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It was a Sunday, and Neal had woken before the first shards of autumnal light breached the windows of his rooftop apartment. With no White Collar Crime duties slated for the day, he had the luxury of lazing in bed a while longer. It would have been a prime opportunity to catch up on some sleep, were his body not accustomed to rising before the sun. Though he still set his alarm to go off on weekday mornings, he was always awake and alert before it sounded.
Throughout the chaos that was his life before, during and now after prison, the one constant had been the lurking sense of disquietude in his psyche. Neal had never led the kind of life that forgave mistakes or complacency. He was always aware, always planning and strategising. Always restless.
Even on a peaceful Sunday morning in the soft embrace of his bed with the sun creeping down the walls, his mind churned. Mentally compiling a list of tasks he wanted to complete that day, Neal eventually decided it was time to get up. Leaving his phone charging on his nightstand, he set about his most urgent task: coffee.
Rolling gracefully out of bed, Neal padded towards the kitchen in his pyjama pants. He glanced out the windows leading to the terrace while preparing his French press coffee. The skyline was especially captivating that morning. Something was in the air, a calm that allowed his shoulders to lower minutely as warm sunlight touched his skin. Perhaps he would put off starting his list of mundane chores until after he’d taken advantage of the panoramic beauty before him. The laundry could wait, but that particular shade of mauve in the sky wouldn’t remain visible for long.
Finishing his espresso, Neal dropped his cup in the sink, with his dishes from last night, and headed to the bathroom. He figured he would be getting paint underneath his fingernails soon anyway, so he’d forgo a shower for now. After using the toilet, he washed his hands and ran wet fingers through his hair to smooth it out of his eyes. Then he pulled his old painting clothes out of a drawer and set about prepping his easel, canvas and paint palette.
Neal’s painting clothes were about the only remnant left from his life before prison, besides the loot he had allegedly stashed in secure locations around the country. The clothes had been at one of Mozzie's safe houses at the time he’d first been arrested and were still there when he’d gotten his work-release deal. Mozzie had suggested he should just buy some new painting attire, but Neal had justified that there was no point in buying new clothes knowing they would be getting stained immediately.
The oversized grey-blue v-neck tee and pale grey baggy sweatpants were by far the most casual and worn items in his wardrobe. There was something about their familiarity, though, that soothed Neal when he put them on. Perhaps it was the softness of the fabric from the many times they’d been washed. It could be the memories held in the paint spatters that remained from a decade’s worth of allegedly forged paintings. Or maybe just the fact that these clothes were the last tangible reminder he had of past days spent with Kate.
Whatever the case, Neal felt himself settling a little as he stepped into the role of Artist. He leisurely mixed colours on his canvas to match his view of the Manhattan skyline. Painting was the activity that brought him closest to a feeling of true release and freedom. With no demands on his time or attention, he revelled in the flow of his work.
It must have been hours later that Neal’s bubble of concentration was shattered by an explosive pounding on his apartment door. His reflexes were trained enough to resist visibly jumping at the sound, but his breath hitched and his heartrate spiked. Anyone worked up enough to bang on his door like that could only be bringing trouble with them. His mind raced with a number of pre-prepared escape scenarios, in case his visitor was not friendly.
“Neal, open up! I’ve been trying to reach you, and I know you’re here.” Peter’s voice called from beyond the locked door and Neal calmed fractionally. Whatever the emergency was, it probably wouldn’t require a daring escape over the terrace balcony at least.
“Yeah, Peter, just a sec.” Neal took just enough time to dip his brush in solvent and leave his palette on the nearby table before heading to unlock the door. “What’s up, what’s the emergency?” Neal asked a somewhat flustered Peter.
Seeing Neal’s slightly too-wide eyes darting over Peter and down the stairwell assessing for potential danger, Peter realised his dramatic arrival had genuinely rattled the young man. He raised his hands in an apologetic gesture. “Not an emergency per se, but a time-sensitive case. We need to go right now.”
