Fic: "The Better Thing," ATWT/White Collar, PG-13
The first fic I've completed in daaaaays. (18 days, to be exact). I credit Simon and Neal for wooing me back to the fold. I also have no expectations for anyone to read this, since apparently not enough people watch ATWT.
[/obligatory cancellation bitterness]
Title: "The Better Thing" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: As the World Turns/White Collar
Rating/Classification: PG-13 for a few dirty words, crossover, gen, but with background het (Skatie) and slash (Simon/Neal, Neal/Peter) implications.
Disclaimer: I don't own either set of characters and am making no profit whatsoever.
Summary: 2400 words. Picks up right after the 1/18 episode where Simon left town. He's looking for a change, so, given honor among former thieves, who better to go to than Neal Caffrey?
Henry: "You okay?"
Simon: "Katie is. That's what counts."
Henry: "It's a 'far, far better thing?'"
Simon: "It actually feels kind of good to be noble for once."
Henry: "Yeah. It almost suits you."
-January 18, 2010
Simon catches the first direct flight from Oakdale to New York. With nothing but a toothbrush and a pair of socks (he really wasn't kidding when he told Katie how light he packs), he gets through security in a flash. And considering he's traveling under his own name and not an alias, he's surprised he doesn't get hassled. He suspects that not only did Margo take him off any kind of watch list, but Jack's pals at the Bureau likely *expedited* his departure. They're all so glad to be rid of him, to have Katie and Jacob safe and secure (and sad) once more.
It's not a long flight, but Simon charms a third, very much free, G&T out of the flight attendant a good ten minutes after she's stopped beverage service to Coach. (Yes, Christ, he's reduced to flying Coach.) By the time he lands at JFK, he has a pleasant buzz drowning out the memory of the happy gurgling noises Jacob makes when he's having a bath.
It's 3 AM when his cab drops him smack in the center of Manhattan. It's ridiculously cold out, almost sterile because there is no wind, no snow… nothing but the chill. Central Park looms before him, a larger, darker entity than all the skyscrapers, and Simon suddenly misses the woods by the Snyder Pond with a ferocity that shocks him. They're just trees, for god's sake. He turns away, walks for hours around midtown, until the metropolis wakes up and he can breakfast at Tiffany's... fill his empty belly with the cold sparkle of stones and the gleam of gold. He wants to press his nose to the display window, as if he can inhale and the scent of wealth will waft through to him like Vienna's fresh-baked pepparkakor at Al's. She'd never once made it for him when they were together, hadn't revealed that she had a domestic side at all. But Oakdale had seduced her just like it did him, made her want something more than the next party, the next casino. He hears she's in Europe again and he thinks maybe he'll call her. Maybe they'll convene a meeting of the Oakdale Rejects, those who¹ve loved Henry and Katie and lost.
In the end, he doesn't call Vienna but, instead, dials one of five New York numbers he has memorized. A small time fence and big time art expert who, if he recalls correctly, was last known to be living in a storage unit. "Mozzie!" he greets, much to the alarm of the other voice on the line. "My friend, I need a favor."
"F-frasier?! What do you want?" Reedy and nervous, Moz is what Henry would be like in twenty years if he were just a dash more antisocial and inclined to give up a life of martinis and high stakes poker. The last Simon knew of him, Mozzie never met a conspiracy theory he didn't like and he doubts that has changed.
"Like I said, a favor." He perches on the library steps, careful not to step on the folds of his coat. The lions, Patience and Fortitude, loom above him and he thinks what he really needs is a heavy dose of both. "Is it true that Caffrey's gone straight?"
"Caffrey? Who's Caffrey? I don't know any Caffrey."
For all the things he's good at, Moz is actually a rotten liar. Simon chuckles, shifting his cell phone from one ear to the other. "Well, tell the Caffrey you don't know that I need to meet with him. It's important."
