Work Text:
Neal Caffrey was a dreamer.
As a child, his dreams were filled with relentless chases between police and criminals, the blurred unclear face of his dad always proudly making the headlines after yet another victory against the bad guys. As he grew up, he began to aspire to on day follow in his hero's footsteps, to make him proud, to keep him alive.
He blew out eighteen candles, and those illusions collapsed. But he was still a dreamer deep down, so if he didn't become the formidable, multi-medal-winning cop, he would just have to find himself on the other side of the law. Just to kick the system.
His ambitions reshaped, as being the most cunning art forger-thief of the century became his new goal. Quickly, he promised himself he would only steal from those who truly deserved it, having forgotten nothing of the burlesque stories of Robin Hood that Ellen told him when he had not yet lost all his teeth. He discovered early on that such a character couldn't coexist with the real world, but he would find a way.
Along came Mozzie, then Kate, then Special Agent Peter Burke. His childhood dreams rekindled more vividly than ever, as the thrill of the hunt, the game of "catch me if you can," transported him back to a time, now so distant, when he still had faith in law enforcement.
Once again, his motivations shifted, slowly. Whereas before he thought he was self-sufficient as long as his mind remained constantly active under the influence of adrenaline, he found himself dreaming of a quieter life. As night fell, with the woman of his life by his side, he would be dreaming of spending the rest of his days in a small pied-à-terre, with Kate, a splendid view of the Mediterranean Sea and the cheerful song of birds lulling their peaceful solitude. He would propose to her, in that park where they had their very first date, move into a lovely home where they could finally unpack their belongings for more than a few days, start a small family...
This game of stealing, at first a way for him to release all the rage that vibrated within him at the slightest thought of his father, had become tiresome. The one and only Neal Caffrey, renowned thief and forger pursued unsuccessfully by the FBI for nearly three tireless years, was sick of the action? Who would have guessed.
As shown by the radiant smile that lit up her soft features, he had no trouble convincing Kate to take early retirement.
Looking back, though? He would have preferred that she refused.
Because maybe then, she wouldn't have died in the explosion of their chartered plane to the Côte d'Azur.
The last time Neal had felt his dreams shattering to the core of his being was when Ellen, with a single sentence, had destroyed everything his childhood had been built on. And as he watched the plane's remains fly apart and Mozzie use all his strength to keep him from throwing himself into the flames, he had a terrible feeling of déjà vu. His mind in a fog, he began to wonder if he hadn't managed to free himself and run toward the blaze because the searing pain coursing through his entire being was unbearable.
In the months that followed, Neal Caffrey stopped dreaming. Officially, he no longer even existed, according to the coroner's report that declared Neal George Caffrey dead in the same explosion as his lover. Nightmares had chased away all his joy and ambition, and even Mozzie's endless paranoid speeches couldn't bring a smile to his face.
His best friend, who never abandoned him, took him around the world to try to take his mind off things. From Japan, they boarded a plane to Sweden before reaching Australia. Then Argentina, the Bahamas, and finally France ended their journey.
Oddly enough, it was back in New York that the turning point happened. Wandering the city streets, Neal's eyes caught a sign plastered on the wall of a building. "For Sale."
On a whim, he pushed open the door of the bakery.
***
With a slow, careful gesture, Special Agent Peter Burke brought the coffee cup to his lips. He didn't spit out the questionable liquid—he was better than that—but his significant swallow and the curve of his eyebrows spoke for themselves.
This stuff was disgusting. You might have expected better from FBI headquarters...
Especially as it posed a serious problem, one he would have to solve at all costs if he didn't want his day to drastically worsen. This week's investigation was a particularly intricate insurance scam, mounted with manic precision and which, by a fabulous twist of fate that definitely seemed to have a bone to pick with Peter, had turned out to have ties to the Italian mob and escalated into murder.
Thus, after a tumultuous confrontation with Agent Ruiz and an authoritative look from Hughes, the two divisions ended up collaborating. The icing on the cake was that the culprit was still far from being behind bars, as his meticulousness, which bordered on paranoia, made him difficult to pin down.