“Oh,” Neal’s expression relaxed, and he released his grip on the door frame to run a hand through his sun-warmed hair. “Ok, I can be ready in ten minutes. You could have just called, you know.” Neal left the door open, inviting Peter inside as he headed for his wardrobe to find a suit.
Peter huffed in annoyance, “As a matter of fact, I tried calling you and it went straight to voicemail. Where’s your phone? And don’t bother getting changed; I’ve wasted enough time coming over here. Just grab some shoes and we’ll go.”
Neal stiffened and whipped around to face Peter. “What’s so important that it can’t wait ten minutes?” He detoured in the opposite direction to retrieve his phone from his nightstand. He had plugged the charger into his phone, but the plug wasn’t connected to the wall socket. Neal quietly cursed his carelessness as he tossed his dead phone onto the bed.
“What’s important is that the art thief who’s been evading us for weeks has finally been caught on camera," Peter checked his watch, “less than 20 minutes ago. I’d say that trumps your need to dress up.”
Neal’s eyebrows raised, even as a twinge of unease pulled at his gut. “We caught the Invisible Man? Bet no one saw that coming.” Neal had griped about the unoriginality of that moniker for days when the case had first arrived at White Collar Crimes. It had proved apt time and again, though, as their suspect always managed to avoid even the most inconspicuous of strategically placed hidden cameras. The entire team had been infected by the pun bug along the way.
“No, we haven’t caught him yet, but we will if we leave right now and catch him in the act.” Peter was all but tapping his foot in his eagerness to get going.
“Ok, I get it,” said Neal, hurrying back towards his walk-in where his clean and pressed suits awaited. As comfortable as he was in his painting clothes within the privacy of his home, it was not something he’d ever wear out in public. His skin crawled just thinking of it. “I’ll be really quick, I promise. Just give me five minutes to get dressed.”
Peter was beyond impatient now. He strode into the apartment and picked up the first pair of shoes and socks he found on the floor. Intercepting Neal’s path, he pushed the shoes into his hands. They happened to be the trainers Neal had worn the day before on his evening jog.
“I’m serious, I’m not waiting another minute, and I need you with me to verify if anything’s been swapped out. You’re already dressed. Just put on your shoes and grab a jacket and we can go.” Peter left the shoes in Neal's arms and went into the wardrobe himself, coming out with the most casual jacket he could find. Holding the black leather cat-burglar jacket, Peter stood between Neal and his wardrobe, looking at him expectantly.
Neal recognised Peter’s hot-on-a-scent face when he saw it. Arguing further would only test Peter’s self-control. Resisting a glance past Peter towards his dressing room, he reluctantly started pulling on his worn shoes and socks. “Why are we in such a hurry? If he’s been caught on camera, the museum security should be able to arrest him without us.”
“Technically he’s not under arrest yet because we don’t know for sure if anything’s been taken. It was just pure luck there was a college student filming from the gallery mezzanine. She noticed the guy’s odd behaviour on the floor below and reported it. The sensors on that particular wall had been temporarily disabled to allow for some construction on the opposite side, so no alarms were tripped. Of course no one was supposed to know that, so there’s a mole hunt underway as well. Security is tracking the man’s movements over the surveillance system, but we need to verify if anything’s been swapped for a forgery before we can justify an arrest.”
Neal had his shoes laced and took his jacket as Peter turned him by the shoulder towards the stairs. They raced down and out the front door, Neal pulling on the jacket as he went. Peter had parked perpendicular to the street, half in traffic and half on the footpath, in a gap definitely not designed for four-wheeled vehicles. Neal was too frazzled to make a quip at Peter’s expense, though, as a light breeze lifted the loose hem of his shirt. He held his jacket closed with one hand and hastily slid into the passenger seat. Peter took off as fast as the traffic would allow, his dash-mounted police light already blazing.
“You haven’t actually said where we’re going,” Neal commented with apprehension as he braced himself against the car door.
Peter couldn’t help checking his watch again as he answered, “He’s at the Met right now and has been for the past 24 minutes. And it’ll take us at least eight minutes to get there.”
