(no subject)
Title: The Long Con
Author: Smoke
Rating: PG-15
Genre and/or Pairing: H/C, dark, Kate/Neal, Peter/Elizabeth, Peter/Elizabeth/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Kate/Neal, nonexplicit sex, violence
Word Count: 2755
Summary: Kate comes back on a Saturday...
Kate comes back on a Saturday. Neal is reading about case law on his couch and she comes to June's door and says she's a friend of Neal's, can she go surprise him? And June says yes.
It's sunny when she comes back. October and the leaves are changed and the sky is cloudless. She doesn't even knock when she comes into the room. Neal drops his book. New York Case Law crashes to the ground. He smooths a hand back through his hair on instinct. "Kate," he says.
"I'm back," she says in a voice like a storyteller. "He let me go." Like she is a kindergarten teacher. Like a crossing guard. Or a nurse.
"Who?" Neal wants to know. "Fowler? Or…"
"It doesn't matter," she says, "I'm back now."
"I know people now. I can make sure," Neal says, and does not finish his sentence, which was going to be: I can make sure he never comes back.
"I can't tell you." Kate's eyeliner is smudged and her eyes glitter. "I wish I could, Neal, but I can't."
"It's okay," he says, and nearly means it. "It's fine. You're back."
"I love you." She kisses him, her hands cupped loose around his cheeks, her nails grazing his cheekbones, breathless. Neal holds her at her waist and twirls her around his apartment. Her coat flares outwards like a skirt, or wings. "I love you," she says when they are laying on his bed.
Neal wants to celebrate. They sit on the terrace with two glasses of wine. The sun sets. They fall back onto Neal's bed. Kate pulls the knot on his tie downwards very slowly, but steadily, like gravity. He smiles up at her. His hair is ruffled and wild. The sheets crinkle. The bed creaks.
"Don't tell your FBI friend that I'm here," Kate whispers that night. Her eyeliner is still on and it makes her eyes look luminous-green in the darkness. Her teeth nick his ear. "He doesn't want us to be together."
"Peter's not bad," Neal says.
Kate sits up and the sheets slip off her. She is pale and moonlit and her breasts are perfect and her hair is a void in the night. He can only see half of her face clearly. She sounds very serious. "Neal," she says, and that's really all there is to say, right?
"I won't tell him," Neal says, and sits up too, and kisses her on the lips, the neck, moves downwards. The bed hits the wall. Kate bites his shoulder. She leaves a mark.
Neal is tired but upbeat at work. He drinks three cups of coffee and solves a case within minutes of looking at the file. He does small office tasks and buys everyone lunch. By the end of the day, Peter is impressed. "El wants to know if you'll come over for dinner."
Neal begs off. He's busy; a friend is coming by.
"Haversham?"
"Yeah," Neal says, and grins at him. "We play chess."
"See you tomorrow," Peter says, and goes home. When Neal's not in the car, he's a great driver. He keeps his eyes on the road. Elizabeth greets him at the door with a kiss and looks expectantly behind him. Peter just looks at the dinner table. "Smells great," he says, and, more quietly, "Not today."
"More for us," El says.
Peter cups the back of her head in one hand, pulls her close, and sighs. "Maybe not."
"I'm glad you didn't tell him where you hid everything," Kate says.
Neal is painting; he's distracted. "Are you?"
She crosses her arms. "What's that supposed to mean?"
The paintbrush clicks audibly against the easel as he puts it down. "What? Come on. Nothing!"
She has these big green eyes, and when she looks up at him through her lashes he forgets where he's standing and what he was doing. "I didn't mean to snap at you. It's just -- I don't want you to think I would ever betray you. The bottle, Neal -- I'll never leave you."
He drops his hat on her head and turns on some jazz. They dance around the apartment. They order out cajun food. Neal has red paint smeared across his cheek in a single thick line. It gets on Kate's face when she kisses him. Between the two of them, they finish a bottle and a half of wine. Neal hardly notices when Kate drinks less than him. Hardly.
