Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For thirty blissful minutes, Peter thinks he may actually be getting somewhere on this case. It’s a string of fraudulent checks, deposited over the course of about a year at banks all over the city. They’re good forgeries too, sophisticated; good enough to make Peter wonder why their creator hasn’t found something more productive to do with their time, more lucrative. It’s not a high profile case, all of the amounts are under 10k. It’s hardly worth Peter’s attention, but nonetheless, it’s caught it, probably because he’s confident in his eye for this sort of thing—small-time cons where, if the case is left unclosed, they’ll come back around later. Honestly, even when they are closed, they often still come back around later. But recidivism rates aren’t his problem. 

He feels that way about this particular forger: once they figure out they’re good, they’ll be a much bigger problem for him, or for whoever gets stuck with them. So, he might as well get himself acquainted early. 

In response to the forgeries, the bureau issued a warning to all the area banks that are likely targets, told them what to keep an eye out for, and told them to hold anyone suspicious. 

Then, this one tossed Peter a favor, made an amateur mistake—hitting the same bank twice. He’s about to have this paperwork off his desk, he’s about to have this fraudster taken care of…at least for the next five years or so. 

Or, that’s what he thinks until he walks out of blistering cold—too damn cold for it to only be November—into the polished glass and marble of City National, flashes a badge, meets the manager, heads back to the security room, and sees that the security guard is holding the arm of a kid. 

Well, he might be a teenager. Peter generally avoids both categories, so he’s not an expert. 

The kid’s got a self-satisfied look on his face, like he’s about to tattle on a classmate to the principal, and he’s wearing a coat and scarf that Peter’s spent enough time around stock-broker types to know probably cost more than his car. 

This isn’t his conman. 

This is some soon to be Ivy dropout with a trust funded adderall addiction, who will make ‘music’ and refer to himself as a ‘philosopher.’ Just give him a few years. Probably five or so. 

“I’m Agent Burke, FBI, white collar crimes division,” he says, and flashes the badge again. But the kid doesn’t look impressed. He doesn’t look scared, either. 

He stares at Peter silently with cold, blue, not old enough to have developed empathy yet and probably never will eyes. 

“What are you waiting for?” the kid asks after a silent beat. 

“For you to tell me your name.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything without talking to Mr. Bates first.”

“Family lawyer?” Peter questions. 

The boy raises his eyebrows slightly, nods. Patronizing. 

Peter looks to the bank manager, a dark-haired woman in a pencil skirt. “They’re teaching them that one young now, aren’t they?” 

“There’s the check he was trying to deposit,” the manager says and she motions to it on the desk. Beneath a suite of monitors showing security cam footage at all angles. 

Peter takes a moment to look it over. “This is our guy,” he mumbles.

“Really?” the security guard questions.

“No, not him—I mean the check.”

It has all of the signatures that Peter is looking for. He glances at the smug-faced teenager. “He didn’t happen to have any ID on him, did he?”

“Nope,” the security officer says, “That’s all he had in his pockets.”

A deli receipt and a pack of cigarettes. Cute. 

Peter picks up the check, waves it slightly. “Who gave this to you?”

“I thought we established that—”

“This is serious, you know,” Peter cuts in. “Trying to deposit a forged check can come with some real jail time.”

The kid looks down at the floor, breathes a laugh.

Peter gets the idea. Mr. Trinity over here—or maybe he’s more of a Dalton type?—has never experienced a consequence in his life. And likely never will. “Mr. Bates is good?” 

“The best.”

“Then let me put it this way. If you don’t talk to me, you’re going to waste both of our afternoons. I don’t think you want to spend all day in an FBI questioning room until daddy, or daddy’s lawyer, shows up to sort this out. So why don’t you tell me who gave this to you and we’ll call it good?”

“How do you know someone gave it to me?” 

Peter eyes the kid. He's not dumb, that’s how. 

A slight frown finally disrupts the pompous attitude. The kid tucks his hands into his pockets. Rocks forward on his toes. “All afternoon?” he asks.

“All afternoon. Why are you worried about it, you got somewhere to be?”

“I might.”

“What, a date?” Kid’s old enough to have a date, right? Maybe. Especially since he looks like he’s stepped out of some teen girl’s magazine. All blue eyes and coiffed waves. 

“Tutoring.”

“Algebra?” 

“French.”

“Very nice. And how do you say let’s not play this game in French?”

“Ne jouons pas à ce jeu-là ,” the kid rattles off in monotone. That tutoring’s paying off. 

“Now we're getting somewhere.” Peter holds up the check again, “Who gave you this?"

“My stepdad.”

“Seven thousand dollars?” Peter questions cynically. Seems like a lot for what—some spending money? An allowance? 

“Want me to call you poor in French too?”

“No thanks, you’ve already done that in English.” Quite effectively. “What’s it for?”

“Step dad, remember.”

“He’s trying to buy his way into dropping that step moniker?”

The kid nods.

“Is it working?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“My apologies for the broken home, but I’ll tell you what: why don't you give me your stepdad’s name and address, since you don’t like him all that much anyway, and we’ll get you on your way to French class, ça a l'air bien?” 

Peter took French. In high school. Once upon a time. 

“Your accent’s terrible.”

“You still understood me.”

The kid doesn’t have a counter to that. “Julian Calder,” he says, “432 Park Ave.” 

“See. That wasn’t that hard, was it?”

The kid frowns. “What about my check?”

“Oh you're not keeping that.”

“Cigarettes?”

“No dice. You're like, what? Thirteen?”

“Sixteen.”

“Yeah right.” Peter might not be an expert, but he’s not an idiot either. “Trust me, I'm doing you a favor.”

“Am I supposed to thank you?”

“Probably.”

“I don’t think I will.”

“Suit yourself.”

-

432 Park Avenue is one in a line of pencil towers that sit along the aptly named Billionaire’s row—a white lattice of concrete and sea-green squares of glass, and a starting price on apartments somewhere in the tens of millions. Peter already has a bad feeling about this. That bad feeling, specifically, being that he’s wasting his goddamn time. 

No one who lives here would ever have any reason to be forging checks. It’s not like they’d need the money, and surely there are better hobbies. Play golf. Short sell. Take up tax fraud like the rest of them. 

But still, Peter’s freezing his ass off standing out on the street, and when else is he going to have an excuse to see this view?

Some subsequent badge flashing, questioning, and polite threatening of the front desk staff later, and Peter finds himself in an elevator headed to the 92nd floor, where one Mr. Calder is waiting for him. 

Calder’s younger than Peter expects. In his early forties maybe. Short stature, thick, downturned eyebrows. Wearing only gym shorts, with a towel thrown over his shoulder. Peter would’ve appreciated the courtesy of a shirt. 

Calder responds to Peter’s introduction by trying to hand Peter a business card for his lawyer. 

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Peter says. It’s not—this isn’t his guy. As much as he might like it to be, cause this is the type that he enjoys getting to see handcuffed and shoved into a cop car. “I just want to ask you a few questions in relation to my case.” He glances up from the wiry rug of Mr. Calder’s chest hair to the space behind him. “Can I come in?”

“I…guess.” Calder steps out of the door frame. Lets Peter pass. “Don’t touch anything though,” he warns. He closes the door like he’s considering leaving it open as an escape route. 

A little touchy for someone who’s not committing a federal crime. Well, he’s not committing the one Peter’s here about at least. 

Beyond the entryway Peter’s standing in, large square windows take up almost all of the walls of the living space, each lined with gauzy curtains. They look out on a gray snapshot of Central Park, the Upper West Side, and the Hudson: all in all, a damn nice view. A low ivory colored—El’s wedding dress discussions have taught him this distinction—couch squats on a furry, salmon area rug. There’s a white marble fireplace set out from the wall, centered between golden wall sconces. Even the dark herringbone floors feel expensive. 

Peter whistles quietly. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

“What are your questions?” 

“You in a hurry, Mr. Calder?  If there’s a better time—”

“Yes, I’m in a hurry; no, there isn’t a better time.”

“I see.” His stepson isn’t picking up his charms at home, that’s for sure. “Dinner with the new wife?”

Calder’s face scrunches up like he’s smelled something rotten. “What wife?”

-

“Rough day?” El asks, as she drops her keys in a dish. 

And Peter watches her glance between him, the two empty beer bottles on the coffee table, the muted hockey game on the TV, and the cardboard file box open at his feet, the contents of which are spread across his lap and most of the couch. 

“Yeah,” he says, “Yours too?” Must be, cause El looks like she’s been through a wind tunnel. For El, that means she’s actually withstood a hurricane.  

Peter’s wife pulls kitten heels from her feet with a slight wince. Drops them directly below her hands rather than tucking them away on the shoe rack.

“The worst.” The shoe thing is how Peter knows she means it. 

“What happened?”

“Sixteen florists. We went through sixteen different florists today. And Mrs. Gein doesn’t like any of them.”

“Not one?”

“Not one. Putnam’s designs lean too heavily on roses. L’Olivier’s too modern in approach. Saipua doesn’t have the experience to be trusted with this sort of thing…” 

Peter shakes his head with appropriate contrition. “What’s your plan?”

“Other than homicide? Which my husband frowns upon.”

“I’d let you get away with it.”

“Thanks, hon,” El smiles. “But, no, I guess my plan’s New Jersey. They gotta have florists there.”

She comes to sit on the couch beside him, shoving file folders aside and leaning in to plant a kiss on his lips. 

El sits back, hand still on Peter’s shoulder. “What about you?”

“I’m ninety percent sure I was conned by a child.”

Chapter Text

A week later, and the files on Peter’s check fraudster have all been shoved to the corner of his desk, buried under other, more pressing case folders. Forgotten. 

The forgeries, and the smug teenager associated with them, don’t surface on Peter’s mind again until he’s standing out on the street, his face numb from the wind, in the middle of an argument with a very incensed landlord. It’s not an argument Peter’s in the mood for—his run of the mill identity theft case decided to turn exciting and not twenty minutes ago a bullet whizzed past Peter’s earlobe like a fat, fast-moving wasp. Mr. Landlord’s pissed about the bullet holes, sure, but he’s even more pissed about the hobbies that Mr. Decided It Was a Smart Idea to Engage a Team of FBI Agents in a Gunfight had taken up. Hobbies that Peter’s not fully clear on yet, but which resulted in the teams’ return fire exploding containers of ink all over the walls. Now Peter has way too much paperwork on his hands. 

He’s halfway through his typical damages speech and thirty percent through his sentence when his eyes catch on something across the street. Printed on a faded awning above windows filled with lit up signs for beer brands and an EBT placard. Peter’s cold, mad, hungry, and in need of a good excuse to stop having to smell the stale coffee on Mr. Landlord’s breath. Plus, he would like to learn who really gave that kid the check. 

Landlord’s still yelling at Peter as he crosses the street. 

To Peter’s luck, the deli’s fairly empty and the man behind the counter is immediately talkative, probably on account of the sea of cop cars flooding the street outside of his establishment. 

His name is Tariq, he’s been here every day for thirteen years, and he clicks his tongue to say “What the world is coming to, I tell you,” when Peter explains about his routine arrest gone wrong. Peter, stack of paperwork on his mind and the sound of gunfire still ringing in his ears, is inclined to agree with the sentiment. 

Maybe the tides are turning though, because when Peter brings up his unrelated case and kid suspect’s description, Tariq’s face immediately lights up with recognition. “Mr. Bennet?” he questions. 

“Could be. What can you tell me about this…?”

“Thomas,” Tariq fills in, “Thomas Bennet. I cannot see how he’s in any sort of trouble, Agent Burke. He’s a good kid. Has it tough, yes, but a good kid.”

Peter frowns, wonders if they are talking about the same person after all. He wouldn’t call the smartass he met very good, nor would he consider divorced parents and the stressors of generational wealth to be all that tough. “He’s not in any trouble,” Peter assures, “He might have some information for me is all.”

This seems to relieve Tariq enough to get him telling Peter more. Thomas lives in one of the buildings across the street, comes in most Thursdays after school. 

“Always Thursdays?”

“Always.”

Peter nods, thanking his luck again that today’s a Thursday. Though, it’s only noon. He can close off this lead faster if he plays it right. “Do you know who he lives with? His parents’ names.”

“With his mother; he has a younger brother as well I believe, though I could not say for certain. We do not talk of these things.”

“But you do talk?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Bennet always stays,” Tariq motions beyond the counter to a few cramped tables tucked behind wire shelves of chips, peanuts, and sunflower seeds. A slight frown forms on the man’s mouth; there’s more he’d like to say, that he’s not said already. 

“You ever met his mother?”

“No, she works two jobs from what I understand. Rent these days…” 

Peter’s increasingly certain that they’re not speaking of the same teenager, but he pushes further nonetheless. “You don’t approve of her.” It’s clear in how Tariq speaks, how his tone tightens at her mention. 

“It’s not my place, Agent Burke. Not my business.”

“If it were your business, what would that business be?”

“And a child should be with his mother.”

“Yeah, I’d agree.” Peter pauses, waits pointedly. Tariq shakes his head, taps the side of a broad hand on the glass of the deli counter. “But?” Peter asks, with a slight raise of his brow. 

Tariq sighs. “I have three beautiful daughters. Two are married now. One is a student, nursing degree. I could never have thought to lay a hand on any of them.”

Peter learns two more things from Tariq—one, that his teen suspect has damn good taste in delis; two, which of the stacked brick facades that line the street is the one that Thomas Bennet supposedly lives in. This is likely a case of lookalikes, or maybe Tariq’s eyesight’s going, but Peter likes to see his leads through. With a full stomach—and after a few conversations with other agents, an NYPD captain, and a confused neighbor, to keep his trigger-happy identity thief’s arrest from going off the rails—Peter decides to make a quick pit-stop. Perhaps Mrs. Bennet, or a chatty neighbor, will be home. 

Tariq’s wrong about the building. It’s the adjacent structure where Peter finds a mailbox labeled Bennet. The hallway is all musty carpet and old cigarettes; it’s a walkup. Unit 307 is easy enough to find; there isn’t a buzzer, so Peter knocks. He hears voices and shuffling inside. A moment later, the door pulls open, catches on a chain. A sliver of a young woman looks Peter up and down. 

Peter pulls out his badge, says his spiel, “Mind opening that door so I can speak with you for a minute?”

“What is this about?” she asks, and makes no move to do so.

“Are you Mrs. Bennet?”

The strip of a face shakes her head. “She’s at work; I watch the baby.”

“And you are?”

“Claudia.”

“Claudia, do you mind answering a few of my questions? Mrs. Bennet’s not in any trouble.”

The door closes, and Peter hears the chain slip off, then a few moments later it reopens. Claudia is a petite woman with hair flying out in all directions, and what looks like spit-up on the shoulder of her faded t-shirt. There’s a toddler clinging to her calf. 

Peter asks if he can come in and Claudia nods, “We have to be quiet, Tommy is sleeping.” He moves into the cramped apartment, nearly trips over a plastic toy plane, which his shoe sends skittering on its wheels towards a wall. 

Peter makes a show of asking a question or two, but he’s already learned what he needed. Mrs. Bennet’s big on family photos. Every wall and surface is covered with awkward toddler smiles and swaddled infants and one picture of what Peter thinks is a kindergarten graduation. There are three kids: they’re all under ten, two of them are present in the apartment, and none of them look anything like his supposed Thomas Bennet. 

When he’s thanked Claudia for her time, and the door is closed, Peter stands in the dim hall and softly curses. 

-

“Mind if I wait here?” Peter asks Tariq, after he’s ordered his second deviled ham of the day—traversing to Federal Plaza and back, not to mention being shot at, has left him hungry. 

He deposits the stack of papers on the table before he drops beside it himself. Peter swears that each cartridge his team goes through amounts to ten more pages of work for him. 

Peter can be patient. He can spend twenty-five minutes on the 5-train to eat a very early dinner every Thursday. El won’t love it, but Peter’s obsessive like that. 

He can be patient, but he doesn’t have to be. Because a few minutes after 3pm, the deli door pushes open with a ding, and this time, unlike the dozens of others since Peter planted himself here, he recognizes the figure that moves through the glass door. And doesn’t simultaneously. 

The kid has on the same coat. He has on a very different demeanor. He moves in a way that’s weirdly graceful for someone smack dab in the middle of awkward teenager-dom. 

The kid smiles warmly at Tariq, says something in a language Peter does not recognize as he comes up to lean against the counter. Tariq responds. Then in English, “You improve every week, Mr. Bennet.” 

Peter decides it’s time to make his move before the kid spots him and makes the equivalent run for it. He stands, walks up to the kid as he and Tariq chat. ‘Thomas’ is asking something about one of Tariq’s daughters Peter realizes. 

“Thomas,” Peter greets, and the kid turns to him. For an instant, blue eyes widen in a sheen of panic, they flick towards the door, then back to Peter, before they tamp down to casual interest. 

“Agent Burke,” the kid replies, a little breathless, with a tip of his head and a warm smile that conflicts entirely with his and Peter’s previous interaction. He’s in a bit of a bind, isn’t he? Between playing Tariq’s Mr. Bennet and Mr. Bates’ youngest client. “What a coincidence.”

“Hardly.”

“Of course,” the kid intones, with a rested hand on Peter’s arm that Peter eyes suspiciously until it moves off, “Best deli in the city, isn’t it, Mr. Tariq?”

“You flatter me,” the proprietor replies. 

“Always.” 

It might not be flattery. That was a great sandwich. “Come on, kid,” Peter steps to position himself in between ‘Thomas’ and the door, in case he’s getting any ideas. Peter would prefer to keep his cardio to the FBI gym. “Come have a seat.”

The facade of sudden warmth falters; ‘Thomas’ glances at Tariq. “I—”

“You can order later. Right now, we need to talk.” Peter grips the kid by his shoulder, steers him to the table. “Sit.” 

The kid hesitates, then sinks into the chair with a small frown. Peter wonders how the hell they got from trust fund brat to pleasantries and puppy dog eyes. 

‘Thomas’ sits forward slightly, his desire for an exit clear on his face. “Agent Burke, I’d love to stay and catch up—”

“How was French?” Peter cuts off. 

The boy doesn’t answer. He’s appraising Peter carefully and shifting his stance like he can’t quite decide how to hold himself under Peter’s attention. “How did you…? The receipt.” Peter would say that ‘Thomas’ nearly sounds impressed. 

“It’s my job.”

“Stalking minors?”

“Very funny. I want answers.”

“Answers to what?”

“You can start with your name.”

The kid gestures at himself with a grin. “Thomas Bennet,” he says, holds out a hand for Peter to shake. 

Peter eyes it. “Thomas Bennet is still breastfeeding, try again.” The kid’s hand wilts back to the table, but he doesn’t say anything. Not even to offer an excuse. Peter appreciates the respect for his intelligence. “What’s your name?” Peter repeats. 

‘Thomas’ leans back in his chair, one relaxed arm left on the surface of the table, like he’s a king lording over his court and not a thirteen—or fourteen or something—year old who’s in way over his head. He shrugs his shoulders. 

“This act isn’t cute,” Peter tells him. “You could be in serious trouble here.”

“You keep saying that.”

“You keep not believing it.”

“What’s your name?” 

“Agent Burke.” 

‘Thomas’ raises an eyebrow, but Peter doesn’t give in. Clearly, the kid is smart, but if he were really smart, he’d be paying more attention to the Agent half of that designation. 

“To me you look like a…” A mischievous glint winks in the kid’s eye. “Peter.” He rolls the name around in his mouth in a way that Peter does not like at all. 

Peter’s gaze narrows. It takes a second for him to put it together. He pats at his pocket. Bites down the profanities coming to his lips, cause, he is still in the presence of a child after all. A child that Peter’s going to strangle in about ten seconds if he doesn’t get his wallet back. 

The kid holds up Peter’s billfold, pinched between two fingers. Peter snatches it out of his hand, “You could—”

“Be in big trouble?” the kid finishes, with a simper. 

Peter focuses on thumbing through his wallet rather than coming up with an appropriately threatening reply. All the credit cards are still there, his driver’s license is in its place, he thinks that the cash looks—

“Is this your wife?” The kid is studying a small photograph: a younger El, beaming, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a slight tan. 

“Yes. Give that back.”

“She’s beautiful,” he replies, offering the picture out. Peter tucks it back behind an insurance card, scowling. Not Dalton, definitely not Trinity—petty theft isn’t an AP course as far as Peter’s aware. In fact, the kid probably pinched the check off of Peter’s actual suspect. If he’s trying to show dimension for his juvenile detention application, shoplifting would explain the coat as well. 

“How’d you pull that off?” the kid asks. 

“That’s none of your business.” 

The kid brushes off the growled response. “Do you know what’s on your tie?” 

Peter glances down, realizes a moment too late that maybe that’s the trick. This is a teenager, after all. But no, it’s not a made you look, there is something there. He lifts up the tie to study the dark red splotch that’s disrupting the striped pattern of light blue and gray. Courtesy of one very stupid identity thief. “A stain,” he answers, drops the fabric.

“So, no.”

“We’re talking about a forged check here, not—” The kid reaches out, grabs Peter’s tie and pulls it towards him, Peter with it, to study it. 

Peter yanks it out of his hands. “What are you doing?” he snaps, and sits back out of the kid’s reach. 

“Do you want to know what’s on your tie?”

Peter’s reaching the end of his rope. “I could arrest you, you know.”

“You haven’t.”

“I’m increasingly tempted.” For some reason well beyond Peter, this statement makes the teenager before him grin, as if he’s proud to have the effect. As if he wants to be temptation walking. Peter frowns in discomfort. 

“Tell me about whoever you got the check off of,” Peter drops his voice quieter, “and I’ll do you the favor of not informing Tariq here that Thomas Bennet hasn’t had his first birthday yet.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“But he likes me,” the kid pouts. 

“Simple solution, Thomas.”

The kid thinks for a moment, runs a hand through his hair. “You’re right,” he shrugs. 

Peter is. But he didn’t expect that to work. 

‘Thomas’ stares down at Peter’s chest, “By the way,” he nods his chin, “it’s color-shifting ink for printing on cotton substrate. From the hue, I’d say for the 200 rand banknote or…maybe the 50?”

Peter does not have time to process the words, because the moment ‘Thomas’ is done saying them he jumps up from the table, stumbling back from Peter on clumsy feet. Peter reaches after him, but the kid ducks out of the way of Peter’s hand. 

“No!” ‘Thomas’ shouts, loud enough to draw the attention of everyone in the deli. “Leave me alone,” he sobs. His eyes flooding with tears that certainly weren’t there a moment before. 

Peter freezes in shock. 

“Mr. Bennet?” Tariq’s voice. 

A man pulling a six pack out of a cooler turns, eyes Peter. “Hey, do we have a problem here?”

“Please,” the kid backs away towards the counter, shaking violently. “L-leave me. Alone.” 

And the woman who’s standing beside it, waiting for her order, steps to block the kid, reaches for his arm,“Are you alright, sweetheart?”

“I don’t. I don’t k-know him. He—”

“Kid, is this guy bothering you?” the man asks gruffly, setting his pack of Modelos down on the floor with a clink of glass. “What were you doing to him, huh?”

Peter’s realizing just how screwed he is in this scenario. At about the same rate as he’s realizing just how impressively conniving ‘Thomas’ is.  “Nothing,” he says calmly, “There’s—”

“Call the police,” the woman at the counter announces. 

“The police?” Tariq questions. “Burke—?”

“No, there’s a misunderstanding here. I’m—”

“Did he hurt you?” The woman asks, and the kid looks up at her with eyes the size of saucers. A nice touch. 

“Please, I want to go home. I want—” 

“I’m a federal agent.”

“Let’s step outside, sweetheart, yeah?” The woman is leading ‘Thomas’ towards the door by his arm, she casts Peter a nasty look. 

“He is a suspect in my—”

The deli’s bell rattles loudly. Peter looks from the man who’s about to put a fist in his face to the teenager who’s going to be responsible for it if the man does. The kid, halfway out the door, meets Peter’s eye—he winks.

Chapter Text

It's just after midnight when the relief crew shows up and Peter's eyeballs are about ready to fall out of their sockets from staring at the same damn screens for so long. The full blast heat has his whole body clammy, and he'd like to have been in bed three hours ago. But, that’s a stakeout for you. 

Agent Duffy isn't faring much better. She gave up on both her blazer and her standard slicked back bun a while ago, and is slumped with the headset shoved against her ear—like only the threat of Peter’s presence is keeping her from drifting off. The only thing keeping Peter from drifting off is the mental image of Lowell Brockton’s shiny bald head under the lights of a courtroom.

Brockton looks like a reanimated corpse from the 80s, which is fitting, given his current role in shoving PE dry powder into leveraged buyouts. His bear market advantageous LBOs might be what has regulators eyeing him, but that’s not what Peter cares about. Peter cares if he’s feeding information on his deals to stockbroker Lou Hanly, of Hanly & Company fame, in exchange for kickbacks. 

Jones ducks into the back of the surveillance van, bright eyed and bushy tailed in contrast to the company present. “I take it he hasn’t come out of there yet,” he says as he sheds his jacket. 

“Nope,” Duffy replies, without lifting her eyes from the surveillance feed. 

“No movement?”

“Not a peep.”

“What’s he even doing down here?” 

Jones’ question is reasonable. The upper half of Lexington doesn’t exactly seem like Brockton’s scene. Aka, tax bracket. 

“He wasn’t alone,” Peter informs Jones. “Went up there with a woman.” 

“Did we ID her?”

“A woman wearing fishnets, and not much else, in 33 degree weather…” It doesn't take a decade of investigative experience to figure out that she wasn't one of Brockton's business partners. Or his personal assistant. Or his fiancée. 

“This guy loves his stereotypes, doesn’t he?”

“Nothing says IB quite like insider trading and hookers,” Duffy chimes.

Mendoza, who’s here to take over for Duffy, frowns. “You’d think he’d at least call an escort service.”

They’ve seen Brockton’s accounts. It’s not like he can’t afford it. 

“Are you kidding?” Duffy scoffs, “He doesn’t even tip.” Cruz and Waller had had the joy of watching Brockton yell at a cashier in a coffee shop that morning. He’s a real ray of sunshine in all areas of life, apparently. 

“I guess he needs that cash on hand to fund his antibiotics regimen,” Mendoza replies dryly. 

Despite the chuckles, Duffy pulls the headset closer to her ear. 

“We got something?” Peter asks, ready to listen in as well. Earlier in the night, they sent a probie in to drop a bug on the front desk, which was the best they could do to potentially get ears on Brockton, shy of slapping on a maid's uniform and going knocking on doors, which Peter's not quite desperate enough to try yet.

Duffy shakes her head, “Not Brockton. Just our front desk guy feeling chatty.”

Duffy sighs, rises from her seat and offers the headset to Mendoza, “Enjoy,” she tells him wearily. 

“Thanks, how’d you know my favorite?”

“Hotels that have more roach guests than human ones—you’ve got a type, Leo.”

-

There isn’t much traffic on the street at one in the morning, but that doesn’t mean it’s empty. Forms are hidden under thick bundles of clothes, curled in the shadowed cut outs of closed storefronts, sleeping—or at least, Peter hopes they’re sleeping. Under ubiquitous scaffolding, a man is pacing back and forth with the characteristic twitches of an intravenous habit. A woman crossing at a street corner—much too young and much too skimpily clothed for the season—is having an argument with someone over the phone in hurried Spanish. It's a grim picture of the city’s underbelly, and yet, it all pales in comparison to some of the things Peter's witnessed in Times Square station on a Tuesday afternoon.

He's texting El that he's finally on his way home, under the glow of a red light and the landscape of an empty intersection, when a figure passing on the sidewalk catches in Peter's peripheral vision.

Peter glances up through the windshield, blinking away his exhaustion-induced hallucination. Or trying to. 

“Christ,” he breathes. 

What are the odds… And, more importantly, what the fuck is he doing out here?!

Peter slams on the gas, sending the car lurching through the red, and rolls down the passenger side window to a flood of icy air. 

“Hey kid!” 

The figure turns, killing off any of Peter’s lingering doubt and giving him about a hundred new questions in return. Who lets their son leave the house like this? Scratch that—who lets their son leave the house at all at one fifteen in the morning? 

How many fake lives can this one child have? 

“Peter,” the kid says in a cloud of breath, painting on a steady smile and unpeeling his bare arms from being wrapped around himself as the car pulls up alongside him. He takes a cautious step back, away from the door, but at least he doesn’t turn and bolt.

“That’s Agent Burke to you,” Peter grumbles as he takes in the sight in front of him in disbelief. The kid’s gangly—he has yet to grow into his limbs—but his face still retains the soft edges of boyishness, and it makes for a strange picture: without the structured shield of his fancy coat, the kid looks much younger, but the way he’s standing makes him look much older simultaneously. 

“It’s fu—” Peter only narrowly catches himself. This is reason number a hundred and six why he avoids children. “It’s freezing outside, and you’re wearing this? Where’s that damn coat you like so much?”

Where the hell are this kid's parents?!

Well, he realizes, teens with well-adjusted home lives aren't the typical pocket-picking demographic—sure, they can be, but statistically… And Peter's a by the numbers kind of guy. 

“What are you doing out here?”

“What are you doing out here?” the kid returns silkily. 

“I was at work.”

The kid lifts his shoulders—an attempt at me too. As if there's any way a thirteen year old has an afterschool job that keeps him out after midnight. If that is the case, the NY Department of Labor is going to want to have a word. 

Peter frowns his disbelief, those hundred questions he’s got multiplying like springtime bunnies. But they can wait until Peter’s not watching the kid try to suppress his shivering—a glance at the dash says it’s 31, and this dumbass is out here in a t-shirt. 

The kid's skinny too. Peter can see the sharp points of his shoulder bones jutting out through the fabric of his sleeves, though that might have more to do with the cut of the shirt than anything else. The jeans aren't any better. 

Peter leans over to push open the car door. 

“Get in.”

The kid’s smirk flattens ever so slightly. “I have to be honest, Peter. I didn’t think you were the type.”

Peter scowls. It’s the kid’s worst joke yet; it’s by far the worst persona yet. And Peter’s not buying what the kid’s trying to imply for a single second, the boy’s way too clean—and, frankly, chipper—to be a…

“Get in the damn car.”

For a moment, the boy eyes Peter’s sour expression with blank disinterest. Then he unhooks the nonchalant hand from his waistband and climbs into the passenger seat. Strangely quiet. 

“Close the door,” Peter orders gruffly, bemoaning how much he’s starting to sound like his father before the words are even fully off his lips, “You're letting all the heat out.” 

The kid reaches for the handle, not breaking his careful eye contact as he pulls it closed, but he leaves a hand perched on the armrest lazily. Peter knows an exit strategy when he sees one. He would call it smart, but actual smart would've never gotten into a stranger's car. Actual smart wouldn't have been out here at this time of night. Actual smart would’ve looked at the goddamn calendar before venturing out in this. 

As much as the kid’s trying not to show it, his shoulders have relaxed slightly now that he's out of the cold. His arms are still covered in goosebumps. 

Peter reaches to turn up the heat full blast; the kid shifts back. He's watching Peter with amusement, but the way his eyes keep flicking to Peter's hands gives away his apprehension.

“Let’s try this again,” Peter says, “and you can try telling me the truth this time too.”

The kid doesn’t reply. If his approach to their last interaction was to talk Peter’s ear off, now he’s experimenting with confused and unassuming. Either that or he’s finally realized that he doesn’t want to be on a federal agent’s bad side—not one that, from the kid’s perspective, has managed to track him down miraculously. 

“I’m….” Peter hints.

“Agent Burke,” the kid fills in dutifully.

“And you are?”

The boy’s face splits with a grin. He’s failing at unassuming. 

Peter lost his strength for argument somewhere around the three hour mark of staring at the unmoving façade of a crappy hotel. He sighs. “You're really not going to tell me your name, are you?” 

The grin is paired with a headshake. At least it’s honesty. 

“What am I supposed to call you then?”

“Whatever you want.” 

The line is glib enough that Peter’s certain the kid’s trying to make him uncomfortable on purpose. He doesn’t let his expression waver. He’s seen what this kid can do—Peter will not be underestimating his ability to pull off a convincing performance, or pull on heartstrings, again. It’s not a lesson Peter needs to be taught a third time. 

“That was some stunt you pulled at the deli.”

Peter doesn’t intend the statement to be a compliment, but the kid sure perks up like it is. “It's a good one, isn't it?”

“You use it often?”

“Sometimes.”

“Does it always work?”

“Usually. With the right crowd.” The kid glances down at himself pointedly. “And the right window dressing.”

Peter takes his point: securing the sympathies of random New Yorkers is easier when you look like you summer in the Hamptons than it is when you’re dressed like a hooker. Frankly, Peter does not want to know what kind of scheme is helped by this veneer. 

“The dramatics help,” Peter says dryly. 

“The tears are my favorite touch.”

“Those too.”

The kid tilts his head, searching. “You're not mad about it?”

“Impressed is more like it.”

“You like a good trick?”

Peter recoils. No one who looks like they couldn't get a learner's permit yet should be saying things in the tone of voice that the kid just employed. “I like smart,” he corrects, in a growl he hopes will nip this particular Oscar-bait act in the bud. 

“And you think I am…”

“Too smart for your own good.”

The kid beams. 

“But not nearly as smart as you think you are.” 

The boy shouldn’t be doing what he did in the deli, he shouldn’t be forging checks—and he is forging checks, Peter’s certain of that now—but all that pales in comparison to this. This is recklessness on a whole new level. 

Peter drops his hand to the door panel beside him, and the car doors lock with a loud click. The kid’s eyes widen in panic. Which only proves Peter’s point—he didn’t think this through very hard, did he? 

The kid flips the manual lock faster than Peter can blink, his hand makes it to pulling on the handle. Predictably, it gets him nowhere. 

“Child safety lock,” Peter explains, “Did you know they’re making those electronic now? Look,” he motions, leaning away so the kid can view the driver’s side door, “it's a button.” He might know that if he were old enough to drive a car. 

The kid releases his hold on the door handle, retrieving a smile that twitches with nerves. “We can—”

“You're not invincible, kid,” Peter interrupts, “and you shouldn't go around acting like you are. You're going to get hurt.”

The open-mouthed smile wilts away. 

“What you pulled at City National, and at the deli too... you're not playing a fun game here. You take the wrong guy's wallet and you could get yourself killed. You got that?”

“I got it,” the kid says, persuasively earnest.

Peter still stares him down for a few moments longer, out of an abundance of caution, and because he would swear there’s a burn of resentment in the kid’s eyes. 

“Good.” He hits the lock. The moment the doors click back open, the kid scrambles to get out—Peter catches him by his lanky arm. “Wait,” he intones. 

The kid’s foot is already dangling out of the car, but he’s not going to make it the rest of the way, and he seems to realize this. He breathes out apologetically, “Agent Burke, I really—”

”We're not done yet.”

The kid swallows thickly, looking up from Peter’s grip on his arm to Peter himself. He pulls his foot back into the car, closes the door. Peter lets go. 

“How’d you know about the ink that was on my tie?” he asks pointedly. It’s the question that’s been burning on the back of Peter’s mind for nearly a week now. He didn’t think he’d have the chance to get it answered—sure, the boy might be an amateur, but even amateurs know to switch up their patterns once the pattern’s been made. Peter was never going to spot the kid at the deli again. Which is a shame for the kid: he burned a good sandwich place and a good Urdu tutor all in one fell swoop. 

“The ink?”

“I got the lab results back, you were right. It was the 200 rand.”

The kid looks away towards the window in dismissal, but it’s clear he’s pleased with himself. “Everyone needs a hobby.”

“Does your hobby include check forgery too?”

“No.”

“Because currency's the hobby and checks are the day job?”

“No,” the kid insists, with softened eyes and a slight head shake that scream sincere. “Forging checks is not my day job.” 

Peter isn’t amused; earnest doesn’t work on him after the deli theatrics. It especially doesn’t work on him when the kid’s playing with caveats— nothing is his day job because he doesn’t have a day job, he’s a child. 

“I thought we were giving truth a try this time.”

“I'm not lying.”

Peter rubs at the side of his temple, looking out at the still street through a windshield that’s starting to fog. Peter’s had too long of a day to argue into the wee hours of the morning with the literal manifestation of a headache—especially not with El waiting up for him. He’s going to have to employ a different strategy here. Peter exhales a defeated breath. “Where do you live, kid?”

“Why?” 

“Because I'm driving you home.” There’s no way in hell Peter’s letting him back out into the cold like this—not to mention, Peter has a few words to say to whoever’s legally responsible for the picture of irresponsibility beside him. 

“You don't have to do that.”

“I'm going to.”

“You can drop me at 116th.”

“No way,” Peter scoffs, “you're not taking the train at one am.”

“Why not?” The kid tips his head innocently. 

“You’re—” Peter can’t tell if the boy is egging him on, or if he’s genuinely this naïve. “Just tell me your damn address,” he finishes roughly. 

“90 Gansevoort.”

Peter raises his eyebrows. “You live across from the Whitney?” Not the right zip code for petty theft tutelage. The kid’s going to have to try again. 

The boy frowns. “White Collar…” he mumbles to himself in disappointment. 

Peter wouldn’t say that his ability to see through that particular lie has anything to do with experience as an art crime investigator. It has way more to do with having lived in the city for too long. Long enough, apparently, that he’s starting to accept the antics of a teenage con artist as a normal part of his Wednesday night… This shit never would’ve happened in Upstate.  

“Come on,” Peter urges, “I know you're not sleeping on the street.” He couldn't be, right? He's too young, and too recently showered—if the hair is anything to go by. Plus, he's got nothing on him. No stuff. No expensive scarf. Obviously, the coat’s gone. The kid's gotta be staying somewhere. “You're killing me here.” 

“You're killing yourself, I didn't do anything.”

Anything is really pushing it, but Peter’s not got the energy to play semantics with the local juvenile delinquent. “We're continuing this conversation.”

“But not tonight?” the kid poses hopefully.

“Not tonight.”

“Past your bedtime?” he teases. 

“Past yours. ”

“You're taking me to the station.”

“Are you actually going to go home?” 

“No.” That might be the most candid statement yet. 

“Then no, I'll let you out here. Not yet,” Peter catches the boy on the shoulder this time as he jumps to get out, squashes him down in place in the seat. Kid’s an antsy thing, isn’t he? It’s like he never stops wriggling unless he’s preening. “Do you know where Federal Plaza is?”

“Chambers Street Station.”

“Good for you. What time do you get out of school?”

Amusement glitters in the kid’s eyes. “2:30,” he says firmly. 

“Seriously.”

“2:30,” he repeats, the sarcasm in his words not at all matching the openness of his expression. So, there’s no way in hell he’s actually going to school, and the joke’s on Peter for trying to give the kid the benefit of the doubt. 

“Yeah, okay. Meet me in Foley Square at 12.”

“By Triumph?” the kid chirps. 

“Excuse me?”

“The monument.”

“That weird thing in the fountain? Yeah.”

“Okay!” he chimes, and tries to worm his way out from beneath Peter’s grip. 

“Hold on.”

“Peter…” the kid whines. And that’s reason number a hundred and seven. 

Peter motions for the kid to stay, retracts his hand and leans forward to work off his coat. He may be able to let some things slide, but Peter still has to be able to sleep at night. He pulls the thick fabric free and pushes it into the kid’s lap. 

The boy doesn’t touch it; he leans away from it like he’s worried about it touching him. “Are you seriously giving me this?”

“No, because you're giving it back tomorrow. When you see me.”

“What if I don't show up?”

“Then I'll take it back when I find you to arrest you for check fraud.”

“How do you know you'll find me?”

“Because I've done it three times already.”

“That's not fair, the—”

“Take the coat. And don't keep me waiting tomorrow.”

“I won't.”

Peter’s frown intensifies. 

“What?” the kid shrugs, “I won't.”

Peter waves a hand in dismissal, shooing the kid off, and the boy doesn’t even wait to hear whatever final warnings Peter was going to offer—about staying safe, going home, not stealing from an FBI agent—because he’s already out the door and onto the sidewalk. At least he has the courtesy to close the passenger door behind him; Peter’ll take it. 