Neal looked up from his attempt to conceal his stained shirt by zipping his jacket, while still bracing against Peter’s erratic driving. Neal's face briefly held a look of dismay which he quickly tempered into mild annoyance. “The Met, seriously, Peter? We couldn’t be going to the City Reliquary Museum on the one day I’m dressed like Jeff Lebowski?"
“Well we haven’t encountered a white-collar criminal specialising in vintage ephemera yet.” Peter looked side-long at Neal, noting his fluster with surprise and some concern. But not knowing the cause of the discomfort meant he didn’t know what to do about it. “What’s the issue, you love the Met. And Jeff Lebowski, really? I would have thought stoner humour was beneath you.”
Neal turned towards the window with a crease in his brow. “What can I say, Kate loved the classics,” was all he said. Thankfully Peter turned his attention to his breakneck driving. Neal allowed his leg to jig up and down and commanded his breaths to remain even.
Nine minutes after leaving June’s house, they arrived at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Peter had removed his dash light prior to pulling into the museum parking lot so as not to inadvertently tip off their thief. At 11am on a Sunday morning the museum car park was just starting to fill up. He managed to snag a spot directly in front of the museum entrance by swerving in front of a taxi. He was honked and cursed at furiously by the driver, but Peter figured he’d be forgiven when he finally caught the Invisible Man.
Neal unbuckled and collected himself as best he could before exiting the car. Peter was already well on the way up the steps to the museum. They would be going directly to the Museum Manager’s office first to view the incriminating footage.
The museum staff knew Peter and Neal by sight and were expecting them. But that only made Neal’s unease worse. Dressed as he was, he hardly projected an air of cool professionalism. These people knew him as Neal Caffrey, debonair Master of the Arts. Not Neal Caffrey, slumming painter. Added to that were the swathes of strangers who would be judging him in his threadbare garments, and he felt his anxiety peak.
Neal harshly berated his irrational thoughts. He knew there would be plenty of other casually dressed patrons at the museum, and it wasn’t as if he were attending an event with a dress code. But there was more to his penchant for dressing well than that. His apparel imbued him with the mindset he needed to accomplish the feats he performed. His fitted cat-burglar jacket was perfect for hiding in the shadows. His suits projected the self-assurance and professionalism he needed to take on the white-collar world. When faced with a complex con, a Devore suit was more comfortable than a pair of silk pyjamas, and more reassuring than a pocketful of FBI gadgets.
It was far too late to do anything about his attire now, though. He hurried to catch up with Peter in the halls of the museum. At least he had his leather jacket, the weight of which grounded him enough to smile pleasantly at the museum staff as he passed. He noted a few surprised looks and sweeping gazes down his paint-smeared trousers to his faded shoes. Brutally pushing down the spike of panic that threatened to grow, Neal lowered his gaze and powered through the corridors.
As Peter neared the door to the manager’s office, he turned and realised Neal was not right behind him. He was far down the corridor, still fussing with the hem and zipper of his jacket. Peter sighed at the dramatics of his CI and held a hand poised to knock on the door, waiting for him to catch up.
As Neal approached, Peter thought the baggy T-shirt Neal wore did look slightly comical, falling below his hips beneath the hemline of his jacket. Neal had settled on zipping the jacket up to the centre of his sternum, which ordinarily looked fine. But with the gaping neckline of the shirt beneath, it left a vee of exposed clammy skin between his clavicles.
Peter just raised one brow and quirked his lips in mild amusement at his CI’s appearance. Neal was the furthest from his usual polished self that Peter had ever seen, outside of June’s house. He knew Neal would never willingly show himself in public in this state, but the urgency of the case had justified it. It wouldn’t hurt Neal to cowboy up and deal with it for a few hours anyway.
Neal was trying to tame his hair when he reached Peter, smoothing it unsuccessfully with no product to hold the natural curls in place. “Ready for your big debut now?” Peter teased. To his astonishment, Neal reacted by looking away as a flush spread across the pale skin at his chest, up his neck and into his cheeks.