"Have you thought about getting back into business?" she asks. He points to his leg, where the green light of the tracker is. Kate smiles at him. Dangerously. Like she did when they were starting out. When they were young, scared, and giggling, and she slipped a pack of cigarettes into her shirt. "But you don't have to leave that stupid radius. I'm here now. Think of the look on your FBI agent's face."
Neal thinks of the look. He can picture it perfectly. It makes him feel like his stomach is glued to his spine. "Yeah," he manages, "It'd be -- "
"Daring," Kate suggests, adjusting the hat on her head. "Look at me; I'm the new Neal Caffrey."
"You'd look great in one of my suits," Neal says. He pulls her onto his lap and she pushes him down slowly by the shoulders, until he's leaning on his elbows. The carpet is soft underneath him. He mentally thanks June for picking out such a thick pile. Kate tips the hat forwards so he can't see her eyes and twists her hips the tiniest bit. She clasps her hands together and points her middle and index fingers at him. A gun.
"I'm the new Neal Caffrey and this is a stickup."
"Trust me," Neal says, "I'm terrified."
"Trust me," she mimics, "I will find a rubber band and shoot you with it."
"You're out of character," he admonishes her. "I don't use guns."
She swivels her hips again and puts her finger-gun under his chin. "If I say you use a gun, you do."
"Mm," Neal manages, "The new Neal Caffrey is great at coercion."
"I believe in stick and carrot," Kate says. "Bang." Her fingers jerk beneath his chin.
"You got me." Neal sinks back onto the carpet, eyes closed. "I am dead and gone."
Neal is bouncing off the walls when he and Peter go to their next crime scene, which is at a music hall. "What's with you?" Peter asks.
"I didn't get a ton of sleep," Neal says, "Oh! We should talk to the flutists. Specifically the first chair."
"Do you think they know something?"
Neal shrugs. "Honestly? I'm a fan."
"Of an orchestra?"
"Yeah. What do you do on your day off?"
But the first chair flutist does know something, and opens up to the man who is possibly her best-looking fan ever. The case unfolds before them like origami in reverse. At the end of the day, Neal looks inordinately pleased with himself. Peter frowns at him. "Go home. Get some sleep."
"Will do," Neal says. He's nearly out the door when Peter stops him.
"Listen, Neal -- Do you need a ride?"
Neal shakes his head. "Don't worry about me. I'm fine." He turns to go.
"Neal?"
"Yeah?"
"First chair flutist?"
Neal tilts his head back and forth, indicating uncertainty. "It's been a while since I went to the orchestra."
"Four years?"
"Just about. But people like their fans."
The flutist gave them tickets, one for everyone and one for Elizabeth, and Peter holds them up. "You want to give her a chance?"
"Aren't you worried I'll steal something?"
"I don't think you've figured out how to steal live music yet. At least not when you're sitting next to me."
"You'd be shocked," Neal says. He stands still for a second, a genuine if slightly bewildered smile on his face. "Why are you taking me to the orchestra, Peter?"
"El wants to go," Peter says, "You won't fall asleep halfway through."
"Right." Neal opens the door. "As much as like to be your plus-one, I'm a little tied up at the moment."
Peter frowns slightly. "Hopefully tied up within your radius."
He lifts the edge of his pant leg to show the little green dot. "The radius is my favorite place. Why would I ever want to leave?"
"Cowboy up," Peter says, "See you tomorrow."
Neal comes home and Kate has already picked out a bottle of wine. It's a great vintage -- that's what her appreciation for the classics amounts to, excellent taste in wines -- and she pours him a glass.
He sits down on the carpet, leaning against the bed, and swirls the wine. "What did you do today?"
Kate stretches her bare legs out like a gameshow girl. "I went out."
"What are you going to do tonight?"
"Hm. Watch you work on that gorgeous reproduction."
"I'm almost done," Neal says, "It won't take all night." He still does reproductions -- for love, not for money, as stupid as that sounds out loud. He puts his initials prominently in them to remind himself of this fact.
"I don't get bored," Kate says. "Only boring people get bored."
Kate has never been boring.