In other words, to last until the evening when he could finally kiss his wonderful wife, Peter was going to need a hell of a lot of coffee, and he wasn't talking about this poor brownish imitation that wasn't worthy of the same name.
During his lunch break—or more precisely, an hour after the scheduled break, because he'd stayed to pore over the files in search of THE crucial detail, unsuccessfully—he devoured a sandwich at full speed before leaving the FBI office. With a skip in his pace, he hurried down the avenue to reach the Starbucks a few hundred yards further down. He put his hand on the handle, pushed with all his might, almost dislocated his shoulder, let out a volley of loud insults, finally spotted the "CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS" sign and headed back towards the office with a much less cheerful gait.
He needed that coffee. Or maybe three. Right here right now.
Or maybe a punching ball.
But a coffee would probably be of more use.
His eye was drawn to bright colors to his right, contrasting sharply with his stormy mood. On a welcoming storefront, letters written in handwriting spelled out the words "The Greatest Cake".
Interesting. Perhaps their coffee would be better than the one at the bureau...
Oh, what a joke. It would obviously be better, it was physically impossible to make a more abominable one.
On a whim, he pushed open the door of the bakery.
***
A few moments later, Peter Burke was sitting in a quiet corner, around a coffee whose aromas were already delighting his nostrils and a slice of red berries tart. The chef's specialty, the young waitress had punctuated, giving him the change with a big smile. And alright, he was the last person to be able to judge pastries (he could easily picture El nodding briskly), but even he was capable of recognizing the talents of the said chef—this jelly was simply delicious!
A glance at his watch confirmed that there were still had about fifteen minutes left before the end of his break. While sipping that famous Italian-flavored coffee, he took the opportunity to silently observe the people coming and going, oblivious to the rest of the world. The waitress from earlier was chatting happily with a brunette, probably her colleague, and from time to time left with a tinkling laugh that made everyone turn around, before composing herself and lowering their eyes with a mortified expression. Her co-worker smiled each time, with an almost mystical look, as if she were the keeper of a secret that made the whole situation even funnier. At the other end of the bakery, a man was leafing through the daily newspaper, a black hat put elegantly on his head.
Peter had never understood anything about hats. Or perhaps hats didn't understand him. How was it possible to wear those things without looking ridiculous?
Too fast, the hands turned and he let out a brief sigh. No time to lose. He has a con man-slash-killer to catch. As he greeted the occupants, he promised himself he'd come back another time. This Italian roasted coffee was to die for.
And he stuck to his word.
Only two days later, he introduced Diana and Jones to the place, who quickly admitted that despite their initials doubts—don't get me wrong boss, but you know you're famous for your investigative skills, not your culinary tastes—it was worth the trip. The staff were really pleasant and the atmosphere warm, with those wall lamps giving off a soft glow and the multiple paintings and movie posters covering the walls. A whole bunch of classics were on display: among others, The Great Escape for obvious reasons, Catch Me If You Can, several James Bond movies, Titanic and... five posters for a certain movie called Tiles of Fire which seemed to come a bit out of nowhere, to be honest.
And so, in the space of a few weeks, a large number of the agents in the White Collar division met weekly for coffee, or more if they hit it off. It was usually to build up their strength during a tough case, enjoying a little moment out of time (and the very appreciable loyalty benefits—a gift from the boss, Fiona had once said, which Peter later discovered was the name of the waitress with the shrill laugh.)
It was in the early hours of a beautiful day that, unknown to Peter, his life was about to take a rather unusual turn. The blazing sun was filling the city with a summery atmosphere even though it was only early May, not a cloud hid the clear, immaculate blue sky, and a lilting atmosphere reigned in the air as street performers played guitars, trumpets, violins, undeterred by the blatant lack of reaction from passersby. But that was hardly surprising: New Yorkers were New Yorkers, and Peter Burke was in a foul mood. In short, nothing unusual.