He sighs, rubs at his forehead, and watches the kid practically skip down the street in a coat that's drowning him. 

Chapter Text

Foley Square is gray and miserable. Bundled businessmen and women move at a hurried pace past the drained fountain and barren trees. A selection of wind ruffled pigeons peck at litter scattered from a trash can. Peter pulls back his cuff to check his watch and frowns, tapping his foot. 

He shakes out his sleeve, scans the scenery around him: the elements-stained anvil of black marble that is the monument, the pale corinthian columns and sleek glass of the courthouses, the beige art deco of the health department, and, in the distance beyond, a glimmer of One World Trade Center’s blue prism. Amongst it all—surprise, surprise—there’s not a single damn trace of a particular teenage deviant. El is going to kill him about that coat. 

“Peter!” 

He spins on his heel; he just might live another day. 

And Peter needs to thank his lucky stars, because not only is his kid not a no-show, he’s also carrying a thick bundle of fabric beneath his arm. He’s even bothered to wear his own coat this time. That’s three breaks in a row. But then again, it’s 16 minutes past 12, and the boy’s not even coming from the direction of Chambers Street, so Peter can’t be that appeased. 

“You're late,” he announces. 

The kid’s out of breath, or pretending to be. He brushes back his hair with an apologetic smile, “I got held up by—”

“I don't want to hear it.” That shuts down the well-meaning act pretty effectively. 

“I'm here, aren't I?”

He is, much to Peter’s shock. 

Peter eyes the kid carefully. He’s still in the same sneakers and jeans—at least how egregiously the jeans fit is concealed by the length of the coat, which is another small mercy. It’s not like Peter needs an additional reason for this meeting to be a bad idea. “You managed to dress for the weather this time.”

The kid offers out the bundle under his arm with theatrical magnanimity. “And I’m returning this.” 

Peter takes the coat, tosses it over his elbow. “Let's go.”

Surprisingly, he doesn’t have to pull the kid along with him—as Peter starts across the plaza, the boy is shockingly keen on following.

“Where are we going?” he asks, bouncing on his toes.

“Lunch.”

The kid falters in his pace. 

“It’s noon,” Peter explains, without stopping. The kid is going to have to put up with some multi-tasking, because Peter’s on his lunch break and he’s been informed that his team’s morale suffers when he fasts. He looks back to the teen, “You don't have that thing all these kids have now, do you? Where you can’t eat…?”

“Food allergies?” the kid supplies incredulously. 

“Yeah those.” 

“No. And you know that—”

“Good,” Peter clips, and picks back up his walking speed, “Then, lunch.”

The kid has to run a few paces to catch up. He suppresses a smirk at Peter’s side when he does. “So it’s a date?”

“No, you’re thirteen, and it’s lunch.”

“I’m not thirteen.”

“How old are you then?”

The boy glances up appraisingly, in a mockery of genuinely having to think about it. Counts off on his fingers. “Twelve and eighteen and—”

“Jesus, kid.”

The boy’s smirk only widens. 

They cross the street with a hoard of other hungry office-goers, and only once they’ve turned the corner of the block does the kid look up at where Peter is leading him. He stops fully in his tracks. “Pizza?”

“What’s that face for? Who doesn't like pizza?”

The kid wrinkles his nose,“It's greasy.”

Peter can’t believe what he’s hearing; the kid has to be fucking with him. “You're a child, who lives in New York City, and you don't like pizza?”

The kid shrugs his agreement. 

“What the hell do you like then?!”

“Everything good,” the boy says fervently, “Filet mignon, foie gras, escargot…”

Peter blinks, mouth dropped open, “Snails.”

“Yeah.” 

“You don't like pizza, but your favorite food is snails. Are you French?”

“No.”

“How are you even…?” If it’s not his parents or grandparents or whatever, then who is feeding this kid the diet of an old school Upper East Side socialite? How the hell is he affording… “Please don’t tell me you've defrauded half the city’s financial institutions to buy snails.”

“Of course not.”

“Then—”

“And they're mollusks, just like clams and scallops and oy—”

“Alright,” Peter waves off, “enough bio class. Today you're having pizza—you could use some grease, you're a twig.”

“I—”

“And you’re not going to argue about it.”

“Because you're the adult here?”

“No, because my patience is all that's standing between you and a stint in juvie.”

“On second thought,” the kid picks up cheerily, “Pizza sounds great.”

Peter pats him on the top of the shoulder, “See, that was smart.” 

-

“It gets all over your hands,” the kid says, watching Peter chew his food with open disgust. “Doesn’t that bother you?” 

“No, that means it’s good. And I thought we said you weren’t going to argue.”

“I’m not arguing, I’m explaining my perspective.”

“Nice one; law school’ll love you, kid.” Of course, to go to law school, he’d have to graduate junior high first. To do that, he’d have to actually attend junior high. Peter plants his forearms on the sticky wooden lacquer of the table. “Why aren’t you in school?” 

The kid’s studying the slice of pizza on the paper plate before him like it may bite him. “Don’t need to be,” he says distractedly; he picks at a slice of pepperoni with his fingers. 

“You know everything already?” Peter challenges. 

“No, but they’re not going to teach me anything I want to learn.”

“What do you want to learn?”

“Lots of things.”

“Name one.”

“Painting.”

“Ever heard of art class?”

“I’m busy,” the kid deflects. Peter’s certain he’s swamped—a full calendar of French lessons and inventing new names for himself. Where will he ever find the time for Algebra I?

“With check fraud?”

“No. Other things.” 

Peter tips down his chin, eyes the kid in suspicion. The boy, in response, hoists up his slice of pizza and takes an over dramatic bite. 

“Legal things?”

Of course, now the kid’s mouth is too full for him to give any answer. Convenient that. 

“You know,” the boy says, after making Peter wait through both his chewing and swallowing, “This isn’t half bad.”

Yeah, that’s what Peter thought… “I never got an answer on how you knew about that ink,” he says. 

“I read a lot.”

“About South African currency?”

“Sometimes, yes.” 

Peter rubs a hand over his mouth in disbelief, letting his silence linger to make sure the kid’s gotten the message—bookworm does not equal identifying an ink on sight. What happened to the respect for Peter’s intelligence? 

More than ten years as an investigator buys a glower damning enough to even make seasoned conmen squirm; Peter’s good in an interrogation. But he might as well be fresh out of Quantico in this one. Because this teenager is wholly unaffected: he remains reclined in his chair, tapping his fingers to an inscrutable beat against the surface of the table as he eats. Once this kid’s frontal lobe is fully developed, they’re all going to be done for…

Peter sits back. Listens to the din of the busy restaurant—coworkers chatting over tables and called out orders and the constant chiming of the counter register. He reaches into his jacket pocket for his wallet—which thankfully is still there, though this isn’t the first time Peter’s checked since being in the kid’s presence. 

The three bills that Peter slides out, he lays down in front of the kid. Flat on the table beside a half eaten slice of pizza and an oil dotted napkin. “What can you tell me about these?” 

The boy casts an unenthused glance. “They’re rand banknotes.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious.” They’re also supposed to be in evidence lockup, but that’s beside the point. “Keep going.”

The kid flicks a hand at the bills on the left, “These two are fake.”

“How do you know that?”

“Lucky guess.”

“I’m serious; how do you know?”

“I just do.”

“Because you’ve made a fake before?”

“No,” the kid counters, “because I’ve read about it before.”

“You read about counterfeiting?”

He nods, “Bourassa, Arnout, Weber…all the big busts.”

“The best and brightest,” Peter grumbles. This is painting a dour, but very illuminating, picture of who this kid’s role models might be. 

“I wouldn’t say that,” the kid says flippantly. “They were caught.” 

Peter sighs, taps his finger on the table in front of the banknotes in an attempt to refocus. “Explain it to me.”

“This is your job.”

“I know it is. But it’s also my job to solve this check fraud case that I have sitting on my—”

The kid makes a show of concentrating on the banknotes, leaning into his elbow where it’s planted on the table; he slides one of the counterfeits around to face Peter. “South Africa can get hot in the summer,” he says.

“And?”

“And hands sweat. Smaller denominations of currency exchange hands frequently. Cotton substrate can take some moisture, but if you want to keep notes in circulation for longer, the solution is…” He crimps the bill up from the table in an arch. 

“Plastic,” Peter fills in.

“An ultra-thin polymer film.”

“Plastic.”

The kid eyes him in disappointment—his animation disrupted. “Actually,” the tone he pivots to is like he’s the adult explaining to a child, “this note isn’t all that different from your pizza slice.”

“Greasy?”

“Layers: cotton substrate, protective foil, ink receptive, and then the polymer film.”

“Like a cake.”

“Whoever made this cake messed up. The film’s too thick,” the kid holds up the fake pinched between two of his fingers, wiggles it in the air, “See that wave. They had the material to make the lower denomination notes, but they were greedy. Could’ve pulled off a flawless 10 rand, but—”

“Too much polymer for the 200.” Peter looks to the other counterfeit. “What about that one?”

The kid picks it up, holds it close to his face in careful examination. “This one’s better. But the raised features are off, something wasn’t calibrated correctly or… They should be smoother than this.”

Peter can’t help the smile that’s crawling across his face. “That’s amazing.” If he sounds awestruck, it’s because he is—the kid’s damn impressive. More impressive, even, than Peter expected. 

The kid lowers the note. “Really?” 

“Yes, really. Don’t act like you don’t know it.” The kid absolutely knows it, if the dopey grin on his face is anything to go by. He just wants to keep Peter complimenting. “I mean, you got it right about the raised serial and everything.” 

The boy’s expression drops. Takes the grin with it. “You already knew all of this?”

“Yeah, it’s what our expert told me in a meeting this morning.”

“Expert?”

“He’s a CI.” When Peter gets back a blank look he adds, “Criminal informant. A consultant.”

The kid is unimpressed. “A rat.”

“No, someone who’s on the good side now.” 

From the boy’s face you’d think that Peter just told a painfully bad joke. “Your side is the good side?”

“Of course it is; we catch the bad guys.”

The kid shrugs, unconvinced; his eyes drift around the restaurant. “So what’ll happen?” he asks. 

“With what?”

“This counterfeiter.”

“Oh, it’s not just the one guy. We haven’t caught the rest of his ring yet—once we do, they’ll go to prison.” 

“What happened to the one guy?”

Peter hesitates, caught in a trap that he’s not sure how the kid has managed to set. “He wasn’t smart,” he concludes finally. It’s the nicest way he can think of to say it to a child. 

The kid makes a face; he takes a bite of his pizza like the motion is proving something. 

He’s finally made it to his crust when he seems to remember something, a sly expression creeps across his face. “Did you ever give my love to Julian?” he asks lightly. 

“Mr. Calder?”

The boy nods. Amused. 

“I did—he didn’t remember you as fondly. Or at all for that matter.” 

The kid shakes his head in contrition, as if to scold Calder for ever being able to forget him. Peter’s also wondering how that’s possible. And wondering who Calder is to this kid such that the boy’s calling him by his first name and bothering to bring him back up. Maybe Calder is someone the boy’s scammed before? 

“Did you see the Baselitz?”

“The what?”

“I thought…White Collar, fine art—? Don’t you—? Georg Baselitz.”

“He’s an artist?”

“Yes.”

“No, I didn’t.” Really, Peter’s not sure—he was much too focused on the view and furniture and Calder's attitude to have paid much attention to whatever was hanging on the walls. 

The kid averts his gaze, a tightness in his face that looks something like anger. “You didn’t go in the bathroom then.” 

“Huh?”

“It’s in his bathroom. Who puts a Baselitz on their bathroom wall?” 

Peter has more pressing questions. “What were you doing in a billionaire’s bathroom?”

The boy grins roguishly but does not respond, instead, he reaches across the table to pluck the receipt from beside Peter’s paper plate. He digs a hand in his pocket, pulls out a folded stack of cash. 

Peter squints. “What are you doing?”

The boy looks up at him innocently. “You’re the one who told me not to steal.”

“I’m buying lunch.”

“That’s alright, Peter, I can cover my half.” He lays a few bills down atop the receipt.  

“I’m buying your lunch,” Peter repeats firmer. 

“If...you insist.”

“I insist.”

The kid shrugs and picks up the bills, folds the stack to tuck it away. A glimpse of color makes Peter’s skepticism hit him like a cold bucket of water. “Are those hundreds?” 

The kid shoves the money back into his coat. A little too fast. So they definitely are. At this rate, Peter's going to go prematurely gray. “Stand up,” he grunts, and the boy melts to pathetic with about the same speed as it took last time. Only, now he has a less receptive audience. 

“Peter,” he pleads. 

Peter points a finger, “Stand.”

The kid slowly pushes back his chair, rises with a huff. 

Peter stands as well, leaning forward onto the table. “Empty out your pockets.”

“I—”

He raises his brow in a way that must say check fraud and federal agent louder than Peter’s words can, because the kid bites his tongue, swallows tensely and shoves his hand in his coat, brings back out the wad of cash. “I don't have—”

Peter plucks the bills from his hand, splitting the fold open and flipping through, pausing when he reaches a section of hundreds. He extracts one of them, holds it up and tilts it in the light.

“They’re real,” the kid says. 

They are. To Peter’s eye at least. That still doesn’t explain where the kid got them. If he’s got a damn deposit receipt on him, or if he’s been picking more wallets…

Peter sets down the money. “Pockets,” he repeats. “All of them.”

The boy rolls back his head in nonverbal protest. Then inverts the pockets of his jacket, drops the crushed box of cigarettes he pulls out on the table. 

Peter isn’t satisfied. The kid’s got plenty more places to be hiding a fake check or the results of one. “Jeans,” he says flatly. 

The kid reaches into his pants back pocket, brings back a clenched fist. He overturns his hand dramatically, like it’s the goddamn reveal of a magic trick, to let the shiny plastic in his palm fall to the table top. An opened condom wrapper. He rebuffs Peter’s widened eyes. 

“At least you’re not getting anyone pregnant,” Peter grumbles. And at least now Peter knows to never mention to this kid what age he first kissed a girl. “Keep going.”

“I—”

“Now, kid.”

He pulls open his coat, reaches for an inner pocket, and places a bottle down in front of Peter, his eyes blazing in defiance. 

It’s a prescription bottle. Peter’s disappointment reaches new, previously undiscovered, heights. He just hopes the kid is slinging them, not using. He picks up the bottle, turns it in a slow circle to study it while the boy just stares at him, searching his face. 

Peter doesn’t recognize the label—and here he thought he knew all the street drugs. 

“George McKinley, that’s your name?”

“No.”

“So George is who you took these from.”

“No, they’re mine.”

“What the hell are they? Come on, kid, don’t tell me that on top of the nicotine you’ve got a pill habit too.”

“They’re medically necessary.”

“For what? What condition?” 

“No–no condition, just give them back.” 

The boy reaches for Peter’s hand and Peter pulls it, and the pill bottle, away. “Nuh uh, not so fast. I’m confiscating these.”

The kid’s eyes go wide. “Peter, you can’t do that.”

“If they’re legally prescribed to you, you can have ‘em. Got an ID George?”

“Please, I—you don’t understand.”

“You’re right, I don’t…” 

Peter ignores the Academy Award nominated distress happening across the table from him and picks up his phone, squints closer at the bottle.

“What are you doing?” the boy asks, as Peter starts typing into Google. 

“Figuring out what Truvada is.”

Peter stares at a search results page, then up at the kid, then back at a search results page. His gut plummeting to his toes. 

It can’t be. Maybe the kid has a boyfriend, or maybe he is using, or…

Maybe Peter’s been sitting with his head in the sand this whole time and he can’t any longer. It’s just— It doesn’t add up. And yet, here it is, right before him. 

He sighs out a long exhale. Silently locks his phone and shoves it back in his coat. Tucks the cash from the table and the cigarettes and the pill bottle with it. Further shoves back his chair. 

“Where are you going?” the kid asks.

Peter points between the pair of them. “We’re going,” he says, as evenly as he can manage, “To the office.” Being an experienced agent also means recognizing when you’re way out of your depth, and Peter’s treading water above the fucking Marianas Trench here. 

“No, we’re not.”

“We can figure this out, kid. We can help you.” He rests a hand on top of the kid’s shoulder, inclines his head. “Come on.”

The kid doesn’t move. “You can't do this.”

“Huh?”

He takes a step back, sheds Peter’s hand. “That’s not evidence and I know my rights. You didn't see anything, you don't know anything.”

“I know you’re taking PrEP.”

“Do you?”

“Look,” Peter drops his voice, “you're not the one I'm interested in having evidence on here.” The boy’s acting like he’s being accused of a crime, when that is in fact the exact opposite of what’s occurring. 

The kid shakes his head, apologetic. 

It takes a moment for Peter to get it: he’s not willing to cooperate. “We've got a whole team for this,” Peter insists, “You're a child.”

“How do you know?”

“I have eyes!” Peter paces a step away from the kid and back. “This is— What these people are doing is a federal crime, it’s our job to help you.”

“I don't need help.”

“Is–is someone making you… Do you have a…” Peter rubs a hand over his mouth. This is why this sort of thing isn’t his job. “If you feel that you're in danger…”

“I’m not in danger,” the kid says earnestly. 

Peter waves the pill bottle in his palm, “Like hell you're not.”

“You have the wrong idea about this.”

“No, I have exactly the right idea. You’re a hooker.” 

“Peter,” the kid breathes, “I’m not—”

“You were last night,” Peter interrupts, staring the boy down, “Tell me I’m wrong, kid.” Actually, Peter would love to be wrong in this instance. It’d make him feel a hell of a lot better about the state of the world. 

He gets no reply. 

Which means Peter’s right. Goddamn it. He tips his eyes to the ceiling, shaking his head. Then a horrible thought occurs to him, as if he needed another one of those. Peter reaches into his pocket for the kid’s cash. “Is this all from then?”

The kid appears more interested in scoping out his exits than in offering an answer. 

Peter splays out the cash, considering it with a deepening frown. “What's your rate?” he asks.  

“Rate?”

“Don’t even try this.”

The kid assesses Peter’s seriousness for a long moment, then supplies sourly, “Well it would depend, wouldn’t it?”

Peter hadn’t thought about that. “What was it last night?”

The kid averts his gaze. “50,” he says quietly, then lifts his shoulder. “One was 150.”

“And did you spend any of it yet? Have you even slept?”

The boy shakes his head. Peter nods bitterly in accepting this information. He thumbs through the bills, counting under his breath. 

The kid wavers. “Peter… Peter, don't.”

It’s too late for that. He crushes the money back into his left hand and folds it. Anger heating his face and chest. “Fuck, really kid? How often do you do this?” 

“Do what?”

Peter scoffs in disbelief. 

“A…few times a month,” the boy says shakily, “That's–that's all, I swear.”

“A few times a…” Peter repeats in horror, then he realizes the important detail that’s been left out of that confession. “For how long?”

“I'm sorry it bothers you,” the kid brushes off. 

“Bothers me? Doesn't it bother you?!”

“No.”

“It should.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Do your parents know? Do you even have parents?”

“Yes, I have parents. Everyone has parents.” The boy glances behind himself, “Are we done with this now?”

“No, we are not.”

“Can we be?”

“No.”

The boy frowns, “That’s too bad.” He pulls his coat tighter around himself, and turns on his heel, moving determinedly towards the restaurant door. Peter follows after him, shouldering through the tight line of people waiting for the counter to be able to do so, and pushes through the establishment’s glass door just before it can swing completely shut. 

Peter rushes to step between the boy and the curb, hands held out. 

The kid eyes him coldly. “If you don’t let me leave, I will scream.”

“Alright, alright. Look, can we—”

Peter is brushed right past, the boy leans out over the curb, trying to wave down a cab from the busy street. 

“There’s got to be a better way than this to…”

A cab pulls up and the kid yanks open the door. 

“Kid, your money,” Peter says, holding it out. 

“Keep it. I’ll make more.”

“How are you going to—” The kid slams the cab door on the remainder of Peter’s question. “Pay the fare,” Peter grumbles to himself and a plume of car exhaust.

Chapter Text

“Do you know who George McKinley is?” Peter asks. 

El, seated in the winged-back chair with her legs tucked up beneath her, frowns with the appropriate level of apology. “Not your kid?” she offers. 

“No, he’s an NYU student with a perfectly legitimate physician, and apparently, a very active sex life. Neither he, nor Dr. Payvandi, have any idea how this could’ve happened.” 

Peter completes another lap of their living room. His eyes locked on the pattern of the rug—which, he’s realizing, is new and he has no idea when El changed it. 

“Tariq hasn't seen him,” he continues, “The prescription was my best lead.” It would be a better lead if Peter still had it. But he’d realized about sixty seconds after the cab had turned the block that the pill bottle was no longer in his pocket…because of course it wasn’t. “Without a real name, I can't find anything on him in the system. I had Missing Persons run a search, but he doesn't match the photo or description of any kid who's been reported missing in New York state in the past five years.”

“He could be from a different state?” El poses. She hasn’t once questioned why Peter’s so troubled about some random kid off the street, and that’s precisely why Peter loves her. 

“Or have been reported a very long time ago, or not have been reported at all.” That last option may even be the most likely. There are plenty of kids that no one bothers looking for, and Peter imagines that’s the sort of family dynamic that lands a child working the street for money. And there are just as many kids who have parents who don’t care what they get up to—Peter’s simply been holding out hope that that isn’t the case. “Unless I find a criminal record or a missing persons report, I have no way to identify him.”

El’s frown tightens. “And you really think…” 

“I know.” 

“That's horrible. How can that even happen? He's so young.” 

“I think it happens more often than we’d ever like to know,” Peter replies bitterly. “My question is, why's he doing it?”

Sure, the situation itself is keeping Peter up at night, as is the fact that he’s running out of leads for finding the kid. But what’s bothering Peter’s the most here is that something still doesn’t align. He can tell when he’s looking at two bits of a puzzle that don’t fit, and he has a feeling that Julian Calder might hold one of the pieces he’s missing. Unsurprisingly, Calder—or, more accurately, his secretary—hasn’t been too keen on answering Peter’s calls. 

“I'm sure it's a matter of survival or…”

“I don't think it is. He forged those checks, I just know it. The kid's got the know-how; I'm almost certain he has the skill. He has no reason to be doing this unless someone's making him.”

“Like his…pimp?”

Peter cringes. “Guess that is how it works, isn't it?” 

El shrugs; at least Peter’s not alone in the deep end. 

He’s got an informal lunch meeting tomorrow with an ASAC from the sex crimes team that he’s hoping can give him some better footing. 

“All I know is something’s off. There's more to this kid.”

“You'll figure him out; you always do.”

Peter rubs at his brow. “I have to find him first.” One kid in all of New York City…how hard could it be? “He's clever,” Peter sighs, “well-spoken, charming—he shouldn't be in that world.”

“I don't think anyone should be, hon.”

-

There’s no traffic on the darkened stretch of Lexington; just barred over store windows, a steam vent puffing lazily, and an empty crosswalk. The hazy light of a street lamp casts a lone woman in harsh shadow—she draws on the cigarette hanging from her painted lips. Watches Peter approach from the opposite sidewalk as she exhales smoke. 

“Hey sweetie,” the woman croons, pulling the cigarette away between her knuckles. She’s got on a cropped jacket and a dress short enough to leave little to the imagination. She’s also got to be freezing half to death—but that’s a trend Peter’s noticing tonight. “Never seen you out here before.”

“I’m new to the area,” Peter replies. 

The woman eases a step closer to him, smiles crookedly. “Are you now?”

“I am.”

Her eyes run over his suit. She pushes back her braids with a hand. “You’re not a cop, are you?”

It’s like they all follow the same script. “Actually, I am.”

The woman’s eyes widen, she flings down her cigarette, wheels around on the heel of one stiletto—and now Peter’s getting déjà vu. He steps in her path, “Wait,” he says, but the woman’s already shoving past him. 

He catches her arm. 

“Get your fuckin’ pig hands—”

“I’m only here to talk,” Peter insists. 

The woman yanks away. “I don’t talk to no fuckin’ cops,” she spits, her lip curled in disgust. She starts down the block in a hurried march, and Peter follows after her. It’s not hard to keep up; he’s got her at a disadvantage given the height of those things she’s got strapped to her feet. 

“It’s not about you,” he calls over the loud clack of her shoes. 

“I don’t rat to ‘em either.”

“It’s about a kid.”

“I don’t know any kid.”

“I haven’t told you what kid I’m talking about yet,” Peter points out. 

The woman stops, turns back towards him with her arms crossed tight over her jacket. “Did you not hear me, bitch ? I don’t know your kid.”

Peter pulls out his badge, and lets it drop open from his palm. “I’m not any cop, I’m an FBI special agent.”

“And they’ve got you walking the street? Don’t look so special to me.”

Must be special enough, because she’s no longer running, but Peter doesn’t give her the chance to realize that; he launches into his description. He’s getting practiced enough at it to be able to recite it in his sleep. 

The woman stares Peter down callously as he speaks. Her nails tap nervously against her bare thigh. 

“I don’t know him,” she says, cutting Peter off before he’s finished. 

And now he’s certain she does. “I don’t believe you.”

“Fuck I care if you believe me?”

“This is serious; I’m worried about the kid.”

The woman scowls, casts her eyes around dimmed buildings and tugs her jacket a little tighter closed. “How many times you said all this?” 

“Ten or so, I worked my way over from 1st Ave.” It might be inefficient, but it’s what Peter has left. If this is an area that the kid works, then someone has to know him. 

“And has anybody talked?”

“No.”

“See, even those fish bitches down on 1st know enough to keep their mouths shut. Why d’you think I’m any different?”

That’s a plot twist that Peter didn’t see coming…and still can’t see very well now that it’s in front of him—the miracles of modern medicine, he supposes. “I’m holding out hope,” he replies simply. 

The woman snorts. 

“I’ll pay you for whatever you know.”

“I don’t want your dirty money.”

Peter bites back the temptation to threaten—as thin as his patience is wearing, if he pushes too hard now, he’ll lose what may be his only chance at finding this kid. The word arrest isn’t going to do him any favors. 

But it’s late, it’s cold, he’s been out here for hours—he’s sure El long since fed his dinner to the dog—and it’s only gonna be by miraculous intervention that he gets this woman to talk to him. 

Peter sighs. At least at the end of the day, he already earned his wage and has a warm house to return to. This lady likely isn’t as lucky. 

She’s young too, in her early twenties; she probably started this younger. 

Unlike with Peter’s kid, here, he can come up with a clear vision of what might’ve happened. It’s the 21st century, but there are still plenty of people so attached to what they expect their children to be that they’re willing to lose them altogether. 

“What’s your name?” he asks. 

“Fuck you, that’s what my name is.”

Peter should’ve seen that one coming. 

“I like this kid, I want to get him off the street.” 

“Off to where? The system’s no better.”

“I know that. But he’s gonna get killed out here. He’s a kid.”

The woman shrugs off Peter’s concern. 

“When did you start this?”

“That’s none of y—”

“My fucking business, yeah I know. Was it as young as him?”

The woman averts her gaze. Maybe Peter’s just desperate, but he’d like to think he can see some conflict in her expression. So, no.

“Think you would’ve survived out here if you had?”

“He’s hardly on the street,” she mutters, “Fucks off for weeks at a time.”

“So you do know him.”

She shifts her weight between her heels, agitated. “Seen him,” she grunts. 

“You’ve seen him, …?” Peter’s still waiting on that name. 

The woman stares at him for a beat of disbelief, then cups her chest in her hands and hefts it. “Dee Dee.”

“Ah.” 

“Good work, aren’t they?”

Peter’s much too married to be answering that question. He finds great interest in a spot of gum on the sidewalk. “The kid, you know his name?”

“We call ‘im Robbie.”

“Is that his name?”

“You think my mama named me Dee Dee?”

“No?”

“Hell no.”

“How long have you known Robbie?” As Peter’s saying it again, he’s realizing that that name may also be a pun—if the sticky fingers the kid has exhibited at each of their meetings so far is anything to go by…

“Told you, he’s on and off, but he’s been working up here a couple years.”

Peter knew it was coming, but the confirmation still feels like a punch to the gut. For now, he’s going to do his best not to think about it too hard. “Do you know where he stays? Who he stays with?”

“Has a room sometimes at the North.”

“On Park Ave?”

“That’s the one.”

And that’s exactly what Peter needed. It might even make this whole night of being yelled at and propositioned in equal measure worth it. “Thanks, Dee Dee.”

Dee Dee bristles. “Don’t want your fuckin’ thanks either.”

-

Peter yanks open the door to the cramped lobby and steps into a flood of stale weed and floral air freshener. The front desk is shielded off by plexiglass, and behind it, the attendant, with a scruffy goatee and slouched posture, eyes Peter with suspicion. 

“No vacancies,” he utters in a dead monotone, one that only years of work in customer service can produce. 

Peter doesn't bother to waste his words, he pulls the badge out of his pocket and slaps it up against the plexiglass. “FBI,” he says, in case it wasn’t clear. 

The attendant finds some posture correction, and vitality, at Peter’s introduction. “Whoa dude, hey. I’m only the night guy, the owner’s here on—”

“Did I ask?” Peter cuts off. 

“No.”

“Then why are you telling me?”

“I—”

“I’m looking for someone and you’re going to help me find him.”

The attendant’s forehead wrinkles. “I am?”

“You are.”

“You…got a warrant?”

It’s a question that Peter finds grating given the circumstances. “Does the owner know about the blocked fire exit and broken extinguisher you’ve got there?” he shoots back. 

“The owner doesn’t give a fuck.”

“The fire department will.” Peter’s eyes search around the lobby. “And…are those rat droppings? The health inspector ought to be able to tell me, I guess.”

“What do you want, man?” the attendant sighs. 

Peter rattles off his description for the umpteenth time. Really, he’s lucky that this kid has an appearance that stands out or he’d never have gotten this far—being a little uglier could’ve saved the kid a hell of a lot of trouble. “I’ve got a witness who says he’s a regular here,” he explains. 

The attendant shakes his head. “There are lots of regulars, I don’t know—”

“You’re the night guy.”

“For four nights a week, yeah.”

“You know him.” This guy’s just more worried about the consequences of telling the truth than he is about the consequences of lying. “Does the owner not give a fuck about you smoking on the job either?”

“It’s a pen.”

“Uh huh.”

“And it’s—”

“Go on,” Peter grins. “Tell the federal agent that it’s legal…”

The man’s mouth snaps shut. He shifts nervously. “I think,” he squeaks out, “I think I maybe have remembered who you’re talking about.”

“Have you now?” Peter’s shocked. 

“Yeah, um, Nick—Nick Halden. See him sometimes.” 

Peter’s going to take a shot in the dark and guess that the kid’s name is not Nick Halden. “You rent him a room?”

“Yeah. I don’t— I work here you know? As long as they got an ID and a credit card and pay their bill and don’t get the cops called, it’s—”

“You’ve got Nick’s ID?”

“No I mean, I check it, I don’t keep it on file or anything.”

“And you rent rooms to kids?”

The attendant raises his hands in a show of blamelessness. “He’s 18, man.”

“Yeah right.”

“That’s what the driver’s license—”

“How often do you see him?” Peter cuts off. 

“Sporadic, ya know. All of them are.”

“All of what?”

The man’s gaze twitches nervously around the space. He looks at Peter in desperation. “You know.”

“I don’t.”

“The—the workers, you know.”

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose. He’d arrest this guy right now, just for saying that, if he didn’t need him. “He’s not here now, is he?” Peter asks, strained. 

“No.”

He reaches to his waist and the attendant’s eyes widen like Peter’s about to pull his gun and not his wallet. He slides his business card under the gap in the plexiglass. “You call me if he ever checks in here again and I’ll forget the health inspector’s phone number and my sense of smell for now, how’s that sound?”

“Great, sounds great, uh…Agent.”

Peter holds up a warning finger. “Federal Agent. And if you tip Nick off about me being here you’re going to feel the full force of my federal boot up your ass, do you understand me?”

“Y-yes. Sir.”

Peter leaves the man trembling and steps outside to make a call. 

“Cruz, I need you to run a name for me. Nick Halden.”

Chapter Text

The plastic numbers on the scuffed chipboard door before Peter read 306; the 6 is crooked. He glances up and down the narrow hallway one last time, taking in water-stained carpet and a pervasive smell of must, and raises his hand to knock. 

Peter hesitates. He can't say that he feels particularly ready—mentally or emotionally—to face what might be behind this door. At least he can’t hear anything on the other side, that’s got to be a good sign, right?

He heaves a breath, says a final prayer that the kid is alone, and bangs the side of his fist against the thin wood. There’s no response. Peter knocks again. Hard enough this time to make the door rattle. “Come on, kid,” he calls out, “I know you’re in there.”

Peter presses his ear against the sticky paint. Not even footsteps. 

“It’s not like you’re going out the window, just open the door.” 

Honestly, Peter’s worried that being three stories up might not phase the kid. Not after how their last interaction came to a close. Surely, there can’t be thirty feet worth of sheets in that room with only a queen bed…

Right about the time that Peter’s deciding that he might need to call fire rescue, he hears footfalls. 

The door pulls open, still on the bar lock. Reveals a line of mussed hair and puffy eyes and displeased expression. Maybe the kid was sleeping—it’s 2pm, but then again Peter doesn’t think he’s getting much rest in at night. 

The kid looks Peter up and down. “Are you here to arrest me?” 

Peter can’t tell if it’s sarcasm or a genuine question. “No.”

“Save me the speech again then, won't you?” The kid starts to push the door closed; Peter catches it with the toe of his shoe. 

“Show me you’re alone in there and I will.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, then Peter retracts his foot. 

The door clicks shut and the kid flips the lock, pushes it open the rest of the way, and steps back to allow Peter to poke his head into the space of the dingy hotel room. He only gives Peter a few seconds' glance: it’s empty, but there’s cash on the nightstand, and that’s all it takes to turn Peter’s stomach. 

“Satisfied?” the boy asks. 

No, Peter is not satisfied, because the kid smells like cigarette smoke and cheap aftershave—and the kid’s got nothing to shave—but Peter knows he needs to tread lightly, so he nods and ducks back out of the room. 

“How did you find me here?”

“You’re not hard to find.”

The kid frowns. Crosses his arms over his t-shirt. “Yes I am.”

He has taken Peter to his wit’s end, so maybe Peter’ll give him that one. “People like you too much,” he offers instead. 

“The girls.”

One girl in particular, but the kid doesn’t need to know that. 

“If you’re not arresting me, or giving me the speech…” The boy looks around Peter’s sides, assessing his escape route—or maybe weighing its pros and cons. “What do you want?”

Peter ignores the question. “At the rate you’re going, between this and the check thing, you'll be in prison the moment you turn 18.”

“I am 18,” is the flat reply. 

“No, Nick Halden is, you are not. Did you do the ID or did you find someone on the street to help you out with it?”

The kid stares unwaveringly. “I don’t have to answer that.” 

Law school would love him. 

The truth is that Peter’s not sure what he wants—he wants to get this kid help, but clearly that isn’t going to happen easily. 

Peter could drag the kid off now and shove him in a room with someone from the sex crimes team—but he has a feeling that the boy would either refuse to say a word or somehow spin a story that would have him walking back out the door with no action taken and no questions asked. 

And, technically, Peter can’t even prove yet that the kid’s a minor, or a prostitute. That’s not to mention that Peter thinks this boy would last all of ten minutes in the state’s care if he didn’t want to be there—he’s shown his skill at playing Houdini. 

What Peter needs is more damning evidence. What Peter needs is someone to arrest for the crime he knows is transpiring.

What he needs most is for the kid to trust him. 

In the meantime, having the kid’s expertise on his side can’t hurt. And El did tell him that he should try meeting the kid where he’s at…

“You said your rate was 150?”

“You’ve changed your mind?”

Peter asked first. “Answer the question.”

“It depends on what you want.”

“An hour.”

“To do anything?”

“Sure.”

The boy glances away. “200.”

“Now you’re trying to fleece me.”

“You said anything.” 

Peter stares until the kid relents.

“Fine,” he huffs, “175.”

“That's 700 dollars a month.”

“You asked.”

He did, and Peter’s already regretting it. “Deal,” he sighs—he’ll cancel his cable, and maybe the internet while he’s at it. Peter points two fingers at the kid. “But I want to see you once a week—I’m paying you for your time, so you can’t complain about missing…work.” 

The boy leans on his arm against the door frame. “See me?”

Peter has half a mind to straighten him by the shoulders, pull that hand out of his pocket, and order him to get that damn look off of his face, but instead he takes a liberal step back. “To talk about my cases.”

It’s clear that the boy doesn’t believe him. He tips his head back like something out of a perfume ad. “Don’t you have a team for that?”

“It took you a few seconds to figure out what it took a lab and a flock of Harvard grads 24 hours to tell me.”

“So you’re underpaying me?”

“Probably.”

“What if I don’t want to be your rat?”

Peter hadn’t thought about that—he’d figured the sheer excitement that radiated off the kid when he talked about those counterfeit bills was proof enough that he’d be interested. 

And clearly, for whatever reason, the kid needs cash that he isn’t getting from his exploits against the city’s banks. 

“You’d rather be doing this?”

For just ten seconds, Peter would like to be able to poke through the veil of nonchalant flirtation to get to the kid on the other side—the one that probably spends most days of his life scared. But the boy’s guard is up high and Peter can’t blame him. In retrospect, his discomfort at the pizza place was as close as Peter’s gotten to seeing honesty out of him and while Peter wishes he’d handled it differently, at least now he knows that there’s no way in hell that the kid likes what he’s doing. 

The teen’s defiant expression is claiming maybe I would— but that can’t be true when the very thought of Peter knowing how many tricks the kid had turned in a night had him squirming with shame. 

He sighs like he’s doing Peter a generous favor. “I get to pick the time.”

“Why? You got a busy schedule?”

“Yes, actually.”

Peter cringes. He hopes it’s not busy because of this. It can’t be, Dee Dee said herself: the kid’s not around that often. 

“I pick the place,” Peter counters. “I’m not spending any more time than I have to in shitty hotels full of—”

The kid smirks, “Whores?”

“Bedbugs.” And by god, Peter will only ever be meeting this kid in very public locations. Crowded. Well-lit. Lots of cameras.

“What are you going to tell your wife?”

“The truth.” When Peter only gets more mirth in response, he clarifies, “the whole truth.” 

He motions a hand at the kid. “Were you expecting someone?”

Peter doesn’t get a reply—rather, the teenager waits for him to answer his own question. Judging solely off of the hair, Peter’s going to say no. 

“Good. Then get your coat.”

The kid doesn’t budge. 

“Right,” Peter sighs, “that’s not how this works.” He pulls out his wallet, counts the cash out into the kid’s offered palm. It doesn’t only sting because Peter chose to live his life on a government salary, it also hurts because if someone from the bureau that pays Peter that salary saw him doing this…

The kid tucks the money away, grins at Peter salaciously. “I’m all yours.”

“First rule. Don’t say anything like that.”

He leans in, drops a hand on Peter’s arm, “Like what?”

“Second rule.” Peter plucks the boy’s fingers one by one from his suit. “Personal space.” 

The kid pretends to pout, and Peter further questions his life choices. “And don’t you have anything else to wear?”

“Not here now.”

“Next time, then.”

Peter waits in the hallway—the last thing he’s ever doing is stepping behind a closed door with this kid—while the boy gets his coat; Peter checks his email and taps his foot and mentally rehearses how he’s going to explain all this to his boss if anyone ever finds out, until the kid reemerges. He also took the time to fix his hair. Figures. 

“You hungry?” Peter asks as they start down the hall. 

“Lunch again?”

“If I don’t feed you, that wife you were so concerned with will kill me.”

The boy cocks his head, “You told her about me?”

“Of course.”

“I’m honored, Peter.”

“Don’t be. I tell her everything.”

-

Since the lunch rush has long passed, the cramped restaurant is quiet. Only one table is occupied—by an elderly woman with bug-eyed glasses—and the man who takes their order pulls down his phone from his ear, interrupting a loud conversation and wiping his hands on a rag that’s tossed over his shoulder, to be able to do so. 