Peter gets a call at half past noon when they're all at the office. An alarm went off at a nearby art museum, but nothing was stolen. He tells Neal, and Neal suggests, "False alarm." It happens.
"Right," Peter says. He notices a semicircle of fading purple marks at the base of Neal's neck, only visible because he's unbuttoned his collar. "Late night?"
"A little," Neal says lightly. He shuffles files around and looks busy.
"First chair flutist?" Peter asks.
"What?" Neal looks startled, then laughs. "Okay. Yes."
Peter pats him on the shoulder and Neal asks if he wants the gory details and Peter tells him to go get some lunch. When Neal leaves, he sits back at his desk. Neal Caffrey could have any woman he wanted, with a few exceptions in the form of Diana Lansing et al, but he doesn't want any of them. In fact, as long as Peter's been working with Neal, he's propositioned every woman they've met, and followed up on precisely zero.
So the first chair flutist? An alarm at an art museum?
Peter frowns.
Neal comes home and is dragged in the door by his necktie. "This is silk," he says, pretending to be stern, but he doesn't finish what he's saying because Kate is pressing him back into the door, her breath hot and ragged in his ear. She's all hands. He returns the favor. When they fall to the floor he bumps his head against the easel. He reaches up to steady it, and even dazzled and dazed with the promise of sex he still knows his craft. "That's not my painting," he says, in a moment of bizarre clarity.
Peter is at home, eating a very quiet dinner with Elizabeth. They're having leftovers, because she just threw a big party. He prods at some limp lettuce with his fork and El sighs. "Come on, honey. Let's hear it."
"Kate's back," Peter says.
"Are you sure?" Elizabeth is so surprised that she stops feeding Satchmo scraps, and he begins to whine.
"No. Yes. I'd like to think Neal would tell the truth, but it fits."
"And if she's back? What does that mean?"
Peter rests his head in his hands. "Neal… He's never moved on. And Kate knows his buttons better than anyone. If she's here, she'll be able to convince him to do just about anything."
"He won't risk prison again," El says.
"I don't think you've heard him talk about Kate," Peter says grimly.
"So it looks bad?"
"Pretty bad."
Elizabeth starts to clear the table. Peter brings his dish to the sink and she snatches it away from him before he can start washing up. "What are you doing? Get over to the apartment!"
Peter rubs his eyes. It's been a long day. "I'd rather dry." It's not that he's a defeatist. It's just that he saw the look in Neal's eyes when he found him holding the bottle, all that time ago. It's just that Neal was willing to spend another four years in prison for the very possibility of Kate. How can Peter hope to compete with the reality?
Neal is in awe of the painting, a little scared, a little shocked, a little starstruck. "You liked it so much, I thought I'd get you the original," Kate says. She's alive and electrical with adrenaline, like she always is after a heist. "Nobody will even notice it's gone. I replaced it."
And the scared overpowers everything else. "That wasn't a museum piece. My initials are in it," Neal says. "Kate, they'll come here. They'll turn this place upside-down."
"We'll have to hide it somewhere safe," Kate says. She jumps up, paces back and forth, stops in front of the painting. "We can put it with the rest of your stuff."
"No, we can't. Two miles, remember?"
Kate strokes the canvas side of the painting, keeping the oil and dirt of her fingers away from the pigment. It makes Neal remember how much he loves her, seeing her with this amazing work of art, treating it with so much respect. She digs her toes into the carpet and doesn't say anything. Neal feels like the words are catching in his throat as he says, "Maybe you could take it for me."
"Are you sure?" Kate bites her thumbnail when she's nervous, and she's doing it now. "You've never told anyone -- "
Neal stands up and holds her until he can feel her heartbeat reverberating in his chest. "The man with the ring can't take anything, so… I'm sure, Kate. You love me. You wouldn't…"
"I wouldn't," she agrees. She smiles at him. He loves her.
It's sunny outside, mid-October, and the leaves are bright red. Neal scribbles down an address. Kate folds it into neat fourths and tucks it into her bag. That same hand comes out of her bag holding a derringer.