“Of course, Peter,” Neal said, all affected nonchalance. "Let's catch ourselves a ghost.” Avoiding Peter’s gaze, he gestured towards the closed door with a tilt of his head. Pushing at his hair one last time, Neal finally stilled his hands by crossing his arms casually over his chest.
Peter knew Neal too well to let this display fool him, however. He may not know what was causing Neal’s agitation, but something was definitely off. His gut told him it wasn’t anything illegal, but he would have to get to the bottom of it. After they were finished here. Telling himself he'd have time to address it later, he knocked on the door.
They were admitted by a security guard, with two more occupied by a pair of screens along the far wall. Two monitors attached to a computer showed feeds from a selection of surveillance cameras, and the security guards were tracking one man’s progress across different feeds. Probably the most rapt attention those monitors have ever been paid, Peter thought. The Museum Manager was a tall, thin woman with lank blonde hair and large circular glasses. She was watching the screens as well but turned her attention to Peter and Neal as they entered the room. Peter flashed his badge and introduced himself as the FBI agent she’d spoken to briefly over the phone.
“Oh, thank goodness you’re finally here,” she said, hands twitching in consternation. “The thief has almost completed a full circuit of the gallery and is heading back towards the exit. We can’t just let him leave with a priceless masterpiece.” She stepped towards Peter and Neal, eyes flitting between them and head moving with a jerky birdlike quality.
“Of course, Ms Williams. If anything has been taken, he won’t get far. I have a team setting up a discreet perimeter as we speak, and Neal here is one of the best authenticators you could find.” Peter smiled reassuringly at Ms Williams, who looked intently at Neal as if assessing his value.
“Well,” she said, adjusting her glasses on her nose, “I’ll have to take your word on that. It’s not as if we have time to find another, with the curator on leave.” Neal bristled slightly, but an unexpected feeling of shame crept up his throat. Peter did not like the insinuation either, but she continued before he could set her straight. “The thief was spotted in Gallery 635, European Paintings. But he had ample opportunity before that to do practically anything. Who knows how long he’s been wandering around with his sticky fingers.”
“Alleged sticky fingers,” Neal couldn’t help interjecting. He ignored Peter’s disapproving hum and crossed the room to the screens. “Can you show me the footage from the surveillance cameras?”
Ms Williams cocked her head and shot a disparaging eye towards Neal as he bent towards the monitors, but Peter nodded at her with stern authority, and she directed the security guards to load up the relevant footage.
The camera focused on this part of the gallery was particularly far away across the room. The man in question just looked like any other well-off museum-browsing businessman in a winter coat. Granted, he was standing particularly close to the wall, and his hands were held in front of him and hidden from view of the camera as he walked past the paintings. The only suspicious thing about him was the need for such a bulky coat in the climate-controlled environment of the museum. His straight-laced appearance and conservative haircut composed a picture of harmless trustworthiness.
“There should be another set of footage, taken from the mezzanine. Is that correct?” Neal asked, not directing the question at anyone in particular. Peter was pleased that Neal had in fact been listening to his succinct rundown of the case earlier.
The security guard nearest him, anticipating his request, had already pulled over a camcorder and set it rolling to show a different perspective of the gallery. This angle was far steeper, looking down and to the side towards the alleged Invisible Man. Here you could see a flurry of activity where his hands moved in front of his body, seemingly adjusting the lapels of his coat. Unfortunately, the wall in front of which he stood was hidden by the overhang of the mezzanine, so it was not conclusive that anything untoward had happened. But Neal knew a very good piece of sleight of hand when he saw it.
He straightened up and shot Peter a look, blue eyes twinkling. “Peter, our Invisible Man truly has some hidden talents.” Peter rolled his eyes at that but couldn’t help grinning. It would be a relief when this case was wrapped up, invisibility puns and all. He was relieved to see some of the usual spark return to his young CI, though.