This time, the kid doesn’t complain about the choice of cuisine, but he does still inform Peter that this gyro spot isn’t nearly as good as one five blocks over. Peter briefly considers introducing a rule three: no whining about food —but he decides that that would undermine the gravity of the first two standards of conduct. Comparatively, Peter will take the picky eating. 

The kid moves to choose a table, and Peter can’t help but note that he selects the one with the clearest path to the door, not to mention the seat with the least obstructed view of the floorspace. Peter takes a few bites of a gyro that tastes just fine by his standards, and then launches into a rundown on his counterfeiting case. A ten minute version of the two hour briefing that he might give someone new to his team—in a way, Peter supposes, the kid is. 

“Remember those bills I showed you? One of them was from this case—the better one.”

“It was a test print,” the kid fills in. Rather than eating his food, he’s found a much keener interest in futzing with the paper wrapper from his straw. 

“Right on the money.” Not that Peter expected anything less. 

The kid turns the wrapper in his hands, apathetic to the conversation at play. “You still haven’t caught the rest of the ring yet?”

“It’s not the movies, kid. We don’t solve cases in a day.” 

The boy pauses, quirks a look that may as well be him prodding Peter with his elbow. “If you spent less time following me around, maybe you would.”

“Very funny,” Peter intones dryly, “Now—”

“You’re trying to determine where they’ve set up their operation.”

“You sure you’re not a cop?”

“Pretty sure.”

Yeah, Peter’s inclined to agree. “We know they’re within the greater NYC area, but that doesn’t narrow it down a lot.”

“Presses are big and noisy,” the kid offers; he drops the straw wrapper down on the table and, Peter will be damned, he’s actually folded it into a flower. “It takes space and privacy to be able to run one. But you…already thought about that.”

“We did. There are still hundreds of feasible locations.”

Who knows, maybe the kid will have some ideas on what else might make a location infeasible, he seems to know plenty about this process—plenty more than he should. But today, that’s to Peter’s advantage; the problem with his team, often, is that they only ever manage to think like FBI Agents.

Peter lifts the briefcase he brought in with them from the car, perches it on the edge of the table to unlatch it. He sets a heavy folder, stuffed thick with printouts, down between the two of them, nudged beside plastic baskets lined with checkered paper. “You can look through this too.” It’s not everything, but it’s a good place to start in terms of the details of what they’ve dug up on this ring so far. 

Peter waits. For the kid to pick up the file, or ask a question, or do anything besides what he does do, which is to stare right back, confusion slowly bubbling up on his features.

“...you’re serious,” he says finally.

Now it’s Peter’s turn to be confused.

“About me helping with your cases.” The way the kid says it, he makes it sound like it’s a horrifying revelation.

“Of course I’m serious.”

The boy’s eyes drop down to the table. He swallows thickly. 

“You saw the bills, you heard the story,” Peter says, his tone as obvious as he feels this is, “and now you tell me what you think.”

The kid frowns. “What if I don’t have an opinion?”

“Then…come up with one.”

For some reason, this unconcerned conclusion seems to make the teenager even more nervous. He jostles his leg under the table. Slightly shaking it with his movement. The boy casts his eyes around the space, then finally comes back around to Peter. “Do you still have that bill on you?”

Peter does.

The kid holds the counterfeit up close to his nose, tilting it at different angles, tracing its surface. He doesn’t provide a single word of explanation on what he’s looking for. 

Peter would suggest that the case file might be of more use, but who is he to intervene in the kid’s process. 

“Dust,” the boy announces suddenly, looking up at Peter and exhaling in…relief?

“You’re going to have to spell that out more.”

“Dust,” the kid repeats, holding the bill out for Peter to see for himself. Peter doesn’t see anything that he hasn’t already. “That’s why the raised print is off. Wherever they have their press set up, there must have been particulates in the air that were interfering with the process. That’s why it’s so uneven.”

“How does knowing it’s dusty help us?”

“They would’ve tried to prevent this, so their location must be somewhere with unusually fine, hard to mitigate particulates.”

“You know the word mitigate,” Peter muses to himself. He’d call it precocious, but given the circumstances, it’s just more concerning that this kid speaks like he’s never interacted with anyone his own age. 

“Focus,” the kid cuts in flatly. 

Peter lifts a palm in surrender. “I am.”

“A mill, a factory,” the boy lists off eagerly, “It would be no longer running today, but it would have a thick layer of particles—flour, sugar, sawdust, something—on every surface. And high ceilings! That’s why they couldn’t fix it easily.”

“You…might be onto something here.”

The kid grins like it’s Christmas morning.

Peter pulls out his phone to message Diana.

“Worth the price tag?” the kid asks, sitting back and stirring the ice in his pebbled plastic cup with the straw.

“We’ll see.”

-

It turns out that there are only a handful of places within the greater NYC area that both fit the profile the kid came up with and fit with the parameters Peter’s team previously established. It also turns out that Diana only takes about 15 minutes to cross reference and text Peter a list.

When Peter’s phone buzzes on the table in a predictably short amount of time, he says a mental word of gratitude for the reliability of his team, and then starts pulling up addresses. 

The kid, pausing in his thumbing through of the case file, sits forward to peer at Peter’s phone screen upside down. 

“That one,” he spits out. 

“How do you know?”

He flips back in the file, slides out a credit card statement. “Your identity thief,” he explains. “Lynne Navarro bought a monthly parking pass at a garage on Kent Ave in Williamsburg. Twice.”

There’s only one address in Williamsburg; it’s two blocks away from Kent Avenue. 

“Damn, you’re good,” Peter breathes. At this rate, they might actually solve this case in a day and Peter will happily eat his words.

“We can take the L,” the kid nudges, his eyes twinkling with excitement, “Check it out.”

Peter’s already shaking his head. It’s one thing to let the kid play at detective, it’s another altogether to—

“If they’re running operations right now, there should be some sign.”

“I’ll send my team.”

“These guys will be able to sniff out an FBI van from a mile off. Come on, we’ll keep our distance.”

Peter’s unconvinced, and the boy’s pretty damn eager for someone who only very recently was questioning if he wanted to be giving a fed any information at all. Come to think of it…

Peter looks down at his watch. “Isn’t my hour up?”

The kid ignores the question, picking up his drink and slurping loudly from the straw. “Or I can go without you,” he shrugs. 

“ Absolutely not.”

“They won’t even notice I’m there. And I’m probably wrong about the address in the first place; I mean, what do I know, I’m just a—”

Peter holds out a hand to stop the onslaught. It miraculously works. “We can look,” he grumbles. “And I’ll drive.” The kid is out of his chair and moving towards the door before Peter has gotten out the final syllable.

-

“Park here,” the kid says, motioning out the windshield, “We should only get closer on foot.”

“Who put you in charge?” Peter throws back, irascible. 

He still pulls over to the curb anyway. 

Their address is one in a row of old industrial buildings along the shoreline. Weathered red brick steeped in the wet scent of the East River, with its slight but ever present notes of salt and sewage. Overlooking distant docks and murky gray brack water and the repetitive silhouettes of the Vladeck Houses beyond. 

From a distance, there’s no visible activity. The structures rot quietly in the rosy weak sunlight of December afternoon. 

As they approach, despite Peter having told him very explicitly to stay close, the kid still manages to slip out ahead of him. And Peter’s itch to administer a harsh reminder isn’t one he can scratch. Not in the case that this is the right address… 

He hurries after the boy as quickly as he can while still cautiously taking in his surroundings. 

The teen stops suddenly at the edge of the building adjacent to the one they’re here to surveil, yanks Peter by the arm against the wall closest to them, holding a finger to his lips to abort Peter’s protest. Peter flattens his back against the cold brick, watches in horror as the boy—who’s not the fucking trained federal agent here—pokes his head warily around the corner, then looks back to Peter’s scowl. 

“They’ve got security,” he says, at a volume barely above a whisper. He motions with his head for Peter to check it out himself. 

Peter pulls the kid behind him. Stuffs him back against the wall with his forearm. Then he takes a look. Sure enough, there’s a man—of the standard hired muscle variety—pacing along the side of the building, only partially paying mind to the cigarette he’s smoking.

“He’s making rounds,” Peter mumbles, as he watches the man wander towards the corner of the building closer to the water. 

The kid, trying to get a vantage around him, presses against Peter—way closer than what’s necessary and well beyond what Peter’s comfortable with. 

He pivots, pushes the kid away from his side with two fingers poked to the middle of his forehead. “Rule two, kid. Three steps back.” 

The boy raises his shoulders in defense. But the challenge in his expression makes what he’s defending clear: the kid isn’t attempting to claim innocence, he’s asking if Peter can blame him for trying. And the answer to that is yes. “You said it yourself,” Peter points out, “I’m not the type.”

“I’ve been wrong before,” the kid replies coolly. 

Peter doesn’t have words to respond to that; his face likely says enough. Or it would if the kid was looking at it; he ignores Peter, perking up, raising his chin to sniff the air. “Do you smell that?” 

“Smell what?”

The teen doesn’t answer; he ducks out from their cover, darting across towards the adjacent building. 

Peter’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head. 

“Kid,” Peter hisses after him, “Kid, get back here. ”

Peter is ignored. Predictably. And he does have words in response to that. He mouths them at the cracked pavement, then follows after the kid. 

The boy’s standing on tiptoe, his arm stretched above him, trying to reach the top edge of a large, sun-faded dumpster. 

“What are you doing?” 

The kid steps back, starts to peel off his coat. “Hold this,” he demands, offering the coat out to Peter, who’s too busy considering how much of a scene it will make for him to physically drag this kid all the way back to the car. Hell, Peter’s about one more reckless decision away from tossing the kid over his goddamn shoulder, kicking and screaming. 

The boy rolls his eyes at Peter’s uselessness in taking his fancy coat; he drapes it over a concrete bollard instead, then, to the backdrop of Peter’s indignation and protest, places a foot on the side of the dumpster and scrambles up the metal like a fucking monkey. 

Peter gawks. The kid drops in with a loud crunch. 

“Get out of there,” Peter demands—a demand that would be a lot louder if they weren’t still most likely within earshot of that guard. He peers over the lip of the dumpster. “Someone’s going to see you.”

The boy, poking around in the dumpster’s contents, is unaffected by Peter’s insistence; he doesn’t even look up. “See a street kid dumpster diving?” he poses dryly, “Oh the humanity.” 

Peter curses, not bothering to mumble it this time, turns away with a hand to his temple. The lookout they saw before still hasn’t come back around in his loop of the building. But who’s to say he won’t any minute. 

“Look,” the kid chimes, his voice muffled by the metal walls. 

The kid’s poking at the contents of a black 55 gallon bag. He holds up a finger. Stained. 

“Is that…?”

“Ink,” the teenager fills in. It might be the only possible word that could save him from the reaming out that Peter has pent up. “These guys are sloppy,” he adds, like it offends him personally. 

“I see you’ve gotten over your reservations about helping the feds,” Peter mutters, but he’s failing to maintain his frustration; after all, he’s about to have himself a counterfeiting ring on a silver platter. Currency stuff always gets political—Hughes is going to love this win. 

“Oh come on, they deserve to be caught.”

“You’d be better?”

“I am better. A-allegedly.”

“Mhm,” Peter hums, unamused, “Allegedly. And you swear you’ve never counterfeited currency before?”

“Never.” 

The kid scrambles up a pile of bags that are stacked high against the dumpster wall. Puts a foot up on the rusted metal to try and make his way out. 

“Need a hand?” Peter asks, watching the kid struggle to reach the top edge. 

“I got it,” the kid grunts, and to his credit, he does manage it. Perching on the lip of the dumpster and then climbing back down the wall the way he came. He drops to the pavement. 

“Are you calling your team?” he asks, looking at Peter's phone in hand. He pushes himself up from the crouch he landed in and dusts himself off with a screwed up expression of disgust on his face.

“I’d say this is enough to get me a warrant.” Peter pulls the boy’s coat off the bollard and offers it, the kid accepts with a nod of thanks. Peter turns him by his shoulder, “Come on. Car.” 

He walks them quickly back out of the line of sight of anyone coming around the building’s edge, his phone tucked against his ear. “Hey Diana—yeah, I’ve got something here.”

-

“So what other cases do you have?” the kid asks, before he’s even back into the passenger seat of Peter’s car. 

“A full sheet.”

The boy smiles at Peter’s side like he’s just discovered the best thing since sliced bread. “One less now?”

“Getting there.”

They drive through the pale latticework of the Williamsburg Bridge and Peter frowns at the approaching silhouette of lower Manhattan. “Am I really supposed to be taking you back to that shitty hotel?” he asks sourly. 

“You can take me wherever,” the kid slides back, and Peter doesn’t even bother with calling out the rule violation because he sees it for what it is: the unfair question gets an unfair answer. 

The boy reaches to fiddle with the radio; Peter swats his hand away. 

They’re silent until Peter’s dropping the kid off. The kid moves to unbuckle his seatbelt—which Peter did have to insist he wear—and hesitates, looks up at Peter and announces casually over the click of Peter’s hazards, “My friends call me Neal.”

Peter’s expression narrows. “Uh huh, and how many people have you used that line on before?”

“No, I mean it, Peter. My friends...they call me Neal.”

Peter hesitates, tapping his thumb against the steering wheel. “What am I supposed to get from that?” he asks, because Peter certainly doesn’t believe that 175 bucks and an afternoon dumpster diving has earned him the title of friend. 

Really, he thinks this is the same kind of thing that the kid’s been pulling all day. Testing the waters. Trying to see if Peter really means it when he says what he wants is the kid’s less than scrupulous know-how, not whatever else. Not a particular else. 

“You’re supposed to get that I’m tired of you calling me kid.”

“Is Neal your name?”

“It’s what people use.”

“Your real name?”

“What makes a name real?”

“Is it on your birth certificate?”

“No.”

“Why Neal then?”

The kid seems to consider this himself. “I like it,” he shrugs. 

“Neal it is,” Peter relents.

Chapter Text

“El,” Peter calls out, looping his tie over his collar with one hand, his shoes hanging from the other as he starts down the top of the staircase. “Have you seen my—”

All thoughts of where Peter’s wallet has gotten off to evaporate from his mind; he stops, mid-stride and part way down the stairs. His foot dangling in the air. 

Against the backdrop of a half taken down Christmas tree and early morning light, El, and the teenage boy sitting beside her on the couch, both look up at him. Peter’s grip drops off his tie, which dangles precariously from his neck. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his immediate concern rapidly being replaced with confusion, because the kid looks perfectly fine. The only thing wrong with this picture is the sheer incongruity of it. 

Neal flashes a toothy smile. “I was in the neighborhood,” he supplies casually…as if that enlightens Peter at all. 

He reaches down to pet the head of the dog that’s curled, traitorously, against his feet.

Peter’s gaze narrows. He pays to see this kid twice and now here he is, in Peter’s living room, chatting with his wife for— Well, actually, Peter has no idea how long. 

He descends past the landing, dropping his shoes at its base. “And you know what neighborhood that is… how exactly?”

Neal glances at El, but he’s not looking for a bailout—his bearing is smug, like he’s sharing an inside joke. 

El returns a sympathetic expression, a yes, he is always like this. 

“Don’t be rude, hon,” she scolds. El pats Neal on the shoulder affectionately. “Neal’s joining us for breakfast.”

The name makes Peter frown further. He’s not sure what he expected instead, but Neal immediately introducing himself to El isn’t it—not after the fuss the kid made about not telling Peter what to call him for weeks on end…

Peter looks suspiciously between the pair. They’re acting like a couple of middle school BFFs swapping notes. And, somehow, in this scene, he’s been cast as the killjoy of a homeroom teacher. “When did you two get so friendly?” 

Peter could ask the same question of Neal and Satch, but he expects it of Satch.

“We have a lot in common,” Neal offers.

“My wife. And a felon in the making?”

“You did stalk both of us.”

Peter gawks at El in betrayal. “Oh my god, you told him?”

“Of course I told him. He asked, and it’s our love story.”

The smirk blooming on Neal’s face informs Peter that he’s never going to hear the end of this. Every damn week it’s going to be jokes about Italian food and awkward flirting. As if the kid didn’t already have ammunition enough.

“A surveillance team, Peter. Really?”

Peter claps his hands together. “Breakfast,” he announces, pivoting to the kitchen. “Are we doing that?”

Luckily for him, the dynamic duo concedes to the suggestion. 

Neal drops into a seat at the kitchen table as if he’s belonged there all his life. Calling Satchmo over and beaming when the dog listens to him—because of course he fucking listens to him. Won’t sit on command unless Peter’s got a gourmet treat grasped in his fist, but for Neal he’ll sit, shake, lay, and roll over like Neal’s doing him the favor. 

And Peter’s not sure who’s more entranced here. “You ever had a pet?” he asks, reaching to pour himself coffee.

Neal shakes his head. 

Shockingly, given all the fastidiousness Peter’s seen so far, the kid doesn’t seem to care that Satchmo’s attention is getting hair all over his clothes. Maybe it’s not so shocking…Neal did willingly—no, eagerly— climb into a dumpster. 

Peter’s got to give the boy some credit: the clothes, at least, are more appropriate for the setting this time around.

At their prior meeting, on a Monday night after work, Neal had shown up dressed like he was playing hooky from a bar mitzvah—and an expensive bar mitzvah at that. He only stayed exactly an hour, said very little, and had seemed distracted the entire time. He’d also reacted to Peter’s being gone the following week, on account of visiting family upstate for Christmas, as if the concept itself was bewildering. 

When Peter had attempted to tail Neal after, Neal had thwarted him by slipping through a dry cleaners—an establishment that Peter’s now banned from. 

The current sweater and chinos are much more forgivable, though they look high enough quality to raise all of the same questions that Peter had about that ridiculous suit. 

“Help yourself, Neal,” El comments offhandedly, and Neal, with a hesitant glance in her direction, does. He pours himself a bowl of cereal as El pulls out a chair to join them.

“So what’s troubling the FBI today?” Neal asks, digging his spoon into his bowl. 

Peter looks at El meaningfully.

“What?” Neal questions.

“There’s no work at the table,” he explains. 

El waves away Neal’s concern. “I’ll make a one-time exception.”

“For him?”

“Neal’s a guest.”

A very impromptu guest. Borderline intruder.

El might buy a casual visit, but Peter knows better than to take Neal’s presence at face value—the kid definitely wants something. Even if that something is just to prove a point about who’s capable of ambushing who. 

“Was there a reason you decided to stop by?” he asks Neal. “Cause we can’t work now, I have to be at the office in—”

“I can’t do Wednesday anymore like I said. We’ll have to do Saturday afternoon.”

“I see. And you couldn’t have…sent a text?”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“You don’t, huh?” Peter finds that very hard to believe. 

“And I don’t have your number.”

“And yet you have my address?”

Neal shrugs. 

“Hon,” El warns, “No interrogations at the table.” 

Clearly, Peter’s not in the running for any one-time exceptions. 

He settles for talking about his mortgage fraud case instead. A practice run of the briefing he’s got to deliver in an hour and a half anyways. 

Neal pulls on a convincing sheen of engagement. Though, he’s also not managing to mask the overwhelming undercurrent of being too damn pleased with himself. When El offers him orange juice, he lights up like he’s just been handed a check with an attractive number of zeros. He’s overly polite and looks to El for a reaction at every turn, and if Neal weren’t a literal child, Peter would say that Neal was trying to charm his wife. 

Come to think of it, he may still be trying to do exactly that.

Peter continues through his spiel uninterrupted until El finally stands up, dumps the last dregs from her coffee cup into the sink, and hoists her purse up onto her shoulder.

“I’m meeting Yvonne at the office,” she explains. “You boys have fun.”

“Love you, sweetheart,” Peter tells her.

El pulls Peter in by his still unknotted tie, kisses him on the cheek. “We’ll talk tonight?” she says as she leans back, her hand on the base of Peter’s neck.

“Tonight.”

El makes her way out the door, and Peter rubs at El’s coral lipstick on his cheek; he catches Neal watching with amusement.

“Talk, huh?” Neal teases, raising his eyebrows at the remaining milk in his bowl. 

“Rule one.”

“How is that—”

“Mind,” Peter points, “Out of the gutter.”

Peter leaves Neal at the table—the kid’s back to playing with the dog and surreptitiously examining his surroundings—as he finishes gathering what he needs to be able to leave for work. Ties his tie. Slips on his shoes, noting that Neal politely left his by the rack. Adjusts his shoulder holster and service weapon, which Neal observes very closely. 

“What are you looking for?” Neal asks at last, as he watches Peter circle through the kitchen. 

“My wallet.”

“It’s on the coffee table.”

Peter’s too close to risking being late to his own meeting to express how he feels about Neal knowing that. “You’ve got somewhere to be Neal?” he asks; he palms his car keys and Neal swings himself from the chair. “I can drop you.”

“No thanks.”

“Sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“I won’t be at work on Saturday, but I can come downtown to—”

“I’ll come here.”

“Or you can come here,” Peter finishes, sounding more amused than put off, despite his best efforts. 

-

True to his word, Neal shows up on Peter’s doorstep a few minutes after 1pm on Saturday; he immediately inquires after El, who’s out at a work event. 

“You’re stuck with just me and Satch this time around.”

Neal scratches at the dog’s ear. “At least Satchmo makes for good company.”

Peter’s pulled a few outstanding case folders that Neal may find of interest, and Neal must be in a generous sort of mood again, because they talk through a charity fraud case for well over an hour. Peter starts making them sandwiches while Neal very enthusiastically gives a demonstration of how an exit scam works using what he’s plucked from the counter fruit bowl. It’s not like Peter needs a refresh, but the kid’s so damn excited about it that Peter doesn’t bother to point that out.

“How do you know all of this stuff?” he poses as Neal’s replacing the scattered fruit. Peter points a mustard stained butter knife in the boy’s direction, “And don’t say reading.”

Neal palms the last remaining apple. Leans back against the countertops. “How do you know it?” 

“Experience. And training. And…I had a good mentor when I was starting out.”

Neal tosses the apple up in the air, catches it. He takes a greedy bite. “That’s about the sum of it.” 

They’re working on an art forgery cold case of Peter’s, Satchmo drooling in Neal’s lap, when El comes back through the front door.

She doesn’t question why Neal’s still there, she asks if he’s staying for dinner.

Peter makes a pot roast. The Orange Bowl blares on the TV while he works in the kitchen—Neal frowns at college football like it’s personally out to get him, so it’s safe to say that Peter’s teenage self and this kid would not have gotten along.

It’s plain wrong. Peter can't imagine his childhood without sports—baseball, in particular. That’s about the only thing that he’s certain a teenage boy should like. 

When Peter tries to interrogate if there's a sport that Neal does enjoy—hockey, basketball, hell something pretentious like lacrosse—Neal makes a comment about Bill Benter. Professional horse betting. That's what Neal might be interested in learning about. Peter should've seen it coming.

He mentally resolves that one of these weeks he's dragging this kid with him to Madison Square Garden for a Rangers game.

Instead of indulging Peter's chagrin, Neal chats with El about her work, and from the ideas he springs about the gala El’s planning for a physicians’ society, you’d think Neal was the reigning expert on upscale events. 

The model houseguest act continues. Neal compliments Peter on his cooking, makes El snort with his jokes, and tries to sweet talk Peter into pouring him a glass of the wine El’s drinking.

“But it’s a Buccella Cabernet Sauvignon,” Neal protests, as if this means something. Peter’s not even certain it means something to Neal.

“Is that good?”

“It’s very good,” El admits. “A vendor gifted it to me, it goes for a few hundred a bottle.”

“Make a fake that’s 21 next time,” Peter tells Neal, who perks up with hope. 

“Would that work?”

“No.”

Neal finally excuses himself for the night, with the ridiculous assertion that he’ll be taking a train back to…wherever the hell he’s going. Peter's already called a cab. That was the best antidote he could come up with to his strange compulsion to lock this kid in the guest bedroom instead. That and the fact that locking Neal anywhere would constitute kidnapping. Of a minor. 

El shoves cash in Neal’s hand to pay for said cab before he or Peter can get a word out in protest.

Then Neal’s out the door, and the house falls quiet, and Peter remembers that he’s subjected El to an evening of…well, an evening full of Neal, without her permission or as much as a warning. 

That’s not to mention Neal’s breakfast appearance. 

They have a policy about unexpected guests. Once, El came home to the majority of the White Collar division, plus a few agents from Organized Crime, all crowded around her kitchen table. The fridge was empty, El hadn't tidied, and Peter didn't see a problem with that—his people could all go hungry and overlook a few dirty dishes. El...did not hold the same opinion. Peter, of course, has since come to see that his opinion was unequivocally the wrong one.

“I’m sorry, hon,” he sighs out, “he’s…”

“I love him,” El blurts. Which isn’t where Peter saw that going.“He’s brilliant. Did you see what he did for these centerpieces?” El reaches for a sheet of paper from the impromptu event planning HQ that’s overrun the coffee table. It’s a sketch—a tall vase and a floral arrangement. Neal’s labeled the flower varieties.

“You should see the checks.”

El tucks the sketch back atop a half finished seating chart; her face is averted, but Peter still sees her features fall.

“El?” he asks. He eases a hand on her shoulder. 

El looks back up with eyes that are swimming with tears.

Normally, Peter doesn’t do weeping and women—El’s not much of a crier and he’s grateful for it. Beyond grateful. This time, though, he gets it. He might even feel it himself.

El’s throat trembles through a swallow. “I can’t believe that…” 

“I know.” 

“It makes me sick to even...” 

“I have to do something,” Peter mutters darkly. He’s suddenly tempted to kick the leg of the couch beside him. Instead, he squeezes El’s shoulder a little harder.

“You are doing something.”

“It’s not enough.” 

Peter’s compulsion to action doesn’t disappear with a good nights’ sleep.

“What's this?” El asks the following morning, coming to stand over Peter's shoulder and offering him a piece of toast, which he accepts with a grunted thanks.

“I called the cab company," he explains, still frowning at his phone though there’s nothing else it can do for him. “Managed to get the driver to tell me where he dropped Neal off last night.”

“You think Neal's up to something?”

“He's always up to something.”

“And the cabbie remembered?”

“He did.” The thinly veiled threats and a heavy dose of the word FBI certainly helped with that. “Neal asked to be left on a random corner near Central Park—73rd and Madison. And someone was waiting there to pick him up, in a town car with blacked out windows.”

El frowns, her lips pinched together. “That’s suspicious.”

“That’s an understatement,” Peter grumbles back. It’s nothing good. There’s no doubt about that. Peter just isn’t sure which kind of bad he’d prefer it to be. 

“Where do you think he goes?” 

“No clue.” And it seems like it might be a lot of places, from how the kid talks about the city. Peter rubs at his brow. “Wish I could throw a GPS tracker on the kid.”

“Can’t you?”

“Not without a warrant.” 

-

The following week, Peter broaches the topic. He sternly waits for Neal to put on his seatbelt, and then with a few more nervous pats of the heel of his hand on the steering wheel, he rips off the bandaid. Clears his throat. 

“If you need a place to stay…” 

He and El talked about it. Neither of them were comfortable with the idea of Neal, in a pinch, having nowhere to go. Peter’d rather have to move anything and everything of value within his home into the gun safe than have Neal end up sleeping on the street some night because he doesn’t have enough cash. 

Even as Peter’s extending it, he knows the invitation is falling on deaf ears. There’s no way in hell the kid’s ever going to take Peter up on the offer. Still—it needs to be said. Needs to be gotten off of Peter’s chest…and, more importantly, his conscience. 

“I have a place to stay.”

“But you don’t stay there,” Peter points out. The kid’s choosing to stay in hotels that may as well be reclassified as black mold incubators or superfund sites. That tells Peter all he needs to know about whatever the alternative is. 

“I don’t like to be tied down.”

Peter reaches to flick his turn signal; drops his hand down to motion at the horrible jeans. They’re back. Peter’s noticed it, because how could he not? 

“Why are you doing this?” 

“Spending money.”

That—against all odds—may be a worse answer than anything Peter could come up with. Kids who want spending money mow lawns or sell lemonade or get a babysitting gig, they don’t…“Why are you out there when you can cash a single phony check and have spending money for a month?” 

Not that Peter’s endorsing felonies here— he isn’t, and he thinks that’s clear from his demeanor. But, god help him, he’d rather Neal be committing the damn felonies than be the fucking victim of them. 

Peter’s braced for Neal to point out the hypocrisy of the question, or at least to play off the accusation. He doesn’t do either, instead he looks at Peter with what very well may be simple honesty. 

“It’s not enough.”

The honesty—if that’s what it is—is disturbing. Peter checks his blind spot aimlessly, looking for a way to ease the tension. “What the hell are you spending it on?” he mutters incredulously, after a few long seconds. “You told me you weren’t buying those goddamn snails…”

“I’m not.”

“What, then?”

“Expenses.”

If these are expenses, then they’re the expenses of a gambling addict—one who bets risky and has some really shit luck to pair with it. Maybe Peter should’ve lent more credence to that horse racing comment. 

Or maybe Peter does need to reconsider if the kid is using… 

He doesn’t look like an addict. 

“Are you feeding a family of five?”

“No.”

“Are you on drugs?”

Now the kid’s offended. “No.”

The heater whirs and a distant car honks as the low rumble of Giants commentary on the radio cuts to an ad for Morgan & Morgan. 

“I’m…” Neal doesn’t find the end of his sentence before he thinks better of it. “What’ve you got for me today?” he sighs out instead. 

Peter wavers. He shouldn’t let the kid off this easy—he shouldn’t let him off at all. But the way Neal’s sitting up slightly straighter now, and the way Peter can feel the weight of the kid’s attention on him, it makes Peter certain that he’s going to get nowhere with this line of questioning. Neal’s tightening up instead of loosening. 

“I think you’ll like this one,” Peter concedes. Despising himself already for doing so. “Given how you talked about that—what was it? Bu…rella?”

“Buccella?”

“Yeah, that.”

“Your case is wine related?”

Peter nods. “It’s hot off the presses too, just made it to my desk this morning.”

Chapter Text

The kid’s leaned effortlessly against the brick wall like he’s the protagonist of a film noir, and not a teenager whose hair is fluffed out in all directions by the veritable wind tunnel that Manhattan’s creating this morning. Neal waves upon seeing Peter. He straightens up and straightens his scarf, strolling lazily in Peter’s direction, as the other people on the sidewalk hurry around him. 

“Guess what?” Neal asks—he’s wearing a shit eating grin like it’s a warning sign. 

“What?” Peter replies cautiously. Excitement on Neal can be a good thing, sure. But too much excitement on Neal…

“For our forgery, you’d need 18th century French beeswax, right? And you’d need a bottle that could reasonably pass for the same period, with the characteristic shape of the 1787 Lafite.” 

Peter hums his agreement—he’s not going to get a word in edgewise anyways.   

“Well, I have it on good authority that one of the best sources for both wax and bottle would be an H.M. Borges Madeira. Not a lot of those floating around. But, there’s a collector who runs a private auction house, Ray Copeland. He has one of the most extensive cellars in the city— and he owns three bottles of Borges from the 1790s.”

Neal steps back, smiles at Peter like he’s waiting for something—in the way that Satchmo does when standing by his bowl.

Whatever accolades Neal wants, he’s not going to get them, because Peter hasn’t made it to the flood of information, he’s stuck on the preamble. “Who exactly is this good authority?” 

“A friend.”

“You sure have a lot of friends. When can I meet any of them?” 

“This one—not any time soon.”

This one, Peter’s particularly interested in, because he’s got a good feeling that this friend is the mentor that Neal alluded to previously. “Why’s that?”

Neal gives Peter a pointed look. 

Right. Neal’s kind of friends aren’t the type to fraternize with law enforcement. Ironically, that’s precisely why Peter would like to meet them…

“It’s nothing personal, Peter, I’m sure you’re great at parties.”

“Alright, alright,” he waves off. Peter gets the idea—he doesn’t need Neal to verbally paint fed across his forehead. 

He motions for Neal to walk with him—Neal might be content to linger on the street corner being cut through by icy wind, but Peter’s not so keen. 

“So I should have my people check out this Copeland guy?”

“You could do that.” It is obvious that Neal does not think Peter should do that. 

“...or?” Peter sighs. 

“Or we could go check him out ourselves,” Neal suggests, barely trying to sound noncommittal about the idea, because he’s practically glittering. “He’s hosting a tasting this afternoon. We could talk our way in.”

Peter raises his brow. “And how exactly would that work?” 

Neal likes to forget that he’s a child, but Peter doubts that sentiment extends to staff of a wine auction house. There can’t be any we involved here. 

“You talk your way in,” Neal corrects, his tone implying that Peter’s being purposefully obtuse. “You’re a wealthy buyer, and oenophile of course, interested in the lot of 66 Gaia that you hear Copeland just acquired in Italy. It’s supposed to go up for auction next week—maybe you want to try to negotiate a private sale before that.” The boy nods at Peter in appraisal, “I think you can pull it off…” He hesitates, frowns in looking Peter over. “If,” he motions, “We lose that tie. And find you some cufflinks. I’ll tell you everything to say.”

“Uh-huh, and who are you exactly in this scenario?”

Neal straightens back his shoulders. “I’m the bratty step-kid you got stuck with for the day. Copeland’s team will invite you into the tasting; you ask to see the facilities, voilà—we get to see if Copeland’s still got all three Borges bottles.”

“You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?” It would be impressive—and maybe even helpful—if it weren’t also downright insane. 

“Of course I have.” 

They come to a stop at the curb. 

“Alright,” Peter capitulates, as Neal reaches to press the button for the crosswalk. “We’ll check it out, but—” His remaining words die in his throat. “What the hell is this?”

Peter catches Neal’s arm in the air before he retracts it. 

A near perfect approximation of surprise flashes across Neal’s face—he looks down at Peter’s grip. At the bruise peeking out from under his coat sleeve in consideration, as if it’s the first time he’s seeing it himself. “I slipped on some ice.”

The bullshit excuse bounces off Peter’s ears. He shoves Neal’s sleeve back further, in pursuit of the discoloration that’s crawling up the side of the kid’s arm. Neal’s weight shifts between his feet, the narrow fighting off of the instinct to pull away. 

“The sidewalk did this.” 

There’s no way in hell; it’s offensive that Neal even thinks Peter might buy that—that he’s attempting the lie at all. 

“A curb,” Neal specifies; he swings his other arm out in front of him in a mock reenactment of the event—catching himself from an invisible fall. 

Peter stares back in flat disbelief. Sure, maybe Neal fell on something. Maybe even a curb. But it wasn’t because of some public works guy forgetting to salt a sidewalk. And a curb doesn't explain why some of the bruising curls around Neal’s wrist. 

Neal worms his arm free. Shakes out his sleeve. “You’re overthinking this,” he says, and his eyes crease at the corners in a way that informs Peter that the overthinking happening is exactly the right amount. 

Peter nods his chin at the scarf that the boy has pulled up to his jaw. “Did the curb also wrap itself around your neck?”

Neal cringes. He tucks the front of the scarf tighter in a subconscious twitch. 

And Peter’s gut tumbles over itself. He was taking a shot in the dark. Now, he has to summon every bone of restraint in his body to not rip the damn scarf off in order to see whatever’s hidden beneath. Not that he can’t guess. Even with the vast majority of his career being in White Collar, he’s still seen enough to be able to fill in the blanks. Peter knows what he’d find, and maybe that’s why he wants to find it, to have the chance to be proven wrong. To see something, anything, other than telltale bruises that feather out at the edges to the shape of fingerprints. 

“What do you want from me?” Neal asks, wounded, as if Peter’s concern is an insult. 

“The truth.”

“You don’t want that.”

The crosswalk light turns and Neal starts into the street with the other gathered pedestrians, leaving Peter behind on the tactile mat. Blinking for a few moments of uncertain shock. 

Peter jogs across the intersection to catch back up. 

“Bahn mi or ramen?” Neal chirps, as Peter reaches his side. 

Peter’s teeth grind together tighter. He doesn’t think he can produce a single syllable right now that he wouldn’t regret saying to this kid. And this time, that has nothing to do with profanity. 

Already, Peter’s only maintained his patience out of strategic need, not genuine tolerance or anything close to resembling it. But this? This pushes it over a line. Or perhaps just reveals the starkness of the line that Peter’s been trying to straddle this whole time—telling himself it was blurry, when it was clear as day. 

“I’m thinking ramen,” Neal supplies, conveniently oblivious to the crisis of morality that’s occurring right beside him. Neal must also think that Peter’s not capable of producing anything he wants to hear. “There’s a place near here that does Kitakata style, the noodles are thicker and…”

Neal continues to babble; Peter doesn’t take any of it in. He’s too busy wondering if this was the result of a sketchy situation that Neal narrowly escaped, or if he was expecting it? Fuck, Peter doesn’t even know what’s better or worse. He doesn't even know if it matters. 

A doctor needs to check Neal over—Peter should be taking the kid to an ER. The bruising on Neal’s arm screams careless, and carelessness means windpipe and voice box damage. Hell, Neal could be walking around with a broken hyoid for all Peter knows. 

“Alright.” 

The sudden dully announced word, a stark shift in Neal’s tone, jolts Peter from his rage-colored reverie. 

“Get it out of your system,” Neal says. He steps back from Peter, straightens himself like he’s an army recruit about to receive a dressing down at bootcamp. “Say your piece,” he prods. Neal waits another beat of silence. “Or maybe you can write it up,” he offers blithely, “Like in one of those brochures the Jehovah’s Witness people give out—and hand me one every time. That would save us both the—”

“Thirty minutes, Neal,” Peter breathes in a rush, finding his voice again. 

“So it’s a no on the brochure idea?”

“You don’t even have to say anything. For thirty minutes, will you just hear Agent O’Connell out on this? Listen to what she has to say.”

“I’m sure she’s very nice.”

“She is.”

“A real professional.”

“Neal,” Peter begs.

Neal’s face remains steady. Earnest to a goddamn fault. “I have it under control.”

Peter’s frustration hardens in his chest. He flicks a hand at the scarf. “ That is control?”

“Yes.”

And, that, is delusional. “El and I—”

“Look, I appreciate it, Peter. I really do, but—”

“I’m being generous here,” Peter cuts off harsher. “This is evidence, I can do something about this.”

Neal stares for a moment. “Are you going to?”

“Yes.” Peter says it before he even thinks about it, but as soon as the confirmation has left his lips he knows that it’s true. He doesn’t have any other choice; he’s never had any other choice. It’s his fault for needing that to be painted out in purple across Neal’s pale skin for him to come to terms with it.

But the hurt—and, more poignantly, the lack of surprise—on Neal’s face does sting. 

Neal nods expectantly to himself, his jaw tight with all the words he does not say. He looks older than he is. Not in the way he normally attempts, in a way that’s tired. 

Guilt tastes sour in Peter’s mouth. 

The wind carries Neal’s hair across his brow, and he fixes it habitually. Looks back to Peter as just a kid again—a kid who’s pulling the same eyes that Satch uses when he’s begging for whatever’s on Peter’s plate. 

“Can we at least follow up on Copeland first?” 

Peter can’t believe what he’s hearing. 

“Please,” Neal adds. “Then, you can…do whatever you have to.”

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose. Paces in a circle between a stone facade and a mail dropbox. 

“If anything’s broken…”

“I told you, you’re over—”

“A full work up at the hospital, and you’re going back with me to the office.”

Neal tips up his palms, “You’re the boss.” 

Yeah, and when has that ever been true? Peter sighs. “Where are we supposed to be going?”

This is exactly why Satchmo’s vet just put him on a diet. 

-

The room is airy and bright, lit by broad windows and light piano, beneath which conversation tinkles from the clusters of guests who accept taster glasses poured for them by men in identical powder gray suits. It’s pretentious as all hell. 

“Right this way, gentlemen,” the member of Copeland’s staff motions—a woman with a slick ginger bun, who introduced herself as Abigail. 

Peter follows her lead through a set of double doors and to the top of a broad staircase, which she starts down.

“Told you it’d be easy,” Neal mumbles at Peter’s side, and Peter shushes him with a harsh look. 

It’s pretty early for Neal to be gloating when Peter’s still not certain that this whole plan isn’t going to backfire and blow up in his face at any moment. It’s downright bold for Neal to be gloating when Peter shouldn’t be indulging this excursion at all. 