"Kate," Neal says. Someone is knocking on the door, but his blood is loud in his ears, and he can't hear properly. He's usually so much faster on his feet. With anyone else he'd have a plan.
But it's Kate.
"God," she says, "Talk about the long con."
Peter breaks the lock and gets inside just in time to see her pull the trigger.
Neal wakes up at five am in an unfamiliar bed. There's a lot of white, and something is beeping. Hospital, he decides. But why is he in the hospital? He does a quick assessment of his body and decides that he has probably been shot. He would worry more about why and who by, but he feels fantastically floaty and comfortable, which is most likely a result of morphine. He falls asleep instead of asking difficult questions.
When he wakes up the next day, he is less floaty and more aligned with a painful reality. Peter comes to see him early in the morning. He doesn't look like he's slept. "Neal."
"Peter. Hey."
"When were you planning on telling me you'd made contact with Kate?"
Neal shrugs and realizes shrugging is exquisitely painful. "I didn't think you needed to know."
"Great," Peter says. He scratches at the back of his head. "She's being processed."
"For what?" He sounds far more concerned than Peter is comfortable with.
"Theft, assault with a deadly weapon. Forgery."
"Forgery."
"We found her initials in the painting in the gallery," Peter studiously avoids Neal's eyes.
Neal nods slowly. "Did you find her bag?"
"Kate didn't have a bag."
"Sorry," Neal says, "I'm still kind of drugged up. I must be remembering things wrong."
"Must be," Peter agrees.
Elizabeth comes in with none of Peter's reservedness, fussing over Neal and requesting another jello and generally making him feel self-conscious. "I can't believe this,' she says, "Oh, god, you could have -- "
"I'm fine," Neal says, and without much warning she kisses him on the lips.
"We were scared," she tells him.
Neal is five kinds of surprised. "Please don't hit me," he tells Peter, "I'm still wounded."
Peter doesn't hit him. Peter leans over his bed and kisses him too, slow and gentler than Neal ever would have expected. "We were wondering if you still wanted to come to dinner."
"Just dinner?" Neal asks, slightly punch-drunk.
"I hope you like Italian."
Author: Smoke
Rating: PG-15
Genre and/or Pairing: H/C, dark, Kate/Neal, Peter/Elizabeth, Peter/Elizabeth/Neal
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Kate/Neal, nonexplicit sex, violence
Word Count: 2755
Summary: Kate comes back on a Saturday...
Kate comes back on a Saturday. Neal is reading about case law on his couch and she comes to June's door and says she's a friend of Neal's, can she go surprise him? And June says yes.
It's sunny when she comes back. October and the leaves are changed and the sky is cloudless. She doesn't even knock when she comes into the room. Neal drops his book. New York Case Law crashes to the ground. He smooths a hand back through his hair on instinct. "Kate," he says.
"I'm back," she says in a voice like a storyteller. "He let me go." Like she is a kindergarten teacher. Like a crossing guard. Or a nurse.
"Who?" Neal wants to know. "Fowler? Or…"
"It doesn't matter," she says, "I'm back now."
"I know people now. I can make sure," Neal says, and does not finish his sentence, which was going to be: I can make sure he never comes back.
"I can't tell you." Kate's eyeliner is smudged and her eyes glitter. "I wish I could, Neal, but I can't."
"It's okay," he says, and nearly means it. "It's fine. You're back."
"I love you." She kisses him, her hands cupped loose around his cheeks, her nails grazing his cheekbones, breathless. Neal holds her at her waist and twirls her around his apartment. Her coat flares outwards like a skirt, or wings. "I love you," she says when they are laying on his bed.
Neal wants to celebrate. They sit on the terrace with two glasses of wine. The sun sets. They fall back onto Neal's bed. Kate pulls the knot on his tie downwards very slowly, but steadily, like gravity. He smiles up at her. His hair is ruffled and wild. The sheets crinkle. The bed creaks.
"Don't tell your FBI friend that I'm here," Kate whispers that night. Her eyeliner is still on and it makes her eyes look luminous-green in the darkness. Her teeth nick his ear. "He doesn't want us to be together."
"Peter's not bad," Neal says.