The whole Dutchman thing was getting to his head, and the imbeciles they had pinned him were not helping. When Diana joined him at The Greatest Cake with two large cups of cappuccinos in her hands, her wide eyes proved she hadn't missed the imaginary black cloud rumbling over her superior's head. And, as she'd expected, Peter was too absorbed in the whole thing to put his brain on hold, so he soon sparked a heated conversation with her about the possible identity of their man.
As they was about to leave, feeling like they hadn't taken a single step in the right direction, Peter's tired mind caught on to one detail. He hadn't realized the bakery's paper napkins had writing on them...
His brow furrowed so hard he looked 10 years older.
Clearly handwritten with a ballpoint pen, these words, which he read and reread a good ten times, stood out in black and white:
"That thing that keeps bothering you, it's a security fiber for the new Canadian $100 bill."
And that was all. Nothing else.
As if it was absolutely normal to jot this kind of things on a napkin.
Again, New York's norms of normality were not normal.
Peter's hand automatically rose to pinch the bridge of his nose.
"Okay, who put that here?"
He held up the towel for all to see. His authoritative gaze rested on every occupant of the room. No one came forward, and the tension grew as his patience, on the other hand, waned.
"Did anyone see who put this on the table? Huh? Anybody?!"
The only answers he received were vague shrugs and a few grunts from a group of friends for raising his voice. Diana, for her part, tried to hide a smirk.
He sighed.
Sometimes, he needed to remember he had signed up for some crazy days when he decided to become an FBI agent.
"Fiona?" he called, turning to the woman in question. "Could we talk to the owner, please?"
Peter had heard a lot about the aforesaid man, and always accompanied by positive adjectives. But he had never met him in person before.
He was a rather discreet man, so they said. With a knack for slipping around unnoticed and a perfect mastery of eight languages—at the least—fueling a whole bunch of mysterious stories about him. But he always had a sincere smile or greeting to offer, and genuinely cared about the well-being of his employees. He had shown up unexpectedly several years ago, when the bakery was in danger of going under.
He never left. Evidently charmed, the sales contract were signed the very day. He kept most of the original employees, but he himself helped out in the kitchen when they were short-staffed. Word got around that his lemon meringue pie should be illegal.
"Mr. Moreau? Yes, I'll see if he's here."
The young waitress was gone for only a few seconds before returning, never losing her eternal smile.
"He's in his office, it's the second door on the right."
The said Mr. Victor Moreau, as Peter and Diana quickly discovered, was indeed a charming man.
Almost too charming.
From the moment they entered his office, he showed a radiant face, not in the least disturbed by two FBI agents appearing out of nowhere, and immediately made himself available when Peter asked to view the surveillance camera he had spotted earlier.
While Mr. Moreau was trying to get his hands on the recordings, Peter took the opportunity to casually let his eyes wander. The owner clearly had an undeniable sense of style, perfectly matching the tasteful decor of his bakery. From his quality suit without a single wrinkle to his simple yet classy desk, not to mention the remarkable paintings adorning the walls. Splendid imitations, by the way. This copy of a Matisse had done a particularly good job of capturing the emotions of the original work, Peter thought.
The man himself was vaguely familiar, like one of those people you see on TV or on the street whose face, for some reason—maybe these piercing blue eyes that seemed to be able to read through the soul—remains etched in your memory for a long time. Nevertheless, Peter racked his brains to try to figure out where he could have met him (had a bakery been investigated for fraud in recent years?..) but he couldn't place the blond man and his subtle designer stubble.
"Here's the tape. You can watch it here if you prefer," the latter offered when he came back.
And was that really a flash of amusement that Peter glimpsed in his warm eyes?
No, it was probably just fatigue talking.
"Yes, thank you."
Obviously, whoever was behind the mysterious note had passed through the camera's blind spot, and obviously, they hadn't left any trace behind them. Peter barely hold back a gesture of frustration. Luckily, because he almost knocked over a small marble bust that stood proudly on their host's desk. It looked like a philosopher. Maybe Aristotle...
Focus Peter.
