch with the past requires a love of a memory. To remain in touch with the past requires a constant imaginative effort.” -Gaston Bachelard
Neal Caffrey looked up from his game of solitaire and the ever fun ‘let’s see how long I can avoid doing mortgage fraud cases until Peter gets huffy’ game that he had recently created. Granted the former was much more active then the latter, but no less fun especially with a cohort. Jones was extolling the virtues of Spider Solitaire to the con-man and also avoiding his own paperwork in order to ‘keep an eye on the felon’ as they liked to call it. (Neal was just glad that he wasn’t the only one that despised the mortgage cases. There was just no elegance to them. Jones just thought they were boring as hell.)
He watched as a courier: a stick thin boy with too blonde hair and pale green eyes glanced around the room. His uniform proclaimed him to be a bike messenger, but the shirt was a size too big and hung awkwardly off his thin frame.
“Can I help you?” asked Jones straightening up.
The boy brightened and began to speak in a thick Brooklyn accent, “Yes…um sir. I’m supposta give one of these to a…,” he paused long blonde hair flopped into his face as he checked his clipboard, “Special Agent Peter Burke?”
Peter had walked in that very moment with what, Neal assumed, was more boring mortgage fraud cases.
“I’m Agent Burke,” said Peter with his usual serious formality. He was also dressed in one those cheap, off the rack suits that he loved so much. Neal was going to have to plot with Elizabeth to get her husband into better clothing.
“Ah great sir please sign here,” said the messenger holding out the clipboard. Peter scribbled his signature down before the bike messenger took the thick manila envelope from under his arm and handing it to the agent. He checked his clipboard again, holding a thinner envelope in his hand.
“And I need ta give this ta FBI consultant Neal Caffrey?”
Neal’s head shot up. Only a handful of people knew where he worked, but none of the ones he could immediately think of would send things to the FBI.
“That’s me,” he said. The kid walked over and quickly Neal scrawled his signature out. He took the envelope.
“I also have a message for you, Mistah Caffrey.”
“What is it?” asked Neal looking at the envelope. It wasn’t as thick as the manila one Pete had in his grasp. It was thin and lightweight, no real heaviness to speak of.
The bike messenger checked the clipboard before answering, “The Winter’s Tale, Shakespeare; Act three, scene two. Hermione.”
Neal’s face, which had been colored with curiosity, went blank. His mouth twitched as if fighting to smile or smirk. He shut his eyes slowly, letting corners of his mouth slide upward.
“Thanks kid,” whispered Neal with a blinding smile. Eyes still shut as he remembered who sent him the envelope.
The bike messenger nodded and smiled when Peter handed him a tip, running to catch the elevator.
“So what’s the message mean?” asked Peter as he inspected his thick folder.
“It’s a quote. It shall scarce boot me. To say not guilty; mine integrity. Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it. Be so receiv’d. But thus, if powers divine, behold our human actions (as they do), I doubt not, then, but innocence shall make false accusation blush, and tyranny tremble at patience,” quoted Neal lightly and easily as he twirled the letter opener that Jones had handed to him, “Just a message from one of my old friends. You would like him. He’s a good friend and an honest man.”
Peter snorted, “I didn’t think you knew any honest men.”
Neal stared at Peter with his most affronted look.
“Peter! I’ll have you know that Emrys, my friend, is a highly respected artist and photographer. I don’t think the man has even had anything more than a parking ticket in his entire life.”
“Why is he friends with you then?” asked Peter as he broke the seal of the thick envelope. He pulled out a thick stack of papers.
“I can be very charming as you know. He came to me in a shaky time in my life,” said Neal looking a little distant and sad, “Plus despite being an honest man, he can spot a lie a mile away. It was interesting having someone around who could spot my tricks.”
Neal opened the thin envelope with the sliver letter opener easily. Handing it back to Jones, Neal slowly tugged out the only thing in there: a photograph. He stared at the back where it had neat, spidery handwriting that he remembered from letters while he was in jail.
The Angel Thief
March 2002
Hotel Pont Royal, Paris
Model: Neal Caffrey (unknowing though he may be, and you believed there was no film in that camera, prat.)
Slowly Neal turned over the photograph to reveal the actual picture. Surprised, a strangled burst of laughter spilled from his lips.