Peter turned to the manager. “Ms Williams, we’ll need to view the gallery now, if you could show us the fastest way there.” Addressing the security guards at the monitors he added, “Make sure we’re informed the moment our suspect heads for the lobby.”
They took one of the security guards with them and hurried towards the European Paintings gallery. Peter called Jones and updated his team outside as they practically jogged through the building. He was able to reassure Ms Williams that his team were in fact in position around the perimeter of the museum grounds. Agents Jones and Berrigan were stationed at the museum lobby in plain clothes.
Their rush through the museum attracted attention from the wandering visitors. Neal was acutely aware of his state of dishevelment as he felt faces following him down the halls. He felt oddly exposed and insecure. A sheen of sweat broke out on his neck, and his jaw tensed. He imagined all of these people seeing his vulnerabilities, his imperfections. He felt laid bare, with no barrier between himself and the piercing gaze of the world.
His hand came back to his hair of its own accord, unconsciously, in a soothing gesture. Neal noticed Peter observing his nervous behaviour. He tried to stuff his hands in his pockets, before realising his painting pants didn’t have pockets. He managed to slither his hands into the slim pockets of his jacket instead, digging his thumbnails into his forefingers. Unclenching his jaw and casually avoiding meeting any eyes, he pretended he was exactly where he wanted to be.
When they arrived at the correct hallway, Ms Williams ushered all the patrons out and secured the area with the help of the museum attendants. Neal was thankfully able to distract himself with the logistics of the alleged crime.
Madonna and Child by Duccio di Buoninsegna measured only 11 by 8 inches and was the only item in the room small enough to be concealed under the clothes the man on the security footage was wearing. Neal zeroed in on the painting. He saw what he was looking for immediately, but continued his examination until he had picked out at least five imperfections in the obvious forgery.
Confident in his assessment, he waved over Peter and the manager to point out the flaws in the workmanship. As he gestured at the painting, his voice stuttered mid-sentence. He hadn’t even cleaned the paint off his fingers after his work that morning. Clearing his throat, he clasped his hands in front of himself instead and continued his explanation while surreptitiously rubbing at the paint in his nail beds.
It didn’t take much to convince Peter they were looking at a forgery. Ms Williams took a bit more persuading, and Neal honestly wasn’t surprised. He could tell she didn’t think much of his appearance, and he didn’t blame her. If he were told to trust the professional opinion of an unkempt slob with dirty nails, he’d have doubts as well.
Peter was back on the phone with Jones coordinating the take-down. Ms Williams soon ordered her security team to cooperate with the FBI agents. The FBI would be taking the lead in securing the suspect, while the museum surveillance team would continue to monitor his movements until he reached the lobby. Jones and Diana would follow him out the front door and into the waiting arms of the arresting agents.
Having done his job, Neal was relieved to stand back and let the FBI do theirs. Hanging up on Jones so he could get to work, Peter turned back to Neal. Clapping him on the shoulder, he shot Neal a quick "Good work" before taking off in the direction they’d come. Neal followed behind at a brisk pace as they wound their way back through the corridors, Ms Williams in tow. They would be able to watch the take-down on the security feeds in her office.
When the office door closed behind them, Neal became suddenly aware of his heartbeat, thumping through his chest. He attributed the sensation to the adrenaline of reaching the climax of the Invisible Man case. Controlling his breaths with slow inhales and exhales helped calm his jittery nerves. He knew Peter suspected something was off with him today. Neal needed to get himself under control to allay those suspicions.
It didn’t take long for the Invisible Man to appear at the museum entrance. Like clock-work the FBI team moved in with overwhelming numbers to discourage resistance from their suspect. His attempt to flee put him directly into the arms of Agent Jones, who promptly cuffed him from behind.
Everyone watching from the manager’s office released a unanimous sigh when the riskiest part was over. Their suspect wasn’t known to be violent, but you never knew what a cornered criminal might do.
Turning to Neal, Peter let a grin spread across his face. “I think this makes up for being called in on a Sunday morning,” he said. Neal returned a forced smile. Despite the stress of the past hour, he was glad it hadn’t been for nothing.