Kate sits up and the sheets slip off her. She is pale and moonlit and her breasts are perfect and her hair is a void in the night. He can only see half of her face clearly. She sounds very serious. "Neal," she says, and that's really all there is to say, right?
"I won't tell him," Neal says, and sits up too, and kisses her on the lips, the neck, moves downwards. The bed hits the wall. Kate bites his shoulder. She leaves a mark.
Neal is tired but upbeat at work. He drinks three cups of coffee and solves a case within minutes of looking at the file. He does small office tasks and buys everyone lunch. By the end of the day, Peter is impressed. "El wants to know if you'll come over for dinner."
Neal begs off. He's busy; a friend is coming by.
"Haversham?"
"Yeah," Neal says, and grins at him. "We play chess."
"See you tomorrow," Peter says, and goes home. When Neal's not in the car, he's a great driver. He keeps his eyes on the road. Elizabeth greets him at the door with a kiss and looks expectantly behind him. Peter just looks at the dinner table. "Smells great," he says, and, more quietly, "Not today."
"More for us," El says.
Peter cups the back of her head in one hand, pulls her close, and sighs. "Maybe not."
"I'm glad you didn't tell him where you hid everything," Kate says.
Neal is painting; he's distracted. "Are you?"
She crosses her arms. "What's that supposed to mean?"
The paintbrush clicks audibly against the easel as he puts it down. "What? Come on. Nothing!"
She has these big green eyes, and when she looks up at him through her lashes he forgets where he's standing and what he was doing. "I didn't mean to snap at you. It's just -- I don't want you to think I would ever betray you. The bottle, Neal -- I'll never leave you."
He drops his hat on her head and turns on some jazz. They dance around the apartment. They order out cajun food. Neal has red paint smeared across his cheek in a single thick line. It gets on Kate's face when she kisses him. Between the two of them, they finish a bottle and a half of wine. Neal hardly notices when Kate drinks less than him. Hardly.
"Have you thought about getting back into business?" she asks. He points to his leg, where the green light of the tracker is. Kate smiles at him. Dangerously. Like she did when they were starting out. When they were young, scared, and giggling, and she slipped a pack of cigarettes into her shirt. "But you don't have to leave that stupid radius. I'm here now. Think of the look on your FBI agent's face."
Neal thinks of the look. He can picture it perfectly. It makes him feel like his stomach is glued to his spine. "Yeah," he manages, "It'd be -- "
"Daring," Kate suggests, adjusting the hat on her head. "Look at me; I'm the new Neal Caffrey."
"You'd look great in one of my suits," Neal says. He pulls her onto his lap and she pushes him down slowly by the shoulders, until he's leaning on his elbows. The carpet is soft underneath him. He mentally thanks June for picking out such a thick pile. Kate tips the hat forwards so he can't see her eyes and twists her hips the tiniest bit. She clasps her hands together and points her middle and index fingers at him. A gun.
"I'm the new Neal Caffrey and this is a stickup."
"Trust me," Neal says, "I'm terrified."
"Trust me," she mimics, "I will find a rubber band and shoot you with it."
"You're out of character," he admonishes her. "I don't use guns."
She swivels her hips again and puts her finger-gun under his chin. "If I say you use a gun, you do."
"Mm," Neal manages, "The new Neal Caffrey is great at coercion."
"I believe in stick and carrot," Kate says. "Bang." Her fingers jerk beneath his chin.
"You got me." Neal sinks back onto the carpet, eyes closed. "I am dead and gone."
Neal is bouncing off the walls when he and Peter go to their next crime scene, which is at a music hall. "What's with you?" Peter asks.
"I didn't get a ton of sleep," Neal says, "Oh! We should talk to the flutists. Specifically the first chair."
"Do you think they know something?"
Neal shrugs. "Honestly? I'm a fan."
"Of an orchestra?"
"Yeah. What do you do on your day off?"
But the first chair flutist does know something, and opens up to the man who is possibly her best-looking fan ever. The case unfolds before them like origami in reverse. At the end of the day, Neal looks inordinately pleased with himself. Peter frowns at him. "Go home. Get some sleep."