Plus, he’s not forgiven Neal yet for this stupid skinny tie that the kid insisted they needed to make a thrift shop pit stop for.

“How old’s your son, Mr. Mahoney?” Abigail asks. She shifts her clipboard in her arms, smiles back at Neal in her first direct acknowledgement of the boy so far. Neal insisted that people would look right over the step-kid tag along, and to Peter’s surprise, so far he’s been right. Maybe that, in addition to the obvious, is why Neal’s not been playing up to his usual level of charm. 

“Twelve,” Peter replies; he ignores the burn of Neal’s glare on the side of his face. 

“I’m not—” Neal starts to protest. 

“His birthday’s in a couple of weeks,” Peter chuckles. “He’s getting ahead of himself.”

“Aw, happy birthday!”

“Thanks,” Neal answers, unconvincingly. Or, maybe very convincingly, if he’s going for doesn’t want to be here. 

“Have you decided what you want?”

“Oh he has.”

“We’re going to the Riviera,” Neal fills in. 

The base of the stairs reveals a vast wine cellar behind a wall of glass. Dark bottles on racks that stretch to the ceiling, reaching back far enough to make the zeros climb in Peter’s head on Copeland’s insurance policy.

“Here we are.” Abigail crosses to a door set into the glass. She bends slightly, thanks to the height of her heels, to punch a code into a keypad. “As you can see, Ray truly prides himself on his collection.”

“And on securing it?” Neal asks. Peter’s blood pressure takes a measurable leap.

If the kid’s going to keep finding ways to tag along on Peter’s cases, they’re going to have to have a talk about subtlety.  

Abigail presses her thumb down against a reader. “Yes, keypad and fingerprint on both sides.”

“Can’t be overridden?” 

Okay, now Peter’s certain Neal has to be pushing it on purpose. The kid can read a room quite well from what Peter’s observed—there’s no way he’s missing the veritable flashing lights and sirens of Peter’s wanting him to back down.

He drops his hand on Neal’s head, ruffles his hair, “He’s been reading too many spy novels lately. Haven’t you, bud?”

“Only staff have an override code,” Abigail indulges politely. The door unlocks with a loud electronic click. She holds the thick glass open for Neal and Peter to pass through. Picks back up with a stock script as they move down one of the tall aisles of wine. Commenting on state of the art facilities and collection highlights and a wonderfully velvety, but not cloying, Château d'Yquem that Peter can taste when they return upstairs. 

Unfortunately, Abigail’s attentiveness as a host is to Peter’s detriment. 

Then again, he doesn’t have a clue what he’s supposed to be looking for—he can only hope that Neal, who’s trailing along after Peter’s insufferable wine connoisseur act, is having some better luck. If he is, he’s not showing it. His eyes are glazed over in boredom. 

The tour is very brief, they only walk down the length of one of the tall racks, before Abigail is leading them back out of the cellar to return to the tasting. 

“Come on, son,” Peter intones, when Neal drags his feet behind them. 

Of course, Peter would love to taste that Château d'Yquem; he’s been exploring Sauternes more, as of late. Dropping that comment earns Peter a glimpse of Neal’s pleasant surprise. 

The damn wine is anything but pleasant. It’s… Peter doesn’t know—it’s white, it’s sweet, it doesn’t taste much like a beer. But he spends nearly five minutes chatting with Abigail about its distinct saffron nose and levels of acidity before some man with a thick mustache, another tasting patron—a patron saint for Peter—pulls Abigail aside to ask her a question. 

Neal nudges Peter’s side. “Let's go.”

Peter agrees with the sentiment, but he’s surprised Neal’s suggesting it. Given the circumstances. 

He turns his head to say as much—Neal’s slipping back towards the double doors. Peter, with a nervous glance at Abigail, who’s fully engaged by Mr. Mustache still, starts after him. 

The kid’s taking the stairs down to the cellar two at a time. 

“Neal,” Peter hisses, “What are—”

“We need a closer look, don’t we?”

“Sure, but how exactly—”

Neal pulls on the handle of the glass door—a door that should be impenetrably locked. It glides open with no effort. Something falls to the ground from the latch as it does. 

Peter doesn’t step through the door despite Neal’s head motion insistence. He stoops to investigate. Picks back up his own credit card. 

“I borrowed it.”

“When were you planning on giving it back?”

“After this.” Neal holds out his hand. “Come on, we don’t have forever.”

Peter, muttering, hands back the card, which Neal eases carefully, as the door closes, between the sides of the latch. He must’ve done the same thing while trailing them before. 

“State of the art means they didn’t think about the obvious stuff,” Neal tells Peter. 

“They should’ve hired you,” he returns dryly. 

Neal’s already heading towards the racks. “I think I saw the Borges when we were walking through before.” 

The kid leads Peter, who’s increasingly hoping that no one else today is feeling up for a tour, up and down rows of wine racks. He finally comes to a stop. 

“Here we go.” Neal starts to reach for an opaque, unassuming bottle, on his toes to reach. 

“Don’t—”

Peter’s word of warning does nothing, because Neal’s already pulled the bottle down. Hands all over it, turning it by its neck in examination. 

So much for any prints Peter might’ve gotten off of it…

“Look, some of the wax has been removed.”

Peter examines the rack. “And I only see one other bottle.”

“Do you think Copeland did it himself, or…?”

“You heard what Abigail said, could be a staff member, they have access.” And a lot more incentive to need to make some cash. Copeland clearly has too much already, given that he’s burning it on old, rotten grapes. 

Peter holds his hands out for the bottle. “Let me look at that.”

“Why?”

“Cause I want to take a picture of the wax in case this isn’t here anymore when we come back in a more official capacity.” Neal might only like the mystery, but Peter needs evidence. 

Neal surrenders the bottle like he’s sad to let it go. 

It sure doesn’t look like anything special to Peter. Dusty, murky glass and a yellowed label. But hey, what does he know? 

He fishes out his phone. 

“There's a fortune in here,” Neal intones, trailing a hand down along the row of wine bottles.

“Don’t get any ideas,” Peter mutters distractedly.

Neal ducks around the end of the rack, “That’s a 1921 Pol Roger.”

Evidence secured, Peter shoves his phone back into his pocket. Reaches up to carefully return the bottle, positioning it the way they found it. 

“Neal, let’s go.”

Peter realizes a moment too late that Neal’s no longer in the adjacent row of wine. A moment before he hears a mechanical click. The deafening sound of his own stupidity.  

By the time Peter makes it to seeing the glass wall, all he’s seeing is Neal’s back on the other side of it. 

His eyes bug wide. 

“Neal,” Peter yanks on the handle of the locked door, with all his weight. Jiggles the handle. “Open this back up right now.” 

He bangs his fist against the thick glass, but it only makes a dull thump. 

“Neal, right now!”

Neal, at the base of the stairs, turns around. He mouths a sorry, then shrugs up his hands. A gesture of fair is fair.  

“Open the goddamn door, Neal.”

Neal turns away. Leaving Peter still hollering after him, his voice likely silenced by the same state of the art bullshit that’s trapping him in. 

The last trace of Neal’s shoes disappear back up the stairs.

Chapter Text

It takes Peter five days—that’s gotta be some kind of record on his part. 

Five days of little sleep and short tempered remarks to every poor soul in his vicinity and the all encompassing focus that possesses him when he’s deep in a case like this—the kind of focus that, more typically, has Peter still up reading files with El asleep beside him, turned away from the lamp. 

In this instance, there aren’t any files to read and Peter doesn’t bother going to bed. 

He'd sat in Hughes’ office, taking the chewing out of a lifetime, and hardly paid any attention. Hughes was baffled at Peter’s lack of explanation, and lack of attempt to give explanation, but Peter was too busy drafting an affidavit in his head. Besides, if Hughes was going to fire him, he would’ve led with that, not a lecture. Reese eventually gave up, kicked Peter out, and Peter went right back to his own office. Settled in and started typing. He's got a judge or two that likes him, and it wasn’t hard to make a justification if he was willing to overlook his own interpretation of the facts.  

It took him a day and a half to get the warrant. 

Which isn’t surprising, Peter fully expected that to be the easy part. Surveilling a lackey or fall guy to find the real deal is a time-worn tactic, so a warrant with Nick Halden’s name on it in connection to check fraud: piece of cake. 

What Peter expected to be harder was actually finding Neal again. 

What he didn’t expect at all was Neal going right back to his same stomping grounds. Pretty dumb for a kid so smart. 

Then again, blowing an FBI agent’s cover by locking him in a wine cellar—that’s a hell of a lot dumber. 

A few well articulated threats to employees at the cluster of hotels Peter’s linked the kid to and a bugged key fob got him the rest of the way. Got him here. To sitting, at half past one in the morning, in the dimmed interior of a car he loaned from the bureau, watching a red dot shift on his phone screen and listening to the static purr in his earpiece. 

An hour ago, he couldn’t believe his luck. An hour ago, this had felt like a break in a case, and though Peter’s learned the hard way to never celebrate until it’s over over, he’d still been relieved. Maybe even smug. Because, admittedly, Peter can’t say that he appreciates that Neal’s nearly gotten him beaten up, or arrested, or possibly both, two separate times now. He especially can’t say he appreciates that this time it cost him a case. 

And Peter didn’t listen to that lecture, but Hughes’ tone hadn’t come across as real appreciative either. 

Now, with the car off and the chill slowly creeping in through the glass of the car windows, Peter isn’t feeling so lucky. Glad he left his coat on, maybe.

There’s dread lodged in his gut. 

An hour of careful trailing and a lot of silence has been boring enough to give Peter time to change his mind. It’s not luck at all, is it?

How many places in Manhattan can the kid use for what he’s doing—how many have management so willing to turn a blind eye? Out of those, how many can he actually afford, and how many are close enough to streets Neal can work? 

It’s simple ratios. The smugness is dead and buried. 

Outside, a dangling stop light blinks red. The liquor store down on the corner of the next block has blaring LED signs of the same hue, harsh enough to make Peter’s head hurt, and to shimmer on the paint jobs of the parked cars that line the darkened street. 

Peter shifts back to get a better vantage of the murky shape that’s moving down the sidewalk, passing through blips of light and shadow. Under glowing yellowed plastic that advertises a restaurant in Mandarin first, then chipping English. 

Besides the seizure inducing liquor store, the windows of a laundromat are the only point of clear, bright light in view. They gaze out onto the street, revealing a sparse interior of fluorescence and aged linoleum and swishing silver machines. The canopy above has lost a bulb or two, so tonight, it’s no longer a laundromat, it's a lau mat, and Peter will regrettably never know how many dollars the dryers cost or whether or not the full service includes fold & press. 

The figure approaches. For a moment, his shadow is cast up alongside him onto the building fronts, enlarged and trailing. A strange iteration on shadow puppetry. Then the illusion of a man shrinks back to a child.

The kid pauses in front of the glowing windows. Looking in. 

He waves a hand. 

A few moments later, the laundromat’s door chimes distortedly in Peter’s ear. A woman emerges. 

“Hey hey!” Neal. Slightly muffled and crackling with static, but audible nonetheless. He’s not said a word since leaving the hotel, and hearing him makes this all real in a way that seeing him has not—probably on account of how little Peter’s actually been seeing. 

“Robbie, baby!” A familiar voice returns. 

In the disconnected scene outside, the woman, before even stepping out of the way of the glass door swinging closed towards her, sweeps Neal into a full bodied hug. It takes the overdramatized sound for Peter to realize that she’s also planting kisses on Neal’s cheeks. Weirdly, Neal’s returning the favor.

“You’ve been a stranger!” The woman pulls back, and now Peter’s certain of his ID. Dee Dee straightens up, moves against one of the bright panes of glass. 

The hand that Neal runs through his hair is illuminated, but the careful smile paired with it is all in Peter’s head. “You know how it is, Dee.” 

“I do, baby.” Dee Dee’s heel jabs back into the pavement. She's not spared herself the sprained ankle risk tonight, either. “What’s this now?” she tuts, tips Neal’s chin up with a long nail. “Was one of them rough with you?”

Neal shakes off the attention, swatting away Dee Dee’s hand blasély. At least Peter now know he's not the only one. Actually, he’d bet there’s not a single person this kid doesn’t play it close to the vest with. 

“I’ll kill ‘em, you just say the word.”

“I know.”

“Got a knife and everything.”

“I’m alright, really.” 

The harsh ding of the laundromat’s door cuts the conversation to silence. Someone emerges. A man in a hoodie, who crosses into the street. 

Peter waits. Rubs some warmth back into his fingertips as he listens to static. 

Neal and Dee Dee drift further down the block together, past a cone sitting lonely to the side of the laundromat door and a lit sign above a beat up ATM. Peter’s lost his light source and they’re back to being a couple of dark outlines. 

“It looks pretty rough, baby,” Dee Dee’s voice picks up in his ear, a level quieter than before, “that’s all I’m saying.”

Neal doesn’t reply. 

“He at least pay you extra?” 

“He did.”

“Shouldn’t let ‘em do that shit to you,” Dee Dee returns, voice laced with anger. 

Peter can’t see Neal’s frown; he can’t see much of Neal at all. But the frown is there in what is visible: in Neal’s posture, in the bent elbow he shoves into his pocket, muffling whatever his reply is. 

There’s a series of loud bumps as the microphone peaks—Neal’s fiddling with the keys. 

Peter wishes he could tell the kid to cut it out. But then he remembers where he is, and what this is, and shoves that thought from his mind. 

Neal finally moves his hand away and Peter gets clear words again. 

“You should get yourself a knife too,” Dee Dee is saying. “Did you hear what happened with Angel?”

“Is she hurt?”

“She’s alright. But shaken up, ya know? Some fucker went crazy on her, was screaming, calling her a tranny fag and shit, nearly killed her. She spent a couple nights in jail over it too. Got herself a gun now; maybe you need to get yourself one of those instead, protection since you don’t have a man. There’s a guy on—”

“I don’t do guns.”

“You say you don’t, but look at you… And I know he didn’t pay you nothing.”

“I said—” Neal protests. 

“I know what you said,” Dee Dee throws back. She’s quiet for a moment. “It wasn’t a pig, was it?”

“No.”

“I’d still kill him, even if he was a pig.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It's already said. One of ‘em came looking for you. He seemed harmless, though—he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“No,” Neal says firmly, “No, he’s harmless.” Peter’s not sure if that should be a relief or an insult. 

“Good. That’s good,” Dee Dee nods. Then seems to hesitate. “…maybe they can help you,” she ventures, her voice softer. 

“I don’t need help.”

“Course you don’t, baby, course you don’t.” 

Neal parts from Dee Dee with another hug; he heads east down one of the cross streets. Trailing the sidewalk with his shoulders held back against the cold and his jeans hitched low on his hips—Neal pauses to adjust them very intentionally, a choice which makes Peter cringe on every level. 

Tonight isn’t going to go the way he’d hoped. 

Peter would like to know where the kid wanders off to, what he’s doing that’s not this—but he sure as hell isn’t going to sit through whatever’s coming next in Neal’s evening in order to find that out. 

He wasn’t lucky to find Neal, and he's not going to be lucky enough for Neal to simply be out on a late night stroll either.  

Peter watches the tracer dot move for a while longer, and only once it seems that Neal’s come to linger, does he start the car, turn the heat to full blast, and begin to slowly drive. He closes his view of the GPS just long enough to make a call. 

-

Peter sticks to a side street.

If Neal happened to spot the car before, he doesn’t want the kid to recognize it again. Trying to get a visual isn’t worth the risk of scaring Neal off. Especially not now that Peter’s called in the cavalry. 

More accurately, he’s called in the favor that Captain Shattuck owes him. Shattuck probably called in a couple of his own and now two officers from the 23rd precinct, the patrol assigned to this beat, are at Peter’s beck and call for the foreseeable future. They’re Kiley and Ortiz according to the brief interaction Peter had with them on the radio—where he let them know that if they don’t have an active call, they should be sitting and waiting for his order.

If they weren’t fans of that, Peter didn’t hear it out. He cranked the volume back down on the radio in lieu of watching the red blip on his phone screen. 

Neal’s pacing. Likely to keep from fully freezing to death. 

A sedan approaches from behind Peter, passes by where his car's parked against the curb, the light blinding in the driver’s side mirror. 

It turns the corner.

It’s not the first car to go past and Peter doesn’t think much of it until he hears it in the earpiece—the telltale rumble of a vehicle slowing to a crawl. 

Neal’s tracer shifts into the street.

Peter can just barely make out the sound of a window rolling down. It squeaks in the cold air. He bites down the instinct to reveal himself too quickly. Right now, Peter tells himself, he’d be wasting all this effort. That reassurance is barely enough. 

“Hey there,” a deep voice croons. Peter’s grip tightens on the steering wheel. 

“You looking for me?” 

“You bet I am; just didn’t know it ‘til I saw you. I got some money for you, sweetheart.”

“How do I know you’re not a cop?” The voice Neal puts on is as smooth as silk—if the fishing comments he’s made towards Peter are the baseline, then this is a hundredfold. It makes Peter’s skin crawl. 

“I’m not.”

“Would you believe that the cops say that too?”

There’s a beat of pause. “Would the cops do this?” the man asks. 

Neal chuckles lightly—but it’s not his usual laugh, it’s much more contrived. “Only some of them.” 

There’s the sound of a car door opening. A rustle. A distinct slam. Peter, his knuckles gone white on the wheel, decides that he’s waited more than long enough. He radios the cruiser to move in. 

Neal’s continuing to talk to the john, broaching the subject of money. Broaching the subject of what the john wants. Peter rips the earpiece out before he has to hear the end of whatever’s being offered. The cruiser pulls around the block and Peter jerks the wheel to get out of his parking spot to follow. 

He gets a sight line on the sedan right as the cop car, lights and sirens blaring, halts beside it with a screech of the brakes. The two officers spill out, hands on holsters. 

“Get your hands where I can see them!” 

Ortiz cuts to the passenger side. Kiley approaches the driver's. 

“Hands where— There we go. Put the car in park.” 

Peter, not bothering to do the same as he brakes behind the sedan, jumps out of his vehicle. He doesn’t close the door behind himself. 

The exhaust of all three cars is pumping out into the cold air that immediately stings Peter's face. 

“Open the door,” Kiley is ordering. Ortiz is bending down to look into the passenger window. The john, a man with a receding hairline and a polo, curses loudly, hitting his fist against the steering wheel. 

Peter shoulders past Kiley and yanks open the car door himself. 

“Step out of the vehicle,” Kiley continues. 

“Aw come on, man,” the john groans, squinting in the face of the bright lights,“he told me he was 18.”

“I’m sure he did,” Kiley answers, “Now, step out of the vehicle.”

Peter searches over the scene before him in disgust. Everything but Neal, who he can’t bring himself to have to deal with yet.

The closed smoke shop and darkened buildings. The warm air spilling out of the sedan. The man in the driver’s seat who’s nearly his own age and who looks about as everyday as the typical accountant. He’s now getting what this piece of shit meant when he was proving he wasn’t a cop, and the realization tastes like stomach bile in the back of Peter’s throat. 

“If he’s 18, then what’s the problem?”

“What’s the cash on the dashboard for?” Peter throws back in a growl. 

The john doesn’t answer, instead he drops back against the headrest defeatedly. 

“You got there,” Peter grabs the man by his elbow, “Right to remain silent.” He drags the john from the car and onto his feet as the man continues to protest—so clearly, he didn’t get there. “Zip your fucking pants up,” Peter snarls over the complaints. 

The man hasn’t let go of his fly yet before Peter shoves him against the side of the car. With more force than he needs to, but certainly not as much force as he wants to. He pulls the john’s arms back, cuffing the man with well-practiced efficiency and absolutely no care. 

Kiley leans down, his arm perched atop the open sedan door. “Hey Robbie,” he says.

“Officer Kiley,” Neal nods politely. 

Peter gapes. “You know him?”

“Sure,” Kiley shrugs, “He’s around. It’s my beat.”

“And you—”

“Am I hearing my rights here or what?” the john interrupts. 

Peter steps back. “You take care of him,” he tells Kiley. Because Peter, in liking his job and personal freedoms, doesn’t like his own idea of taking care of this bastard. It involves slamming the guy's face into the nice paint job on his car a few times before ever getting into any Mirandas. 

“And Robbie?” Ortiz asks. 

“I’ll bring him to the station,” Peter says. 

“It’s a waste of time, he—”

“Do you have a question, Kiley?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Good.” 

Peter circles around the front of the car, as Kiley, barely bothering to hide it, grumbles something about 'feds' under his breath.

Ortiz opens the passenger side. “Come on out, Rob,” he calls. 

The anger that's hot in Peter’s chest makes his face twitch. And these morons have the audacity to say they protect and serve...

Neal swings his legs out of the sedan, rises at Ortiz’s side as Kiley informs the john he has a right to an attorney. Peter doesn’t meet the kid’s eye. 

“The station?” Neal questions, looking up at Peter imploringly. “Why the station?”

Peter ignores the question, looking to Ortiz instead. “You can help him,” he points out, with a jerk of his head at Kiley, who’s walking the john to the back of the cruiser. The man’s switched tracks from whining about his innocence to cursing out Neal in a tirade; he kicks at the splash guard as Kiley tries to get him through the cop car’s door. 

Maybe Peter should've handled things his way. It might've kept things quieter.

“Come on.” He puts a hand on Neal’s shoulder, guiding him away from the sedan, towards his own vehicle, so that neither of them have to hear this anymore—though, Neal seems unimpressed by the string of degrading remarks and slurs that are making Peter grimace.

Kiley and Ortiz are telling the john to calm it down, put his feet in the car, they're mostly failing. 

Neal comes to a stop before they reach the vehicle, doesn’t budge beneath Peter's hand. A mule digging in his heels, forcing Peter’s full attention. “You're arresting me?”

“You tell me.” 

“No?”

“That’s not what I mean, Neal. You know that.”

The boy’s expression is aloof in the cast of the street lamps and headlights and flashing red and blue.

Peter holds up a second pair of handcuffs, dangled from his thumb. 

“Seriously?”

He remains stern. It isn’t hard to do, not when all Peter requires to keep his resolve is to let his eyes drop a little lower than Neal’s disbelieving face. He’s with Dee Dee on this one. Even with poor light and five days of fading, it still looks like shit. “If you're an adult, you can face adult consequences. If you’re not an adult, then—”

Neal, written over with irritation, holds out his wrists. Peter gives up on his own sentence in a disappointed choke. 

If that’s how it’s going to be, then that’s how it’s going to be...

Peter swallows back his appeals as Kiley finally manages to slam the cruiser door closed. Peter looks back to Neal. “You’re under arrest for solicitation.” He’s unable to help the disappointment that weighs down his voice.

He slides handcuffs around Neal’s wrists. Discovering that they’re in fact both still colored with yellowing bruises. Ratchets the cuffs closed. Feeling sick to his stomach.

“Are those too tight?” 

“No.”

“If they...”

“They're fine.”

He runs through Neal’s rights as quickly as he can, then pulls open the car door. “Get in.” 

Neal does…maybe he’s cold. 

Or maybe he’s willing to take this way farther than Peter estimated. 

But if that’s how the kid wants to play it, Peter isn’t going to be the one to crack first. Neal can spend a night in jail, playing at grown up, if that’s what it takes for him to get his head on straight. For him to realize that he does need help. Besides, it’ll be a good window into where the check fraud, and whatever else Neal’s cooked up, is leading him. 

“Lift your arms,” Peter says, and he reaches to buckle Neal’s seat belt around him, or tries to—Neal takes it from him, exasperated. 

“You got it?”

The click of the buckle answers Peter’s question for him. Peter nods to himself and closes Neal in. 

He hesitates as soon as he’s in the car himself. Watches Neal in the passenger seat. The kid's cuffed hands are resting loosely in his lap; it's wrong on every level. But then Peter remembers what Neal would be doing if Peter hadn’t been listening in tonight. He rubs a hand over his mouth and pulls a u-turn. Starts to drive towards the station.

It must take Neal a couple of blocks to realize where Peter’s going. Or to realize that Peter’s not bluffing. 

The kid’s stoic gaze turns from the road and lands on Peter. Neal’s face is wide with shock. “You're actually doing this.” Neal says it like he thinks Peter is losing his mind. And maybe he is, but only cause Neal’s thwarted all the sane options. 

“You’re 18?” 

“Yes.”

“Then of course l am. You say the word, and I'll turn around.”

They come to sit at a red. Peter can feel Neal looking at him, but he doesn’t look back. 

The kid shifts in his seat. “Peter, you don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?” 

From his side, things are crystal clear. Peter can’t do a damn thing unless Neal’s willing to let him; Neal’s proven that to him time and time again. If this is the life the kid’s choosing, then he can have a small taste of it. 

At least if Neal’s sitting in a holding cell, he won’t be out on the street. He won’t be in some pervert’s car. He won’t be trapped in a trashy hotel room with some sick fuck who might accidentally kill him in the process of getting themselves off. Hell, forget accidentally. Peter has unshakeable faith in the ability of humanity to disappoint him with their depravity. 

And the boy will have to cowboy up, because out of the options Neal’s given him, this is Peter’s best one. It’s tough love. 

“You can’t do this," Neal says in a rush. “Please. I’m sorry about the case, I know I probably—”

“The wine forgery? That’s not what this is about.”

Neal’s hands curl in his lap. Once. Twice. “Wait. I—I’ll be more careful, okay?” 

“More careful?” Peter repeats suspiciously. “In not letting me tail you.”

“No, you’re— You’re mad about the—” Neal’s voice wavers. “Please don’t do this.”

Peter simply doesn’t understand.

The kid has to know this is the future he’s signing up for by living like this. He has to know how much danger he’s putting himself in by refusing help. If nothing else, you’d think he’d want out of the cold for the night. 

Peter pulls his eyes back to the road as the light turns green. “It’s your pick, kid.”

“I…” Neal sucks in a shaky breath. 

It takes everything Peter has in him to keep his voice steady and his expression unmoving and his eyes straight. “I can’t sit by and witness a crime take place, Neal, I’m an FBI agent.”

The silent pause nearly breaks Peter from his focus on the road. Nearly. 

“You’re doing your job,” Neal says at last, coldly. 

“Exactly.”

“Because you’re the good guy.”

“I’m the good guy.”

“Fine,” Neal nods. He goes quiet. 

The kid sits entirely still. He doesn’t say a word the rest of the way to the station.

Peter supposes that he has a right to pout. 

Neal accepts Peter’s escort into the precinct just as robotically. Peter's still mentally begging the kid to quit being so damn stubborn already and let him do something, but Neal seems to have made up his mind. Now Peter’s facing down what may actually crack his poker face—having to hand Neal over to be booked in. 

He manages it. Barely. Answering questions curtly and passing Neal to an NYPD officer with a young face and an awful mustache. Neal’s still playing silent treatment. 

At this point, Peter just wants to go home. Hug his wife and get some sleep and deal with all of this tomorrow. Or...later today, more accurately.

The cop stops Peter before he can leave. “Agent Burke, sir. These yours?” The officer looks to the cuffs on Neal’s wrists. 

“Yeah.”

“You want them back?”

Peter blinks, snaps out of it. “Of course.” He digs in his pocket for the key, steps to Neal’s side. 

Before Peter can even lay a hand on Neal’s arm, Neal's popped the handcuffs open. When the hell he picked them, and how, Peter has no idea.

Neal drops the cuffs back into Peter's hand without saying a word. 

-

“Hi hon,” El chimes, looking up from her cup of coffee and half eaten bagel as Peter comes through the door; Satch is resting on his bed behind her, chewing loudly on a rubber bone. El’s face drops to concern. That’s the problem with marrying a brilliant and perceptive woman. “What’s wrong?”

Peter turns to the coat rack, starts to yank on his sleeve with more aggression than what’s necessary. “Neal.”

The name draws El up from the table. “You saw him?”

Peter bites his teeth together. “I arrested him.”

You'd think Peter had just confessed to murder. “What? Why would you do that?”

“He was out working the street,” Peter replies bitterly, toeing loose a shoe and kicking it off his foot. He told El he was leaving no stone unturned in finding Neal—he may have left out that doing so included a warrant. And GPS and audio surveillance. “What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t sit by and—”

“Of course not,” El cuts off, her knuckles are perched on her hips. “But you’re supposed to help him, not arrest him.”

Peter shakes his head at his shoes. El says it like it’s obvious and not like Neal makes helping more difficult than literally pulling teeth.

“Where is he?”

“In a holding cell downtown,” Peter sighs out, “I’ll go pick him up this afternoon when—”

El’s mouth drops open. “You left him in a cell?! Peter, he’s 13!”

“Not according to him he isn’t,” he grumbles. 

“This is you trying to scare him straight...is that it? Don’t you think he’s already scared enough?”

Peter doesn’t want to fight. He wants to go to bed and hopefully find this mess resolved upon waking. But El’s righteous indignation makes the frustration Peter's been choking down boil back over. This isn’t how he wanted things to go down either, but it is what it is.

“This is the life he’s setting himself up for.”

“No, this is the life that’s been set up for him. He’s a child.” El brushes past Peter, reaches to pull her purse down from the hook. She starts shoving on her boots. 

“Where are you going?” Peter asks dazedly. 

El doesn’t look up. “To get him.”

“El, hold on,” he says quickly. He reaches for her hand, but she brushes him away. “I talked to the sergeant, he’s a good guy—he promised he’d keep a close eye on Neal—the kid’ll be fine for the time being.” 

El is shaking her head.

“I’m pretty sure he’s safer in there than he is most nights in those hotels.”

“You didn’t put him in those hotels, you did put him in a cell.” El steps around Peter, going for the door. 

“Hon, don’t, they’re not going to let you—”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Let me call,” Peter blurts out quickly. “I can have someone go check up on him. Make sure he’s alright. Would that make you feel better?”

El lifts her hand from the doorknob, pivots back on Peter. “When did all of this happen?” 

“Earlier… Tonight.”

“So he’s been sitting in there for hours now.”

Peter holds up the phone in his hand. “I’ll call,” he repeats. This apparently assuages El enough to keep her from going out the door. She stares at Peter silently while he dials, works his way through the phone menu, sits through a tone, and finally, gets to explaining who he’s calling about and why. 

“Nick Halden?” the woman on the other side of the line parrots back. “He was already released.”

Peter nearly drops his phone. “What?” 

El’s eyes widen in concern. 

“He’s not here,” the woman repeats dully. “I have him as…booked in at 3:45am, released at 5.”

“Why was he released?”

“His charges were dropped.”

Peter paces away from the door in agitation. “Who dropped the charges?”

“There’s no other notes on the file.”

“I want to talk to your boss. Right now.”

“Which boss?”

“Any of them,” Peter snaps. Throwing up an indignant hand.

“Well, Sergeant Donahue’s out right now. You can call back later, or I can give you his line?” The woman sounds happy enough to get Peter off her hands. 

He scribbles down the number on a notepad stuck to the fridge door while El hovers near his shoulder. 

“What else?”

“Else?”

“Did Ne—” Peter catches himself. “Did Nick do anything? Talk to anyone?”

“He made his phone call.”

“Who did he call?”

Chapter Text

The apartment is bare of furniture. 

Empty except for the metal pillars that disrupt the space and a cheap floor lamp, missing its bulb, that’s been left unplugged near the exposed brick wall. Early evening sunlight peers weakly through the high windows, and outside a car honks at a double parked delivery truck blocking the street. 

The kid is sitting on the floor, leaning against one of the pillars. His back to where Peter stands in the doorway. 

“I see the tenant moved out,” Peter announces, after a long pause for Neal’s acknowledgement. 

Neal doesn’t react. Street noise and distant construction play out in the interim.

Peter’s footsteps echo as he crosses the space to stand in front of Neal, his frown cinched tight. In truth, he’s felt more comfortable walking into hostage situations than he does this unrenovated loft in SoHo. 

The kid tips his head back against the pillar, considering Peter—from polished shoes up—with disinterest. 

“Why are you here?” It’s an empty question for an empty room. 

Peter checks Neal over carefully. The kid looks fine. If anything, he looks better than most of the times Peter’s seen him. He’s dressed smartly, like something out of a Bloomingdale’s catalogue, and he’s gotten a haircut recently, maybe? But something’s still wrong—and, no, it’s not the fact that Neal’s sitting on the floor in a vacant apartment for no discernable reason, staring forlornly into space. Or the fact that the kid looks less than happy to see him. 

“It’s been two months,” he explains directly. 

“And you’re still wearing the same suit.”

“And I haven’t seen you,” Peter corrects. “Neither have the girls. Or Tariq. Or—”

“I wasn't aware that solitude was a criminal offense.”

“It’s not.” Peter swallows against a dry throat. He waits. For Neal to explain. Or at least tell him off—that would be fair, given where they left things. Given where he left Neal. 

But the kid’s gone back to staring straight ahead of himself. 

Whatever’s different, it’s in Neal’s eyes, he decides. They don’t have the chill to them that Peter’s seen before—when Neal didn’t let Peter hand him back the cash and when Neal did hand Peter back the handcuffs. Yet, they don’t have their usual warmth either. 

“Aren’t you going to ask how I found you this time?” Peter prods, an attempt at normalcy. 

“No.” Neal pulls his feet in to stand, dusting himself off. Motes flurry in the window light. 

Peter isn’t sure what to say. Put him on a witness stand and he can nail it every time. Put him in front of an FBI internal review board, and Peter doesn’t flounder. But this…

El would be better at it—Peter would’ve asked her for help in how to phrase things, but he hadn’t expected Neal to… Well, to actually be here. 

The only thing he’s sure of is that he owes the kid an apology, but Peter’s not even certain what he’s apologizing for. 

While he’s attempting to figure it out, Neal’s already moved on. Started walking away towards the apartment door without any further comment. 

Peter steps after him. “Where are you…?” 

The kid pauses, turns back to shoot a look that halts Peter where he stands—souls of his Oxford’s glued to the age-warped floor. Neal’s expression isn’t angry. It’s more worn down than that, like Neal simply does not have it in him to play jester in Peter’s court for another minute. 

“You don't understand how this works, do you?” 

Peter doesn’t know how the kid manages that so well: asking questions that come off as pitying. And he sure as hell doesn’t know how he’s being pitied in this scenario. He’s not the one who’s disappeared off the face of the planet—or in this case, the island of Manhattan—for two months. 

All Peter can do is go with honesty. “No. I don’t.” But, boy, would he like to. “That’s why I need you to tell me.”

The frustrating thing—that Peter’s had two months to gnaw at and further discover—is that it’s all there at the fringes: the rest of the story—or, more of it at least. It’s close enough for Peter to taste. Enough to know he’s fucked up, but not enough to fully grasp how. 

No one could tell Peter who Neal called at the police station. No one could tell Peter why Nick Halden’s charges were dropped. Then, no one could tell him why all records of the warrant that he filed for, that he talked to Judge Atkins about, had disappeared from the system. Judge Atkins’ office stopped taking his calls. The police station eventually chalked it all up to a clerical error. 

But the flavor was there before that. In Julian Calder, who swears he’s never seen Neal in his life, and who will be talking to his lawyer about if Peter’s actions constitute grounds for harassment. In El’s fancy bottle of wine and a love of escargot. In the way in which Neal seems to treat life on the street—his uncertain, rootless identity shifting—as if it is freedom. In a simple comment about not liking to be tied down that Peter has spent too many nights in a row now replaying in his head. 

All Peter needs is for Neal to fill in the blanks. 

But Neal isn’t going to do him that favor; the kid shakes his head, turns away. Helplessness is an empty feeling in Peter’s stomach—he’s not going to see the kid again after this, he knows that, not unless Neal gets really sloppy with his future forgeries. Maybe not even then. 

Neal stops, his grip on the door handle. 

He takes his hand back, tucks it in his pocket in a jolt of movement, and pivots to Peter with eyes that plead to be understood. 

“If…” he forces out. "If I had forged those checks...” Neal watches Peter’s face as if he’s trying to decode something from it. “What would’ve happened?”

That’s the last place Peter expected Neal to go. “And I’d arrested you?”

Neal nods. 

“Not much,” Peter shrugs. He assumed they both knew that. “You’re not 18, despite what the NYPD tells me. A prosecutor wouldn’t be nearly as blind.” And that’s ignoring that Neal seems to have some sort of legal ace up his sleeve.

“If I was.”

“18? Then you could be arrested. And if you didn’t take a plea, you’d have to face trial potentially. You could be convicted.” 

“Do you lose a lot of your cases?”

“No.”

“So…” Neal prods, with raised brows. 

“You’d go to prison.” 

“And then what?”

“You’d…serve your time.” Peter’s not getting the point of this exercise. 

“What if I was the model inmate?” 

Peter’s sure Neal would be; he’d have everyone—guard or inmate—wrapped around his finger within a month. “You might be released earlier, I guess. For good behavior. You could have your sentence reduced.”

“If I was released early?” Neal presses.

“You’d be out on parole.”

“What’s parole?”

Now Neal is playing with him. “You know what—”

“What’s parole?” Neal repeats, setting each syllable out of his mouth carefully. Like dropping weights from his tongue. 

“It’s…” 

Then Peter gets it. Well, he doesn't get it. But he understands the implication enough. Whoever and whatever Neal’s involved with… Wherever the hell Neal’s been for nearly eight weeks: it’s because of the arrest. 

“It’s a privilege, not a right,” Peter finishes the adage in a mumble to himself. Exhaling a breath that drains his lungs and leaves only unease behind. “Neal. I’m sorry.”

Neal averts his gaze; the smile he gives verges on a grimace. “You were doing your job.” The words are said lightly, but there’s no mistaking their condemnation. 

“It’s my job to keep you safe.”

Neal breathes a laugh through his nose. “Is that in the FBI handbook?”

“Yes, actually. I should’ve listened to you.”

The sincerity of Peter’s tone seems to bounce off Neal, water off a duck. “Live and learn, I guess,” the kid shirks, as if the harm done is Peter accidentally bumping into him on a crowded train, or running a few minutes late to an appointment, and not…whatever it is that Peter’s brought on. Neal motions towards the door. “I’ve really gotta…”

“I’m here to listen now,” Peter offers. Cringing at how much that sounds like something off a cue card. “Or whenever you’ve got time,” he adds lamely. 

“I’m really—”

“Busy,” Peter fills in with a nod. “How about dinner tomorrow night? El will make those chickens you liked.”

That earns Peter a phantom of a smile. “The Cornish hens?”

“Those are the ones.”

“I—” Neal swallows hard. His eyes search around the space. “Friday. I can…do Friday.”

-

Neal’s distance doesn’t evaporate upon crossing over the threshold of the Burke residence. He greets El politely and capitulates to Satchmo’s attention with a few firm pats. By all accounts, he’s as relaxed and well-mannered as he was the first time he stayed for dinner, but Peter can’t shake the feeling that the boy’s somewhere else. 

Not that he’ll complain: he didn’t expect Neal to show at all. Really, he’s not sure why he did; Peter’ll take it as a sliver of hope that maybe the kid does want help and call that his attempt at optimism for the week. 

El carries most of the upbeat mood. She launches into a work story over the dinner table—Peter still doesn’t understand what’s so special about a tiny chicken as compared to a regular sized one—and once she’s set the tone, Neal’s happy to play along. Especially in letting himself be doted on. 

After they’re done eating and the plates are cleared, El excuses herself, announcing that she needs to take Satchmo out and leaving the pair of them at the table in front of bowls of ice cream. 

Apparently, Neal’s presence has relaxed El’s health initiatives. On the other hand, El’s absence has turned Neal timid. It’s a strange look on the kid.

Neal is watching rocky road melt in his bowl, lifting up liquid ice cream and letting it drip down the back of his spoon, his expression bittersweet. 

“Try me,” Peter says. 

The announcement is either sudden enough, or Neal’s deep enough in his own head, that it makes Neal stiffen slightly.

He hesitates. Shakes a last drip off of the end of his spoon. “It’s…”

“Complicated and I wouldn’t get it?”

Neal meets Peter’s eye, shrugs his: You said it. 

“Come on, try me.”

Neal sets down the spoon handle, looks Peter over meaningfully. “You’re an FBI agent.” 