They took their time walking back to the lobby, Peter running through what would happen from here with Ms Williams. They were sure the original Madonna and Child was in their suspect’s possession, and the video footage, along with Neal’s identification of the forgery, was enough probable cause to search him. They could do the authentication before leaving.
Their art thief was seated at the top of the museum steps, his hands cuffed behind him. Diana stood at his shoulder, and a gaggle of FBI agents in windbreakers circumferenced the pair. Museum security detoured inquisitive bystanders away from the novel scene.
Diana turned as Peter and Neal approached. A playful smirk took over her features. “Wow, so this is the legendary Neal Caffrey on his day off? Looks like you’re just as prosaic as the rest of us after all.”
Neal couldn’t help his sharp intake of breath at her words. He knew she meant it in jest, but it hit a little close to his vulnerable core that day. Plastering on a grin that he hoped looked more genuine than it felt, he managed to reply, “At least you finally admit I’m legendary.”
Peter’s brow creased seeing the tension held in Neal’s shoulders. Diana’s jibe shouldn’t have affected him like that. He didn’t get the opportunity to ponder it any further as an agent approached holding a rectangular object in a drawstring velvet bag.
The bag had been well concealed, hanging between the layers of the Invisible Man’s heavy coat. Still, Peter thought it very brazen that he’d been walking around so openly with such a prestigious piece of looted history. It was lucky they’d caught him when they did; who knows what his hubris would have led him to try next.
Peter took the bag carefully in two hands, and Neal eased open the string at the top. The edge of an ancient wooden frame peaked up at them from inside. Ms Williams fretted nearby, and Peter showed her what was presumably the original Madonna and Child safely tucked within the folds of velvet.
Clasping one hand to her chest, she reached for the bag, but it was officially in the chain of custody now. Peter informed her she would have it returned as soon as Neal completed his authentication of the piece. She agreed the task was better accomplished indoors, preferably on a padded surface, so the painting remained in the bag for now.
Their suspect had been observing them in stubborn silence. Seeing them address Neal as the designated art expert, he couldn’t help a derisive laugh. His eyes canvassed Neal, making no attempt to hide his disdain at what he saw. Diana hoisted him under the arm to escort him to an FBI vehicle. As they passed by Neal, the Invisible Man said, “I see the FBI is hiring vagrants these days.”
It was just loud enough for Diana and Peter to hear as well. Diana’s eyes narrowed, and she said, “You don’t know who you’re talking to. That vagrant just caught you red-handed.” She may have walked a little too quickly down the steps with her chained prisoner because he stumbled and tripped trying to keep up with her. Yes, she would rib Caffrey, but it was with the understanding that they held mutual respect for each other. This thief knew nothing about Neal Caffrey.
Peter instinctively put a protective hand on Neal’s shoulder. It had been a low blow by a cornered opponent, but no real harm done. Diana would be more than enough to handle their perp. He went to turn Neal back up the steps so they could verify the real painting and finish up here. But Neal was rooted to the spot, breaths coming sharp and short.
Now the excitement was over, Peter stopped to really take in Neal’s appearance. The jerky movement of his chest, the pulse fluttering in his neck. The redness of Neal’s cheeks, the sheen of sweat at his hairline. His bright blue eyes were too wide and unfocused. Thinking he might be coming down with something, Peter lay his palm across Neal’s forehead. The action made Neal jerk away and come back to himself slightly. His eyes remained distant, though, still avoiding Peter’s concerned gaze.
“You OK?” asked Peter low enough that he wouldn’t be overheard. “You’ve been off kilter all morning.” His worry deepened when Neal didn’t respond. “Didn’t stop you from doing a good job in there, though.”
At that Neal offered a bitter smile. “Least I could do,” he muttered. Neal was annoyed at himself and his actions. He’d let the smallest things get to him all day, things that shouldn’t matter, that didn’t matter to most people. He’d let everyone, Peter especially, see his discomfort. That was possibly the worst part of all. Normally he could cover over his insecurities with charm and wit. But today his defences had been stripped, leaving him unable to draw his usual armour around himself.