Neal Caffrey is --or was, depending on his status-- one of the best in their business. He's a jack-of-all-trades: confidence man, thief, and forger. Simon has it on good authority that he's also a gourmet chef, a Master Sommelier and a classical pianist. Their paths crossed exactly once. Before Caffrey landed in the slammer and after Simon left Oakdale for the second time. After Pilar. After he realized Katie would never love him again and never forgive him (except, years later, she did and she did) and he didn't give much of a damn about anything. They were working the same mark, and Caffrey... Caffrey had the upper hand, because Simon was just too raw, too angry, to be focused on the job. The man radiated an innocent charm that Simon has never been able to perfect. Even as a child, Simon was more wolf than charming fox in the henhouse. He always looked guilty as sin, and was whipped for it often. Caffrey was different. He had a choirboy's countenance, and Simon had conceded defeat even before the sapphire and diamond choker had made its way from the socialite's neck to Neal's pocket. He's never really been attracted to men, but that night he'd been sorely tempted to take Neal to bed, to see what he would look like wearing nothing except those sapphires the same shade as his eyes. In retrospect, Simon figures it was a form of narcissism: wanting to fuck the one man as good (okay, better) at the game.
"How important?" Mozzie demands, jerking him from the suddenly adult-rated turn of his thoughts. "Because if this is a set-up, Frasier..."
"No," he interrupts, closing his eyes and heaving a deep sigh. "Just tell Caffrey I want to talk career advancement. That should suffice. I'm in the city, so he just has to let me know where to be."
He ends the call before the fence can protest, slipping his phone back into an inside pocket. His fingers bump against his wallet, and against his better judgment, he pulls it free and flips straight to the photos. Katie's the first one in the pack, of course. Blonde, laughing, beautiful. It's an old shot from their second wedding... their dream wedding. There are stars in her eyes, because he put them there. The next image is more recent. Katie is older, there are grief lines for Brad around her mouth and eyes, but she's still so goddamn lovely that his chest aches with it... and she's holding Jacob, who is still at that age where all infants look like Winston Churchill. But the little guy's staring straight at the camera, as if he knows Uncle Simon's behind it. And Simon remembers all the chats they had about his mum. All the lazy afternoons with the football game on, and Jacob cradled against his chest. He promised him he'd take care of them. Always.
That's what he's doing now, yeah? Taking care of them by going away?
The rationale is as bitter as the stale gin on his tongue. After a few more moments on the steps, he rises and heads for the nearest coffee cart. The cheap, burnt liquid washes away the aftertaste of alcohol... but not his myriad sins.
**
Simon gets a text message two hours later, while he's standing in front of one of his favorite paintings at the Met. A particularly sensual Courbet. He only paid $5 to get in, softening the heart of the woman at the ticket counter with a roguish smile and a spun story about meeting a blind date. The message is nothing but an address and a time. He's only mildly surprised by the name of the joint when he gets there 15 minutes early, and even less impressed that Caffrey is already there. He's seated in a back booth, near the kitchen, for an easy getaway. "The Australian?" Simon scoffs, arching a skeptical eyebrow. "A bit obvious, isn't it?"
The other man's angelic face -- like one of Pierre Auguste Cot's portraits of youth and nature -- splits into a guarded smile. "I wanted you to feel at home, and thought suggesting the Sunburnt Cow might come off as insulting."
Despite the fact that he is neither sunburnt nor a cow, Simon is fully aware that he *has* been insulted. His lips twitch and he slides into the booth. "How thoughtful," he murmurs, not bothering to point out that any such gestures are meaningless since Australia hasn't been his home in a long time. He told Katie… Oakdale is the only place where he really feels like he belongs. And he doubts there's any place in New York that will remind him of those particular comforts.
Caffrey taps his fingers on a menu, giving the appearance of being at ease when they both know he's anything but. "Moz said you wanted to talk 'career advancement.'" He's dressed to the nines in a vintage suit and a fedora tilted at a rakish angle. "What exactly did you mean, Frasier? Since when have you had any interest in… changing jobs?"
*Since I fell in love with my ex-wife all over again*, he thinks, but keeps to himself. "Our line of work gets old after a while," he says aloud. "Boring. I'm looking for a challenge. And word has it that you've parlayed your skill set into something pretty inventive."
"So, it's true. The wings really have been clipped?" Neal's eyebrows rise with amusement, nearly disappearing under the brim of his hat. "The one thing stranger than *me* becoming respectable is the idea of Simon Frasier going respectable. I didn't really believe the talk, but…"
"Talk?" he interrupts. "Wait, who's talking? What do you mean? Is it Clarissa?" The very idea of that woman telling tales out of school is enough to spike his blood pressure.