"Will do," Neal says. He's nearly out the door when Peter stops him.
"Listen, Neal -- Do you need a ride?"
Neal shakes his head. "Don't worry about me. I'm fine." He turns to go.
"Neal?"
"Yeah?"
"First chair flutist?"
Neal tilts his head back and forth, indicating uncertainty. "It's been a while since I went to the orchestra."
"Four years?"
"Just about. But people like their fans."
The flutist gave them tickets, one for everyone and one for Elizabeth, and Peter holds them up. "You want to give her a chance?"
"Aren't you worried I'll steal something?"
"I don't think you've figured out how to steal live music yet. At least not when you're sitting next to me."
"You'd be shocked," Neal says. He stands still for a second, a genuine if slightly bewildered smile on his face. "Why are you taking me to the orchestra, Peter?"
"El wants to go," Peter says, "You won't fall asleep halfway through."
"Right." Neal opens the door. "As much as like to be your plus-one, I'm a little tied up at the moment."
Peter frowns slightly. "Hopefully tied up within your radius."
He lifts the edge of his pant leg to show the little green dot. "The radius is my favorite place. Why would I ever want to leave?"
"Cowboy up," Peter says, "See you tomorrow."
Neal comes home and Kate has already picked out a bottle of wine. It's a great vintage -- that's what her appreciation for the classics amounts to, excellent taste in wines -- and she pours him a glass.
He sits down on the carpet, leaning against the bed, and swirls the wine. "What did you do today?"
Kate stretches her bare legs out like a gameshow girl. "I went out."
"What are you going to do tonight?"
"Hm. Watch you work on that gorgeous reproduction."
"I'm almost done," Neal says, "It won't take all night." He still does reproductions -- for love, not for money, as stupid as that sounds out loud. He puts his initials prominently in them to remind himself of this fact.
"I don't get bored," Kate says. "Only boring people get bored."
Kate has never been boring.
Peter gets a call at half past noon when they're all at the office. An alarm went off at a nearby art museum, but nothing was stolen. He tells Neal, and Neal suggests, "False alarm." It happens.
"Right," Peter says. He notices a semicircle of fading purple marks at the base of Neal's neck, only visible because he's unbuttoned his collar. "Late night?"
"A little," Neal says lightly. He shuffles files around and looks busy.
"First chair flutist?" Peter asks.
"What?" Neal looks startled, then laughs. "Okay. Yes."
Peter pats him on the shoulder and Neal asks if he wants the gory details and Peter tells him to go get some lunch. When Neal leaves, he sits back at his desk. Neal Caffrey could have any woman he wanted, with a few exceptions in the form of Diana Lansing et al, but he doesn't want any of them. In fact, as long as Peter's been working with Neal, he's propositioned every woman they've met, and followed up on precisely zero.
So the first chair flutist? An alarm at an art museum?
Peter frowns.
Neal comes home and is dragged in the door by his necktie. "This is silk," he says, pretending to be stern, but he doesn't finish what he's saying because Kate is pressing him back into the door, her breath hot and ragged in his ear. She's all hands. He returns the favor. When they fall to the floor he bumps his head against the easel. He reaches up to steady it, and even dazzled and dazed with the promise of sex he still knows his craft. "That's not my painting," he says, in a moment of bizarre clarity.
Peter is at home, eating a very quiet dinner with Elizabeth. They're having leftovers, because she just threw a big party. He prods at some limp lettuce with his fork and El sighs. "Come on, honey. Let's hear it."
"Kate's back," Peter says.
"Are you sure?" Elizabeth is so surprised that she stops feeding Satchmo scraps, and he begins to whine.
"No. Yes. I'd like to think Neal would tell the truth, but it fits."
"And if she's back? What does that mean?"
Peter rests his head in his hands. "Neal… He's never moved on. And Kate knows his buttons better than anyone. If she's here, she'll be able to convince him to do just about anything."
"He won't risk prison again," El says.
"I don't think you've heard him talk about Kate," Peter says grimly.