It was a black and white of himself sprawled on the bed with one armed tucked behind his head. His eyes were half opened, obviously caught between the state of sleep and wakefulness, colored intensely blue by some sort of photo tool. His dark hair stuck up at all angles, a little longer than, falling around his head like a black halo. The sheets were pooled around his waist, effectively covering any nakedness except his stomach and torso bare to all to see. Loosely clapsed in his hand was several tangled golden pieces of jewelry, placed there by a sneaky photographer, and the only other thing colored in the photo. The moonlight acted as natural lighting, shadowing and highlighting the contours of his body.
Neal swallowed remembering the Hotel Pont Royal. He had also forgotten how good Emrys was, even though he had several of his pictures hidden away at one of his safe houses.
Bright, laughing blue-gold eyes flashed across his vision along with ears that stuck out and a smile alight with mischief. He could almost feel the hot breath against his neck and long-fingered hands ghost across his back. Phantom lips kissed his jaw. Neal suppressed a shudder of delight that ran through him, making him warm from his toes to the top of his head.
“I didn’t know you modeled,” mused Jones as he glanced over Neal’s shoulder to look at the photograph. Shaking off the desire that ran through his body, Neal smirked and tucked it back into the envelope.
“Apparently I do,” said the con-man with a charming grin, “Emrys is a sneaky bastard when he’s bored.”
Peter cursed from his position catching Neal’s attention. The agent’s brow was furrowed as he flipped through the stack of papers faster. Peter then grabbed the envelope that the papers arrived in. Neal watched as the man pulled a long, deep red feather from the envelope. Neal stared at the feather for several moments before his mouth twitched into a grin and let out a burst of delighted laughter. His day was suddenly getting much, much better. Peter shot Neal the filthiest look that he could muster, but the con-man ignored it in favor of his own amusement.
“I didn’t know Robin Hood was in town,” mused Neal with smile as he stood. He plucked the red feather from Peter’s hand with the fond grin still on his face before eagerly asking, “What corrupt organization did he hit up this time?”
Peter opened his mouth to respond before fixing the con-man with a suspicious look.
“Wait do you know him?”
“I know of him. Everyone on both sides of the law does,” said Neal with a shrug, “He’s the best of the best. After me of course.”
“You got caught,” stated Peter as he pointedly stared at the leg the anklet was on.
Neal smirked casually, “Maybe I wanted to be.”
He turned the silky soft feather in his hand before handing it back to Peter, “Looks like he likes you though, Peter. Robin always sends the red feathers to the people he likes.”
“Did you ever get one?” asked Jones as he finished Neal’s game of solitaire for him.
“Enough to make a cardinal jealous,” replied Neal with a wink. A wicked glint was in his eyes, “So what kind of horrible person did he nail? Huh? Oooh I bet it has something to do with kids. I really hope it does because then he’s downright vicious.”
Neal looked positively gleeful at the thought.
“It’s like he’s a kid about to meet Superman,” commented Jones to Cruz.
“It’s freaking creepy that’s what,” said Cruz.
“Hey!” interjected Neal, “This guy is what all the little con-men and con-women idolize after to a certain extent. Since he never keeps the money.”
“What?” said Peter looking up from the files in his hands.
“Robin Hood’s thing is that he doesn’t keep the cash he steals. He sends evidence to the authorities and steals the cash, but it always goes to a charity. Not a bogus charity, a legitimate charity. Of course they track the cash down, but by the time they find it it’s transferred so many hands that they can’t take it back,” Neal was trying to keep the awe out of his voice, “This guy is like Da-Vinci, except for cons and theft. He makes it an art form. So who got it?”
Peter sighed and handed over the files to Neal, who took them with relish.
“So we have a vigilante, who’s been at it for…”
“Two hundred and sixty five years,” answered Cruz quickly as if she couldn’t stop herself, “And that’s just what’s on written record. Some people theorize that Robin Hood is a title passed from person to person or organization of vigilantes.”
Peter raised an eyebrow in her direction and she flushed.
“A cousin of mine works at Scotland Yard in the fraud division. He told me about Robin Hood just in case we ever ran into him.”