What Peter really is, is someone who’s going to eat every single one of his past words. He considers for a moment, then stands up from the table, to Neal’s trailing eyes. Walks over to the FBI windbreaker that’s hanging on the coat rack, and digs into the pocket. 

As Peter retakes his seat, he sets his badge down on the table between them. 

Neal eyes it with amusement. “What’s that supposed to be?”

“Full immunity,” he replies. Deadly serious. 

“For me? I thought no prosecutor would be blind enough to—”

“For whatever you tell me.”

Neal breathes through a smile, very obviously unconvinced. 

“I’m serious, Neal,” Peter insists. “If there’s something that you don’t want to leave this room, or don’t want me to remember after tonight. It’s forgotten.”

The kid’s brows tick upwards. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Peter waits, watches Neal’s flippancy slowly sober and turn into attention that gauges Peter carefully. 

He reaches for the badge and Peter bites his tongue. Neal picks it up, turns it over in his hands in consideration. “There’s no good way to say it.” 

Which Peter translates to mean, there’s no way that Neal can say it without asking Peter to set aside his professional responsibilities. Maybe his moral ones too. “Say it in a bad way then.”

Neal sighs at Peter’s unhelpfulness, replacing Peter’s badge, though his eyes continue to linger on it. “I told you,” the kid forces out slowly, “I’m not… I have a day job.”

“Okay?” It’s more of a night job as far as Peter can tell—but, fair enough. 

“I– I guess it’s not a job as much as an…” Neal searches for a word. “Obligation.”

“An obligation to who?”

The kid’s lips press together. 

“Too far?” Peter asks. 

“Forgive me for not wanting to test the bounds of immunity any more than I have to.”

“Right now you aren’t testing it at all,” he points out. 

“All you need to understand is, when people have too much money, they find creative things to spend it on.”

“All that fancy caviar and fine wine and overpriced contemporary art that you like so much?”

Neal’s gaze retreats to the landscape of the kitchen. “And other things,” he says lightly. 

Peter struggles not to react. “You’re an escort,” he clarifies flatly. It wouldn’t be a revelation, given what Peter already knows, if it weren't for the word obligation.

But escort isn’t really the right word and Neal’s not talking about being picked up off the street by a rich client every now and then, he’s alluding to something much darker. The shadowy thing that’s been lingering in the cracks of the story Peter’s been piecing together. 

Neal shrugs, swirls his spoon in his bowl. “I make for great company,” he offers—with cheeriness that makes Peter queasy. 

Between that and the idea of parole, it takes Peter a moment to find his words again. “And the street work?”

“That’s…on my own time. I shouldn’t even— I’m lucky.” 

The kid’s the furthest damn thing from lucky. But Peter doesn’t push back. “And the fraud?”

“A side project.”

“How long have you been doing this? How did it start? Who—?”

“That’s a lot of questions.”

“I’ll take any answers you’ve got.”

Neal weighs this for a moment. Then starts to list off. “A while. And I’m sure you can come up with plenty of explanations for how it started—some of them might even be right. And, who, is no one you want to try and mess with.”

“Neal, the FBI—”

“I thought the FBI wasn’t joining us this evening.”

Peter makes an exasperated sound. It sucks all of the sarcasm out of Neal’s demeanor. 

“I can’t risk this, Peter. I—can’t. Please.”

“You’re scared of what this person will do?”

“Look, I—I’m trusting you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So I need you to trust me when I tell you this isn’t something you can fix.” 

Peter can’t be satisfied with that answer. He can’t. 

“Or the FBI can fix,” Neal adds quickly. “You’ll make it worse. You—” Neal’s jaw tightens, he glances at his lap. 

“I already did.”

Neal nods. 

“You have a plan?”

“I do.”

“What is it?”

Neal smiles. Which is not an answer. 

“...and why do I have a feeling that those checks have something to do with it?” Peter grumbles.

“What checks?” Neal demurs. 

Right as Peter opens his mouth to respond to that, the front door pushes open. Satchmo, yanking out of El’s grip, comes skittering in across the floor, tracking muddy water with him. Neal—capitalizing, of course, on the opportunity to be saved by the bell—jumps up from the table; he catches the dog by the collar before Satch can make it to the living room rug. 

“We befriended a puddle,” El explains, looking to Peter apologetically. 

“Looks like we became the puddle,” Neal adds, and Satchmo’s bedraggled tail thumps happily against his legs, leaving wet patches of fabric in its wake.

Chapter Text

Peter cranes his neck, pinching the phone against his cheek with his shoulder so he can yank the back of his shoe on. He nearly stumbles into the hall tree in the process. 

“…they couldn’t make heads or tails of it,” Diana says against his ear.

“Then have Jones find me someone who can.” Peter stomps his foot against the ground to get the shoe seated on his heel, slings his bag over his shoulder. He yanks open the front door as Diana asks if he’s talked to Hughes. 

“Twice already.” His tone leaves little to the imagination about how those conversations went. 

“I take it Mayert isn’t happy.”

Peter slots his key into the lock. “No one’s happy; the street’s gonna have a heyday if this hits the press.”

“The stock price’ll tumble and take the S&P 500 with it?”

“Something like that.” Peter turns to step off of the stoop. 

He stops. 

Exhales a sigh that’s approximately the weight of seven tech-giant corporate executives and an FBI director breathing down the back of his neck.

“Diana,” he interrupts, “I’ve…got to run.” 

Peter hangs up. He shoves his phone in his windbreaker pocket and stares down the kid who’s loitering on the sidewalk before him like that’s what it was made for.  Framed by the damp and wind-swept features of March in Cobble Hill. Thinly budding trees and clammy stone. 

“Busy morning?” Neal asks. There’s hesitancy there somewhere under the foot-thick layer of carefree. 

“Yeah.”

Neal flicks his fingers towards Peter’s collar. “You’ve got something on your…”

He looks down at his shirt front. Raises his brow in dull acceptance. It’s that kind of morning. “El’s on this new thing with turkey bacon; I’ve been drowning everything in ketchup to get through it.”

“They’re allowed to call that bacon?” 

The question is posed with polite amusement, but Peter isn’t so amused. His car keys are biting a dent into the creases of his palm. “Look, kid, I’ve…” Peter’s eyes move towards the street—really, the waiting shit show—and Neal nods his understanding.

“Maybe I can lend some expertise.” 

It’s not like Peter doesn’t know exactly what Neal is doing. The attempt to slot back into a prior routine as if he’d never left it and as if the confessions of the prior week never happened as subtle as a freight train. 

It’s not like Peter doesn’t know exactly what he should do either.

He should sit Neal down and finish the conversation that got interrupted: get to the bottom of who’s responsible, and what exactly obligation entails, and what the hell the kid’s doing about it. A genuine interrogation is warranted. A genuine interrogation is needed.

What’s standing in Peter’s way is Elizabeth. 

At least…Peter’s telling himself that that’s what the roadblock is—not the potential work tardiness and a case from hell. 

After Neal left, Peter had recounted the boy’s words while he paced back and forth at the foot of the bed. El, under covers with a book nestled against her waist, watched him make laps—her eyes flicking like one of those cat clocks. 

She didn’t get angry like he did, she didn’t say anything to make him feel better. She had pointed out that the last thing he could do now was break Neal’s trust. 

Simply. As if her words weren’t going to haunt Peter in every waking moment. 

Peter loosens his grip on the keys and loses to Elizabeth. 

He squeezes Neal’s shoulder as he moves past him. Unlocks the car with a chirp. “How do you feel about bond forgery?”

Peter keeps walking towards the driver’s side, doesn’t look back. Neal lingers behind him. For a moment. Then he hears the boy’s footfalls as they skip to follow, and can’t help the smile that twitches on his lips. 

A glance to the teen that’s stepping to the curb informs Peter once again that his wife is always right. Because, for the first time since Peter found him in the loft, Neal looks alive. 

“We’ll have to keep this quick,” Peter warns as the kid climbs in. He reaches to grab the toll pass from the glove compartment, while Neal—in a shocking turn of events—buckles his seatbelt unprompted.

Peter drops his work bag in Neal’s lap. “It’s the first one there,” he says. 

Neal splays open the file and Peter starts the car.

“Mayert Corporation,” Neal muses. 

“They have billions in investment grade bonds outstanding,” Peter explains. “Makes them an easy target.” Not to mention a lucrative one. For Peter, all it translates to is a headache. 

Neal taps at the photocopy of the bond. “This is incomplete.” There’s none of the issuing information, only the base plate—like a specimen copy. But, of course, Peter knows that because it’s his job to. Neal on the other hand…

“You caught this when it was redeemed?” Neal asks. 

“No, we got it thanks to an anonymous tip off. If it wasn’t unfinished, we wouldn’t have been able to identify it as a forgery at all.”

“Tip off? You think there’s a disgruntled partner or something? Someone who got cut out?”

“Could be.” It’s a line of reasoning Peter has a portion of his task force running down. One of about a hundred. 

“But you need a way to tell real from fake?”

“And we need to determine how our guy is pulling this off. Mayert claims their bonds are unforgeable.”

Neal breathes a chuckle. Raising his eyebrows at the passing row houses. “They all claim that.”

Okay that comment Peter can’t let slide. “This isn’t you, is it?” 

It’s unlikely, but also, Neal’s the unlikely type. 

“Of course not,” Neal brushes off quickly. As if that’s reassuring in the slightest. “It’s not,” he adds, in response to Peter’s silent, but still very audible, scrutiny. 

Peter isn’t sure he buys it yet, but he’ll go with probabilities on this one. “But you can tell me how he’s doing it?” he levels. 

“Not without seeing it.”

“You can’t see it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s in evidence lockup.”

“You can see it, can’t you?”

“Yeah, but—”

“So what’s the problem?”

Peter shakes his head. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not happening.”

-

“Say it again,” Peter demands, the moment the elevator doors glide closed. Thank god they’re alone. The reprieve is necessary after the song and dance routine that just occurred at the security desk.

 “Don't take anything without asking,” Neal rattles off dully, “Don't touch anything without asking.”

“And?” Peter pushes. 

Amusement flits across Neal’s features. A tell he doesn’t try to hide: he’s having the time of his life holding Peter’s professional reputation in his hands. “…and?”

Peter points a firm finger. “No flirting.” 

“I got it, Peter. I can play a part, you know.”

“You’re El's kid nephew, you're visiting us, you're interested in law enforcement.” Peter repeats. The story sounds reasonable enough—besides, it’s Peter’s division, no one will question him.

…unless Hughes questions him. Peter adds Reese to the top of the list of things to keep Neal away from. Closely followed by open work bags or purses and anyone from the 40th floor. 

It’ll take a day at least to identify another expert in the bureau’s network, one who’s actually worth their weight, and to get them into the office to perform an examination of the bond. Peter hasn’t got that kind of time. Hughes hasn’t got that kind of patience. Mayert does have that kind of pull. Peter can’t neglect a potential expert conveniently at his doorstep. 

It’s too bad that that expert’s in the body of a tween with kleptomaniac tendencies. 

“I am interested in law enforcement,” Neal counters. 

“In learning how to evade it, sure.”

“Same difference. Know thine enemy.”

“I’m your enemy? I thought I was your friend now. Call me Neal and all that.”

Neal lifts his shoulders. “You could be both.” 

It’s the least comforting note on which the elevator could announce the 21st floor. 

“I’m serious, kid,” Peter says. A final warning before he looses an apparently hostile party onto a floor chock full of sensitive information and classified files and targets that are likely way easier than they should be. And that’s not to mention the weapons. 

Peter also hasn’t forgotten how his last bureau related endeavor with Neal went down either. 

The elevator door starts to close on them. Neal catches it with his arm. “Lead the way, Uncle Peter.” 

“Don’t call me that.”

“But I’m your—”

“Neal.”

The kid clamps his mouth shut and waltzes after him.

Neal’s eyes light up the moment they cast over the landscape of the White Collar division—like he’s a kid in a candy store. Well, he is a kid. It’s the candy store part that’s concerning. 

It’s also ironic. Given that Neal has spent the better part of four months doing everything in his power to avoid a day trip to the FBI office.

Peter tucks the boy in front of him by his shoulder to escort him through the bullpen. The few agents who bother to look up from work—likely because they need something from Peter—and notice Neal, exchange searching glances with each other. Glances that Peter ignores. 

By the time Peter has shepherded Neal into his office and closed the door, the number of prying eyes has increased exponentially. Peter makes a point of turning to look straight through the glass. All the watching agents suddenly and conveniently find themselves busy again. 

Peter yanks the blinds closed anyway before he turns back to his desk. 

“I have to put in a request with evidence to have the bond brought up here,” he explains as he circles around its edge. 

Peter perches down in front of his computer; Neal, flopping into one of the chairs on the other side of the desk, takes in his surroundings appraisingly. 

Just to be safe, Peter tilts his screen out of Neal’s line of sight before he unlocks his desktop.

Neal settles back into the chair. Leaning it back onto two legs. “Nice office,” he muses. He kicks a shoe up to rest on the glossy wood. 

“Get your feet down,” Peter grumbles, not looking over from where he’s gotten sucked into his email. 

At least the kid listens. The chair legs fall back against the carpet with a thump. 

Peter goes back to typing. There’s a judge reaching out, and a request from Missing Persons on a past case file, and Peter forgot to submit his expense report on time again. 

Neal is examining the line of mugs that rest on the back of the desk. “Harvard?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“You went there?” The boy sounds highly doubtful; which…Peter should be offended by probably. 

“Yep,” he motions a hand towards the frames clustered on his wall. “For my undergrad. Math.”

“Wow.” Neal blinks. He waits just long enough to convince Peter he might actually be impressed, before he adds, “You are a nerd.” 

It’s rich coming from a kid who’s thrilled by corporate bond forgery. 

Peter doesn’t bother with the it could be you speech. He’s long since figured out that Neal’s not going to be swayed on his own educational prospects. Not any time soon at least. He finishes the reply to the judge’s office and forwards the Missing Persons request over to someone on his team to deal with. 

Neal, apparently neglected by the stonewalling, reaches for the rubber band ball that rests beside Peter’s dish of paperclips. He tosses it up in the air and catches it. 

“Don’t do that either,” Peter says flatly. Finally fires off the request that he sat down for. 

Neal drops the ball back with a frown, “Can I go meet everybody?”

So that’s what this is about. “Absolutely not.” Peter’s phone buzzes loudly in his pocket. He digs for it. 

“But—”

“Shit,” Peter hisses at the text on his screen.

“What?”

“Alright come on,” he pushes back his chair, “I need to hear updates now.” 

“So I do get to meet everyone.”

“Not everyone. Just Jones. And— That new probie.”

“Probie?”

The case of the probie’s name remains unsolved. Because even after it’s said in the stilted introduction with Neal, Peter immediately forgets it. Jones, at least—ever the professional—seems unfazed by Neal’s presence, and by the kid’s very obvious interest in the conversation at hand. 

Peter’s barely heard that the primary lead they have involving printing equipment suppliers has reached a dead end when Duffy comes over to tell him Hughes is looking for him. Really, he should be shocked he’s gotten away with it for this long. 

He about walks away to face his fate—before he looks down, and remembers why he can’t do that.

“Hughes?” The rock to Hughes’ hard place echoes back innocently. 

“My boss.”

“Got it.” 

The kid searches over Peter’s face like he’s reading a cue card. “I’m not going anywhere,” he offers. 

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Peter grumbles back. He casts a quick look at the desks around them. Tries to do a calculation on who he can sacrifice some of the full attention of in balance with who won’t immediately give Neal anything he asks for. Diana and Jones are too case critical. Mendoza’s off the table—he’s got a soft spot for kids if his daughter is anything to go by. Duffy is practically already cooing at Neal. 

“Cruz!” Peter calls over, and the agent looks up from her work. Stands. 

“Yeah, boss?” She asks as she sidles to them, hands tucked into her pockets. She looks Neal up and down in a curt tilt of her long bob. 

“Lauren,” Peter motions, “This is Neal. He’s—”

“Your nephew, yeah I heard.” Of course she has. “Hey kid,” Lauren nods. 

“Hey,” Neal replies. 

“Just— keep an eye on him. Okay?”

“Sure,” Cruz shrugs. As if it’s an easy ask. 

Peter turns away, momentarily freed—then pivots back on his heel, holding up a finger at Cruz. “Don’t—don’t lose him,” he adds. 

“I…won’t?” 

That’ll have to be good enough, though it’s not making Peter feel much better. Hopefully Hughes will be quick. 

As he walks back towards the offices he hears Lauren ask Neal: “Do you get lost easily?”

-

“That’s it, boss?” 

“Yeah, that’s all I needed. Thanks, Diana.”

Peter picks back up the receiver of the office phone; Diana nods to herself. She’s watching him insistently enough that Peter hesitates in dialing. Waits for whatever she has to say. 

Diana takes the opening. “Your nephew’s a bright kid,” she comments, a flavor of amusement to her words. 

If only she knew the half of it. Peter taps a finger against the desk dismissively. “Private school. Catholic, I think.”

“I just watched him explain to a probie what an iron butterfly is.”

Peter’s eyes widen on instinct; he reels himself back in. “His dad’s a banker.” 

“And who taught him how to pickpocket?” 

Peter’s mouth falls open. “He didn’t.”

Diana's lips flatten apologetically. “Same probie.”

“Goddamn it,” Peter curses, rising to his feet. 

“He put the wallet back,” Diana says. As if that matters. “I don’t think he took anything out of it either.”

Peter could not have been more clear. And there’s no way in hell Neal asked permission before playing petty thief. “Where is he?”

“Playing cards with Jones.” 

He storms past Diana to yank open the office door. 

“Boss— “ She interjects. And he pauses. Turns back. “Don’t go too hard on the kid; I like him.”

“Everyone likes him,” Peter returns, “That’s the damn problem.”

Neal is not playing cards with Jones; he’s gotten Clinton, Bradshaw, and, inexplicably, one of the office services staff, engaged in a game of poker around a pair of abutting desks. Poker with a cash pot. What an excellent use of Peter’s agents’ time. 

It’s a lively enough affair that none of the participants notice Peter’s approach, until he clears his throat. Then they all play at brushing the metaphorical feathers from their mouths, cats caught with a missing canary. Except for Neal, who doesn’t seem guilty in the slightest. 

“I—” Jones starts to say. 

Peter cuts him off, “Conference room,” he says to Neal. “Lets go.”

-

“Thanks, Willard.”

“No problem, just check it back in downstairs when you’re done with it.”

Peter nods, as if he didn’t know that; but he supposes the evidence techs are obligated to say that kind of thing, just like Peter’s obligated to tell Neal not to touch anything. 

 The tech still doesn’t leave. “You’ve got a kid?” he asks. 

“No,” Peter corrects quickly. Maybe too quickly. And definitely too emphatically. “Nephew,” he clarifies, “It’s…”

“Oh okay.” The tech does a little wave at Neal, who performs the same thing back. Then finally, gracefully, backs out of the room. 

Neal hops out of his chair. Leaning his forearms against the conference table to examine the fraudulent bond. He gently turns the bond over on the table to inspect the reverse side. Then repeats the same. The admiration is clear as day on his features. At least it allows Peter to finally fully scratch the kid’s name off of his suspect list. 

“It’s amazing,” Neal breathes. 

“It’s a forgery, not the holy grail.”

“But look at the detail work on the seal, it’s a work of art.”

“A work of art that’s going to land its maker in prison for a long time,” Peter says. In case Neal’s forgotten that and is getting any aspirations. 

“Only if you catch him,” the boy throws back with a smirk. 

“You’re helping me catch him, remember?”

“Good side,” Neal agrees. But he doesn’t appear too happy about it. 

“So tell me something useful.”

“You having regrets?” 

“Half my team is asking how long you’re staying in town with us for, so yeah, I’m having a couple.”

The kid looks impressed with himself. “Really?” 

“Useful, Neal. We’re on a time limit here.”

Neal reigns in his focus. He motions across the bond’s border with a hovered fingertip. “There’s not a lot of people who could do work this clean.”

“I know, we have a list of names we’re narrowing down.”

“Can I see it?” 

Peter already has it at the ready. 

“You’re missing people,” Neal informs him absently as he scans the names over. 

“Care to fill me in?”

Of course, Neal doesn’t. Maybe Peter shouldn’t have been so quick to pull Nick Halden off of there. 

“And Hodges could never pull this off,” Neal continues. “Rios wouldn’t go corporate; Xiong—she’s out of the game and has been for a few years now, got married and did the picket fence, two and a half kids thing. Unless something’s changed, I don’t think Novak would have the capital.”

“Capital?”

“Yeah, they’re not making one of these. They’re making hundreds.” Neal’s eyes flick over Peter’s sour expression. “Or that’s what I would do, if I—”

“Don’t even bother.”

“At that scale, it’s expensive. You need a lot of start up cash for the raw materials and equipment.”

Come to think of it, maybe that’s what the check fraud is for… 

“Okay, and?”

Neal plants the heel of his hand on the table, in maintained disinterest. “And none of this matters,” he says evenly, “Cause I already know who did it.”

“What?”

An a thousand-watt grin is Peter’s reply. “He signed it.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Everyone signs their work; you just have to know what to look for.”

Neal leans down closer to the document, indicating with a fingernail over a swirl in the seal. “See that?” All Peter sees is a crowded design of loops and nonsense. “R.D.,” Neal reads out. 

“Those are supposed to be initials?” he replies skeptically. 

The kid raises his brows, clearly not surprised by Peter’s lack of visual literacy “Ronan Dorsey.”

“He’s not on the list.”

“He’s too good to be on the list.”

“You sound like a fan.”

“I’m not.” It’s an unconvincing rebuttal to obvious laudation. Even Neal knows that. “He’s…an acquaintance of a friend of a friend. I’ve just heard about him a lot.”

Peter would challenge that further, but he’s more intent on his time crunch. “Let's go see what the team can pull on him.”

Neal’s self satisfaction glitters in his expression. “Are you going to tell them it was my idea?” 

“You really want me to do that?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought.”

-

By the time 6:30 rolls around, Peter has a lot of info painting Dorsey as a good suspect, and absolutely nothing that gets him closer to an arrest warrant. He’s also got a missed call and two text messages from his wife. Neal’s got the entirety of the division under his thumb. 

“El’s asking about tonight,” Peter tells Neal. The invitation is obvious. They’re waiting for requests to come back, so for Peter it’s worth making the show of going home for dinner with El before logging back in. 

“Can’t make it.”

“Alright, I’ll—”

“You can drop me at the station,” Neal says firmly. As if he’s got a train to catch. Which 90% of the time Peter’s starting to think isn’t the case. Unfortunately, the middle of White Collar’s bullpen isn’t a great place to challenge the assertion. 

“We’ll head out soon.” 

Before Peter can get out anything else, Duffy comes to pull Neal aside. Asking him about tapas. 

Since Peter’s chopped liver, he goes to gather what he needs from his office. 

He shoves paperwork into his bag, flips off his lamp, his mind running through the leads he needs to press on tonight. Neal’s left his zippered jacket draped on the back of one of the chairs. Peter throws it over his arm. 

Something hard smacks against his leg—telltale weight in the jacket’s pocket. Peter freezes. His to-do list stuttering to halt. 

Out in the brighter-lit bullpen, Neal’s still talking to Duffy, gesturing animatedly. Turned away from the office door. 

Peter unzips the pocket, his mouth suddenly dry. As he slides out the phone, its lock screen lights up to greet him. A friendly Pandora's box. 

On one hand, he knew the kid was lying. On the other, maybe Neal isn’t and this is not his phone at all. Though, as much as Peter’s trying to assure himself that this could be the result of a day's ripe pickings, he doesn’t really believe that that’s the axis on which Neal’s found an exception to the truth. 

“Don’t take anything without asking, don’t touch anything without asking,” Peter murmurs to himself. Evidently, neither of them can take his own advice. 

He eases his office door shut. Shifts back towards his desk, and touches the dimming screen of the cell phone. Peter stares at a message notification he can’t see the contents of, a clock that reads 6:46pm. Guilt holds out for only a couple of seconds before the saner parts of Peter win over. He sinks down into his office chair, prying the plain black phone case off—there’s nothing hidden beneath it. As for the passcode, he has no clue. It’s 6 digits and alphanumeric, so it’s not like he’s going to be guessing it. 

Peter snaps the case back on, then presses the emergency call button. A short dial tone rings against his ear. 

“911. What’s your emergency?”

Peter doesn’t have one; he just needs to know what number he’s calling from. He tells the operator as much, after providing that he’s an FBI agent and his badge number. 

“I’m not—” the operator starts to hesitate. 

Peter cuts him off. “This is urgent.” 

That works. It’s the tone, probably. Peter’s got his don’t question me voice down pat. He scribbles the digits on a notepad as they’re read off. Hangs up. Wipes his fingerprints from the screen with his sleeve, locks the phone again and returns it to the zipped pocket. 

Peter tears off the sheet of paper to shove in his bag then goes to collect Neal like his heart isn’t still beating too loudly in his chest. 

“You probably want this,” he says and hands the zip up to Neal. Who thanks Peter and slides it on, none the wiser. 

One successful con for Peter against Neal’s several hundred. 

Within a minute of Neal stepping out of the car and disappearing down the steps of City Hall station, Peter calls Diana. He reads off the phone number. “I need anything and everything you can get on it.” 

“Is this tied to the Mayert bond?”

“No. Unrelated.”

Chapter Text

Post-dusk Tribeca slides by behind Neal’s silhouette against the cab window. His elbow is propped up against the door, his head perched on the heel of his hand as he looks lazily through the glass. Peter watches him stifle a yawn with the back of his hand. It’s only 8:30. 

“Late night?” 

The words fall out before Peter thinks about them. Though, the weighty—and mildly entertained—glance that Neal casts his way in return is enough to make sure that Peter thinks about them now. 

It’s not that he forgot, it’s that he spends too much time around thirty-something federal investigators whose late nights consist of staring into the void of their work laptops or struggling to get their sick kids to bed. 

Luckily, Peter doesn’t have to find a way to recover to his blunder, because the cab jerks to a halt. Pulls over to the side of the curb, yellow nose jabbed precariously between two parallel parked cars. Outside, music is pumping from the adjacent building: a loft warehouse with lights and people thrumming in thumbnail through each of the rows of windows, spilling out onto the street. 

Peter frowns. “This is 355?” he asks, and the driver, a man with drooping jowls and an icon of the Virgin Mary tucked into the sun visor, waves a hand back in response. 

“It is,” Neal chimes, suddenly enlivened. And already reaching for the door handle.

Peter knows better than to not rush to follow. He scrambles across the seats to get out on the curb, yanking cash from his wallet and telling Neal to wait—futilely. The kid’s in the process of slipping past a pair of women, in sheath dresses and strappy heels, who are eyeing Peter’s about to be former cab. 

“I said to—” Peter slams the door closed, stuffs away his wallet, and pivots to find his missing kid. 

Ahead of him, Neal is talking to a burly man at the loft’s door. Peter can’t hear what’s being said. He can’t hear much of anything. He’s appreciating that the taxi provided some noise cancellation, because whatever is happening, it’s a wonder the neighbors haven’t filed a complaint—Saturday night be damned. 

Peter weaves through the short line at the loft’s door, pushing past someone in a studded jacket who complains in his wake. He grabs for Neal’s shoulder as he reaches him. 

“I told you to—”

The boy throws back a grin, “Come on,” he says, and glances up at the bouncer, who nods to let them both through. Peter, while tempted, isn’t going to argue with that. 

Neal ducks out from under Peter’s grasp, and past a man who’s exiting, as they move through an entryway and into a larger area. A room that smells like bubblegum flavored vape and body sweat. The bass of the blaring EDM vibrates the floor beneath Peter’s feet—he practically has to shout over it. There’s no way they got the right permits for this.

“This is a gallery?” he asks Neal incredulously. 

Through the dim and shifting LED lighting, he can hardly make out the walls of the room they’re in and nothing that’s hanging on them looks like something Peter couldn’t do. Which is saying something, cause in kindergarten he once got a C on a fingerpainting. 

Neal, eyes and pale shirt lit aglow by the blacklight that’s seeping in from an adjoining room, glints in delight. Literally: his teeth glow. “Dorsey’s experimental.”

“Experimental in how he makes his money on the side too.” At least the fraud explains this place—surely no one’s buying the art. 

A lingering couple with hands on each other's waists moves out of the way of one of the things on the wall and Neal steps into their place. 

“What did you tell that guy to let you in here?” Peter calls after him. The kid’s only a couple feet away, but Peter still does have to call. 

“What would you have told him?” 

“That I’m an FBI agent. Looking for Ronan Dorsey.”

Neal rolls his eyes, “Really? That’s the best you’ve got.”

Peter motions down at himself: the straight from the office special. “I’m not fooling anyone like this.” 

Neal seems to agree with that. Maybe a little too fervently, like Peter’s talking about his clothes while Neal’s talking about the rest of him. 

Peter turns to the artwork, “What am I looking at here?”

“Mixed media, combining traditional and non-traditional materials.”

“So a bunch of trash. And paint. Thrown on a canvas.”

“It’s an introspection on climate change, hedonism, and the innate divinity of the female body.”

“The innate —” Peter trails off in his disdain. “Never mind. Let’s go see if we can find Mr. Introspective himself.”

The loft gets more crowded as they move deeper into it; they head up a flight of stairs and the music loses some of its edge but the conversational volume makes up for it. Neal nudges Peter to point out a ginger-haired man standing beside an uncomfortable looking couch, deep in conversation with another guy in a velour tracksuit. That would be Dorsey—Peter’s only spent the last two days staring at his face, after all. 

He’s aged from his ID picture. 

Peter makes a bee line. “Excuse me,” he butts his way in, and both parties cut off at the rudeness of the intrusion, “Ronan Dorsey?”

The slender and sour-faced man looks Peter over. Then to his friend in amusement. “Depends who’s asking.”

“I’m asking. Peter Burke, FBI.”

“Oh,” Dorsey’s eyebrows raise sarcastically, and Tracksuit snorts on his old fashioned. “FBI. I didn’t know you lot engaged in high art, or…higher level thinking.” 

A smirk creeps onto Neal’s face at that comment. Because of course the kid is gonna like this jerk, it’s been love since first forged bond and now Neal’s about as starstruck as a teen girl in the face of a boyband idol.

Dorsey’s eyes drop to Neal. “Who’s this?” he asks. “Your new ones are younger than I remember.”

“Early recruitment program,” Peter grunts out; he’s as uninterested in the change of subject as he is in providing an explanation. “Is there somewhere we can speak privately?” 

“Always so serious.” Dorsey postures his shoulder—the goal is intimidating, but all Peter’s seeing is pretentious. “I don’t have to talk to you,” he says, “I don’t have to let you stay in here at all.”

“It’d be smarter if you did.” Actually, it’d be a hell of a lot smarter to kick Peter out. Dorsey probably knows that—it’s the cockiness Peter’s banking on. 

Dorsey glances around himself, pulls in a sigh, then the last slurp of his drink. He shakes around the ice in the empty glass. Holds it out. 

To Neal. Who stares for a moment, eyes slightly wide. Then, against all reason, takes it.

“Ah, why not?” Dorsey intones, checking the watch on his now freed hand. “I’m in a mood for entertainment.” He turns to lead them towards an exposed staircase, “Come on up, boys.”

Two flights of stairs and a doorway blocked by dangling wooden beads and they’re in a much more livable space. Neal deposits the glass with some compatriots on a bar credenza with subtlety that Peter notes, and Dorsey flops into an armchair. 

“What is it you wanted to talk about, Agent Burke?”

“Genzken.”

Peter and Dorsey both turn to Neal, who’s examining a sculpture—or, Peter thinks that’s what it is—that’s perched in the corner of the room. Neal would likely call it a composition of found objects ; Peter’s gonna go with confusing. 

“Yeah, I met her at a show in Dusseldorf.”

“Really?” 

Dorsey shoots Peter a confused look. “Who is he?” 

Peter often wonders that himself. “A fan of your work,” he replies.

“Alleged work.” Neal grins.

Dorsey’s eyes narrow. “Right,” he says slowly. Tapping his fingers against armrest upholstery.

Peter would like to spend less time having his suspect interrogate Neal and spend more time interrogating his suspect. “What can you tell me about your whereabouts for the last couple of months, and what do you know about Mayert?”

“Mayert,” Dorsey repeats. 

It does sound like a stupid question. “Mayert bonds,” Peter clarifies. 

“My sister does the soulless corporate stuff, I—”

“Ro?” a woman’s voice calls up from the stairs, cutting off whatever unhelpful witticism Peter was going to have the joy of hearing next.

Dorsey makes a face. “Busy,” he yells back.

“And those whereabouts?”

“Oh who knows.” A figure emerges up the stairs, despite the warning off; Dorsey nods her way. “Emmie handles my schedule. Ask her.”

“Emmie?” Peter pushes, eyeing the young woman who’s all fake lashes and pouted frustration and at least two decades Dorsey’s junior. 

“Who are…?” Emmie starts to ask. 

Dorsey pushes himself from his chair with a sigh, aims for the bar. More specifically, the decanter of whiskey that the bar has to offer. “The big bad man has some questions for you,” he says to the woman, without looking her way. 

“And you are?”

Emmie scrunches her nose, “His girlfriend.”

“Early recruitment program,” Peter mutters under his breath.

All that the girlfriend turns up is just fifteen more minutes of uselessly vapid conversation.

Peter trails after Neal as he slips between the other guests in the upstream swim towards the loft’s exit, a burning knot of irritation behind his eyes at a wasted trip, and its implications for the Mayert case. And, subsequently, Peter’s sanity. 

Actually, the headache may be equally to blame on the noise level. They’re released out onto the comparatively quiet street, and Peter heaves a sigh he didn’t know he was holding in. 

“Dorsey’s…” Peter shakes his head. “A character.”

“He’s an asshole,” Neal replies flatly. 

Peter can’t even scold the language—the boy’s right. Really, he’s putting it mildly. He pats a hand at the base of Neal’s neck. “Don’t meet your heroes, kid.”

-

Bare trees arch over the asphalt like curled hands, dotted equidistant with rows of lampposts opposing them. Despite the afternoon sun, the wind sweeping off of the Hudson and over the parkway is cold, and the long line of wooden benches are mostly empty. 

Neal, at Peter’s side with a book clutched under his arm, is frowning apprehensively. The kind of look Peter might’ve had at 16 when staring down his curfew, or that Hughes gets anytime he hears the word budget.

“I told you,” Peter reassures, “I’ll keep a light touch.” 

Once he has the information he needs, Peter has no intention of keeping a light anything. But, supposedly, thanks to the leak that’s supplied the bond now resting in the FBI’s evidence locker, Dorsey’s picked up shop and relocated his operation; Neal claims that prior to that move, the presses had been running in a warehouse in Paterson. Peter can find strength within himself to play nice with Neal’s mentor at least for long enough to figure out how the guy has pieced together the warehouse link. 

If it would mean getting these goddamn Silicon Valley egomaniacs off of his back, Peter would develop the patience and clemency of a monk. 

Neal’s reply to the consolation attempt is a scathing look—which is to say that he’s not as blind to Peter’s intentions as Peter would like him to be. 

This morning, the kid couldn’t have looked more clammed up than if Peter had pulled out a set of handcuffs. Peter wasn’t sure he’d get this far. Then again, it was clear that Neal didn’t put the address together himself, no matter how motivating being cast as busboy might be, and Peter’s point—that in absence of being able to reasonably reproduce the path taken to make the connection, Peter would have to name Neal as the informant to the bureau—is apparently persuasive enough.

Peter nods at the book. “What’s that anyway?” he asks. Neal travels light, so unless it’s some kind of housewarming gift…

“Kaddish.”

“Bless you.” 

“Ginsberg,” Neal corrects tersely. “ Poetry. I had to check out a copy.”

“Had to?”

“How do you think I was able to contact him, to have him meet us here?”

Peter blinks in disbelief. It’s already odd enough that they’re meeting this guy at specific GPS coordinates in Riverside Park—you’d think a Starbucks would suffice. “You couldn’t, I don’t know— call him?” Given recent revelations, the question borders on purposeful entrapment. “The marvels of modern communication are—”

“This is the formal way.”

“This is an insane way,” Peter corrects. He wonders if there’s a different poet for each type of message, or if Ginsberg is the going catch all for call me.  

Neal tucks the book tighter. “You’re the one who’s insisting on speaking with him.”

“Is this guy some kind of nut?”

The kid hesitates—which doesn’t bode well—his eyes flick further down the path to a figure on one of the benches. “Just let me do the talking, alright?”

The man on the park bench is mostly hidden by an unfurled newspaper, a page taken out of a bad spy novel. Peter’s greeted by worn leather shoes and short legs and the top of a bald head peeking out, and what appears to be a copy of the Times from 2002, if the headline about Iraq is anything to go by. 

The evidence for lunatic is piling up at record speed. 

Neal sits on the adjoining bench, makes a face when Peter doesn’t join him. 

He said he’d let Neal lead the conversation, he didn’t say he’d play along with any charades. Peter stays facing the man, clasps his hands before him. 

“I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,” the man recites loftily, without lowering the newspaper, “Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot.”

“Follow your spirit, and upon this charge, cry ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George’,” Neal completes, with a lot less dramatics and a lot more thinly masked cringing. 

Whatever that is, it works as some kind of code—the newspaper is folded down with a start. Eyes peer shrewdly through wing-tipped glasses at Peter, up from his shoes, then over to Neal. And Peter might be leading the witness here, but the guy really does look like a nut. 

The man stands methodically, as if stepping to attention. Or reading his cue to exit a scene. “You said you had a friend in need,” he says to Neal coldly, hooking the folded newspaper under his arm. “You did not inform me that this friend,” a derisive hand is flicked in Peter’s direction, “was a Suit.” 

The man starts to walk away; Neal jumps up from the bench. “Moz, wait,” the kid grabs for the guy’s arm. The familiarity has Peter developing a bitter taste in the back of his throat…maybe the Mayert guys are tolerable. 

“He’s not—”

‘Moz’ yanks his hand back, looks down on Neal with harsh features. “You should know better; I know you know better.”

“Peter’s…” The kid dithers, and hopefully it’s just another testament to his good acting, but he really does seem to care about ‘Moz’ not being upset with him. “He only wants to understand how you pieced together the old warehouse location.” 

“Look,” Peter interjects, “Mr.—?”

“Haversham,” Neal supplies. 

“Great,” the man throws up a hand, “That’s that alias down.” 

“Mr. Haversham. Neal says you linked Dorsey to this Paterson address; you tell me about that and I’m out of your hair.” Metaphorical hair, at least.

And only about Dorsey, because Peter’s got a lot to sort out with whatever’s going on between this weirdo and Neal. 

“Yeah right,” Haversham intones, “Like I’d believe a federal agent.”

“The federal part makes it worse,” Neal explains. 

Peter would imagine that has something to do with the federal crimes. 

“He should know better too.” Haversham pivots towards the water, gazing off with a hubristic expression. “The highest reach of injustice is to be deemed just when you are not.” 

“What does that mean?” Peter asks Neal. Behind him, Haversham loudly scoffs. 

“Plato,” Neal says, like calling the sky blue. Then picks back up his sincerity where he left it. “Moz, it’s not like that.” 

Haversham wheels on Peter, squints. “How do you know him?” 

Despite the accusatory tone, Peter’s will take the honor of being addressed directly. “Check fraud,” he replies flatly. 

“I told you to be—”

“What about you?” Peter cuts off Neal’s incoming lecture. 

“He stole my decoy wallet.”

Peter’s eyebrows raise. “You have a decoy wallet?” 

“I have three.”

“How paranoid are you?”

“Paranoia is a skill, Suit. It’s the secret to longevity.”

“Really?” Peter challenges. “To me, I’d think the real secret would be having nothing to be paranoid about.” 

Haversham snorts. “I guess they don’t teach you about the pot and the kettle in whatever lab they—”

“Play nice,” Neal interrupts. 

“I am.”

“Nicer. You promised.”

“This is as nice as I get with Suits.”

Neal inhales a frustrated breath, looks around himself, as if embarrassed someone might be observing this spectacle. “Will you just tell him how you linked Dorsey to the warehouse?” he asks. Peter’s glad to see that he isn’t the only one Neal uses the eyes on. Nor is he the only one that they appear to work on. 