"Just in case, you didn't notice anything... suspicious? Or unusual?"
"Well, I leave my office from time to time, just to check how things are going in the bakery, but no, nothing has jumped out at me."
"Okay, doesn't matter. Thanks for your time anyway.
"No problem," Moreau reassured. "Sorry I can't be of more help. If you ever need anything else..."
After a synchronized nod from Peter and Diana, they prepared to take their leave, the agent already seeing his quiet evening with his wife go up in smoke. Maybe he could make up for it the next morning with a nice breakfast together? No, that's right, El was in charge of launching a big art exhibition...
"Wait!"
Peter whirled around. Mr. Moreau was staring at him with an intensity that was almost... disconcerting. And still that damn smile, as if there was some kind of an inside joke that he couldn't fully get.
But his imagination was probably just playing tricks on him.
"Yeah?"
A spark of hope flared into the FBI's agent chest. Perhaps he had just remembered a small detail that would help him wrap up his case more quickly?..
"Feel free to grab a little treat before you leave. On the house."
Oh. Not what he was hoping for, but he'd never say no to free desserts.
He thanked him one last time and walked out the door but, trusting his inner voice, couldn't help but take a last glance.
Enigmatically touching the grayish bust—it was Socrates, Peter remembered now!— Victor Moreau was smiling as if he had won the lottery.
***
As the saying goes, time flies and wait for no one, and soon the heat of summer was gone to give way to a harsh, cold autumn, which set in in no time.
The Dutchman case had to stop without an arrest—but at least his little project with the Spanish bonds had fallen through—and Peter eventually forgot the little incident at The Greatest Cake.
The culprit, however, did not forget at all.
That is how about two months later, when Elizabeth went to the bakery to order a hundred chocolate muffins for a reception, she came across a bright yellow sticky note lying there, right among the delicious pastries. She had barely read it when she noisily put the box down and grabbed her phone to call her husband.
The next day, he handcuffed Curtis Hagen with an non-simulated satisfaction, although... a tiny bit bittersweet.
Two weeks later, he found a scribble credit cart receipt under his mug. Thanks to this, he took a giant step in their latest mortgage fraud case.
Four days later, he nearly choked on another piece of paper. And why? Simply because it was right in the middle of his scone. At this point, unsurprisingly, the intruder was directly answering a question he had raised out loud not even fifteen minutes earlier. For the next six hours, he struggled to understand how it had been slipped there, and received nothing but a massive headache in response. Apart from a sorry smile and a few words of encouragement, Fiona and Mr. Moreau were of no help to him in his search.
The following week, an envelope was slipped into Peter's wallet after his visit to the bakery. Into a closed pocket of Peter's wallet. Although he hadn't taken it out of his jacket even one single second, since it was Jones' treat that day. Which obviously meant that the stranger behind all this charade had stolen his wallet and returned it to him, without him suspecting anything.
After all this, Peter wasn't so reassured about coming to the bakery anymore.
But their coffees remained 1. unequaled and 2. not expensive. So he didn't put a stop on his little breaks at The Greatest Cake.
Or at least, that's the reason he gave El when she asked him why he couldn't just buy his daily coffee somewhere else.
"Who are you trying to convince with that?"
He had always had a wonderfully perceptive wife.
After the sixth message he found deep in his mailbox—his mailbox!! of course, there was no stamp on the crumpled piece of paper, so the culprit had come all the way to his home to put it in his mailbox—Peter cracked.
Each time, without exception, the penmanship differed, so he had professionals examine the handwriting, almost regretfully as he gave up these pieces of evidence. These messages had been transmitted to him, him alone. Their content seemed almost... private. Still, all the specialists unanimously affirmed that no note came from the same person.
So the facts spoke for themselves. Good.
Then why was his instinct shouting him otherwise?
And before Peter Burke even realized it, these little one-sided interactions, and most of all unwanted interactions, don't talk nonsense, Diana, had gone from something he feared to something he found himself looking forward to with barely concealed eagerness.