“Call your cousin and see if he can send over anything he has. I don’t care if he is a so called good guy. He’s still a thief.”
“Yes sir,” answered Cruz with a nod before picking up a phone and dialing.
“Jones,” the man looked up, “I want you to get in contact with NYPD. See if they had any robbery or fraud cases in connection with this company reported.”
The agent picked up the phone on his desk and began to dial. Peter directed his attention to Neal, who was rifling through papers looking like Christmas had come early.
“Neal,” the conman looked up, “Can you get in contact with him?”
“No,” answered Neal with a distracted tone, “This guy is literally a ghost. He works on his own time and dime. Not even my contacts would know how to begin to get a hold of him.”
“Can you look over the paperwork he sent us then? See if there really was so called fraud?”
“Already two steps ahead,” said Neal cheerfully as he turned his attention back to the folders. When Peter’s turned his back, he uncrossed his fingers hidden under the folder. After a couple minutes of the agents looking suitably busy, Neal excused himself to use the restroom. Once safely inside, he pulled out his cell phone (a present from June) and dialed a number. After a couple rings, the call went straight to voicemail.
“Hey Emrys,” said Neal, “It’s me. You’re either very clever or very stupid. I haven’t decided which yet. You should’ve told me that you were in town. We could have gotten together sooner. Just call me okay? I-I missed you. I know it was weird the last time we actually saw each other but...”
He remembered their last meeting before he went back to Kate. The golden eyes of his (he couldn’t even define their relationship) Emrys and the bombshell that came with it. Emrys had entrusted him with his deepest secret, with a rare brand of honesty rarely seen in the world. And Neal had freaked and left him like a huge jackass.
Yes, he still felt like a giant ass for that. He looked at the phone still on Emrys’ voicemail.
“And I’m sorry. I should never have treated you like that.”
With that Neal ended the call. He stared off with a preoccupied expression on his face. He sighed before exiting the restroom, hoping no one Peter knew had heard him make the call.
This was one case that the F.B.I. couldn’t close.
Neal had a vested interest in it after all.
(Peter knew a lot of things about Neal from his shoe size to his birthmark on the upper part of his arm that kind of looked like an apple to how Neal prefers his sushi. However, there were some things that Neal kept to himself. He had to have some secrets after all.)
Willow: Oz, don’t you love me?
Oz: My whole life, I’ve never loved anything else. -Buffy: The Vampire Slayer
November 2001
The Photographers’ Gallery
Ramillies Street London, England
Neal Caffrey walked down through the perpetual drizzle that was the normal weather in London. He tightened the belt of his trench coat as he walked the down the rain slicked street and around the red brick buildings. The top of his long umbrella, brought in case of a very likely downpour, tapped on the sidewalk reminiscent of a cane. Finally reaching his destination, the only black building in a sea of traditional red bricks with The Photographers’ Gallery written proudly across a white awning, Neal knew he had the place.
Moz had given him some tickets the night before popping up out of the blue like a ghost.
“Go,” he said with a shrug, “You made some money. Go and enjoy the some art for a change, instead of trying to steal it.”
Neal would have loved to point out that he did enjoy art even while on a job but he accepted the invitation anyway. He had been feeling a little bit lonely since Kate and he had parted ways. (An arrangement made more on her part then his, but he reluctantly went with it. She wanted different things then he did, plus maybe absence really does make the heart grow fonder.) He was fairly certain that a night out without the pressure of the job would be good for him.
So here he stood in a gallery showing for up and coming photographers. A complete stranger to all these people just as they were to him; it had been so long since he walked into a room without marking one person to take their money. It was an interesting feeling, freeing in a foreign sense.
Tonight he could just be himself. It had been awhile since that. With Kate, it was always work, work, work. While he loved his job, it didn’t mean that he was not averse to playing as well. He shook the thoughts of Kate out of his head. Tonight wasn’t a night to think about her.
Surely, he weaved effortlessly through a crowd of people. He grabbed some red wine off a passing waiter with delight. He had caught a glimpse of some of bottles being poured, they looked to be a good year. Sipping it, he took in all the artwork that wasn’t overly packed with people clamoring for a look-see. He avoided the densely packed area, deciding that he could check it out when people went away from there.