It's almost like old times, in that his emotions have him off his game. Because he doesn't even register the other man until he's sliding into the booth next to Caffrey. A tall guy in an agency suit, with one of those friendly, non-threatening faces that means he's probably quite terrifying. "Jack Snyder," he explains, as if he hasn’t just crashed the party. "Formerly one of our own. Out of courtesy, he may have called in a tip that you could be headed our way. I'm Agent Burke, FBI," the man adds, as if it's an afterthought.
"And so, what? You're the Welcome Wagon?" Simon scowls, hating to think exactly what favors Jack has done him. The breezy jaunt through airport security and now FBI agents who know his whereabouts? What next… an all-access pass to Rikers? "I'm clean. I have done nothing. I just want a fresh start."
"Funny, that's exactly what Snyder said. The only complimentary thing." Burke's genial expression is belied by his eyes, which are hard. "But what I want to know is, what does that have to do with Neal?"
There's something proprietary about the question. Like a possessive pronoun is missing. It's Simon's turn to send his eyebrows sky-high with speculation. Instead of answering the agent, he turns back to Caffrey, directs his response to him. "It's simple. I want what you have."
"An ankle monitor and a paltry government retainer?" Neal's grin is sharp. "I didn't realize they were all the rage now."
Simon feels what's left of his control start to fray at the edges. He's been awake for 24 hours straight, and his soul is somewhere in central Illinois and he honest-to-God doesn't have the patience for the tapdancing and bullshit. Maybe if it were just him and Caffrey, he'd tell him everything. Honor among former thieves and all. But with his federal boyfriend at the table, Simon'll be damned if he'll give an inch. "I want to become a consultant," he emphasizes, stiffly. "Similar to the position you now hold. Full immunity, hinging on my cooperation and expertise."
"Why do you think we'd put such an offer on the table?" Burke speaks before Caffrey can. "Neal's case was unique. We don't routinely go around recruiting the criminal element."
"I wouldn't call it recruiting, Peter. It was more like wooing. I definitely felt wooed."
"I don't woo, Neal. I don't have to."
"Oh, right. Elizabeth just fell into your arms."
"Yes, she did."
"Because you tripped her?"
For a moment, it's like he doesn't exist. Both of their distant facades fall away; they bicker back and forth like an old married couple, and Simon is reminded of all the absurd arguments he's had with Henry over the years. Of that time they woke up together on Katie's couch, and scrambled to either sides of the room before she could make a Brokeback joke. He'd give anything to see both of them right now… if only just to burn away the last, lingering image of Henry hugging Katie from his retinas. *They'll be okay without him*. He doesn't want to accept that, even though sitting here at this bloody restaurant with the stupid name means he's already done exactly that.
He clears his throat. "Excuse me, while I hate to interrupt the foreplay, I'd like to get back to business. Specifically the business of catching people like me. Caffrey's great for local crime, but what about elsewhere in the country? Internationally? Couldn't you use someone on the Continent functioning in the same capacity?"
Burke and Caffrey's attention is back on him the moment he starts talking. They both study him with complete focus, and he wonders exactly what he gave away, what's his tell. His palms are flat on the table; his eyes blinked dry of memory and weakness.
Minutes tick by, until the waiter is hovering, wondering if they're ever going to order.
Then, they trade a look that he can't decipher. "We'll get back to you," Burke says, before slipping out of his seat and strolling out through the back. Neal stays behind, and Simon almost breathes a sigh of relief when he orders wine and an appetizer platter. Flirting shamelessly the whole time, too. It's only when the waiter, a young guy from Brisbane, walks away that Caffrey leans forward, his blue eyes catching the light like perfectly cut gems. "The girl you're doing this for… what's her name, Frasier? At least tell me that much."
Because he has a free meal on the Bureau, and because he'll likely have a job on them, too, Simon admits, "It's not just a girl, really. It's a girl, a baby and a mate. But… Katie. Her name is Katie." Caffrey's good, but not quite good enough to hide a flinch. There's a story there, and Simon knows that maybe one day he'll hear it.