When he realized it... he stopped dead in his tracks into the lobby of the 21st floor, his eyes like saucers, the target of the intrigued glances of his colleagues whose amused whispers echoed in his eardrums.
Oh, goodness.
He was definitely, completely screwed.
To do anything but face reality, he threw himself body and soul into an investigation aimed at solving this mystery. Off-the-record interrogations, surveillance cameras, background checks, he covered everything. At least, everything he could legally do. Because the worst part was that his correspondent hadn't committed any crime per se. (Driving an FBI agent nuts wasn't one, apparently.) Therefore, no warrant, nor investigation through official ways.
So he was totally taken off guard, when suddenly, the messages stopped appearing.
He didn't think about it that much for the first few days. The messages weren't pouring in daily, after all. But when a week passed without the slightest sign of his unofficial CI, then two... he began to suspect that something was going on.
And began to worry. No matter how hard he tried to deny it.
("Don't be ridiculous El, I'm not worried."
"That's why you've been all grumpy these last three days, although you just solved the money laundering case of the century?"
"I don't see any connection.")
Yeah, everyone knew how Peter was acting whenever he was worried, even Agent Blake could tell.
If Peter had paid more attention to the gossip Fiona and her colleague were exchanging, perhaps he would have been able to hear from the first day that the bakery owner had taken several weeks off at the last minute—why, they had no idea; what the boss did was none of their business, after all. But Peter was a courteous man and would never have allowed himself to listen to the endless private chatter of two young women. For his peace of mind. And his self-preservation.
So, more than fifteen days passed before he got wind of the news, through the co-owner.
During his unofficial investigation, he had come across the name Dante Haversham several times, but this was the first time he could put a face to the name. And although surprised, he couldn't say he was disappointed. What an odd duck.
For sure, he hadn't expected the establishment's accountant and pastry sous-chef to be this bald man with far too much imagination packed into such a small body, but his shady remarks at least had the merit of satisfying the FBI agent's endless curiosity. Not that he would ever admit to eavesdropping, obviously. But, it is true that hypothetically speaking, if he had caught sight of the man receiving a call before dashing into the boss' office and locking himself in, his never-ending detective instincts could have—still absolutely hypothetically—pushed him to sneak into the backroom to catch the words spoken with a barely concealed panicked air.
- ...alright?... blood... worried... where?... you're crazy... no– fine but... -omas Jefferson once said– don't trust... okay.
The bathroom door closed the very second Haversham poked his head through the half-open office door, looking suspicious. Unknown to him, Peter Burke was making the same expression, hiding in the back of the bathroom, his eyes narrowed in a mix of worry and thrilling satisfaction. He had just found his next target.
Unfortunately, life mercilessly went on as normal without waiting for him, and he suddenly found himself overwhelmed by new fraud cases and scams of all kinds that filled his entire day. Three weeks passed like this before he set foot back in The Greatest Cake, with half a dozen of his colleagues to celebrate their latest success—at the mention of their destination, even Hughes showed up.
And the little pieces of paper started arriving from all sides again. Much to Peter's displeasure, as, despite the amount of precaution he took, he never managed to catch the culprit red-handed. That said, it wasn't out of the picture that his guts weren't as infallible as he thought, and that he was dealing with several individuals.
Ironically enough, it was thanks to the enigmatic Haversham's obscure remarks that Peter finally had his Brainstorm, with a capital B.
(Not that the idea of the bakery being haunted by a ghost had ever crossed his mind, obviously not.)
No, it was a really simple idea, so simple that he mentally kicked himself for not having thought of it earlier.
He was going to caught out this smartass at his own game.
One fine day, he got up an hour earlier to take the time to plan everything. With a begging Satchmo at his side (no, I'm not taking you out at 5 am), he prepared his own little piece of paper, on which he carefully wrote: "Are you really that afraid to meet me face to face? I'm disappointed." Then he delicately inserted it into his wallet, taking care not to crease it.