Peter could see there was definitely something wrong, and it frustrated him that he didn’t know what to do about it. Neal wouldn’t admit to being less than 100 percent, but he clearly needed a moment to collect himself. Fishing his keys out of his pocket he put them in Neal’s hands. “Why don’t you go wait for me in the car, I’ll be over in a sec.” Neal nodded jerkily and scuttled off to Peter’s Taurus, which was still parked at the taxi stand.
The FBI agents were packing up and leaving the scene. Peter flagged down Jones and handed him the painting in its velvet bag, reminding him to start a chain of custody form. Ms Williams was still wringing her hands nearby, watching anxiously as the precious painting was carried away. Peter assured her they would take good care of it, but there was a procedure to follow in terms of logging and returning stolen items, and they would get the verified original painting back to her by the end of the day. Truthfully, he just wanted the extra time to figure out what was up with Neal. She seemed happy enough with this explanation, though, and flitted back into the museum with her remaining security team.
Finally alone, Peter returned to his car. He plopped into the driver’s seat and let out a long breath. It hadn’t been the way he’d thought his day would go, but it was worth the overtime to nab an elusive art thief. He turned to Neal in the passenger seat next to him, and his heart sank.
Neal was very clearly trying to appear poised, and just as obviously failing. With eyes fixed out the passenger window and hands gripping his thighs, he hadn’t acknowledged Peter’s presence. Peter felt a fluttering in his chest as he realised this wasn’t a sudden loss of composure but a build-up of stress that was tipping his friend over the edge. He was stabbed by useless guilt over not picking up on that sooner.
“What’s going on, Neal?” he asked gently. “I know something’s wrong, but I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what it is.” Peter heard the pleading note in his own voice but didn’t care.
Neal only seemed to crumble a bit more, curling in on himself. “I just…” his voice hitched and he cleared his throat. “Do you think we could take a break, before finishing the case?” Neal asked with unusual apprehension. “I mean, I’ll be happy to do the verification, of course, and I know there’ll be a ton of paperwork. I just… need a minute before going back out there.”
Peter’s frown intensified. He wondered if it was significant that Neal hadn’t said ‘in there’, in reference to the museum, but rather ‘out there’, as in anywhere other than the confines of the car. This was not a side of Neal Caffrey he’d yet experienced, and he thought he’d seen all his cons. But that was just it, wasn’t it? This one wasn’t a con. This was raw, as close to an unfiltered ‘Neal Caffrey’ as you'd get. It was untrod territory between them, and Peter was used to leaving the sensitive stuff to El. She wasn’t here though, and Neal was actually starting to open up to him. All Peter had to do was not scare him back into hiding. Channelling thoughts of ‘What would El do?’ he probed a bit deeper.
Remembering Neal’s earlier reaction when he'd been told where they were heading that morning, Peter tried a different tack. “Yeah, we can definitely take a break. We’re taking a break now, actually. Jones is taking the painting back to FBI headquarters. We can authenticate it there instead.” Peter stopped and observed Neal’s reaction to that news. He couldn’t fathom why Neal would be averse to spending time at the Met, but it was the only thing he could think of.
Neal shifted in his seat a bit but didn’t relax. “Yeah, that’s fine.”
Well there was one thing Peter did know, and that was that Neal was not ‘fine’. Subtlety had never been his strong suit, and he wouldn’t get anywhere with Neal at this rate. It was time for hard facts.
“Ok, you know I’m not good at subtle, so here’s the deal. We do have to at least complete the authentication of the painting today. The paperwork can wait for tomorrow. But I’m not prepared to move this car until I know you’re up for the task. So, either I call in an alternate art authenticator and take you to a doctor, or you do a much better job at convincing me you’re fine.”