For now, he satisfies himself with Shiraz, kangaroo satay and his fourth chance at redemption.
--end--
January 20, 2010
[/obligatory cancellation bitterness]
Title: "The Better Thing" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: As the World Turns/White Collar
Rating/Classification: PG-13 for a few dirty words, crossover, gen, but with background het (Skatie) and slash (Simon/Neal, Neal/Peter) implications.
Disclaimer: I don't own either set of characters and am making no profit whatsoever.
Summary: 2400 words. Picks up right after the 1/18 episode where Simon left town. He's looking for a change, so, given honor among former thieves, who better to go to than Neal Caffrey?
Henry: "You okay?"
Simon: "Katie is. That's what counts."
Henry: "It's a 'far, far better thing?'"
Simon: "It actually feels kind of good to be noble for once."
Henry: "Yeah. It almost suits you."
-January 18, 2010
Simon catches the first direct flight from Oakdale to New York. With nothing but a toothbrush and a pair of socks (he really wasn't kidding when he told Katie how light he packs), he gets through security in a flash. And considering he's traveling under his own name and not an alias, he's surprised he doesn't get hassled. He suspects that not only did Margo take him off any kind of watch list, but Jack's pals at the Bureau likely *expedited* his departure. They're all so glad to be rid of him, to have Katie and Jacob safe and secure (and sad) once more.
It's not a long flight, but Simon charms a third, very much free, G&T out of the flight attendant a good ten minutes after she's stopped beverage service to Coach. (Yes, Christ, he's reduced to flying Coach.) By the time he lands at JFK, he has a pleasant buzz drowning out the memory of the happy gurgling noises Jacob makes when he's having a bath.
It's 3 AM when his cab drops him smack in the center of Manhattan. It's ridiculously cold out, almost sterile because there is no wind, no snow… nothing but the chill. Central Park looms before him, a larger, darker entity than all the skyscrapers, and Simon suddenly misses the woods by the Snyder Pond with a ferocity that shocks him. They're just trees, for god's sake. He turns away, walks for hours around midtown, until the metropolis wakes up and he can breakfast at Tiffany's... fill his empty belly with the cold sparkle of stones and the gleam of gold. He wants to press his nose to the display window, as if he can inhale and the scent of wealth will waft through to him like Vienna's fresh-baked pepparkakor at Al's. She'd never once made it for him when they were together, hadn't revealed that she had a domestic side at all. But Oakdale had seduced her just like it did him, made her want something more than the next party, the next casino. He hears she's in Europe again and he thinks maybe he'll call her. Maybe they'll convene a meeting of the Oakdale Rejects, those who¹ve loved Henry and Katie and lost.
In the end, he doesn't call Vienna but, instead, dials one of five New York numbers he has memorized. A small time fence and big time art expert who, if he recalls correctly, was last known to be living in a storage unit. "Mozzie!" he greets, much to the alarm of the other voice on the line. "My friend, I need a favor."
"F-frasier?! What do you want?" Reedy and nervous, Moz is what Henry would be like in twenty years if he were just a dash more antisocial and inclined to give up a life of martinis and high stakes poker. The last Simon knew of him, Mozzie never met a conspiracy theory he didn't like and he doubts that has changed.
"Like I said, a favor." He perches on the library steps, careful not to step on the folds of his coat. The lions, Patience and Fortitude, loom above him and he thinks what he really needs is a heavy dose of both. "Is it true that Caffrey's gone straight?"
"Caffrey? Who's Caffrey? I don't know any Caffrey."
For all the things he's good at, Moz is actually a rotten liar. Simon chuckles, shifting his cell phone from one ear to the other. "Well, tell the Caffrey you don't know that I need to meet with him. It's important."