“I asked,” Haversham spits out in Peter’s direction. 

“Asked who?” 

“The ether. I keep my ear to the ground.”

That still tells Peter nothing. “The…underground?”

“Sure. I put out the question to the universe; this is the answer that came floating back.”

“What am I supposed to do with that? That’s not evidence. I can’t get a warrant on floating whispers of the universe.” 

“You can do whatever you want with it,” Haversham replies smugly, and the remaining dregs of Peter’s patience drip away alongside his well-wasted half of a Thursday. 

“I could arrest you, you know.”

“Peter, you promised.”

“I beg to differ. Arrest me for what?”

“Guys, come on.”

Peter juts a thumb at Neal, over more of the kid’s failing mediation. “Him.”

“Him?!”

“You’re both wrong,” Neal blurts out loudly. Bringing outrage to a grinding halt for both parties. Neal, now the center of attention, raises his eyebrows meaningfully. 

Peter and Haversham glance away. Peter clears his throat awkwardly. 

“You’re still a bad influence on him,” Haversham mutters. 

“I could say the same about you,” Peter returns. 

“I'm not the one filling his head with state propaganda.”

“I’m not encouraging him to commit felonies.”

“Truce?” Neal supplies. 

Neither Peter nor Haversham are quick to agree. “You really have no line of reasoning on Dorsey?” Peter asks instead. 

“None.”

He rubs a hand over his mouth—trying to tamp down his frustration, not so he doesn’t take it out on this piece of work, but so he doesn’t catch the kid in the crossfire. 

He shakes his head at a patch of dead grass, then gives up and walks away. Listens to Neal share a few disappointed words with ‘Moz’ before he trails after Peter, apologetic. “I thought he would know more,” he defends, “And I told you he’s—”

“Crazy.”

“Eclectic. We can still—”

“Forget it, kid.” Peter’s had plenty of Neal’s line of thinking for the day. “I’ve got to get back to the office.”

-

“Boss, you have a minute?”

Peter doesn’t—he wasted all of those on Neal’s interesting friend—and it’s the kind of question that makes him want to drive his forehead through a wall at the current moment. But given it’s Diana, and given her tone, he’s about to make one. 

He nods, grimaces back at the conference call that’s still playing out on the landline speaker. “Mr. W—” he tries to interrupt. “Mr. Willis, Mr. Yates, I’m sorry, but I need to drop. One of my agents has an update for me.”

“About our bonds?” A tinny voice chimes back. “Have you found anything that—?”

“I’m not sure, I haven’t heard the update yet. I’ll—” Peter looks up to Diana for commiseration in his struggle as he’s cut off once again. “I’ll have Agent Hughes follow up with you about anything that— Yes, we’re treating this very urgently. Yes, I know. Yes, alright.”

Peter jabs his finger down on the hook switch of the office phone. Is blessed with a glorious dial tone. “Fucking hell,” he mutters as he rubs his temple in an attempt to stop seeing red. He takes a breath, then motions for Diana to proceed. 

Diana eases the door closed behind herself though, at this hour, the bullpen’s mostly cleared out. “It’s that phone number you asked about,” she explains, coming to stand in front of the desk. “It sent me on quite the wild goose chase.” Unsurprisingly. Neal’s an expert in that regard. “But I think I’ve got something,” she continues, opening the folder in her hands and sliding it down onto Peter’s desk. “I was able to get my hands on February’s phone records.”

“You were?” Diana must be moving up in the world in terms of pull. 

“Exigent circumstances.”

“What were those?”

“I’m not blind,” Diana replies evenly, and Peter can’t help his frown. He can’t say he’s surprised Diana pieced it together faster than he did, that’s why Peter keeps her around. But he also has no idea how to explain any of the follow up questions that might come with her realization. “Falls under preventing harm,” she adds, “Wouldn’t you say?”

Peter nods. Wonders if he needs to tell Diana not to say anything and wonders how he’s going to justify that request if he does. 

Diana runs a finger down the log sheet. “All I have are the incoming and outgoing calls, and there isn’t much here. These are all dead end numbers. This one’s a corporate landline.”

“An office phone?”

“Preston Group. Their office in midtown. And this one: it’s a PA’s cellphone. I called the staffing agency, and was able to get out of them that this assistant works for an executive from Preston Group.”

“They wouldn’t say who?”

“No. Confidential. We’d need a warrant.”

“And you’re already stretching those exigent circumstances?” Peter presses knowingly. 

“Exactly. But you could work your way down the list.”

“Who’s on the top?”

Diana, of course, is prepared for the question. “Vincent Adler—board member, controlling stake, and a net worth large enough to make your head spin.”

And a name that sounds familiar, though Peter’s not certain why. He snaps his fingers as it comes to him. “That campaign case we worked, when you were still on probation, Adler was one of the largest donors who was ripped off, wasn’t he?”

“You’re right, I forgot about that. Guess he’s very altruistic …politically.”

“Lets pull a file on him. See if the bureau’s flagged anything before. Get an idea of what his connections are. What his links with Preston Group look like.”

“On it, boss.”

“And, for now, keep this quiet.”

From Diana’s expression, it’s clear that she already knew that part.

Chapter Text

Diana intercepts Peter a few steps past the doors from the elevator bank, and her expression immediately has him at DefCon 1. 

“There’s a visitor waiting in the conference room for you.” She motions her head up the stairs. Through the windows, Peter can see enough of an outline of a suit to know that his visitor is, in fact, a fellow suit. “Agent Garrett Fowler. OPR.”

It rings with about as much comfort as IRS Auditor. 

“Did he say what he wants?” Peter asks. 

“They're conducting a,” Diana’s fingers don’t form air quotes, but her tone does, “standard review.”

“Now?!” Not that there was ever going to be an opportune time for Peter to have an OPR agent looking over his shoulder, but this has got to be one of the worst. 

“I know. I asked about the Mayert case, he wouldn’t give any indication if that’s what this is about.”

“I’ll see if I have better luck. In the meantime, get one of the probies to run interference on any questions his friends may ask, and keep everyone else working.”

An hour and a half and one of the most infuriating interactions Peter’s suffered through in his entire FBI career later, and Peter’s pacing back and forth in Hughes’ office. Scuffing his soles against the gray carpet and desperately trying to keep his voice below a yell. 

“Two days ago the files I requested on Vincent Adler were sealed, yesterday my appeal was denied with no stated cause, and now there's an OPR agent camping out in my conference room, pestering my team while we’re trying to coordinate this takedown on Dorsey—what am I supposed to make of that?”

Hughes scratches at the side of his chin. “Did OPR say what they want?”

“No.”

“They’ve been vague with me too. But they put in a request for info on a number of your prior cases; you might've stepped on some toes here.”

Peter’s jaw tightens. “With Adler, you mean?”

Hughes leans forward in his chair, taps his forearms against his desk. Peter can see the wheels turning—he’s not going to like where they’re headed. “What's your interest in Adler? He's not linked to this case, to any outstanding case of yours as far as I can tell.”

“I was following up on a tip I received from a confidential informant.”

“A tip regarding what?”

“It was vague.”

Hughes casts a suspicious look. “And you took the time out of your day?”

“None of the information I requested is beyond surface level; I wanted to know if there had been any prior legal inquiries into Adler, personally or his corporate entities. It was a simple feeler. It's only when I got pushback that I became genuinely interested.”

“You think Adler's up to something suspicious because of the reaction to you poking around?”

No, Peter knows Adler is up to something suspicious because of the reaction he got to poking around. The OPR situation is the nail in the coffin. 

On one hand, Peter can’t believe that someone in OPR, or in the bureau at all, could be tied up in or paid off or fooled into being involved in something like this. On the other hand, Neal’s words about this being a problem Peter can’t fix have been screaming in Peter’s head like a siren since the moment he got the first dismissing email kickback. 

“Someone that well protected—”

“Adler's got strong political ties; I'm not surprised you met resistance. Still, this could be a coincidence with OPR, maybe it is routine.” 

Peter doesn’t buy that excuse anymore than it sounds like Hughes does. “Have you ever seen them do this before?” 

“No,” Hughes admits. A damning enough stand-alone.

“Guess it's a new policy then,” he concludes bitterly. 

-

Neal swings into the car in a bundle of upbeat energy that immediately, and likely unreasonably, plucks on Peter’s nerves. 

“Seatbelt,” Peter grunts, without taking his eyes off the windshield. He pulls back out from the curb, moves a grand total of twenty yards before coming to a stop—because that’s what 4:45pm in Midtown will do. 

“What’s the update on the sting operation?” Neal asks. 

“He took the bait.”

“That’s great!” 

It’ll only be great once they pull it off. First, Dorsey has to show. “We still haven’t tracked down where his new base of operations might be, if he’s got one up and running at all at this point, but if we get him handing over some of the bonds, it should be cut and dry.”

“When’s the meet?”

“Friday morning,” he replies curtly. 

Peter can feel the kid eyeing him, quizzical, but Neal doesn’t push. He makes a few more polite comments about El and dinner and the team, and then nods to himself and settles back into his seat. Happy to let Peter stew in this foul mood. 

Peter taps his thumb against the steering wheel. Stares straight ahead at brake lights and bumpers. Searches for restraint in himself. 

And gives up on finding it. 

“Vincent Adler,” he announces to silence. 

Even out of the corner of his eye, he sees Neal visibly pale. 

The boy’s expression doesn’t change, his form doesn’t tense, but the warmth drops from his face like a lead weight in water—and takes Peter’s dregs of hope for humanity with it. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he concludes, his tone laced with defeat. 

There’s a taut moment of silence as Neal struggles to find something to say. He’s got one hand perched on the car door like he’s thinking of diving out of it. 

He could. It’s not like they’re moving. 

“You. You can’t—”

“I know I can’t,” Peter cuts in dully. 

“You…do?” Neal’s voice squeaks. Peter, in letting the car ease forward, shoves his foot back down on the brake a little too hard. 

“I already tried. Now my office is infested with OPR.”

“OPR?”

“Office of Professional Responsibility, our version of internal affairs.”

“You’re in trouble.”

“My hands are tied,” Peter says, “Everything I tried to request on Adler, even my request itself. Gone. Just like the surveillance warrant I pulled on Nick Halden—funny coincidence, isn’t it?”

Neal’s head swings to him. “You pulled a warrant on me?” The question bites with offense. 

“That’s…” Not the point. And also probably not something he should’ve admitted. “Yeah, I did.”

Neal exhales a breath like a gut punch, sits back, some combination of aggravation, resentment, and realization battling it out on his face. Peter’s confession has evidently made some things make sense to the kid; Peter’s not certain he would want to know what those are. 

“Do you at least believe me now?” Neal offers after a long beat of frustrated quiet. He’s not talking about the situation at hand, he’s talking about the difficulty of solving it. 

“I think I’m starting to.” 

“I guess that’s something.” The sarcasm makes Peter wince. 

Ahead of them, a car tries to cut into the line of traffic and triggers a chorus of honking. 

“Adler’s got someone in the FBI,” Peter declares to himself. “That’s the only explanation. This Fowler guy is either in Adler’s pocket, or whoever’s puppeting him is.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“I asked the wrong questions, and now Adler’s gunning for my career.”

The kid’s flat expression moves towards the window. “This is just to scare you off. If he was coming for your career, you wouldn’t have one.”

“That’s comforting.”

They lapse back into silence for three more blocks of Madison Ave. Peter’s sigh is what breaks it. “Now that I know,” he says, “you might as well tell me.”

“What is there to tell?”

Peter can’t believe they’re still doing this. “Neal.”

“What, Peter?” the teen snaps back. 

“You’re angry,” Peter observes. Maybe it should be obvious, but it’s such a strange look on Neal that it still manages to be surprising. 

“You went behind my back, am I supposed to like that?”

“No.” Peter swallows, uncomfortable. “But you don’t have to be alone in this, kid.”

“What if I want to be? Have you ever thought of that?”

“Why? What’s the point of—”

“Can we not do this?” Neal’s hand in his lap is balled tight. He’s staring at the construction site in front of them with barely masked woundedness. 

“Tell me one thing,” Peter says, and keeps going before Neal gets in his protest. “Why are you lucky?”

The question lingers, heavy. Before Neal frowns, seemingly decides he’ll entertain Peter’s curiosity. “I’m not— He…”

“Adler?”

The kid nods. 

“He considers me something of a… his prodigy, I guess.”

Peter’s lip curls. “What does that mean?”

“How do you think I’m here?”

“Where would you be instead?”

Neal rolls his eyes, shuts back down in an instant. “That was my one thing.” 

“Kid…”

“Nope, no kid’s. No more candid confessions from this side of the car. I’m done.”

-

Peter would call Grand Central on a Friday morning a circus, but he’s been to one—on a date night with El—and so he’s well-aware that a circus is considerably more organized, not to mention quieter. Nonetheless, the dull roar of the average New Yorker’s volume level multiplied by thousands and dropped into a granite echo chamber is mostly muted through the security booth’s walls. White noise behind Peter’s intent focus on the camera feed. 

In 1080p, people flow in a steady stream from the arched mouth of a passway. Commuters, tourists, teenagers. None of them are the singular raging jerk that Peter’d like to see.  “Cruz,” he snaps through the radio, “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” the agent’s voice pipes back through static—another side effect of all that stone. “He just turned around. I think he saw our guys at the 46th street entrance—I’m tailing him now.”

“46th street,” Peter repeats, in confusion that’s quickly turning into premonition. He’s had a bad feeling in his gut all morning; he was blaming it on the egg white and tofu concoction El whipped up for breakfast, but clearly he shouldn’t have been so quick to put his wife’s culinary choices on trial. “We shouldn’t have anyone on 46th. Jones.”

“On it.”

“Boss,” Cruz chimes back in, her volume softened, “Dorsey’s getting into a taxi; it looks like he’s leaving.”

“Damn it!”

“You think he got cold feet?” Jones asks.

“I think someone’s not where they’re supposed to be.” And whoever it is, Peter’s gonna have their head, or at least their badge, for it. “Mendoza,” Peter radios, “pull around and see if you can tail that cab.”

Jones, zeroed in on something on one of the camera angles, taps at the screen. “I think that’s our pair of idiots.”

“Who are they?” Duffy asks. 

“I know who they are.” And Peter can bet why they’re here too. “I’ll deal with this,” he says as he turns; he points back to Jones, “Tell Mendoza not to lose that taxi.”

Peter barely registers the cast of the faux firmament or the undulating crowd, too caught up in his crescendoing fury. By the time he’s bowling his way out onto 46th, it’s at a fever pitch. A quick glance at the sidewalk crowd tells Peter that the two agents from before are gone, but it also reveals a white van parked farther down the block of office buildings. Immediate Technical Services; yeah right. 

Peter knows one when he sees one. 

He flagrantly jaywalks his way into pounding a fist on the van’s rear door. For a moment, nothing happens; he’s about ready to start kicking the door. It’s a pity Peter doesn’t, because if he had, he might’ve accidentally hit the smug face that greets him instead. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Peter growls. 

“Agent Burke,” Fowler’s going for surprised, he’s not pulling it off. At all. “It’s good to see you again.” The OPR agent ducks out of the back of the van, steps down to the pavement, casual as could be. 

Peter forces himself to ease a step back. “Do you know what you just blew?”

“Relax, Peter.”

“Dorsey was supposed to be meeting our agent; your team just tipped him off. My investigation—”

Fowler nods at the babbling that’s spilling out of Peter’s radio. “Looks like it needs your full attention.”

It doesn’t; Peter can tell from the tone itself that Mendoza’s had no luck with the cab. Peter exhales a sharp breath to keep himself from reshaping the nose of someone who can absolutely get him fired for it. “Why are you doing this?” he implores instead, “We’re on the same team, goddamnit!” 

Or, at least, they’re supposed to be. Peter’s well beyond starting to doubt that they actually are.

“I’m pursuing my operation in New York, how was I supposed to know your suspect would be here?”

“And what operation is that?”

“I can’t comment on it.”

Of course he can’t. Peter stares Fowler down, his jaw set. “If this is what I think it is… It won’t end well for you.”

“Is that a threat?”

“A promise.”

Fowler doesn’t look fazed. “Can I give you a word of advice?” he sneers, “You’re out of your league.”

“With Mayert, or with Adler?”

Either way, he’s been hearing it a lot lately.

Chapter Text

Water splashes across Peter’s feet as he yanks closed his soaked umbrella: insult to injury. He curses, ducks his head down towards the door in a futile attempt at shelter from the April onslaught, and digs for his keys.

It’s one thing to spend all night on a stakeout—an unproductive one at that—it’s another for even the damn weather to have it out for him. The former Peter has to accept without complaint: he knows where he stands and not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Hughes as much as said put your head down, do your work, and be happy you still have your badge. But the latter, Peter can and will air his feelings about.

He manages to shove open the front door and stumbles into shelter, dripping all over the entryway in the process. Peter sheds a sopping jacket, water-logged shoes. Discovers that even his socks are wet. They join the growing pile on the hardwood. Peter’s got three whole days before El’s back from DC and that makes the mess a problem for a later date. A mentality which already has the sink full of dishes and a beer bottle collection coming together nicely on the coffee table. 

Peter traipses up the stairs, bed a singular objective on his mind—then realizes he’s forgetting something. The dog. Who hasn’t gone out since the neighbor came by. And who didn’t bother to greet Peter as per usual either. 

He wets his lips to whistle halfheartedly. Waits for a click of paws that…doesn’t come. 

“Satch?”

There’s a soft thumping in response, a tail wapping against the floor downstairs. Peter reverses course. Unease starting to seep through his haze of fatigue. 

He starts across the dim living room, and only makes it halfway.

"Neal?”

The figure, slouched under a blanket against the back of the couch with the missing dog curled beside him, jolts upright. Back—except back is only into heavy upholstery. 

“You’re…” Eyes dart around the shadowed space for a beat of confusion. “Home early,” Neal finishes with a wince. 

“Are you okay?” 

Peter flicks on the closest lamp, bouncing soft light over the living space and making Neal’s eyes pinch. 

It’s not a blanket. It’s Peter’s winter coat. The one that he lent the kid months ago and that Peter’s supposed to be packing away from the hall tree to go up with the rest of the winter stuff in the attic—a chore he likely won’t motivate himself to get to until it’s near 80 degrees outside. 

The thick fabric is draped over Neal from the shoulders down. Held closed by a pale fist. 

There are abrasions on the side of Neal’s face. His lip is swollen. 

A sensation washes over Peter like being dipped in ice. 

“Shit,” he hears himself exhale. “What happened?!” 

A part of himself that Peter isn’t ready to acknowledge yet informs him that he already knows the answer to that. 

Neal’s lashes waver over glossy eyes, like he’s still half asleep. That’s the generous explanation. 

“I…” The word seems to catch in Neal’s throat. Whatever excuse he’s searching for, he doesn’t find it. 

Or maybe he can tell that Peter doesn’t care to hear it. 

Peter’s broiling internal argument between fear and cynical rage comes to halt as a third voice—the field agent with crisis management training—kicks back in. Finally. “Can you walk?”

“Walk?” Neal echoes. 

“Yeah, to the car.” By the time Peter calls and an ambulance gets here, it likely will have been faster to have driven Neal himself.

He waits, but the only reaction Peter gets is a set of dumbfounded blinks. 

“So we can go to the hospital, Neal.”

Neal’s eyes widen at the word, he sits up a little more against the couchback, a spark of coherence returning to his features. “The hospital? Why would… I’m fine.”

Peter doesn’t buy that Neal’s even convincing himself. “You don’t look fine,” he points out as levelly as he can manage.

The kid digs the hand that isn’t still gripping Peter’s coat into the ground, pushing himself up to his awkward feet. Satch jumps up with him. “It’s not a big deal,” he says, his steady voice not doing anything to keep Peter from seeing the way his knees wobble. “Really, Peter, I—”

“You’re hurt. This isn’t a debate.”

Neal casts his eyes up to the ceiling. “It’s swelling,” he says with a half smile, “I think some frozen peas will do the trick.”

If it was just swelling, the kid already would’ve been out the door. The fact that he hasn’t attempted to make a run for it is raising a lump in the back of Peter’s throat. A feeble dam against all the observations Peter doesn’t want to think about—the details he’s certain Neal doesn’t want him to enumerate either. 

He lets his stare say the words he won’t. 

The rain beats against the windows. The dog shifts to sit against Neal’s leg. 

Neal’s bravado melts away in the face of Peter’s resolve. 

“I’m sorry that I barged in,” the boy offers meekly, desperation at the edges of his voice and distance in his tone. “I… I know you told me not to pick the lock again, and I didn’t, I promise—”

Peter frowns. “You need to get checked out.” He can’t tell if this is the newest tactic or if Neal genuinely believes that proper medical care is akin to a punitive measure. 

“—the…the spare key was right there under the—” 

“By a doctor.” Maybe it’d be easier to just pick the kid up and carry him to the car. Then again, Peter can think of at least two reasons why that’s probably a bad idea.

“But I,” Neal babbles on, his shoulders drawing up tighter, “I won’t do it again. And—”

“I don’t care about any of that,” Peter cuts in, harsher.

Neal’s eyes meet Peter’s in a glaze of panic. Hold there, searching for flexibility. 

The kid must not find any. 

More of Neal’s weight sags against the couch, “I can’t go to a hospital,” he says, with the resignation of honesty.  

“Why not?” Last Peter heard, physicians didn’t bite. 

Neal swallows through a tremor. His eyes retreat around the room—over the framed photographs on the opposing wall and the files Peter’s not cleared from the kitchen table—and land on the top of the dog’s head. “Doctors are…” he picks up quietly. “They have to report this kind of thing.” 

So does Peter, technically. And yet, here they are.

“I know.”

Neal waits, like he’s giving time for Peter to put together the obvious, but Peter long since has. He just doesn’t care. It didn’t cross his mind to care. He’ll do what he has to keep Neal safe and that’s that. 

“If you know, then—”

“We’ll figure it out, kid.”

Fear tightens Neal’s voice. “No, we—we won’t. You don’t understand what’s at stake here.”

Neal keeps on saying that, and it might’ve been true the first couple of go-arounds, but it’s not anymore. 

“Your safety? My career?” 

The first of those is already out the window and the second, Peter couldn’t give less of a fuck about, not when Neal’s life could be on the other side of the equation. Forget could be, is. 

That’s the summation of the deluge of clinical details that the investigator who’s found this kid a dozen times over can’t not notice now: Neal’s hair is damp from the rain. He’s trembling under the coat. His knuckles are scraped up and there’s grime under his fingernails. 

“He’s—I only get so many chances and he’s already—”

Peter looks bitterly from Neal’s pallid face to the dark blotch of a stain on his own coat. “You’re bleeding. You can’t stand up straight, either. We’re going to the ER.”

Neal shakes his head frantically, his legs wilting beneath him. “Please don’t do this.”

“I can drive you,” Peter lays out firmly, as the kid’s lips start to shake, “or I can call an ambulance, it’s your pick.”

“N-no, I—”

“It’ll be okay. I promise it will—”

Neal audibly drags down a inhalation and what comes back up is a sob. 

The kid sags to the ground, tears spilling down his face. 

Peter watches on in horror. He’s well acquainted with Neal’s crocodile tears—these aren’t them. 

Neal’s ragged breaths are getting quicker and quicker. “Hey,” Peter tries to interject awkwardly, “Neal, it—”

“No,” the boy says roughly, his fingernails biting into the wood and tears still streaming. “He— He’s— It’ll be because of me. ”

Peter has no idea what Neal’s talking about and he doesn’t get to find out, because Neal looks up at Peter with genuine terror in his eyes. Terror that Peter, in the face of, feels rather like he’s staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. 

And also like he’s holding a loaded gun. 

Satchmo whines, nudges his head into Neal’s lap. Peter’s heartbeat pounds against his ribs. Neal continues to silently cry with the sort of numb despair that Peter’s only ever seen in a prior life on the faces of people who’ve just been told their loved ones are dead. 

Peter exhales a shaky breath, he crouches down beside Neal, who doesn’t acknowledge him, and sits back. He doesn’t know what to do anymore than he knows what he just did, but he does know for a fact that he doesn’t want to see that look on Neal’s face ever again. 

Neal’s breathing slowly settles, and the tears stop—he doesn’t bother to wipe his face. He stares off vacantly, his expression slightly scrunched with embarrassment. 

Peter’s losing in his battle to not perceive that the kid smells like anxious sweat and sex and blood. It settles as a weight on his chest. He swallows against it. 

“Why’d you come here?” he asks quietly, holding his tone perfectly even like balancing on a tightrope. 

Neal doesn't look at Peter. Shame tautens in his cheeks. “I…I didn’t want to stay on the street like this,” he mumbles. 

“And Adler?”

“Can’t see that—he—he’s already going to be mad enough when he does. I can’t work if…”

“Why not Mozzie?” 

“You…”

“I wasn’t supposed to be home,” Peter fills in. 

Neal nods. His eyes flick to Peter. “I—I wasn’t going to take anything,” he insists weakly. 

“I know.”

“Or…mess with anything, or—”

There’s a hard lump in the back of Peter’s throat. “Kid, I told you you could stay here.” 

Peter scrubs a hand over his mouth. He knows what he should do, what he’s supposed to do, but somehow this damn kid has managed to erode every ounce of certainty in Peter’s body. Shaken up his compass for correct and incorrect in lava lamp fashion.

Maybe he shouldn’t have let his Catholicism lapse, because if Peter ever needed to say a prayer for himself, now would be that moment. “If you don’t want me to have to call an ambulance, you’re at least gonna have to let me see.”

“See?”

“For all I know, you could be hiding a stab wound under my coat.”

“But I’m not.”

“But you could be.”

Neal doesn’t move for a moment. Then he slowly relaxes his death grip on the coat, drops his hand into his lap, his eyes averted. He shrugs the fabric off his shoulders. 

“I wasn’t lying,” he offers. 

The t-shirt the kid has on is dirtied, not soaked with blood which Peter will at least take as comfort enough to table the doctor issue for the time being. Maybe until after the kid has slept. 

Peter stands as Neal tucks the coat tight with more urgency than is comforting. 

“Come on,” Peter sighs, offers out a hand which Neal looks at like it’s a foreign object before accepting the help in getting to his feet. “How do you feel about stairs?”

“Fine,” Neal shrugs. 

Peter doesn’t believe him. 

Nonetheless, he motions a hand for Neal to proceed. Neal, looking like he has a question on his lips, bites them instead. 

Neal limps his way across the living room to the staircase and begins to slowly leverage himself up, more by his hand on the banister than by any strength from his own legs. Peter, trailing, teeth gritted, tries to keep himself from helping because he’s not certain he should. 

He points Neal to the guest bedroom and goes to find the first aid kit and some of El’s pajamas, which are likely his best bet for getting Neal into dry clothes. If nothing else, he’s at least cleaning the scrapes on the kid’s face and hands. 

Neal, unfathomably, is clutching the back of the chair that’s tucked into the room’s small desk rather than sitting in it—he accepts the pjs with a paltry thanks. Peter leaves him to change and to finally let out Satch, who only follows Peter away from Neal the second time his name is called. The dog trots out the sliding glass door downstairs, unfazed by the rain, while Peter hovers in the doorframe. 

Satchmo returns damp and pungent, he immediately darts for the stairs. Peter shares the sentiment—he doesn’t trust the kid alone either.

Satch makes it to the landing first. He paws open the guest bedroom door—a trick that neither El nor Peter taught him—before Peter can manage to catch him by the collar. “Sorry, he—”

Neal’s got El’s flannel pants on, drawstring cinched tight around his waist, he’s got the soiled t-shirt pulled up over his head. Peter’s coat is draped over the chair. Neal’s jeans are bundled on the floor.

Neal’s side is littered with contusions. Blooming purple around straight white lines. 

Peter blenches.

The kid drops the shirt to the floor, glances at Peter frozen in the doorway. “You mind?”

Yes, Peter minds. He minds that there’s a heel print of a boot on the kid’s pale stomach. He minds that he can see each of the kid’s ribs. He minds that the pair of jeans that Neal’s just not so surreptitiously tried to cover with his shirt are certainly the source of the blood. 

Peter opens his mouth, Neal gets there first. 

“Mozzie,” Neal blurts. Folding his arms over himself. Which reveals to Peter that he also has one of the contusions on his upper arm. “Moz has a guy. A doctor. Who does work off the books; I’ve seen him before, he—he’ll come if…”

Peter’s already shaking his head. 

“Please, you can call him. Moz has a number that’s just for me and—”

“What the hell happened?” Peter finally gets out. 

Neal reaches for El’s folded t-shirt, a remnant from her high school softball team. “You’re always saying that I’m going to get into trouble.”

“That’s not—”

“Going to get hurt then.”

“Who did this?” 

“It doesn’t matter. It was— I made a mistake, that’s all.”

“A mistake,” Peter repeats dryly. 

Neal ignores him, gingerly pulls the shirt over his head. Working his arms through one at a time. 

“You made a mistake.”

Neal nods, weary. He steps away from the chair to sink to the ground beside the desk. Leans against it. 

“What are you doing? The bed’s right there, Neal.”

“No, I,” the boy waves off, “I’ll get Elizabeth’s… This is fine. I don’t want to get anything dirty.” 

Peter squints. “You just changed,” he points out. “And I can tell you right now, El could care less.”

“I haven’t showered. This—this is fine Peter, really.”

Peter’s heart finds a new and unique way to break.

“I’ll call the little guy, and I won’t—unless this doctor,” and Peter’s saying doctor in the loosest sense, really, “says it’s necessary I won’t make you go to the hospital right now, but I’m— You’re not sleeping on the floor, kid. Not in my house.”

Neal glances down, plucking at the carpet. “O-okay.” He sits up shakily, doesn’t protest further as Peter helps him to the bed, pulls blankets over him. “My stuff,” he says suddenly, as Peter’s adjusting the pillows. Tries to get back up. “I didn’t pay for the hotel for…for tonight, they’ll—”

“Which hotel?”

“Why?”

“Cause I’ll get someone to go get it.” 

“The North”

“Room number?”

“Two…207. They might’ve already…”

“I’ll take care of it.”

-

“He’s asleep now I think,” Peter says, keeping his voice low as he paces around the kitchen island. El immediately tried to insist on getting on the first plane, train, anything, home; Peter had reminded her that there’s no guarantee Neal will still be here by the time she is. 

It didn’t work—if the road noise behind El is anything to go by. 

He had debated not calling at all. But if he didn’t, El would skin him alive once she heard. And, besides, he needs her sanity. God knows El’s voice of reason is the only one that’s going to stop Peter from doing something he’ll regret. Like homicide. “The doctor—if he even is a doctor—said he might have internal bleeding, gave a whole list of… and fuck, El if he—I don’t care if I have to take him out of state, I don’t care if I have to give him a fake identity myself, I’m not letting him leave if—”

“I know, hon.”

“It was a cop,” Peter spits out, failing to control his volume. 

“What?”

“I don’t know for sure yet. But—I’ve seen bruises like that before, they’re from a baton. Some piece of shit…” Peter’s gripping the phone hard enough to make his hand throb. 

“Can you find them?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Neal comes first.”

“I know.”

The doorbell disrupts Peter from any further comment. He says a quick goodbye to El, discards his phone on the counter, and unlocks the door to let Diana in out of the rain. She’s got a black umbrella in one hand, a leather satchel in the other, and an air of nonchalance like it’s perfectly normal to be delivering the contents of a dingy hotel room to her boss on an early Thursday evening. Diana stays within the bounds of the entry rug as she performs a few pleasantries, the umbrella hooked on her arm. She hands over Neal’s bag and Peter thanks her.

She glances from Peter’s face, and the bags that are likely under his eyes, up the staircase. “Your nephew okay?”

Peter winces. “He’s…”

“You don’t have to tell me, boss.”

He intends on leaving Neal’s bag in the hall outside the guest room, but the door is ajar. Neal, eyes cracked open in the bar of light from the hall, looks at the satchel in Peter’s hand dazedly, “You weren’t kidding,” he says. 

“Of course not.” Peter sets the satchel on the desk. The space smells more like antiseptic now than the fabric softener El likes. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” he asks. 

Neal slides up against the pillows, his expression stiffening with pain. He shrugs. 

The doctor—he’d introduced himself only as Steve—left prescription bottles on the nightstand, none of which have Neal’s name on them. Peter thumbs through them. 

“You should take something for the pain.” 

Neal smiles faintly. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to do drugs.”

“This is the exception.”

“I’m alright.”

“You can’t sleep,” Peter counters.

“I don’t like them.”

“Pain meds?”

“Drugs. Being… And like I said, I’m alright.”

Peter sets the vicodin bottle back down alongside the antibiotic course that Peter won’t be accepting argument about. “How about some tylenol, kid? Babies take that.”

He sees Neal’s protest make it onto his lips like some kind of reflex, before Neal wavers. And nods jitterily. 

A glass of water and a trip to the medicine cabinet is an easy order. Peter sits on the edge of the bed, studies the back of the tylenol box. “How old are you?”

“I’m ei—”

“Are you at least twelve?”

“Yes.”

“Great,” Peter grumbles, and punches two tablets through the foil to drop into Neal’s palm. Neal swallows them. Rests the glass back on the nightstand. 

“Why were you in Brooklyn?” Peter spouts. He should wait. He knows that. But his head is still whirling from his talk with El and from the words ‘Steve’ rattled off at him dully, like they weren't being applied to a child. 

Neal doesn’t answer. 

“If you weren’t in Brooklyn, you wouldn’t have come here, you’d have gone to the hotel. You didn’t want to get on a train, did you? So why were you in Brooklyn? Why were you working in Brooklyn?” The kid doesn’t. He never has. “One of… this isn’t because of Adler or you wouldn’t be scared to go back to him, so I know you were working here.”

Peter stares into blue eyes that surrender him nothing. “You’re not going to tell me who did this, are you?”

“No,” Neal says. 

“You know I’m still going to find him, right?”

“I…I know.”

“I thought it might be a security guard, or just someone with a cane handy. But then,” Peter reaches for the boy’s hand, turns it over by his fingertips, “I saw these. He cuffed you. Beat you, and then—”

“Peter,” Neal says. But Peter is the one who pleads. 

“I don’t understand. I would help you.”

Neal’s face is solemn. “I know.” The boy runs a hand over the blankets. Watching that instead of Peter’s desperate expression. “Mozzie would too. Don’t you think he’s tried?”

“Then why? Why do you…? What aren’t you telling me, Neal?” 

Neal hesitates. Fidgets with the hem of the comforter. Then he exhales, lolling back into the pillows, and nods towards the desk. “Open it.”

It takes a beat for Peter to realize the kid means his bag, and that he’s serious. Peter stands, crosses to unbuckle the satchel, folds back the leather flap.

“The sketchbook,” Neal says. 

Peter pulls out a black bound book, holds it flat in his hands. 

“Go ahead,” Neal prods, and Neal watches closely as Peter flips over the cover. The sketchbook’s thin pages are filled with graphite.

Peter leafs through messy figures and half finished portraits and snippets of New York architecture. Some of which he recognizes. “These are good,” he comments. Fully meaning it. 

“Thanks.”

He doesn’t have to ask what he’s looking for because it quickly becomes clear. Every couple of pages there’s a portrait of the same person. A girl who grows to a teenager as Peter reaches the sketchbook’s midpoint. She’s drawn from every angle. In varying level of detail. And in slowly improving skill. 

Peter stops on one of the larger sketches. The girl, taking up the whole page, stares out at him sharply. Light eyes. Dark features. A frown that cuts across her face. 

“Who is she?”

Neal swallows, his eyes are on his hands which are folded together tightly in his lap. “She’s…” He looks up, meets Peter’s gaze. “She’s Kate.”

The name is said with reverence. All that Peter feels is dread. “Who is she to you?”

“My sister.” Neal takes in a breath. “He has her,” he says, and drops the final piece into Peter’s puzzle. 

“Adler? Where?”

“I don’t know, he’s…keeping her from me. Those are from the last time we were together.”

“When was that?”

“Four years ago.”

“She’s older than you,” Peter realizes, looking back at the drawing. 

Neal nods. “I’ve tried to find her. Moz has tried. She’s not dead,” Neal adds quickly, and Peter hates that the kid can read him that easily. “I’ve seen… She’s alive. But this is the only way.”

“Only way to do what?”

“To keep her safe, and to get her out. To get us both out.”

Peter’s apprehension is reaching a zenith. “Adler threatened to hurt her?”

Neal doesn’t reply, he stares glossily at the space before him. 

“And what way are we talking about here exactly?”

“I can buy us out.”

“What?”

“I’m valuable,” Neal announces, as if it’s the plainest thing in the world, “not priceless. Think Bellini, not Sistine Chapel. And Kate’s…she’s an insurance policy.”

“How the hell are you supposed to—” Peter determines halfway through his sentence that he’s an idiot. “The checks. The prostitution,” he lists with dawning horror, “Whatever you do with Mozzie— how…how much?” 

Neal just frowns.

“Fuck, kid. You believe him?!”

“He’s never lied to me,” Neal replies fervently. “He’s—he’s always told me the truth, from the beginning; he’ll keep his word.”

“He won’t have to,” Peter growls out, “if he’s set an impossible goal.”

“Of course. That’s what he thinks he’s done, but he underestimates me.”

“It’s a terrible idea.” One that’s gonna end in a prison cell or a morgue, or both. 

“It’s the only way.”

“No, it’s not. I can find Kate.”

“If he knows the Feds are—”

“Without Adler or the bureau knowing, I can find her, Neal. I can help you and Kate.”

Neal’s shaking his head. “It’s not— it won’t work.”

“If you knew where she was. If both of you were safe, would you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Talk. About Adler. Help me take him down so you and Kate can have a normal life. A home address that isn’t a hotel. An education. A path for yourselves that doesn’t rely on felonies and the word of a pedophile.”

The room falls to silence. Neal picks at the scabbing on his knuckles. 

“You said yourself you’re not an island. You would be—”

“I know,” Neal says harshly. “I…but I can’t lose her, Peter. She’s— I can’t.”

“You won’t, Neal. I promise.”

Chapter Text

At 11pm, El tumbles through the doorway of an untidy house, carry-on suitcase dragged behind her and purse strap catching her hair on her shoulder. 

Peter is sitting on the couch—still in work clothes, TV off, not a phone, laptop, or case folder in sight—sitting forward with his elbows on his knees and looking at nothing in particular. He watches El’s gaze sweep across the space, her grip tight on her suitcase handle. “Is he…?”

“Sleeping,” Peter replies. “For real now.”

Peter’s checked no less than 10 times, hovering in the hallway to watch the unmoving shape in the guest bed through the sliver of the ajar door. He wonders why Neal didn’t close it. He also thinks he’s starting to understand the commercial appeal of baby monitors. 

“Good.” El pushes her roller bag against the wall, dropping her purse beside it with a thud. “You should sleep too. I’ll stay up for a while in case he needs anything."

Chivalry wants Peter to argue, but his weariness is singing in relief. 

He relents, and after pulling El into a tight hug and peck on the lips, heads upstairs for a long awaited night’s rest.

So, naturally, Peter wakes up at 3am in a cold sweat. 

The house is silent. El is beside him, a tangle of warmth and limbs and stolen sheets. She must’ve, at some point, declared her nighttime vigil unwarranted. 

For the sake of the exercise, Peter spends a few seconds fighting his paranoia before he gives into it, and peels back what blankets El’s left him. He steps into the shadowed hall on the balls of his feet. 

Peter doesn’t have to look any further to solve his mystery, because the hall bathroom’s light is on. Seeping out from under the wooden door to spread a yellow fan across Peter's toes.

“Neal?” He tries to keep his voice low—he doesn’t want to wake El, or scare the kid—but dread doesn’t afford him a whisper. 

The lack of reply certainly doesn't improve things.

Peter raises a hand to knock. Neal pulls open the door. 

“Everything okay?” It’s the nicer way of asking Neal why the hell he isn’t in bed.

“Yeah, just getting water,” says the kid who couldn’t look less like he was just getting water, despite him having a glass—the one Peter left on his bedside—in hand. “Sorry if I—”

“You could’ve asked.”