Neal finally turned towards Peter, a hint of desperation in his eyes. “I don’t need a doctor, Peter, really. I can do my job.” Clearly Peter remained unconvinced. Neal’s hands ran through his tousled hair and down his face as he hunched in his seat. “It’s just a stupid little thing, not even worth mentioning,” Neal mumbled into his palms.
Peter inwardly cheered that at last they were getting somewhere. He didn’t like the implication that Neal felt the root of his anxiety wasn’t even worth mentioning though. He turned to Neal and said, “If it’s causing you distress, it’s worth mentioning.” Peter put as much conviction as he could into his voice. “But if you make me play 20 questions to pry it out of you, we’ll be here all day.”
Neal took his hands from his face and started rubbing circles on one palm with the opposite thumb. He seemed to search Peter’s eyes for truth, or any hint that he was being pandered to. Apparently trusting Peter’s open expression, he relented. “Could we, maybe, stop at my apartment before going to the office?” Neal turned to look straight out the windscreen, hands still fidgeting.
Peter blinked, not knowing where this was going. “Uh, sure? But, can you tell me why?” he asked.
Neal’s mouth twisted in distaste, and the flush returned to his face. “I, er… I just feel like I need to get changed.” One hand started towards his face again, but Neal bunched it in a fist before it got there. That was a dead giveaway habit he’d have to try to break.
Peter was left rather bewildered at that. He was glad Neal hadn’t made him guess, because that one wouldn’t have made the top hundred questions. Thinking over the events of the day, Peter realised there had been clues. The Big Lebowski comment was the most obvious. Peter had just chalked it up to Neal being dramatic. He winced as he remembered his earlier thought that Neal needed to ‘cowboy up’ for a few hours. He was unimaginably glad now that he hadn’t said it out loud.
With an actionable plan in hand, Peter settled back in his seat. “Yeah, OK, we’ve got time for that.” He was still curious about why his outfit seemed to be such a big deal to Neal. But as Neal visibly deflated in his seat, tension draining away, Peter decided to take the win and not push.
Neal's face still radiated heat as he mumbled a quiet but sincere “thank you”. Then it finally clicked for Peter that it was embarrassment that was colouring Neal’s face. It was an emotion he’d never associated with Neal Caffrey before, and he didn’t know what to do with the knowledge. So he stared straight ahead and started the engine.
Not driving at breakneck speed would take them about 15 minutes to get to June’s. Ten minutes in, Neal broke the silence. “I just don’t feel like myself when I’m not in a suit.” His gaze remained fixedly out the windscreen. He held his breath, waiting to see what Peter’s response would be to that humiliating admission.
Peter looked over, not having expected an explanation at all. He considered Neal’s words, and realised they fit his perception of the conman as well. “Uh huh, I think I can understand that.” Peter remarked frankly.
Neal exhaled, then swallowed, looking away. He hadn’t anticipated that Peter’s simple acceptance would feel so substantial. Blinking away the pricking sensation behind his eyes, he was reminded he’d embarrassed himself enough in front of Peter for one day. Tearing up like a child would not be added to the list.
Pulling up in front of June’s, Peter parked, and Neal undid his seatbelt. “Thanks, Peter. I’ll be quick.”
Peter briefly patted Neal’s knee. “Take your time, kid," Peter replied. He tried to ignore the ache he felt when Neal looked at him with the most grateful expression on his face. Satchmo had nothing on Neal’s cerulean puppy-dog eyes.
Less than ten minutes elapsed before Neal was back at the car, and Peter figured half of that time had gone into traversing the stairs. Crisp white shirt, tailored suit, skinny Italian tie and polished loafers. Neal’s eyes were smiling and his face was relaxed below his signature fedora.
Peter was pleased that most of Neal’s anxiety appeared to have evaporated. He noted the squaring of Neal’s shoulders, the ease of his movements and the quieting of his hands. He smiled and asked, “Feeling better?”
Neal heaved a great sigh as he buckled in once more and they headed off for the office. He felt secure, confident, and protected, with his suit of armour properly in place. “Definitely,” he replied.