Neal Caffrey is --or was, depending on his status-- one of the best in their business. He's a jack-of-all-trades: confidence man, thief, and forger. Simon has it on good authority that he's also a gourmet chef, a Master Sommelier and a classical pianist. Their paths crossed exactly once. Before Caffrey landed in the slammer and after Simon left Oakdale for the second time. After Pilar. After he realized Katie would never love him again and never forgive him (except, years later, she did and she did) and he didn't give much of a damn about anything. They were working the same mark, and Caffrey... Caffrey had the upper hand, because Simon was just too raw, too angry, to be focused on the job. The man radiated an innocent charm that Simon has never been able to perfect. Even as a child, Simon was more wolf than charming fox in the henhouse. He always looked guilty as sin, and was whipped for it often. Caffrey was different. He had a choirboy's countenance, and Simon had conceded defeat even before the sapphire and diamond choker had made its way from the socialite's neck to Neal's pocket. He's never really been attracted to men, but that night he'd been sorely tempted to take Neal to bed, to see what he would look like wearing nothing except those sapphires the same shade as his eyes. In retrospect, Simon figures it was a form of narcissism: wanting to fuck the one man as good (okay, better) at the game.
"How important?" Mozzie demands, jerking him from the suddenly adult-rated turn of his thoughts. "Because if this is a set-up, Frasier..."
"No," he interrupts, closing his eyes and heaving a deep sigh. "Just tell Caffrey I want to talk career advancement. That should suffice. I'm in the city, so he just has to let me know where to be."
He ends the call before the fence can protest, slipping his phone back into an inside pocket. His fingers bump against his wallet, and against his better judgment, he pulls it free and flips straight to the photos. Katie's the first one in the pack, of course. Blonde, laughing, beautiful. It's an old shot from their second wedding... their dream wedding. There are stars in her eyes, because he put them there. The next image is more recent. Katie is older, there are grief lines for Brad around her mouth and eyes, but she's still so goddamn lovely that his chest aches with it... and she's holding Jacob, who is still at that age where all infants look like Winston Churchill. But the little guy's staring straight at the camera, as if he knows Uncle Simon's behind it. And Simon remembers all the chats they had about his mum. All the lazy afternoons with the football game on, and Jacob cradled against his chest. He promised him he'd take care of them. Always.
That's what he's doing now, yeah? Taking care of them by going away?
The rationale is as bitter as the stale gin on his tongue. After a few more moments on the steps, he rises and heads for the nearest coffee cart. The cheap, burnt liquid washes away the aftertaste of alcohol... but not his myriad sins.
**
Simon gets a text message two hours later, while he's standing in front of one of his favorite paintings at the Met. A particularly sensual Courbet. He only paid $5 to get in, softening the heart of the woman at the ticket counter with a roguish smile and a spun story about meeting a blind date. The message is nothing but an address and a time. He's only mildly surprised by the name of the joint when he gets there 15 minutes early, and even less impressed that Caffrey is already there. He's seated in a back booth, near the kitchen, for an easy getaway. "The Australian?" Simon scoffs, arching a skeptical eyebrow. "A bit obvious, isn't it?"
The other man's angelic face -- like one of Pierre Auguste Cot's portraits of youth and nature -- splits into a guarded smile. "I wanted you to feel at home, and thought suggesting the Sunburnt Cow might come off as insulting."
Despite the fact that he is neither sunburnt nor a cow, Simon is fully aware that he *has* been insulted. His lips twitch and he slides into the booth. "How thoughtful," he murmurs, not bothering to point out that any such gestures are meaningless since Australia hasn't been his home in a long time. He told Katie… Oakdale is the only place where he really feels like he belongs. And he doubts there's any place in New York that will remind him of those particular comforts.
Caffrey taps his fingers on a menu, giving the appearance of being at ease when they both know he's anything but. "Moz said you wanted to talk 'career advancement.'" He's dressed to the nines in a vintage suit and a fedora tilted at a rakish angle. "What exactly did you mean, Frasier? Since when have you had any interest in… changing jobs?"
*Since I fell in love with my ex-wife all over again*, he thinks, but keeps to himself. "Our line of work gets old after a while," he says aloud. "Boring. I'm looking for a challenge. And word has it that you've parlayed your skill set into something pretty inventive."
"So, it's true. The wings really have been clipped?" Neal's eyebrows rise with amusement, nearly disappearing under the brim of his hat. "The one thing stranger than *me* becoming respectable is the idea of Simon Frasier going respectable. I didn't really believe the talk, but…"
"Talk?" he interrupts. "Wait, who's talking? What do you mean? Is it Clarissa?" The very idea of that woman telling tales out of school is enough to spike his blood pressure.