After an hour or two, the huge crowd that gathered at the corner of the gallery was dispersing. Neal wandered over now that there was a chance to a have a better look. He stopped taking it in fully.
It was a serious of photos done in black and white with only a splash of one color. In each shot was some sort of mythological creature or god or figure in the modern world. Each shot was darkly beautiful, not too elaborately plan but elegant in a way that Neal appreciated.
His eyes roamed over Aphrodite dressed as a prostitute with her pink lips the only color in the photo. He paused at the three wood nymphs posed around a tree in one of the local parks watching with grass green eyes as children played in its branches. His eyes traveled against each of the photographs, beautiful and odd in their own ways.
His eyes were finally drawn to one piece in particular. It was of a man: caught between age and youth reclining casually on a broken throne. His hair was the color of the snow in the picture. His skin was pale with a body of lean, toned muscle. He was dressed simply in a pair of old ripped jeans with no shirt. An old fashioned robe, like out of a fairytale, was the only other thing that the man wore. It looked ancient and warm, framing his naked torso and stomach beautifully, with swirling designs on it. A crown was held lazily in his long fingered hands and a sword was propped against the throne.
There was something ethereal about the man. It was almost like he was one of the Trickster Gods or Fairy Kings stepped from myth and into the portrait. Neal drank in every detail with an unusually intense stare.
The only color in it was the intense color of the man’s eyes. Two blue gold orbs stared out of the picture almost amused with everything. A slight smile was on the full lips.
He was beautiful.
It had been a long while since Neal had notice another man that way. Shifting, he leaned in closer to look at the name.
Merlin Waiting For His King: A Self Portrait
Neal smiled, deciding that he liked it. Normally he didn’t go for photographs but there was something different about this series.
“The series is called Urban Fantasies,” said a voice from behind him.
“Fitting,” agreed Neal not looking still staring at the self portrait.
“Yes,” said the man moving to stand next to him, “I think so as well.”
Neal turned and paused seeing the man from the self portrait standing next to him. He was dressed in a simple pair of dark pinstriped slacks and a deep red turtleneck. His snow colored hair fell around his face. Neal could clearly see some black hair mingled in it as well. The man was looking at him and Neal saw the many earrings catch the light of the gallery. The man smiled at him: wide and lovely.
“I’m Emrys,” said the man. His blue-gold eyes were bright and intoxicating, “Emrys Smith.”
“Neal Carmichael,” said the con-man as he held out his hand. Emrys took it and Neal had to stop the shudder of pleasure that shot up his spine.
“Neal…,” repeated the man before his smile widened, “I don’t suppose you’ve come here alone have you?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Neal with a charming grin of his own, “I have.”
“Lucky me,” murmured Emrys with a grin and something bright in his eyes, “Lucky me.”
It was the stirrings of something new and interesting that Neal knew was going to be amazing.
The conman had a feeling that he was going to love England.
“Give in to love, or live in fear.” -Jonathan Larson
“So I hear your boy is back,” said Mozzie conversationally as Neal walked into his apartment later that night. The ex-conman had stayed late, due to Peter’s new obsession with Robin Hood . Neal sighed as he glanced at his friend. The bespectacled man was engrossed in playing against himself in chess.
“I’m sure he’ll love to hear you say that, Moz. Since you were the one that pushed us together and all,” replied Neal hanging up his jacket and hat. He slowly loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He dropped the picture on the countertop.
“I happen to remember him being charmed by my dashing nature and rapier wit. And you know that I love playing Cupid when bored,” protested Mozzie barely looking up from the game.
“You took a British accent whenever you were around him from what I heard. I think he was more bemused by you then anything else.”
“Why do I come here?”
“Because I’m a joy to be around,” stated Neal with a grin, “That and I’m the only person you don’t owe money too.”
“Your words are a knife to my heart, Neal.”
The conman chuckled as he poured himself a glass of water, “It’s not that I’m happy to see you, Moz. But why are you…?”
“I have your boy’s address,” replied Mozzie as he pulled a slip of paper from his inner jacket pocket.
Neal’s eyebrows went straight up. Mozzie smiled with an almost triumphant expression on his face.