“You were…”

“Do I look asleep?”

Neal shakes his head.

“Besides, the tap tastes like a high school natatorium. You go back to bed, I’ll get you water from downstairs.”

Neal reticently offers the glass. 

Peter reticently approaches the elephant in the room, “You’re…sure you feel okay?”

“Fine,” the teen shrugs. 

Peter doesn’t know how to ask—and he’s not even sure there’s a right way to ask—if the kid’s feeling okay mentally. Plus, come to think of it, Neal shouldn’t be. Peter decides to table that line of questioning for the therapist that this kid definitely doesn’t have. 

When Peter returns upstairs, Neal thanks him; he smiles tightly and sips from the glass as if it’s proving his innocence. “I don’t think the tap water was all that bad,” he says.

“I don’t think you were all that thirsty.”

Neal doesn’t answer. At least it isn’t a lie.

After a few more seconds of silent thought, probably some of the same ones between the two of them, Peter pats the kid’s shoulder. “I’m dead awake, how ‘bout you?”

“Yeah.”

“TV?”

Peter helps Neal down the stairs with a hand under his arm, and neither of them say a thing about it. Though, it is serving to bolster Peter’s argument for why El should’ve let him put a flatscreen in the bedroom. 

Neal has interesting ideas about who should get to be in control of the remote. He also recognizes Singing in the Rain from the frame of it that Peter flips past.

“Kate loves the classics,” Neal explains with a shrug, in response to Peter’s suspicious look. 

Ten minutes into a MASH rerun, Neal falls asleep. Slumped against Peter’s shoulder. Peter says Neal’s name a few times, and only gets a sleepy murmur in reply, so he accepts his fate as an oversized pillow and wraps an arm around the kid’s shoulders. 

-

Central Park is in bloom. 

Cherry blossoms are dropping petals in the early morning breeze. Dogwoods are clumped in white. A slew of joggers, in vests and headphones, are making their way around the reservoir. The air smells light and fresh—a mockery of Peter’s present mood.

He trods over delicate grass. Raps loudly on the rounded door of the miniature house in front of him—an uncanny middle ground between eco-movement and Barbie Dreamhouse. 

It has a tiny flower box in its tiny curtained window, and something about that pisses Peter off.

“Open up,” he orders loudly, which earns him attention from a passing golden-doodle and its leash holder. Peter glares right back, as if he isn’t a grown man in a collared shirt bending down to yell at the facade of a sculptural display.

A display that does have an inhabitant. 

Who scowls at Peter in the doorframe: bare feet and baby blue pajamas. 

“How did—?” Haversham cuts off, and answers his own question, “The kid.”

“Isn’t this an art exhibit?” Peter asks sharply.

“That’s what they want you to think.”

“Do you have a permit for this?”

Mozzie leans out further from the door frame, glancing furtively. And clearly not liking what he sees. “Either come inside, or leave; your indiscretion will be Wednesday’s doom.”

No permit then. And, it’s a Friday.

Peter ducks to step through the short doorway to crazy.

The interior of the tiny house is in direct antithesis to the quaintness of the outside. Peter once had a suspect who they found holed up in a storage unit to avoid arrest—he was a Slavic antiquities expert. He was also a paranoid schizophrenic. This is reminding Peter a whole lot of that.

“We need to talk,” he says, stiffening his shoulders, as Mozzie slides closed the fourth lock on the squat door he’s just shut.

Mozzie makes a loud harrumph sound. “I don’t know if you misplaced the memo, Suit, but I don’t—”

“Neal—”

“I know,” the small man turns, his eyes and voice sharp, “It will be taken care of. You and your Mosleyite three ring circus don’t need to concern yourselves.”

“It’s too late for that,” Peter grits out. 

“It is never too late to—”

Peter doesn’t wait to hear the rest of the pseudo-intellectual bullshit. “Why was Neal in Brooklyn?”

Mozzie ignores the question. He pushes past Peter’s shoulder to pick up a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that are resting on a stool beside the cot occupying half of the floorspace. Unfolds them unhurriedly. 

And Peter’s tolerance of avoidance and half-truths is currently reserved for the teenager he left curled on his couch, having pried himself free and handed over observation to El like passing off a stakeout. Progress report: Took more Tylenol at 5:04. Hasn’t touched water. Declined food.

“Do you know who did this?” Peter asks, his voice rising. “If you’re protecting —”

“You,” Mozzie declares coldly, shoving his glasses in place, “ You is why.”

“What do you mean?”

“Brooklyn. Neal requested I keep a feeler out for anything related to Ronan Dorsey. Last week I heard Dorsey has connections running out of Broadway Junction, and I— I didn’t think he… Your case. That’s what he was doing there.”

Peter stares. “But he didn’t say anything to me.”

“Of course he didn’t.”

“And he was working, he—” Peter’s realization bubbles up against his will. “…as a cover,” he finishes, in exhaled horror. Suddenly feeling the need to sit down. 

He’d like to believe Mozzie’s wrong, or lying, but setting out on some half-baked investigation of a lead on Dorsey, and using the most convenient excuse to linger in a seedy neighborhood sounds exactly like something Neal would do. 

Sometimes, Peter would swear that the kid doesn’t think.

Sure, Peter was fourteen and stupid once; he also once believed he was indestructible. But his version of that looked like jerry-rigging a brake-less zipline in his neighbor’s backyard, not this. 

Peter never should’ve let the kid get so involved with Dorsey. He never should’ve complained about Fowler blowing the case either—Neal must’ve taken it personally. 

“There,” Mozzie says, and adjusts his askew glasses, “You’ve got your answers. Now will I be spared your presence?”

Peter grimaces. All he’s gotten is more questions. 

Though the feeling is mutual. Especially since there’s not enough room for Peter to take a full stride in here—it’s like Haversham’s moved himself into a quaint, human rights violating, prison cell. Peter rocks back and forth on heels instead. 

“Neal told me about Kate,” he announces. 

Mozzie reacts with the dismay of a parent getting a call from the principal’s office. 

Peter points a firm finger, “You’re going to tell me everything that you know about her.”

“Why should I?”

“Because if you really care about the kid, you’ll do what’s best.”

Mozzie snorts, but his eyes fall to a precarious stack of books rather than meeting Peter’s directly. 

“What’s the story with this Kate girl?” 

“The story is that he loves her,” Mozzie spits dryly. “I’m not surprised that your breed doesn’t grasp the concept.” 

Ignoring the insult, Peter already knew that—the kid practically had hearts in his eyes when he spoke about her. 

“She’s his sister,” he clarifies. 

“I suppose.”

“What is she then?”

“You’re going to look for her?” Mozzie shoots back. 

“Yeah.”

“Good luck,” he clips. “She’s a ghost.”

“You’ve tried?”

“I can only work with what Neal will tell me. And yes,” Mozzie waves a disregarding hand, “I attempted the alternative too. Clean passports. First class tickets to Paris. A whole new life. He won’t leave without her.”

That’s what Peter was afraid to hear. “And so you use him for your schemes instead?”

“Ah,” Mozzie holds up a pointed finger, “Takes one to know one,” he corrects. “And, Neal will do what he wants—you should know that by now. All I’ve done is keep him from going to someone else.”

Unfortunately, Peter doesn’t have a rebuttal to that. “He thinks he’s gonna buy her out,” he says roughly, “Buy himself out—there’s no way in hell that’s happening, is there?”

Mozzie’s evasive posture is a sufficient response. 

“Have you told him that?” Peter pushes. 

“No, and you shouldn’t either.”

“Why the—”

“He won’t believe you. He’s a dreamer, Suit. Cursed with the heart of a poet.”

If Neal’s cursed with anything, Peter would say it’s poor adult supervision and an absence of early intervention, but…

“Besides,” Mozzie continues, “he has to have some hope—if this is what Neal’s clinging to, you shouldn’t take it from him.”

“I’m not taking anything. I’m telling him the truth. Maybe if he knew that this is a pipe dream he would—”

Mozzie cocks his chin. “He would what? You tell Neal that there’s no easy out from Adler,” Moz spells out slowly, disbelief oozing from each syllable, “you find Kate. Then what? You arrest Adler and his network, adopt Neal, and join the PTA?”

“No,” Peter replies, incredulous. “Adopting is— I mean, El would—”

“Suit.” Mozzie interjects, shaking his head, “Happily ever after isn’t for kids like him.”

“It could be.”

Chapter Text

Satchmo worms past Peter’s legs as he pushes open the guest room door.

Neal is sitting up in bed, the lamp on beside him. Two empty mugs rest on the nightstand, sporting dangling tea bag tags, and El’s cross legged on the bed in a scattered field of playing cards. One of which has escaped and made it as far as the carpet before Peter’s Derbies. “Hey hon,” she chirps, as if the circumstances, and the lively sounding conversation that drew Peter up here in the first place, are mere business as usual.

“What’s going on here?” Peter asks. He leans to pick up the card at his toe; Satch settles against the bedskirt with a languid sigh like he’s the one who’s put in a hard day’s work.

A grin spouts up on El’s face—one that Peter knows better than to trust. “Neal’s teaching me how to cheat,” she explains.

With one glance at Peter’s face, the kid starts to caveat. “It’s not—”

“Sorry,” El amends, “not cheat, ensure a favorable outcome.”

“Uh huh,” Peter intones, and fraud is simply ‘wealth redistribution’ too.

El slides a hand across the quilt to gather the spread of cards into a pile. “We started with card counting; that’s fair game.”

Knowing El, what they really started with was a heavy dose of prodding for participation. “I guess it’s just skill,” he admits. He passes El her errant six of clubs.

Neal flips up a card, seemingly from nowhere, between his ring and middle fingers. “So is sleight of hand.” He eases the card on top of El’s stack in hand. To El’s delight and Peter’s skeptical frown.

El knocks the pile into a tidy deck against her palm. She straightens herself towards Peter, “Here,” and holds out the cards. “You shuffle it first, then hand it to me.”

Peter is not interested in learning playing card gimmicks—he would like to be having a serious conversation with his wife about the phone call he got off just before coming inside.

Diana is working her way through a list of every officer that was assigned to a patrol route near or in Broadway Junction on Thursday. Looking for anything suspect: Complaints in their service records. Gaps in their reports. Connections to Neal or to Dorsey. Peter is working on concocting a way to get Neal to give him a semblance of timeline. And on keeping down the tight knot of guilt in his gut.

It’s a lot more choking than it is swallowing.

But El’s eyes lift slightly from the brow in a way that makes it clear Peter’s only course of action available is to shut up and play along. 

He takes the deck of cards. Shuffles them curtly, and offers them back to his burgeoning petty thief.

“Now I cut them.” El talks through her motions. “Do a nice bridge.” She counts the cards down into three stacks before her on the bed. “And deal for us. But,” El lays down the remainder of the deck, then raises up her flat hand. “I’ve palmed the ace for m—” El glances at the card held bowed in her palm. “Oh. Well, it was supposed to be the ace.”

Neal offers a supportive smile. “It didn’t fall out of your sleeve this time.”

“See, I’m improving.” El juts her elbow at Peter, “What? You’re not impressed?” Her smile curls mischievous. “You think Peter the Great and Powerful could do better?”

Peter’s eyes bug wide. “Don’t—”

“Peter had a magician phase,” El explains to Neal, to the backdrop of Peter’s horror.

“I did not have a—”

“Oh yes you did, I have proof. Don’t make me break out the video.”

Neal perks up like someone’s uttered forgery. “Video?”

“No, we’re not—”

“He got his mom to tape him. Thought he was the next David Copperfield.”

“I’ve got to see this.”

“No. No one’s seeing anything.”

“Why not?” El asks, wounded. Peter considers that it’s not too late to go back to the office now. Get some paperwork in. See what he can pick up from Diana. “I think it’s very cute.”

“It’s no—”

“And this is why I got everything digitized. We can pop it in the DVD player. I made sure I labelled this one.”

Peter motions at Neal in desperation. “He’s supposed to be on bedrest.”

“He can lay on the couch. Oh,” El claps her hands together, “and Peter, you can make popcorn.” She turns to Neal. “Do you like popcorn?”

The kid, entertained, hesitates. He looks from El’s patient smile to Peter standing behind her, desperately signaling with a shaking head and a hand cutting flat across his throat.

“Sure,” he shrugs. Outright betrayal.

El swings her legs off of the bed. “Perfect.” She rises to kiss Peter on the cheek. “Thanks, hon.”

-

Peter is reaching to dutifully pull down the popcorn machine from the top shelf of the pantry when El slips into the tight space behind him—notably, without Neal.

“Bathroom,” El explains, reading Peter’s mind. Or maybe his habitual once over of the landscape outside the pantry door.

Peter grips plastic handles with two hands. “He’s still here,” he says.

“I know.”

They stare at each other for a long moment. In what should be pleasant surprise, but feels a hell of a lot more like worry, and maybe…trepidation. Responsibility a weight carried between them.

“And he’s…” Happy is a strong word for it.

“About 20 minutes before you got home,” El explains, “I talked him into upgrading from Tylenol.”

“He said he didn’t like…”

“I know, but he agreed, and it’s helping.”

Peter glances down at the popcorn machine. “Do we really have to do this?”

“Yes,” El says, like the alternative is ridiculous, “it’ll be fun.” 

Fun for who is the question. But Peter can practically hear his wife’s answer to that in his head: fun for the person who needs it.

It’s as bad as Peter anticipates. Maybe worse. He forgot about the fucking cape. The home-made cape. He presses his knuckles against his temple and tries not to groan while his grainy ten year old self blunders through rudimentary card tricks and properly pronouncing his R’s. 

His mom, loud behind the camera, clapping politely after each trick. “Good job, Pete.”

El grins from ear to ear. Neal, eyes slightly glassy from what Peter would guess is the burgeoning effect of the Vicodin dose El’s coaxed him into, giggles softly through his nose.

The only saving grace is that Peter, in sucking at magic, didn’t actually learn that many tricks. So at least the torment is brief. When the screen cuts to black, Peter breathes a long held sigh of relief.

“Thank god,” he grumbles.

“Oh hush,” El pats his shoulder as she rises, “You were adorable.” Peter’s pretty sure that inspires his blush to reach the tops of his ears. 

He wasn’t trying to be adorable, he was trying to be cool, and that’s what makes it agonizing. 

“You should’ve kept practicing,” Neal tells him earnestly, “You would’ve gotten better.”

“Why try?” Peter returns dryly, “Clearly I reached the peak of entertainment as it is. And I wasn’t hoping to translate the skill to pick-pocketing.”

El sinks to sit on the carpet; she thumbs through the plastic bin of DVD clamshells.

Neal’s smile twitches at the side. “You know, I’ve never actually stolen anything.”

The assertion is outrageous enough that Peter snorts. “My wallet.”

“I gave that back.”

“My coat.”

“Gave that back too.”

“Your coat.”

“I didn’t steal that,” Neal insists, with blank innocence. “Believe it or not,” he continues in challenge to Peter’s continued misgiving, “when people like you, they buy you things.”

“What about the cash you got from those checks?”

El holds up two clear plastic cases. “My fifth birthday, featuring a dropped cake and a lot of tears. Or a Burke family Christmas, 1985.”

Neal chooses Christmas.

Peter cracks open a beer. El pours herself a glass of wine—Neal sniffs the glass and nods his approval. He sits between them with the popcorn bowl in his lap, listening carefully to El and Peter’s every interjection of mundane detail.

“Are there more Christmas ones?” he asks when the tape concludes.

“Sure.”

“My dad thought it was necessary to preserve every year,” Peter explains. “Especially every time we bought mom chocolate or a candle.”

“If they were good, I’d preserve them too,” Neal says in a slight slur. Next time, Peter’s telling El to cut the tablet in half. 

Neal pulls the throw blanket El tucked around him up a little tighter. “One year, we had an ice storm.” A distant smile drops over his lips. The fading taste of something sweet. “It knocked out the power and the house didn’t have heat, or a gas stove, or anything like that. Everything was electric.”

El nods her assurance. Peter doesn’t move. 

“They split us all up because— Called up people from church, but Kate and I, we got to go to Mrs. Parker’s. She didn’t have any decorations up, I don’t think she was very festive. And she felt bad, seemed to think that we were horrified to not have a proper Christmas, but we—” Neal looks down, rustles a handful of popcorn. “She popped popcorn and we dried slices of oranges in her oven and put them on strings and cut snowflakes from newspapers. The rain had pooled in her yard before it started freezing. We used it as an ice-rink. In doubled-up socks. Kate was—” Neal’s eyes press closed. “I think that was the happiest she ever… She said the whole world looked like a crystal palace.” The kid looks back up, swallows. “I would—I would’ve taped that,” he finishes quietly.

Peter bites the end of his tongue to keep from capitalizing with some pointed follow up questions. 

El smiles to hide the glint of tears in her eyes. “It sounds beautiful, sweetie.”

-

A couple more days sees Neal more active, less foggy—he gets out of bed more, he follows Satch out into the yard and submits to tossing the dutifully returned plastic bone, he recovers his faculties enough to tease Peter about ‘the magician phase’. He shows no indication of wanting to leave. Peter has no intention of asking and giving him the idea to. 

El’s silently pulled the stuff in storage in the guest bedroom out—off season clothes in the dresser drawers and sealed boxes in the closet. She asks Peter to move it all to the attic. 

As if, if she makes the space, Neal will fill it. 

Peter doesn’t have the heart to argue with that. He moves the boxes. 

-

Neal splays out the messy stack of files currently monopolizing the coffee table. “What’re these?” he asks.

“Cold cases,” Peter explains, though the real explanation is that taking half of the week as sick days to make sure someone’s always home, and letting Diana be the one to chase leads about Neal’s attacker is slowly driving Peter up the walls. He’s more than halfway to undertaking El’s offhand observation from almost a year ago that the front hall bathroom room could really use re-tiling. The only thing holding him back is that the last time he tried to knock a home improvement project off the honey-do list, it ended up rotting for two months before El had had enough and finally called a contractor to finish the job.

“For?”

“For when I’m bored.”

Neal smirks. “You could get a hobby.”

“Like one of yours?”

Neal refocuses on the files—a declaration of truce. He extracts a hand from the pocket of the hoodie he’s wearing to pick one up and leafs through it lazily. He drops it back in apparent disinterest. Peter goes back to typing out his email.

Peter’s tried to ignore the shopping bags that appeared by the recycling and the subsequent shift in Neal’s wardrobe. He’s doing about as good a job of that as he is at blocking out Mozzie’s little PTA speech from frequent mental replay.

“This is Lowell Brockton.”

Peter turns sharply at Neal’s announcement; the kid is holding out a photo of the banker, taken from a distance. And now Neal’s got Peter’s full and undivided attention. “You know him?” he questions.

“We all know him.”

Peter’s dismay must be evident on his face, because Neal quickly waves him off.

“Not like that Peter, don’t worry. I’m not his type.” Shockingly, the attempt at reassurance underwhelms. “People talk is all, and Brockton’s got…quite the reputation.”

“For being a piece of work?” That track record Peter’s well aware of.

“They’re all pieces of work,” Neal corrects, “For being cheap.” He slides out more of the thick file’s contents, flipping through a stack of photographs. More focused, and, put plainly, himself, than Peter’s seen in a while.

Despite everything, Peter feels a rush of relief. And an accompanying wriggle of shame that this is all it takes to put his guilt at ease.

“Why do you have so many pictures of him?”

Peter clicks closed his laptop, sits forward on the couch. “We thought he was tied up in an insider trading scheme, but we weren’t able to prove it. My team spent a week tracing his every move with no luck.”

“What were you trying to trace?”

“How he’s feeding the stockbroker we suspect he’s working with information. We could never nail down how he was passing it. We did everything: tapped his phones, got into his emails—personal and corporate—got a tally of every person he met with…unless he’s sending smoke signals…”

“And he’s not?”

“Not that we saw.”

“Who’s the broker?”

“Lou Hanly.”

Neal sits quietly, the file rested in his lap. He studies the contents of the folder in silence, and Peter studies him nearly as intently.

Neal looks up with a start. “He saw the same girl twice,” he says, as if it’s a grand revelation. Knowing Neal’s hit rate, it could be.

“Yeah,” Peter replies slowly. He doesn’t see the significance. That…isn’t that normal?

Neal flips the photographs before him over, running a fingertip over their marked dates, “Different nights, same girl.”

“And?”

“And no girl in her right mind would see Brockton a second time.”

Peter shudders to think what might inspire Neal’s level of certainty. “He’s that bad?”

“You know how at a nice restaurant you can complain about the food, after you’ve eaten the majority of it, to try and get it comped? I’ve never done that,” the kid adds quickly. “But—you get the picture.”

“I do,” Peter answers grimly. He motions at the side profile of the woman in question. “So I should find out who she is?”

“That’s what I would do.”

-

“Wanna give me a hand, Neal?” El asks from the kitchen. The tap cuts off, and El reaches to dry her hands on the towel.

Neal, who’s fallen headfirst into everything the bureau has on Brockton since Peter allowed it, emerges for a breath.

“A hand?” he repeats. He hesitates, glances to Peter who focuses in on his laptop a little more intently as to not give the kid an out. Without shifting his gaze, Peter reaches over to shut the file Neal’s looking through.

“Go help her out,” he says, “the case isn’t gonna get any colder.”

Neal pushes back his chair slowly, lingers at the edge of the kitchen. “I don’t know how much use I’ll be,” he warns El.

“You don’t cook?” Peter asks. He’s not sure if that’s normal or not. Most of his teenage repertoire consisted of bowls of cereal and the occasional toast and scrambled eggs.

Neal shakes his head. “Not at all.”

“You’re not cooking today,” El replies, “just handing me things.”

“Okay.” Neal still looks equally uncertain.

El ushers him with a waved hand, “The kitchen won’t bite, don’t worry.”

After another moment of hesitation, the kid finally crosses the threshold to follow El’s order of washing his hands.

When El asks, “Neal, dear, will you grab me the sifter?” he simply blinks in confusion. So Peter supposes he wasn’t kidding about his lack of experience.

“The…”

“The cup looking thing there,” El explains, “By the glass bowls. We have to sift the flour so the texture is right. It gets rid of the lumps and adds in air. Makes them more delicate.”

El’s making crepes; if Neal sticks around indefinitely, Peter’s going to have to loosen all his belts a notch. She continues to narrate each action she performs, and by the time El’s heating the pan on the stove, Neal’s silence has slowly transformed to a set of carefully posed questions. Peter tries to keep his fond smile to himself.

The stack of crepes grows on the sideboard. They smell delicious.

Peter abandons his laptop—along with the pretense of focusing on anything other than the disturbingly endearing sight of his wife with their unexpected house guest—to venture into the fray and tear a piece off of one of the finished crepes. Crumpling it into his mouth as El swats away his hand. And then swats as his shoulder for good scolding measure.

“They taste good,” Peter says through a full mouth.

El flips the current crepe onto the plate, pours in more batter and carefully tips the pan to spread another thin sheet. “Of course they taste good,” she returns.

“They could’ve been poisonous.” That’s what makes taste testing a noble pursuit.

Peter wraps his hands around El’s waist, kisses at the side of her cheek and jaw. Ignoring Neal’s over-dramatized expression of disgust.

El extracts herself as the crepe begins to bubble. Poking her elbows into Peter’s ribs to drive him away. “Want to try?” she offers to Neal. She pushes the pan handle towards him.

“I don’t want to ruin—”

“There’s plenty of batter.”

“If it lands on the floor,” Peter adds, “more for Satch.”

Neal takes the handle hesitantly with both hands. He lifts the pan and attempts to recreate El’s graceful flick and catch.

“Not half bad,” El says, smiling at the crescent of crepe that’s landed in the pan.

“Half bad,” Neal corrects, his eyes on the part that’s landed by her toes.

Peter pats Neal on the back of the shoulder. “She’ll have you upgraded to sous chef in no time.”

The crepes that don’t end up on the tile make it onto their dinner plates. El tells a story about her college roommate, and Neal serves as enraptured audience.

Halfway through the tale of an ex-boyfriend revenge caper that borders precariously on vandalism, Peter’s phone buzzes loudly in his pocket. “Sorry,” he says, then glances at the caller ID.

“I…should take this,” he says to El apologetically. “Diana? It’s not a —”

“This is urgent, boss.”

Peter glances between El’s frown and Neal’s curiosity and decides he needs to ditch the spectators. He crosses from the table to pull open the sliding glass door. Steps out into the humid, cool night.

“Go ahead,” Peter says. Ever glad that Diana’s smart enough to read the room. Even one she’s not in.

When Peter had called about Brockton, he learned that Diana had narrowed down her list, thanks to Dorsey’s girlfriend, who has a father who owns a metalwork shop on Belmont and Williams.

“Those two I was telling you about, Chilton and Medrano: they were killed last night.”

“Shit,” Peter curses. Out of pure shock, not anything resembling sorrow. “How? When?”

“Shot execution style—one in the shower, the other in his bed. 9mm cartridges.”

“Signs of—?”

“No signs of struggle. No prints. No witnesses.”

“That’s…that can’t be a coincidence.”

“I’d say not. Not sure what it does mean though.”

Peter exhales a long breath, shaking his head. “Mozzie,” he murmurs. It doesn’t feel like the little guy’s style. But it might be the style of someone he contracted.

“Who?”

“No one,” Peter says quickly, cause he’s not ready to crack that can of worms yet. “I— Have you talked to anyone about these two?”

“Just their supervisor, we covered everyone in the precinct.”

“I assume they’ve already notified the families.”

“Yeah.”

“Did Jones have any luck?”

“Not yet.”

“Keep him at it. Focus on tracking Chilton and Medrano’s movements; I’d say we can take this as confirmation, but I want to be certain.”

“Got it.”

“And, obviously, be careful. Don’t ask more questions than you need to and don’t say anything you don’t have to.”

Peter hangs up. He turns back from where he’s paced over the grit of the patio pavers. Watches through the glass the warm radiance of his own dining room. El talking animatedly and Neal smiling back—normalcy that stings like heartburn. The phone is leaden in his hand.

He pushes it back into his pocket. Drags in a breath.

Peter steps back inside, through some invisible barrier, drawn back to El and Neal’s continued chatter.

“Anything on Brockton?” Neal asks, as Peter pulls out his chair.

Peter hesitates, his grip on the chair-back and the inklings of the conversation he needs to have on his tongue. “No,” he says, “not yet.”

Peter sits back down. He doesn’t shatter the picture. He nudges the platter of uneaten crepes towards Neal. He teases El about the crush she had on her Spanish professor.

Neal clears his plate, he flicks foam at Peter while helping with the dishes, he wishes El a good night and ducks to keep Peter from ruffling his hair.

And when Peter’s alarm goes off in the morning, he’s gone.

There’s a stationary pad from their primary care office on the kitchen counter. El uses it for grocery lists. Peter overlooks it the first two times he tears through the house.

Neal’s handwriting is visibly hurried. It halts Peter’s breath in his chest. Two words in tilting, loopy script. But two words is all it takes.

Not Moz.

Chapter Text

Peter finds answers three days later in a chain-link-fenced parking lot in Brooklyn, in the last place he wants to. 

The back of the cruiser reeks of sun-cooked plastic, disinfectant, and old sweat—a bouquet tailored to elicit Peter’s nausea. But maybe that blame falls on the restless 4 hours of sleep he got the night prior. Or on the knot in his chest that he’d name intuition. 

Ruiz looks as unhappy to see him as Peter is to be there. The other agent, leaning against the car door and rocking it slightly on its hinges, squints against the sunlight. “Don’t mind me saying so,” he says, and that’s a preamble that means Peter will mind. “But I don’t see what the hell this has to do with you.”

Peter doesn’t see why the hell Ruiz needs to know. Besides, if he does end up having to explain himself, it won’t be to Ruiz. He leans down further, shines the flashlight beam into the crevices at the foot of the seats. 

“This whole thing looks like a mob hit, cut and dry. These two decided to play dirty; they ended up in the dirt. White collar doesn’t come into question.”

“Gloves,” Peter interjects. Reaching a hand back behind himself. 

When Ruiz doesn’t move, Diana clears her throat. She elbows past the org crime agent, with a “Here ya go boss.”

Blue latex snaps down to Peter’s wrists. “I’ve already told you,” he tells Ruiz, “they’re involved in my case.”

“What case?”

Peter drops a knee onto molded plastic as he ignores Ruiz’s question. The hairs stand up on the back of his neck—the side effect of accidentally inhaling too strong a whiff of disinfectant. He wriggles a hand into the tight gap between the floor and the central partition. Extracts, between two pinched fingers, the phone. 

It’s dead. The screen is cracked. And if Peter had to guess, it’s probably been remotely wiped clean and the tech guys will get nothing off it. But it can’t hurt to try. 

It drops, heavy, to the bottom of an evidence bag. A confirmation: Diana was right about Chilton and Medrano. Peter was right about who killed them. 

It’s not Neal’s phone, after all.

-

225 W 43rd Street has been under construction for about a decade. Thin netting covers the stone facade above a layer of scaffolding; vacant windows look in on dangling work lights in their yellow plastic cages, a gutted interior, and few other signs of progress. Maybe the property’s changed owners, maybe it’s a funding issue, maybe it’s a testament to the complexity of NYC construction codes. 

Even if it’s all three, Peter’s still surprised to find the door unbolted.

The warm breeze whips through thick plastic sheeting on the tenth floor, rippling it in waves and fluttering the white, starched corners of the table cloth. 

Peter tucks his hands in his pockets, steps slowly in a circle. Trying to decelerate his breathing from the multi-story stair trek he undertook. “How many places do you live?” he asks. 

Haversham takes another luxurious sip from his wine glass—the final element in what looks like the remnants of a five-course meal for one, fluttering lit candles included—before he deigns to reply. “More than you will ever find,” he says firmly, resting his elbows on the table. 

After tonight, Peter’s certain, this will never be one of them again. 

Peter heaves a sigh. He walks across the vacant floorspace. 

“We can cut to the chase, Suit,” Mozzie calls after him, “I haven’t seen him.”

That’s what Peter was afraid to hear. He lifts aside a swath of sheeting with his arm. “Is this Neal’s?” 

Behind the curtain of plastic is a makeshift studio space: An empty easel. A cart that looks like it was pulled off the curb, covered in crushed paint tubes, brushes in plastic tubs, and crumpled, stain-covered rags. 

Peter maneuvers around the mess to lift a drop cloth the size of a king bedsheet, revealing a stack of canvases leaned against the wall. That compels Mozzie to his feet.

Peter tips through them slowly. “He said he wanted to learn to paint,” he grumbles to himself. “I don’t think he needs the lessons.”

“His eye is good,” Mozzie corrects; he’s ported his wine glass with him and he’s giving it more attention than the federal agent across from him. “But his brushwork can favor precision over feeling.”

“And these are him studying the masters, right?”

“How else does a pupil of the classics learn?”

“That’s why you aged them.”

Mozzie just frowns at that. 

Touché. 

Peter drops the cloth back into place. Tells himself he could care less about whatever half-baked scheme is occurring here, even if he is tempted to snap a few pictures with his phone. In case they become relevant to a case in five years. 

Instead, he turns to meet Mozzie’s eye. Holds up a warning finger. “If you see him, if you hear from him: you call me.”

-

Peter checks his phone a few too many times a day—as if Neal’s ever called or texted him. He scrambles a bit too quickly to pick up his work line when it rings. He walks into every room with some niggling expectation in the back of his mind that he’s going to find Neal in it. In short: he’s losing his mind. 

Neal’s right. 

Brockton and Hanly have a convenient shared taste in women—that’s how they exchange information. All verbal, no paper trail; just a prostitute with a top-notch memory and a portfolio that Peter would classify as…painful looking. 

Can’t be good for her spine.

They smash down the door of a bugged, and very much occupied, hotel room in order to make their arrest. Peter passes the lady a pillow to cover herself before he reads Brockton his rights. 

“What do you think she was getting out of this?” Jones asks when it’s all said and done—or, more accurately, when all are clothed and handcuffed, and Duffy’s escorting the woman to the back of a car. 

“Besides herpes?” Mendoza teases. 

Peter tells him to can it. 

At the end of the night, there’s a bitterness on his tongue that still hasn’t worn off. He starts the car, picks up his phone and composes a text to El that he’s heading home. 

He doesn’t send it. 

Instead, he drops his cell on the dash and pulls out of the bureau garage into another rainy night.

He drives to midtown. Past building tops swallowed by a sheet of mist. Windows glowing like cat eyes. Street lamps catching the streak of rain. Swaths of Citi bikes. A trio of teenagers who hurry through a crosswalk like Peter’s liable to decide to plow through them.

An A-frame sign for botox and filler—suspiciously close to an animal hospital. A closed coffee shop with a striped awning and stacks of mugs like crooked teeth in the window. 

Restaurants with boughs of faux greenery around the entrances. Which Neal has informed Peter is a universal sign of bad food. They’re compensating for something.

The unnatural LED glow of Times Square, seeping down adjacent streets. An oversized American flag and Ru Paul. Double parked semis. A storefront selling kitsch—Yankees t-shirts and New York license plate fridge magnets. 

The topiary and arches of Bryant Park. White and green glass lamps. A man stumbling down the street with no shoes. 

Pianos glittering behind a wall of glass. Storefronts. Offices. M&T. Chase. Bank of America.

Peter pulls over to the side of the street and flicks on his hazards before he fully realizes what he’s looking at—the nondescript monolith across the street. Blue and grey, glass and steel, a tiny courtyard of green and a warm granite lobby illuminated through the ground floor windows. Escalators that disappear to nowhere. 

The signage is nondescript. An understated engraving below the large address number. Preston Group.

-

Peter has no clue where Kate might be now, or how to find her, but he can find where she’s been. He goes with his gut. Two kids, two missing person’s reports, a history together in foster care somewhere outside of New York State—potential names including Kate, Nick, Neal, Thomas, and so on…

Peter knows what they both look like. He knows their approximate birth years.

He spends his nights scrolling through a database of headshots—outdated pictures of young boys and girls in varying quality. 

It’s the eyes that do it. Peter would recognize them anywhere. 

By the following morning, the state of Missouri is faxing Peter the files.

It feels too easy. 

He sits in his office and holds 8 years of Neal’s life in his hands. 13 of Kate’s. A stack of warm copy pages not thicker than Peter’s thumb. For a moment, he considers that maybe he shouldn’t look at all. That moment only lasts for about 3 seconds. 

Danny Brooks. 

Born in St. Louis, Missouri. Father serving a life sentence for first degree murder. Removed from his mother’s care at 5 for neglect. Chronic runaway, bounced from placement to placement.

At 7, put in a house with five other kids, including 12 year old Grace Callenreese. A year later, the two run away together. The missing persons report wasn’t filed for 3 days. In their statement to the police, the foster parents blame Danny’s frequent wandering act for the delay. Peter skims through their complaints of chronic delinquency from both children, but particularly Danny—lying, stealing, schemes, serving as a ‘bad influence’ on the other kids in the house.

The kicker to which is an arrest record for Danny and Grace’s foster father dated two years after their disappearance. Sexual abuse of a child in his care. A 10 year old girl. Peter’s sad to admit how predictable that feels. 

Danny’s birthday is March 21st. He’s 13 years old. 

And the years between 8 and 13, the distance between a St. Louis suburb and the concrete jungle of Manhattan, remain a black box. Though, not entirely—Neal said he hadn’t seen Kate in 4 years. Dee Dee said Neal had been on the street for 2. He wonders how Neal fell into Adler’s path. He wonders where those 5 years went, even as part of Peter hopes he never knows. 

The photograph in Danny’s file is a school portrait. The boy’s smile is uncertain. It doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s awkward in the way kids’ often are—where they’ve not quite understood the difference yet between how they shape their face when they’re happy and just showing their teeth.

Peter can’t bear to think of what happened to this boy. To Danny. Of what took a little kid already aware of too much and revealing too little, and pulled the mask the rest of the way on.

Turned him into something slick and talented and untouchable.

Something easier to stomach. 

He puts away the file and tries to put Danny from his mind, and tries to ignore the hypocrisy in that. 

Chapter Text

The first thing that greets Peter is a slice of a familiar grin. 

Neal opens the door the remainder of the way, steps back to let Peter out of the hall. “That was fast,” he says. 

“I was in the area.”

Neal doesn’t refute the lame excuse. His amused gaze skims over Peter—the sweat stains he’s sporting on his suit, the car keys and cell phone still clutched in his hand—and the kid’s off his game this time around because there’s some fondness peaking out beneath his goading. 

Peter clears his throat to hide his windedness; it’s like he’d forgotten Neal’s ability to inspire cardio more intense than an FBI fitness test. But after two weeks of radio silence, all it took was a cryptic phone call from a concierge desk to his work line for Peter to be willing to sprint, not entirely metaphorically, to 5th Avenue. Frankly, he’d have sprinted to Hackensack. 

Neal eases the door closed, turns around to Peter’s bitter inspection. 

“What the hell are you wearing?”

The kid frowns in offense. “A tux,” he says, as if that’s a defensible, downright reasonable answer. He glances down to follow the direction of Peter’s scrutiny, then pinches closed the open buttons of his pleated shirt, dragging off his undone bowtie and shedding it on a gilt-edged baroque desk as he walks past.

Behind Neal, between blue velvet curtains, the skyline glitters over the dark shape of Central Park. 

Peter clasps a hand around his wrist to avert the temptation to pat the kid down for injuries. 

There’s an orchid on the mantle of the ornate marble fireplace.  It’s real. As are the cut roses in a vase on the low glass coffee table. The large bed is backed by a plush tufted headboard and half-tester that reaches to the tall ceilings—another swath of blue fabric. Even El would call it ostentatious.

But Peter could care less about Neal living in the lap of luxury. The pillows on the bed are crushed, the closet doors are open, though its interior is empty, and there are the remnants of a room service tray on the sideboard. Paired with an uncorked bottle on melting ice.

“Nice room.”

“It’s St. Regis,” Neal replies. Reaching to overturn a crystal flute from beside a condensation soaked brass cooler. 

“It’s quite an upgrade.”

Neal pulls a stout bottle from its cold plunge and starts to carefully pour while Peter grits his teeth. 

“Champagne?” Neal asks, Peter grunts back his “no.”

“It’s Dom Pérignon.”

If that’s supposed to serve as temptation, it doesn’t.

Neal shrugs, clearly not very invested in ensuring Peter doesn’t miss out. He holds the flute out in front of himself, watching golden bubbles rise and fizz, then goes to take a sip.

Peter reaches over his head to pluck the glass from his grip.

The kid gauges Peter’s expression, then turns. “I’m at least trying the caviar.”

“On whose dime?” 

Of course, Peter doesn’t get an answer to that . 

Neal’s busy dipping a miniature spoon into an equally small tin nested in a bed of crushed ice.

“Whoever he is—looks like he left in a hurry.”

“Urgent matter came up.” 

“And you had nothing to do with that, I’m sure.”

Neal places the spoon back on a pressed napkin, tips his head, “I think I prefer Sterlet.” 

He crosses, unscathed by Peter’s unease, to plop back onto the plush bed, launching into casual questioning befitting of having bumped into an old friend. 

A lump crawls up Peter’s throat alongside his terse answers. Because Elizabeth is fine, and yes, he did arrest Brockton, and what he’s working on now is a cut and dry insurance fraud case, which there’s no way in heaven or hell Neal finds as interesting as his current posture would imply, and Peter can’t fucking do this.

“Peter?” Neal asks, his head tipped, concern written across his features. 

Neal. Worried about him . Peter could strangle the damn kid. Once more of the relief wears off, he very well might. 

Neal straightens up. A perfect picture of diplomacy. A perfect picture in general. His hair is styled back, fluffy waves slicked into neat place. He’s wearing cufflinks .

 “I shouldn’t have run out like that—I’m sorry.”

Peter stares. At eyes that are genuine and humble and imploring—hitting all the notes in perfect tune. 

The lump is now cutting off air. 

“I had to. I hope Elizabeth isn’t—”

“Shut up, Neal,” Peter snarls, “Just shut up. ”

Neal does. Silently watching Peter wince in regret. Rub at his temple.

It’s off-putting to have the kid actually listen to him.