"So it looks bad?"
"Pretty bad."
Elizabeth starts to clear the table. Peter brings his dish to the sink and she snatches it away from him before he can start washing up. "What are you doing? Get over to the apartment!"
Peter rubs his eyes. It's been a long day. "I'd rather dry." It's not that he's a defeatist. It's just that he saw the look in Neal's eyes when he found him holding the bottle, all that time ago. It's just that Neal was willing to spend another four years in prison for the very possibility of Kate. How can Peter hope to compete with the reality?
Neal is in awe of the painting, a little scared, a little shocked, a little starstruck. "You liked it so much, I thought I'd get you the original," Kate says. She's alive and electrical with adrenaline, like she always is after a heist. "Nobody will even notice it's gone. I replaced it."
And the scared overpowers everything else. "That wasn't a museum piece. My initials are in it," Neal says. "Kate, they'll come here. They'll turn this place upside-down."
"We'll have to hide it somewhere safe," Kate says. She jumps up, paces back and forth, stops in front of the painting. "We can put it with the rest of your stuff."
"No, we can't. Two miles, remember?"
Kate strokes the canvas side of the painting, keeping the oil and dirt of her fingers away from the pigment. It makes Neal remember how much he loves her, seeing her with this amazing work of art, treating it with so much respect. She digs her toes into the carpet and doesn't say anything. Neal feels like the words are catching in his throat as he says, "Maybe you could take it for me."
"Are you sure?" Kate bites her thumbnail when she's nervous, and she's doing it now. "You've never told anyone -- "
Neal stands up and holds her until he can feel her heartbeat reverberating in his chest. "The man with the ring can't take anything, so… I'm sure, Kate. You love me. You wouldn't…"
"I wouldn't," she agrees. She smiles at him. He loves her.
It's sunny outside, mid-October, and the leaves are bright red. Neal scribbles down an address. Kate folds it into neat fourths and tucks it into her bag. That same hand comes out of her bag holding a derringer.
"Kate," Neal says. Someone is knocking on the door, but his blood is loud in his ears, and he can't hear properly. He's usually so much faster on his feet. With anyone else he'd have a plan.
But it's Kate.
"God," she says, "Talk about the long con."
Peter breaks the lock and gets inside just in time to see her pull the trigger.
Neal wakes up at five am in an unfamiliar bed. There's a lot of white, and something is beeping. Hospital, he decides. But why is he in the hospital? He does a quick assessment of his body and decides that he has probably been shot. He would worry more about why and who by, but he feels fantastically floaty and comfortable, which is most likely a result of morphine. He falls asleep instead of asking difficult questions.
When he wakes up the next day, he is less floaty and more aligned with a painful reality. Peter comes to see him early in the morning. He doesn't look like he's slept. "Neal."
"Peter. Hey."
"When were you planning on telling me you'd made contact with Kate?"
Neal shrugs and realizes shrugging is exquisitely painful. "I didn't think you needed to know."
"Great," Peter says. He scratches at the back of his head. "She's being processed."
"For what?" He sounds far more concerned than Peter is comfortable with.
"Theft, assault with a deadly weapon. Forgery."
"Forgery."
"We found her initials in the painting in the gallery," Peter studiously avoids Neal's eyes.
Neal nods slowly. "Did you find her bag?"
"Kate didn't have a bag."
"Sorry," Neal says, "I'm still kind of drugged up. I must be remembering things wrong."
"Must be," Peter agrees.
Elizabeth comes in with none of Peter's reservedness, fussing over Neal and requesting another jello and generally making him feel self-conscious. "I can't believe this,' she says, "Oh, god, you could have -- "
"I'm fine," Neal says, and without much warning she kisses him on the lips.
"We were scared," she tells him.
Neal is five kinds of surprised. "Please don't hit me," he tells Peter, "I'm still wounded."
Peter doesn't hit him. Peter leans over his bed and kisses him too, slow and gentler than Neal ever would have expected. "We were wondering if you still wanted to come to dinner."
"Just dinner?" Neal asks, slightly punch-drunk.
"I hope you like Italian."