“I figured that I should take the initiative. My feelers told me that Robin Hood was in town. Since you and I know who that is; I deduced that you would want to see him. So I pulled some strings and-voila-address to his place.”
Neal smirked, “Why Mozzie you may have a detective streak in you yet.”
“God I hope not. So how was the day in Fed central?”
“Besides the hours of entertainment of watching Peter pull his hair out over Robin Hood and his totally legal, valid information to take down another corrupt business? Or how about? He nearly wet himself when Peter came into the room.”
“Besides that,” said Mozzie with a nod, “I know things with you and him ended weirdly even if I’m unsure of the details.”
“We kept in touch,” stated Neal as he moved to sit across from his friend, “He wrote to me in prison. He wrote these long, winding letters that were about five pages long at minimum. We would play chess through the letters. Talk about music and art. It was nice, familiar. Though I don’t know if he ever forgave me or did it out of duty.”
Neal looked lost in thought. He had the shoebox filled with every letter sent to him from Emrys (including the one telling him that he was a dunderhead to go chasing after a girl) hidden in the back of his closet with various other precious items. The conman’s bright blue eyes focused suddenly.
“And we didn’t end the relationship. We loved each other…I don’t think we ever really stopped. But what he told me that night, through me for a loop. I wasn’t sure how to react. Kate was familiar, safe. I just wasn’t ready to deal with Emrys and his baggage on top of mine.”
“You never told me what happened.”
“The secret is not mine to tell, Moz. You know I don’t ask for much but…”
“This is the one thing that I cannot pry in. I know, I know.”
The silence stretched between them: deep and awkward.
“So are you going to go see him?”
Neal delicately plucked the piece of paper from Mozzie’s hand. He slowly smoothed it with his long, elegant fingers. He murmured.
“There’s a distinct possibility for that.”
Mozzie bit back a smile as he worked the pieces into checkmate.
“I always thought you two would make a good couple,” stated Mozzie as he got to leave.
Neal sat alone with his thoughts or some time, until he got up to get ready for bed. He didn’t notice the pair of blue gold eyes boring into his back.
“People say there are two sides in this world: good and evil. When these people ask me which side I am on, I say that I’m independent.” -Unknown
November 2001
London
Neal decided that he loved England. He loved the constant drizzle and the steady stream of people. He loved the history and the art. He loved the nightlife and the day-life as well. He was a little bit in love with the almost casual elegance of the country. Neal liked elegance almost as much as he liked brilliance.
He had finished an art forgery job the night before. He had swapped out the paintings late last night, feeling invigorated and alive as he did so. It was the type of job where everything worked perfectly. Taking a sip of his coffee, Neal sat back in the comfortable chair of the café enjoying the satisfaction of a job well done.
“Well someone looks happy,” remarked a familiar voice casually. Neal felt his lips quirk upward into a slight smile. There may have been another reason he loved England so much.
“Emrys,” greeted Neal almost casually. The photographer laughed and took the seat next to Neal. A cup of what smelled like some sort of flowery tea was held tight in his hands.
Emrys took a seat dressed in a ratty old pair of jeans, a thin Rolling Stones t-shirt, and a well-loved leather biker jacket. He had a ratty scarf tied around his neck and a pair of thin wire-framed glasses covered his blue gold eyes. Neal folded the financial section that he was reading in half (had to keep up to date on those stocks that he allegedly invested his supposed untraceable fortune in) to give the photographer his full attention.
“Interesting reading?” asked Emrys as he nodded his head to the folded up paper.
“Always,” said Neal with a grin as he took a sip of his coffee, “So what’s brings you to this table?”
“Can’t someone say hi to another person?” asked Emrys as he sipped his own hot beverage.
“Sorry,” answered Neal with a shrug, “I grew up learning that everyone has a second agenda.”
“Most people do,” answered Emrys with a fond smile on his face, “Like how I gave Mozzie those tickets to give to you.”
Neal should be more surprised and suspicious by this man. What was this guy doing? Stalking him? Instead, he is more impressed. Emrys conned a con and quite well at that. This was something that Neal could respect.
“Why me? And how do you know Mozzie?”