Peter sinks down beside Neal with a frown. Forces his shoulders to relax. Keeping his attention solidly on the plush carpet to keep from having to meet Neal’s searching gaze. 

“I don’t get it,” he announces stiffly.

“Get what?”

“If this is really your life, why are you so…”

“So what?”

“I don’t know… happy ?”

“I just am,” Neal says easily. “…would it be better if I was sad?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know you didn’t.” 

Neal’s quiet for a moment, contemplative. His glossy shoe taps against the pure white coverlet. “Do you want to know the truth, Peter?

“Do I?”

Neal plucks some invisible piece of lint from his sleeve. “There are two kinds of people who…who I’ve encountered.”

“Because of Adler?”

He nods. Solemn. “There are the kind of people who enjoy that they’re doing something wrong, and the kind of people who never want to be confronted with the fact that they’re doing something wrong—do you know what both of those types have in common?”

“They’re both still predators .”

Neal meets Peter’s eye, “They both like happy,” he amends emptily, 

Peter’s skin crawls.

Neal pushes himself to stand. He wanders to where Peter discarded the champagne glass, and reaches for it. Rolls the glass stem back and forth between pinched fingers. “The sadists like something to break, the fetishists like to believe nothing’s been broken.” He raises the glass to his lips, takes a sip. 

After a moment of appraisal, Neal looks back Peter’s way. “Besides,” he chimes, back to levity, “I’m not always happy—I’ve got range.”

Peter has no rebuttal to that. “I’m sure you do,” he grumbles stiffly.

“So, how are you going to track him down?”

“Who?”

“Your fraudster.” 

Peter hesitates for shorter than he’s proud of before he takes the out. And he keeps his mouth shut when Neal continues to nurse the flute of Dom Pérignon.

Peter explains the riveting nuances of Medicare, and Neal spits off conjecture about leads. 

The sharp rap on the door cuts Neal off mid-sentence. 

The kid goes frozen. Peter’s hand jolts instinctively to his side arm. 

Neal’s hand makes it to Peter’s arm just as fast—halting his action. 

“Room service,” a voice growls from out in the hallway, proving that they’re very much not room service, though the heavy fist and heavier boots were doing that already. 

Neal breaks out of his trance. He pulls Peter up by his arm, with a pointed look that’s telling Peter to stay quiet more emphatically than words ever could. Confrontation doesn’t scare Peter. Especially not when Neal clearly recognizes whoever’s on the other side of that door.

But a confrontation with Neal in the crossfire, that’s a different story. 

Given his suite of options and lacking information, Peter cooperates with being led. With whatever Neal’s plan is, since he does seem to have one, and tries not to already regret it.

Neal herds Peter into the bathroom. All marble—even the ceiling—except for a large mirror that reflects back Neal’s serious face.

The kid releases Peter’s wrist to slide back a sheet of frosted glass. 

“Take off your clothes,” he says in a whisper. 

Peter’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “ What ?! No .” The harsh knock repeats. “Who is—”

“Don’t say I didn’t try,” Neal mutters.

A hand shoves at Peter’s back, and Peter, unsuspecting, stumbles forward into the shower. And nearly onto his face. 

About a moment before Neal twists on the tap. 

Peter jumps back the moment he gets his footing, trying and failing to avoid ice cold water; it’s one of those damn waterfall showers. And Neal was gracious enough to immediately slide the glass closed. 

He presses against the slick wall to avert what damage he can and wonders why all of Neal’s off the cuff plans have to revolve around closing him in highly inconvenient spaces. But, Peter both swallows his expletives and drops his grip from the shower door handle, because he can hear the door unlatching out in the hall.

And now Peter has a much worse debate on his hands than how he wants to deliver his opinion on this particular plan. He has to decide if he trusts the kid. He has to decide if it’s better to let this play out Neal’s way, or risk whatever unknown harm he might create by breaking script. 

“Careful,” Neal’s voice comes over the din over falling water, and Peter can practically see the demeaning smirk paired with it. “You’ll put a dent in the door.” 

There’s a thump. That Peter’s fairly certain is Neal’s shoulders knocking against the wall.

Yeah, Peter doesn’t trust Neal with his own safety, not at all. And yet, he doesn’t move. 

“Apologies for the intrusion, sir,” a man‘s voice calls out from the hallway, “Your—“

“We just wrapped up,” Neal interrupts flatly. “There’s no need to keep Mr. Moore from the remainder of his evening.”

A tight pause. 

“Have a good night, sir.”

The door closes with a click.

Peter waits a single additional beat, then he scrambles out of the shower, wet shoes squeaking the marble, he stops just short of going through the door to the hall, only because there are voices on the other side. 

 The man has shed his well-mannered tone. “ You were supposed to be downstairs a half hour ago.” 

Through the fish eye of the door’s peephole all Peter can see of him is a broad back and hunched shoulders. Peter would guess 5’ 10” or so for height. Light brown hair. A cheap haircut—or hopefully it’s cheap. 

He has a hand at the scruff of Neal’s neck that’s all but begging Peter to blow his newly crafted cover, and that Neal doesn’t seem to be intimidated by one bit. “Moore will be happy to cover the inconvenience, don’t sweat it.”

“Don’t give me attitude, you little brat.”

“I’m only telling you what he said.” 

“You’re—“

“Look where we are. You think he was going to decline a small upcharge?”  

The man glances back towards the door, then sneers. “Being the boss’ lap pet has gone to your head. You should remember where you came from.”

Neal doesn’t reply, and the man leans closer to him in response, “Do you need me to remind you?” he eggs, “Don’t you miss the good ole days, Nicky?”

“Your own mother doesn’t miss you, Marv.”

‘Marv’ boxes Neal’s ear.

Peter turns the door handle far enough to release the latch. 

But the man is already pulling Neal down the hallway by a grip at the back of his collar. Peter, channeling every ounce of restraint he can manage—and only finding any at all because he knows the creases a shoulder strap leave in the back of a suit a little too well—waits until the pair pass out of sight of the peephole. 

Then a little longer. 

Peter slips out into the hall on light but fast feet. Past wall sconces and framed mirrors that remind him the front of his shirt is soaked. El’s going to have questions about that.

At the elevator bank, Neal and the man are stepping through sliding polished brass. The doors start to close. 

Neal catches them with a hand, to the glare of his companion. 

Peter doesn’t thank Neal. He steps into the elevator and takes the opportunity to get a full look at the man’s—ugly, if Peter can say so himself—mug. ‘Marv’ looks about as much as he belongs at St. Regis as Peter does, and that judgement has nothing to do with fashion choices. 

Neal, who appears impervious to Peter’s presence, is the only one of them blending in. 

The lobby is a slice of Versailles opulence.

Outside of it, a town car is waiting for Neal and the man. 

‘Marv’ gets in as Peter sweeps through revolving doors behind them. In the absence of the hotel staff’s observation, he’s on a tirade. A louder one this time. “—babysitting a fuckin’—” Peter catches, before the car door slams closed. 

The car rolls down the street. 

Peter reaches to take down the license plate. But his phone vibrates against his fingertips. 

The caller ID is blank.

“Hello?” Peter answers. Unsure if he’s expecting Mozzie or Neal or worse. 

But it’s a woman’s voice that cuts harshly through the line. “Stay away from Neal.”

Peter pivots in a circle, searching for sight lines. “Who is this?” he asks intently. 

“You know who it is. Stay away from him. And from me. You’re doing more harm than good.”

The call cuts off with a beep.

Chapter Text

Central to the sea of lounge chairs and tables is a long U-shaped bar of black and white marble. And the woman at it, in deep violet satin, is turned away from Peter. Her dark hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, a martini glass resting against her fingertips. Pale skin, exposed by the plunging back of her dress, is cast golden by slate-shade lamps glowing above the bar’s brass rack of champagne bottles.

The woman is speaking with a man in a suit. He has thick cheeks and an expensive watch; she has a polite laugh that floats across the din of the rooftop lounge. Light and happy.

Peter watches the pair converse until the man, using all the subtlety of a Times Square rickshaw, slides a room key across the bar counter. It disappears with a much more inconspicuous hand into the clamshell of the woman’s clutch.

The man moves away. 

Peter takes that as his opening. He wades through the banal chatter of c-suite business travel: Slumping Euro. Debt ceiling default. Best places to buy in Connecticut. Peter would expect nothing less of a hotel that averages 1,500 dollars a night on a weekday evening.

The world’s least shrewd john has left a vacant chair beside the woman. Peter leans against its emerald leather. A bartender that looks like an overgrown penguin in his vest and bowtie wipes his hands on a towel below the bench, waiting for Peter to decide his order.

No way is he paying 30 bucks for a scotch and soda, and this is the type of place where he’ll get a pompous frown for trying to order a beer. Peter waves the guy off, feeling like a sore thumb—and like maybe the kid was right about his thick ties.

The woman beside him is paying Peter no attention. She’s pulled a compact out of her purse—part of the guise of tucking away the room key—and is fixing the edges of her purplish lipstick with a french-tipped fingernail. 

Peter clears his throat, over the din of conversation and the wisps of classical harp that are seeping from the sound system. 

“Kate Moreau.”

The woman startles. Icy blue eyes flash over Peter. They’re paler than Neal’s—sun bleached.

She moves to stand, to make a break for it. 

Peter catches her arm. “Nuh uh, come on now,” he guides her firmly back down to the chair, as she stares at him intently—her mouth a harsh line, her chest lifting and dropping a delicate silver pendant that’s nestled against her sternum. 

“Have a seat. Finish your drink.” Peter slides the martini glass towards Kate by its base. “It probably cost you an arm and a leg. Or,” Peter glances around the floorspace for the man from before, but he’s nowhere in sight, “I guess it probably cost him an arm and a leg. Either way, least you can do is enjoy it.”

Kate doesn’t reach for the glass, her attention is still locked on Peter like she doesn’t trust him enough to look away for even a moment. Or to blink for that matter. “How did you find me here?”

“You shouldn’t have called me.”

Kate’s nostrils flare slightly as she exhales. She made for a much softer picture in Neal’s sketchbook, and that contrast is highlighting her current venom. “What do you want?”

“You’ve been keeping tabs on Neal,” Peter says. It’s the only explanation, though he hasn’t figured out how she’s doing it. Yet. “An eye from above.”

Kate doesn’t answer. 

Avoiding admission must also run in the family.

“Why are you hiding from him?” Peter asks.

Kate’s gaze pulls away. “I’m not.”

“You’ve been in New York for six months. And it’s me you call?”

Pretty obviously, that strikes a nerve.

Peter doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt for it—Neal talks about this woman as if she’s something out of a fairy tale. He talks about her as if she’s mythical—with no sense of reality or self preservation in sight. Who knows what the kid has done or gotten himself into on her behalf. It’s clear he’d do anything under the sun to see her again, and here she is: right under his nose.

Kate’s eyes burn defiant. “I told you to stay out of this.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

Peter can feel Kate’s scrutiny as her painted lips tighten. “Neal disappeared,” she says finally, and interlaces her hands in her lap. “Fell off the map for a week. He was with you, wasn’t he?”

Peter hesitates, and that’s enough for Kate to have her confirmation. 

She nods to herself in bitter indignation. “They came looking for him. They thought I knew something.”

Kate shifts her hands in her lap, sliding up—to Peter’s confusion and mild horror—the high slit of her dress.

His bewilderment is momentary. Even in the low light, Peter can glimpse blistered skin. Red and glossy from some stage of healing.

“A hotel iron and a clothes hanger.” Kate fills in, her eyes unyielding as Peter grimaces in disgust. “This is what happened to someone they believed was hiding him. You saw what they did to the men they thought had killed him. What do you think will happen to you, to your friends, your family, if you try to take him away?” 

“I’m not—”

Kate releases the silken fabric from her grip in a ripple, rising from the chair. “There’s no reason for us to lie to each other, Peter.”

With a final frosty look, she steps narrowly past Peter and turns away. Leaving him behind in a sillage of jasmine perfume.

-

Peter doesn’t sleep for two days. 

He blames shoulder pain, the heat, a burgeoning corruption case brought in by a whistle blower from DCAS—anything and everything but the decision that’s weighing on his mind. 

He already made up his mind. That happened in the timespan between the phone call and a long elevator ride to a rooftop lounge. What Peter’s left with now are the consequences: a bad taste in his mouth, an exhaustion driven short temper, and a feeling that, despite knowing he’s doing the right thing, somehow this is all going to come back to bite him. You can’t call it pessimism if it’s reasonable foresight.

The stale air of the New York City subway system isn’t helping the sour flavor on Peter’s tongue.

It’s well after morning commute but before the lunch rush, and Canal Street is nearly empty. An elderly woman awkwardly maneuvers a foldable shopping cart through the turnstiles. A man at the base of the stairs is engrossed in whatever video he’s playing out loud from his phone. Peter, sweating by the card machines, is once again at the beck and call of a teenager.

A perennially late teenager.

He could’ve spent 15 more minutes in the crisp air conditioning of the FBI offices making progress on the DCAS probe that’s poised to take over his July 4th paid holiday—and it’s unclear to Peter if it’s the workaholic in him or the straight arrow that’s starting to hope that Neal doesn’t come at all. 

Of course, the moment Peter wishes to be stood up, the kid shows. 

Neal practically skips down the steps from the street, his foot hitting at an empty soda bottle that bounces with him. He smiles widely when he spots Peter—a Cheshire cat in street clothes, as at home against grimy tile and Art Deco decay as he was in the glitz of St. Regis.

Peter wonders when Neal will stop doing that: The kid always acts like seeing him is some spark of serendipitous joy. Act being the key word.

But that’s the bad taste talking.

Peter glances back towards street level. “I see you lost your governess,” he points out. And melts Neal’s smile right off.

Marvin Crosby. Born in New Rochelle. A brief stint in security jobs, a 2009 suspended sentence for simple battery, a family home on Staten Island. No spouse. No children. With all that time gained back from sleeping, Peter did his research.

“He’s easily bribed.” 

For easy, Neal doesn’t sound happy about it.

Easy doesn’t make you 18 minutes late either.

Peter only narrowly bridles that conclusion from slipping off his tongue. “You wanna tell me where we’re going?” he asks instead.

“Uptown.”

Enlightening. But the cardinal direction does point Peter towards Forest Hills, and to a train that’s two minutes away.

He heads to the turnstiles. Neal plants both hands on either side of them before Peter’s stern look materializes a Metrocard from his pocket.

“Fare evasion can result in a criminal summons, you know.”

“I paid my fare.”

“This time.”

From the looks of the NQR platform, they need Neal’s $2.75. 

Peter inhales the patentable fetor of heat, water seepage, and a hundred years of half-assed maintenance. “I could’ve driven,” he points out.

Neal rolls his eyes. 

Whatever quip he’s about to toss back is muted under the roar, rattle, and screech of the arriving Q-train.

-

“So this is Mozzie’s new place, huh?” His hand alights on the carved rail of the broad mahogany staircase that Neal is heading up, two steps at a time. 

“He’s house sitting.”

Personally, Peter wouldn’t call it a house. Their destination, after a transfer at Times Square and a brief walk towards the Hudson, falls firmly in the mansion category. Complete with an imposing marble facade and a woman who Neal chatted with, in what Peter realized was Portuguese before he realized she was house staff. 

She didn’t seem surprised to see Neal. Or Peter for that matter. After what Peter can only assume was a pleasant chat, she’d left them alone: a stranger and a child con artist in the parlor room of what Peter would easily class as a 15 million dollar residence.

“Do the owners know that?”

“Of course.” 

At Peter’s suspicion, Neal extrapolates, “It’s some lady from Moz’s bridge club. She and her husband are traveling Europe for the year, and her granddaughter's just started art school; she asked him for a favor.”

“Hell of a favor,” Peter mutters.

The kid turns at the top of the grand staircase, leading Peter to a door off of the dais—it gives way to an entire other living space: a spacious studio apartment. Peter would be shocked, but actually, after the Central Park thing, this feels normal.

“Don’t tell him I let you in,” Neal adds, as he closes the door behind them.

“Why are you?”

“I’m tired of lunch. All we do is eat.”

“What, are you watching your figure or something?”

“Exactly.”

“Kid, you’re lucky if you weigh a buck five sopping wet.”

“Good thing I’m not the one who had to hide in the shower then,” Neal returns with a smirk.

Peter’d prefer not to reminisce on that—he looks around the studio instead. 

The space is much cozier than Haversham’s two previous environs. There’s a chess game half played out on the kitchen table, a selection of squat sculptural figures on the hearth, and a concerning amount of pseudoscience titles cluttering up the bookshelves. “I hope this wine rack is all Haversham’s.” 

“It is.”

“What if I wanted lunch?”

“Order something,” Neal offers, and slides a takeout menu from where it’s pinned beneath a fridge magnet. “Moz swears by this place.”

Peter’s not in the mood for vegan. He accepts Neal’s offered glass of ice water instead. 

At least the familiarity with which Neal moves through the studio space provides Peter with some comfort—a sliver of hope that the kid has spent at least some of those many nights unaccounted for here, not wherever else.

Neal launches into an aimless conversation about Haversham’s mansion owning bridge friend’s granddaughter with enthusiasm that Peter first equates with excitement, and only slowly recognizes for what it is. 

“Spit it out, Neal,” he announces in non-sequitur—an impatient way to approach a nervous dither, but incredibly tactful for a man deprived of both sleep and sustenance. 

“Spit what out?”

“Whatever’s on your mind.”

Neal manages a half smile. “Am I that obvious?”

“We’re spending too much time together.” 

“And it’s your job.”

“That too.”

Neal swallows, he glances at the terrace beyond the paned glass wall, the dazzle of sunlight on the skyline through the stone spirelets, then back at Peter with eyes that are a touch too round. 

With a look like that, Peter knows that nothing good can follow. The sense of doom that’s been hanging over him like a dull drone is now a loud, insistent alarm bell. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Neal starts. 

“That’s always dangerous.”

“Good one. No, I’ve been thinking about what you said. What…what you offered. With Kate.”

Peter watches the kid shove his hands in his pockets to avoid continuing to twist them together. “Do you really… You think you could find her. Without drawing any attention?”

“I do.”

It’s not a lie, but Peter’s face still feels stiff. 

The hands come out of Neal’s pockets to brace on the back of a chair. He nods to himself. 

“You changed your mind?” Peter asks, and the cynicism of his intent seeps into the question, cause he can’t help but wonder if ‘Marv’ has anything to do with the reversal. 

“I want your help,” Neal says firmly, “I want you to help me find her. Please.”

It’s the please that plucks the string of Peter’s guilt hard enough to snap. 

He rests a hand on Neal’s shoulder—unsure of which of them he’s steadying. “Okay,” he says. “You tell me what you know. I’ll find her.”

Chapter Text

Kate Moreau is a busy woman.

Between her phone number, her alias—which she doesn’t vary—and her credit card information, where Neal was an enigma, she’s an open book.

Peter gives her to an intern on Monday morning, and by Friday evening, the email in his inbox tells a clean story. A busy one. 

Hotels. Hotel bars. Nightclubs. Country clubs. Supper clubs. Cabs. Trains. Charges from locations spanning West Village to Carnegie Hill. Her bank seems to think she’s 23 and from Chicago. Her tax return seems to think she’s a self employed hair stylist. As for Peter—he hasn’t decided yet who he thinks she is.

The intern’s reached a conclusion, typed up in a nice summary paragraph at the top of the email, the gist of which is: Kate Moreau is a high-class escort. 

She doesn’t appear to be working with any service, she doesn’t appear to be hooking on the street. She appears to be making, and keeping, money. Some money. Her cash deposits don’t match her clientele base. Even an intern can spot that. 

At this rate, Peter knows more about her than Neal appears to. It’s clear that, for years now, the kid has only had glimpses. 

The intern asks why they’re looking into Kate, standing two awkward steps into Peter’s office, with curiosity plain across his features.

Peter taps his fingertips against the desk. “This was a comprehensive report,” he replies, “You did a good job with it.” 

He stares ahead until the kid gets the memo and scurries out of his office. 

It was a good job—Peter tells Jones to pull the intern in on the corruption probe. The best thing about newbies is that they don’t complain about grunt work. 

-

The warble of operatic music is seeping, muffled, through the wood of the studio door, and when Peter raps his knuckles against it, there’s no response. He pauses, looks down at his shoes and the thin ribbon of light that signals activity beyond.

If Peter were smart, he’d take this as his out. Instead, he turns the knob of the unlocked door and steps cautiously inside. 

The apartment is flooded with lamplight and the notes of an aria high enough to make Peter’s ears hurt, and a mess that’s taken over a portion of the living space—a transport of the literal studio from Mozzie’s previous locale. 

“What’s all this?” Peter asks. 

Neal’s head pops up from where he’s buried in a field of canvas. “Hi, Peter,” he chirps, and then looks down at himself as if coming to clarity. “I didn’t think you would make it,” he admits.

Neither did Peter, and yet. He steps across the room to lift the wand of the record player, cutting off a keening refrain with a slight scratch. “Work—”

“I figured,” Neal cuts off, in polite damnation of that excuse being a repeat offender for the past two weeks.

It’s not wholly an excuse; Peter’s found himself embroiled in all the bureaucracy NYC has to offer. But he goes ahead and leans full force into the guilt while he’s at it. “I can’t stay long,” he says awkwardly. “But I wanted to stop by.”

Neal nods, as if he could’ve forecast the words himself. He sets about cleaning the brush in hand, dipping it into a glass jar of a slightly murky liquid, and then rubbing it on a cloth, while Peter steps around the disarray to examine what currently appears to be a wash of colors—maybe in the shape of a figure?—and not much else. 

“Practicing?” 

Neal places down the brush. “Haven’t you heard? It makes perfect.”

Peter casts a hand around at the other new inhabitants of the room—a couple of which he recognizes from the construction site. “Like these?”

“No.”

“Haven’t you heard? You’re your own worst critic.”

“Do you wanna see perfect?” Neal asks, mischief pulling at his lips.

“I don’t know. Do I?”

Neal lifts the painting from the easel by its unfinished edges, stepping around to lay it flat on the table. Peter waits impatiently as the kid works through the motions of finding and extracting a shelved canvas, resting and adjusting it on the stand, and then finally stepping back to allow Peter to examine. All the while sporting a smirk like a premonition. 

It does take Peter a moment. 

But only a moment to figure out why the piece is so familiar. 

“Where the hell did you get this?”

“Where do you think?” 

Some organ within Peter—one of the more useless ones, like a spleen—shrivels up and dies. “You didn’t.”

“No,” Neal admits, in a way that grants Peter very, very little relief, “I didn’t. This is mine.”

Peter points a finger at the inverted portrait, “You painted this,” he says, all skepticism, and yet Neal’s glowing as if it’s a high commendation. Peter never laid his eyes on the real thing, but it looks identical to the photographs from the auction records. 

“All that practicing.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

Neal tips his head in examination of—what is hopefully, by the grace of god—his own work, “It is perfect. Nearly. But you’re easy to fool.”

“Hey now.”

“You are. Bet Julian would be even easier.”

Peter shuts that down like a steel trap. Or more, aptly, like slamming a cell door. “Uh uh, no. Don’t do this. Don’t even joke about—”

“He wouldn’t notice.”

“How do you know?”

“He wouldn’t.”

“This is about the bathroom thing, isn’t it?”

“He—”

Peter’s exasperation reaches its boiling point. “It’s a crime, Neal. It would be a felony, and you just confessed to it. To the federal agent who might be tasked with investigating it if—”

Neal raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright,” he says, and gets Peter to finally take a full breath again. Only to yank it away. “But you haven’t even seen the best part.”

The kid picks up the canvas, and turns it around, hiding the garish greens, reds, and oranges of the face and allowing Peter to see the raw back of the canvas. The inscription. “Please tell me that doesn’t say what I think it does.”

Neal grins.

“What did this guy ever do to you?”

The question slips out faster than Peter realizes the implications of it. And Neal’s playful disposition slips with it. 

“I’m sorry. I—didn’t mean it like that.

“I know.”

Neal, sober-faced, returns the canvas to right-facing, though still upside down—it’s a Baselitz after all.

“I thought it didn’t bother you,” Peter points out stolidly, as the kid examines the black and white blotches around the portrait—maybe they’re supposed to be people too, how the hell would Peter know—with more intention than he needs to.

“It doesn’t.”

“Seems like it does. For Calder at least.”

Neal steps back, turns towards Peter with a simultaneous air of teasing and sorrow. “If I tell you, you’ll want to arrest him.

“I already want to arrest him. All of them. Arrest is putting it mildly.”

Neal hesitates, his eyes glazing over even as their reflection of the painting remains clear. 

If he is going to say something, Peter never gets to hear it. 

The door to the studio pushes open, a detonation in the dead silence. 

“Did you know that they installed new security cameras in—” 

Mozzie, shouldering open the door with both arms wrapped around an apparently very heavy paper bag, looks fully to see Neal, who’s very unsubtly widening his eyes and motioning a hand across his neck. 

Mozzie cuts off, frozen in the doorway. Already wearing his glare before he’s seen Peter in more than his peripheral. “Suit.”

“Mozzie.”

“He doesn’t like to be surveilled,” Neal explains.

“You’re in my house,” Mozzie announces to Peter, his volume raised to be Kindergartener appropriate. Then, to Neal. “You let him in my house.”

Wait til the little guy hears about the preemptive confession. “This is not your house. It belongs to whatever poor woman you—”

“Au contrair, G-man,” Haversham spits, “June and I are friends.” 

Obviously, that’s part of the con. Peter would place bets on Mozzie never having bonded with a well-adjusted human being. “What’ve you got there?” he asks, motioning.

The little guy remembers the existence of the bag in his arms in a jolt of clumsily disguised panic. He carries it to the kitchen, where he opens the cupboard below the sink with some struggle and a hooked pinkie, and drops it inside with a loud rattle. 

“Cleaning supplies.”

“Doesn’t the maid do that?”

“Not to his standard,” Neal corrects. 

Mozzie takes a stiff step back from the kitchen sink, and in further demonstration of his inability to be personable, announces, “Neal told me about your misguided quest for Kate.”

Unfortunately, Peter was that child who informed his parents when he was five minutes late to his own curfew, and not much has changed. Discomfort wriggles in his stomach. “Neal asked me to—”

“So the FBI takes orders from children now.”

“Hey,” Neal protests. 

“I wouldn’t—”

“Well,” Mozzie cuts off. 

“Well?”

“Have you found her?”

“It’s not even been a month,” Peter spells out, searching Mozzie’s aloof expression for some indication that he knows something. If he did, surely he’d have told Neal by now. He wants nothing more than to have Peter out of the kid’s life, right? 

And this would probably do the trick. 

Peter breaks away from Mozzie’s gaze. “I should be heading out,” he says, coming to his senses, and patting his pockets for his keys and wallet. 

“Already?” Neal asks. 

Mozzie doesn’t look nearly as heartbroken. But at some silent scolding on Neal’s part, he relents. “Don’t flee on my account. It’s only my house you’re trespassing in—that’s never dissuaded you before.”

“Stay,” Neal’s hand finds its way to Peter’s arm. “Have a drink.”

“A drink?” Peter challenges. 

“Not my supply,” Neal defends quickly. 

Peter glances at the rack. “I’m not a wine guy.”

“What about Cognac?”

Mozzie’s eyes bug behind his galsses. “I’m not sharing my—”

Peter extracts himself with a few strategic steps, “I told El I’d make dinner tonight,” he says firmly, and that puts an end to the squabbling. 

If there’s one thing that always gets Neal to capitulate, it’s Elizabeth. Which is why saying her name feels about as slimy as pulling out a sleeved ace. 

Neal sends Elizabeth his best wishes, Mozzie sneaks in one final jab at the shadow government, and Peter makes it all the way to his car, parallel parked three blocks over, before he realizes he doesn’t have his phone. 

He can’t even blame Neal because he remembers setting it on the table. Luckily, Aline knows him well enough by now, and Peter’s learned a rough boa noite. 

He trods his way up the grand staircase, only to discover the loud sound of Mozzie and Neal arguing. Not the playful kind, the real kind.

“Even if he does find her,” Mozzie is saying.

“He will.”

“If he does. How do you know that he can get her away from Adler?”

“I don’t. That’s where we —”

“How do you know that he won’t keep you from her?”

“I told you, I trust him.”

“No. No, no, no. A vole cannot trust a jackal, Neal.”

“Who said that?”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that the Suit is not like you and I.”

“Exactly. He’s not a con.”

“Yes, he’s worse.”

“He’s a jackal?” Neal’s voice is flat sarcasm. 

“He’s an arbiter, he holds no allegiance but to the law which he champions. It’s in his very nature. There may be no honor among thieves, but there’s no loyalty among badges.”

Peter, realizing that this is the last time and place where he’d want to be caught listening, eases his way back and stomps in place a few times before he raises his hand to knock. 

Neal pulls open the door, “You’re back.”

Peter motions past him towards the table, “My phone.”

Peter sits in the darkened car with his foot on the gas pedal, but makes no move to start the engine. The buzz of a text message pulls him out of his deep consideration.

The text is from El. 

The missed call from 19 minutes ago is not.

Chapter Text

A constant string of cyclists—food delivery, devotees, late commuters on Citi bikes—zip past Peter’s side as he walks up the incline, leaving the Lower East Side behind. But once the paths split, separating bicycle from pedestrian, he’s alone on the suspended walkway. Above a vacant rail line and the constant roar of cars.

The sunfaded red railing glows orange in the cast of the sickly yellow street lights, and the East River is black ink below a web of trusses. Before him, the suspension tower’s main cable rises in a gentle slope like a draped strand of Christmas lights.

On any given day, the Williamsburg Bridge would not be Peter’s meeting place of choice; on any given night, even less so.

Despite the hour and the elevation above the water, the air is still stagnant and hot. A train, that ka-chunk-a-chunk s past Peter in a procession of bright white windows and high pitched squeaks, provides a fleeting breeze. 

Tags dot the pavement beneath his feet, and the girders above are home to more elaborate graffiti—some of which must have required parkour stunts indicative of a death wish in order to be reached.

Peter hovers within the eyeline of a particularly large piece, spanning the truss above him with black bubble letters—something… zoova. It looks relatively fresh, and yet is already dotted over with smaller contributions. Like all things in the city: there’s competitive real estate. 

He waits. 

Peter nearly doesn’t recognize the figure approaching until she passes beneath the wash-out glow of one of the lamps. 

Kate has shed all the glitz and glamor of their prior meeting. 

Her hair’s pulled back, but into a messy ponytail this time, flyaways sticking to the sheen of sweat on her face. She’s in jeans, despite the heat, and has a light jacket shrugged halfway off her shoulders over a dark tanktop. The only remnants of a full face of makeup are smudges of hastily scrubbed off mascara left under her eyes. 

She looks normal, and a hell of a lot younger.

“Kate,” he greets. 

Her eyes parse their surroundings. It’s painstaking enough that Peter can chart the path of attention: Behind him, the empty tracks, the cyclists on the opposing walkway, the nearest security camera. Behind herself, the cars, the barges on the river below.

Paranoia ritual complete, Kate finally acknowledges his presence. “Peter.”

“What made you change your mind?” he asks, his question elevated over the sound of traffic below, holding up the phone in his hand to make his meaning clear.

“My mind hasn’t changed.” Kate’s voice is strained. Her eyes are cold. But yet, she eases closer, to within arm’s reach. Maybe to lower their volume. 

“I didn’t get the impression last time that you would want to see me again.”

“I don’t,” she replies, quieter, and proves Peter’s hypothesis. 

Kate’s face is placid, her breathing is normal, and yet, Peter can see the pulse in her neck. A fluttering giveaway. “You want something.”

She shrugs her jacket a little higher up her shoulders. “I want to see Neal.”

It strikes Peter that Kate says Neal’s name with the same sort of mysticism that Neal says hers, a desperation in both of their eyes like druglust. Under the current circumstances, that rubs him the wrong way. 

“See him,” he clips, “I’m not stopping you.”

“You’re not.”

“Adler is.”

Kate doesn’t reply, but her eyes flick back to the security camera. Neither she nor Neal ever seem keen to say his name.

“What do you want me to do about that?” he asks. Though he can practically hear El in his head scolding the coarseness of the question, he doesn’t try to soften it. 

The thing is, Peter understands that Kate’s a victim in all of this too. He does. 

He understands she’s been wronged, abused, hurt, you name it, and maybe, if he were looking at and speaking to that little girl, to Grace Callenreese, it would be different—but in Kate Moreau, Peter can only see danger. He can only see what has kept, and continues to keep, Neal trapped. 

Grace was a little girl who was dealt the system’s worst, chewed up by it, but Kate—Kate’s what’s been spit out the other side. 

Luckily, she doesn’t seem offended. “He’s watching me,” she explains carefully, as if Peter’s the idiot. “He has eyes everywhere.” 

Kate pauses, her hesitation on her lips, and now Peter knows he’s about to hear the sales pitch. “But in the FBI…”

He has to scoff at the naïveté. “Oh he has eyes there too,” he intones bitterly. Then explains, “I’ve had…run-ins. Not in my division. Not any of my people, but—”

“So it would work.”

“What would? You want me to arrest you?”

Annoyance, not intimidation, moves across Kate’s features. “Not arrest. You can bring me in for questioning—about one of my clients. It would be legitimate, I mean, with what I see… You can take your pick.”

Peter shakes his head. He doesn’t like this. Not one bit. 

He doesn’t like how quickly Kate’s gone from looking like she’d spit in his face to making him an offer.

“It’s a fair deal, Peter. You get a case, I get to see Neal with no one the wiser.”

It doesn't feel like a deal. It feels like a trick. 

“No dice.”

And now Kate looks like she’d spit poison in Peter’s face. “Because you don’t trust me.”

“I need answers first.”

“I would never hurt Neal.”

“Then why not reach out yourself? You say Adler has eyes everywhere, but you’ve managed to get around them just fine in seeing me. You could’ve met Neal here tonight—why didn’t you?”

Peter watches Kate’s dawning realization manifest as a slight curl in her lip. A shimmer in her eyes stretching amusement over something much darker. “You think I’m on his side.”

“I didn’t say that.” But the possibility has crossed Peter’s mind. 

“I want Neal safe.”

“So do I.” 

“Neal thinks he can run, but he can’t.”

“He thinks all that’s standing between him and running is you,” Peter points out. 

Kate exhales a breath of disbelief. “That’s why you don’t want me to see him. How familiar,” she spits, turning towards the dark river, linking her fingers through the wire mesh. 

The silence hangs humid between them.

“Adler’s been keeping you tucked away for years,” Peter says. He hasn’t been able to figure out where. The handful of aliases Neal gave Peter all went dark four years ago. Grace stopped existing past St. Louis, and Kate Moreau only popped into existence within the last six months. “Seems like a lot of work.”

Kate drops her hand. “No. Do you know what Neal is worth to him? Neal’s not replaceable, Peter.”

“It sounds like Adler has a lot of—”

“None like Neal. It’s not about what people pay for him, it’s about what Neal can get.”

For the first time tonight, Peter might believe Kate’s candor. “Get?” 

“The others, the ones I’ve met, they’re lost souls floating on the edge of that world, but Neal—he fits right into it like he’s always belonged. Adler saw it from the beginning, and he’s tried to teach Neal everything. But most of what Neal’s got, it’s all him—and it always has been him. The money doesn’t matter to Adler—any pervert with cash to burn will drop a few thousand on a pretty face—it’s the information.”

“What information are we talking?”

“What information is valuable?” Kate pitches back. “It’s power, Peter. Information is what sways elections, writes laws,” her gaze flicks over him, up and down like a conviction, “enforces them. It’s what determines who wins, who loses, who makes money. When you hold the strings, everyone else is a puppet—Neal can get what no one else can, and he makes it seem easy.”

“He does have a way with people.”

Kate meets his eyes, “Adler’s never going to let that go.”

“Neal doesn’t see it that way.”

“Neal’s a romantic.”

“You’re not?”

“I know better.” That Peter buys—a morbid honesty in the emphasis of the words that sits heavily on his chest. 

He’s tempted to clear his throat to heft it off. 

“If there’s no way out for Neal in running,” Peter says, “then the best way to give him the life he deserves is to take Adler down.”

“That’s not possible.”

“With enough evidence, even with the kind of political connections that Adler has, not every judge and prosecutor can turn a blind eye.”

“You’d put yourself at risk.”

“I can live with that.”

“You’d put Neal at risk.”

“I’d make sure he was protected. It’s a moot point anyway, Neal won’t agree to cooperate.”

“And you won’t go over his head.”

“I can’t,” he admits, “I don’t have the evidence I need. But…” Peter realizes it as he says it, “Neal would listen to you. I think you could convince him.”

“No,” Kate says firmly. The shut down mentality she’s picked up since the moment Peter broached the idea reaching a deadly apex.

“He deserves a better life than this,” Peter insists, “A better childhood than this.”

“I know he does.”

“Then—”

“He’s not going to get that as a martyr for your case,” Kate snaps. 

She glances around in reaction to her own raised voice. Sighs out a breath. “I can’t stay.” 

Peter starts to protest; Kate, taking tentative steps past him on the bridge, cuts him off. “You need to decide who you care about more. Neal or Adler? You can’t have both.”

-

El kisses Peter’s cheek before she drags the chair opposing him across the checkerboard floor and drops down in it. “Hey hon, sorry I’m late.”

“The Newmans?”

“Who else. We had a bit of an emotional blowout over cake flavors. We’ve recovered now, just…not in time for my lunch plans.” El frowns apologetically at their surroundings; Peter would’ve gone for the slice shop across the street from the office, but this place, a few blocks further—cajun fusion in an airy ambiance of tropical wallpaper and white wrought iron—is more El’s speed.

“I get that organizing a wedding is stressful, and doing it during the hormonal rollercoaster of pregnancy must be nightmarish…but I—” El cuts off with a sigh.

“You’re thinking of raising your hourly?”

She nods, eyebrows raised, “Hazard pay.” 

El scoots her chair in closer to the table, glancing down at the mess Peter’s strewn across it in her absence. “What are these?” she asks, picking up the nearest photograph: a flat still life of flowers in a white vase, against pure black, “They’re pretty.”

“They’re every auction and private sale record I could find for Julian Calder. That’s—” Peter glances down at the scribbled row of notes on his legal pad, “Donald Sultan, Euphorbia, 1986. Sold to Calder for $20,000 in 2015.”

El motions across the slew of photographs. “It looks like an extensive collection.”

“He’s got art in his house in Rhode Island, the property in Jersey, the Manhattan penthouse of course. And some in private storage. With my current running tally, I’d value the collection at at least 50 million.”

“There’s a catch here.”

“The catch is these,” Peter taps a finger on a cluster of photographs set apart from the others—and conveniently starred in his notepad margins. “I’ve seen them before. In Mozzie and Neal’s make-shift studios.” 

Peter should’ve taken those pictures.

“Maybe Neal’s recreating art he’s seen,” El offers, “Studies, right?

“Right,” Peter replies flatly. 

“Do you think he’s planning something?”

“I hope not. He has to know how stupid that would be. Not only have I seen these, he let me get up close and personal with his copy of the Baselitz piece. He’d be asking to be caught.”

“Neal’s smarter than that.”

“I hope so."

“He is,” El insists. 

Peter would be inclined to agree if he didn’t have significantly more exposure to Neal’s reckless streak than his wife. 

He moves to clear up the mess, stuffing everything back into his work bag, while El searches around to flag down their waiter. 

Peter lets El go to town in ordering what she thinks they should try—if need be, he’ll pick up take out later—and as their waiter disappears, El, twirling the straw in her unsweetened iced tea, wraps back around to the topic Peter should’ve anticipated the moment he brought up Neal. “Have you told him yet?”

“No.”

“Hon.”

“He’s—the moment he knows that she’s here…”

“You have to tell him, Peter. You have to trust that he won’t run.”

“I don’t trust that he won’t run,” Peter grumbles. 

“I know. But you’re just as likely to lose him by keeping Kate from him.”

He doesn’t have an argument against that. El is right. But it’s complicated. “I–I will tell him. When it’s the right time.”

“When is that going to be?”

“Once I have a plan.”