It's almost like old times, in that his emotions have him off his game. Because he doesn't even register the other man until he's sliding into the booth next to Caffrey. A tall guy in an agency suit, with one of those friendly, non-threatening faces that means he's probably quite terrifying. "Jack Snyder," he explains, as if he hasn’t just crashed the party. "Formerly one of our own. Out of courtesy, he may have called in a tip that you could be headed our way. I'm Agent Burke, FBI," the man adds, as if it's an afterthought.
"And so, what? You're the Welcome Wagon?" Simon scowls, hating to think exactly what favors Jack has done him. The breezy jaunt through airport security and now FBI agents who know his whereabouts? What next… an all-access pass to Rikers? "I'm clean. I have done nothing. I just want a fresh start."
"Funny, that's exactly what Snyder said. The only complimentary thing." Burke's genial expression is belied by his eyes, which are hard. "But what I want to know is, what does that have to do with Neal?"
There's something proprietary about the question. Like a possessive pronoun is missing. It's Simon's turn to send his eyebrows sky-high with speculation. Instead of answering the agent, he turns back to Caffrey, directs his response to him. "It's simple. I want what you have."
"An ankle monitor and a paltry government retainer?" Neal's grin is sharp. "I didn't realize they were all the rage now."
Simon feels what's left of his control start to fray at the edges. He's been awake for 24 hours straight, and his soul is somewhere in central Illinois and he honest-to-God doesn't have the patience for the tapdancing and bullshit. Maybe if it were just him and Caffrey, he'd tell him everything. Honor among former thieves and all. But with his federal boyfriend at the table, Simon'll be damned if he'll give an inch. "I want to become a consultant," he emphasizes, stiffly. "Similar to the position you now hold. Full immunity, hinging on my cooperation and expertise."
"Why do you think we'd put such an offer on the table?" Burke speaks before Caffrey can. "Neal's case was unique. We don't routinely go around recruiting the criminal element."
"I wouldn't call it recruiting, Peter. It was more like wooing. I definitely felt wooed."
"I don't woo, Neal. I don't have to."
"Oh, right. Elizabeth just fell into your arms."
"Yes, she did."
"Because you tripped her?"
For a moment, it's like he doesn't exist. Both of their distant facades fall away; they bicker back and forth like an old married couple, and Simon is reminded of all the absurd arguments he's had with Henry over the years. Of that time they woke up together on Katie's couch, and scrambled to either sides of the room before she could make a Brokeback joke. He'd give anything to see both of them right now… if only just to burn away the last, lingering image of Henry hugging Katie from his retinas. *They'll be okay without him*. He doesn't want to accept that, even though sitting here at this bloody restaurant with the stupid name means he's already done exactly that.
He clears his throat. "Excuse me, while I hate to interrupt the foreplay, I'd like to get back to business. Specifically the business of catching people like me. Caffrey's great for local crime, but what about elsewhere in the country? Internationally? Couldn't you use someone on the Continent functioning in the same capacity?"
Burke and Caffrey's attention is back on him the moment he starts talking. They both study him with complete focus, and he wonders exactly what he gave away, what's his tell. His palms are flat on the table; his eyes blinked dry of memory and weakness.
Minutes tick by, until the waiter is hovering, wondering if they're ever going to order.
Then, they trade a look that he can't decipher. "We'll get back to you," Burke says, before slipping out of his seat and strolling out through the back. Neal stays behind, and Simon almost breathes a sigh of relief when he orders wine and an appetizer platter. Flirting shamelessly the whole time, too. It's only when the waiter, a young guy from Brisbane, walks away that Caffrey leans forward, his blue eyes catching the light like perfectly cut gems. "The girl you're doing this for… what's her name, Frasier? At least tell me that much."
Because he has a free meal on the Bureau, and because he'll likely have a job on them, too, Simon admits, "It's not just a girl, really. It's a girl, a baby and a mate. But… Katie. Her name is Katie." Caffrey's good, but not quite good enough to hide a flinch. There's a story there, and Simon knows that maybe one day he'll hear it.
For now, he satisfies himself with Shiraz, kangaroo satay and his fourth chance at redemption.
--end--
January 20, 2010