“Who doesn’t know Mozzie?” countered Emrys with a nod of his head. His blue-gold eyes were alight with mischief. He smiled a little bit taking another sip of his drink before stating casually, “I’m an admirer of your work. That job in Brazil eight months ago was particularly impressive. I probably would have done the execution a bit differently, but you have style and moxie and guts. It’s a dangerously good combination.”
“You still haven’t answered my question,” stated Neal as he stared down the other man.
“You haven’t asked the right one yet,” chirped Emrys with a huge grin.
“Why did you give Mozzie that ticket to give to me?”
Emrys grinned, “Because I’m one of those people who has loads of second agendas, Neal. I also know that if I don’t tell you everything up front then you’ll keep coming back for more. And believe me when I say what I know, what I deal in, what I do besides photography will have you interested.”
Neal was already very interested in what Emrys had up his sleeve. He was a naturally curious person, which really wasn’t the best trait to have in his line of work. Kate always thought the phrase ‘curiosity killed the cat burglar’ fitted him well. (He had always taken offense to that. He wasn’t a cat burglar. No elegance.)
“So tell me one of these second agendas.”
“Alright,” agreed Emrys with a smile, “One.”
The photographer leaned in over the table in order to ensure privacy. Neal leaned in closer. Blue-gold eyes sparkled mischievously in the dim light of the café.
“I heard through the grapevine you split with your girl,” whispered Emrys with a grin, “I figured that maybe you would be more interested in playing for the other team.”
Suddenly, Emrys leaned in a lot of closer; so close that Neal could feel his warm breath ghost across his face. The conman breathed in the scent of cinnamon, chocolate, and something that was very earthy before he felt a soft (slightly chapped) pair of lips pressed against his. He tried to ignore how nice it felt. Emrys pulled away, smiled, and left a business card next to Neal’s muffin.
The dark haired man sat there for several moments unsure of what to do next. It was an odd feeling, slightly disorienting, to not have a plan up his sleeve. He stared at the cream colored business card for several minutes. Making a decision, he picked it up and tucked it into his wallet.
He was never meant to be alone for long periods of time anyways.
“We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is moral in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.” -William Shakespeare
Neal slept fitfully that night which was becoming an occurrence the conman who have liked to avoid. Every night since Kate had died, he was plagued by at least one nightmare of her death. He gripped the pillow tightly. Eyes screwed shut as the man tossed and turned in his sleep, murmuring Kate’s name and apologies under his breath.
Unbeknownst to the sleeping man, a figure had entered his apartment. The lithe figure softly closed the window behind him and jumped onto the floor. Slowly, the figure walked to Neal’s bedroom without jostling any of the furniture. His footsteps could not be heard throughout the apartment, despite the fact that the man wore very heavy looking boots. His bright golden eyes glanced about the apartment. The man’s porcelain pale face seemed to ethereally glow in the moonlight.
Quietly, the man entered Neal’s bedroom. He slowly took in the suffering form of Neal Caffrey.
“Oh Neal,” whispered the man softly, “I should have done more.”
Carefully, as if not to jostle the sleeping man, the figure sat down next to him. A long finger hand gently carded through Neal’s ink colored hair. A hint of a smile appeared on the man’s face for a moment before disappearing as Neal’s eyes fluttered open tiredly.
Baby blue eyes met golden eyes for a brief moment. A reconnection between the two flared into life as hot and as intense as the day they had first met.
“Em…rys…,” mumbled Neal sleepily.
They simply stared at each other for several moments. Neal shakily reached out his hand to touch his face.
“You’re real,” said the conman with a soft smile.
Emrys laughed softly before gently kissing Neal’s forehead.
“Sleep,” gently commanded the man, “You will have good dreams tonight.”
“Mmmm…promises, promises.”
Emrys chuckled as he continued running his hands through Neal’s hair.
“Emrys?”
“Yes Neal?”
“‘M sorry,” murmured the conman as he drifted off to sleep. Emrys watched him for several more minutes as his breathing even out. With a fond smile on his face and a puff of air, the man stood.
“Honestly,” said Emrys with a grin, “It has to something in the Pendragon blood.”
The man pressed a kiss to Neal’s temple.
“Sleep well, heir of Arthur Pendragon.”
Emrys’ eyes flashed and he disappeared with a gust of wind, leaving a peaceful sleeping conman behind.