The hours passed, slowly, and when the sun appeared high in the sky, he went to the bakery for lunch. He ordered an Italian-roasted coffee with a pain au chocolat, drank each sip of his drink with delight, savored his pastry, leaving crumbs everywhere. Finally, he pretended to be hungry for one last snack out of the blue, and left his chair to join the line behind the counter.
He didn't turn around to check, but he knew full well that his wallet was in plain sight, lying neatly on the coffee table.
If the culprit was watching him right now, he wouldn't miss such an opportunity. And Peter could finally catch him in the act.
Gusts of wind whistled loudly through the streets of New York on this cold November morning, and many passersby had sought refuge in the place. He had to keep an eye wide open.
Someone suddenly approached his seat, head bowed. Peter squinted. Red-haired man, about fifty—hm, he hadn't imagined him that old—round glasses, short mustache... A surge of pride was already rising in him. He was that close. He could already mentally picture himself handcuffing this guy who thought he was so smart, while reading him his rights, and...
And the man continued on his way without even passing within two feet of the wallet.
...Damn.
"Excuse me? Have you seen a hat somewhere by any chance?"
Swallowing his frustration, Peter directed his gaze towards the elegant woman who had just hailed him.
"A hat? No, sorry."
The lady seemed genuinely sad.
"It belonged to my late husband, Byron. I really wouldn't want to lose it, you understand."
To which Peter simply offered a automatic nod and a friendly smile, his shifty gaze betraying the quality of his investment in the conversation.
After several seconds that felt infinitely long to his liking, the well-dressed woman finally wished him a good day and left. At last. He immediately turned his attention back to his wallet.
Or more precisely, to the absence of the said wallet.
You've gotta be kidding me.
Mortified, he stammered lame apologies to Fiona for not being able to pay and promised to come back later to fix it. Always as kind as ever, she reassured him that it wasn't a problem at all—he was a regular customer, after all—but he still noticed some entertainment in her irises. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on him either. An FBI agent getting robbed wasn't exactly brilliant...
So it was with a long face and a dark glare aimed at the curious probies that he returned to the bureau.
The scent of Italian coffee attacked his nostrils as soon as he opened the door to his office.
And just next to his cup, guess what was patiently waiting for him?
His wallet.
He should have seen this coming.
"Everything's alright boss?"
His gaze followed Diana's, who had just entered, until his own clenched fists, full of frustration. He swallowed the insults that were just waiting to flow out like a raging torrent.
"Yup."
"You're sure?"
"Yup."
Peter didn't miss the way she cautiously closed the door as she left.
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
So, what do we have here...
Inside the wallet, its owner's exasperated sigh found all of its original contents—credit card, change, ID papers, etc.—with a little... bonus gift:
"I like to keep an aura of mystery around me. :)
By the way, your witness' ID is a fake. But feel free to do whatever you want with that information..."
God, how he hated that nerve that screamed Neal Caffrey style. (No, Peter, you know you don't...) It reminded him of the gourmet meals he'd had delivered to the van on long, boring, endlessly long, endlessly boring evenings... Or the wedding anniversary cards he received every year, without fail. If he weren't convinced that the extraordinary con man was definitely dead and buried six feet under as much as 2+2=4, he could have sworn he was dealing with a ghost come back to life.
But it was impossible.
...
Right.
Of course it's impossible Peter, what's wrong with you.
Ugh, and now he was starting to lose his mind.
He really needed that coffee before he started having ghostly visions.
***
Even if you have been an FBI agent for decades, being held at gunpoint was never a pleasant experience.
Peter Burke would agree.
But before we get into a whole mess of erroneous assumptions, let's recap from the beginning.
Take Don McErlean. Renowned burglar, six feet four and usually with a long face, speaking with a thick Irish accent and hating any form of government institution. He'd entered the big league last year, ever since his photo had been on the front page for stealing a Matisse from the Met (the Met! Upon hearing this, Peter had initially had a moment of weakness, impressed by what could be described as either audacity or boundless greed, before discovering that the guy had shot two guards to commit the feat. After that, he'd quickly reconsidered his point of view on the matter.)
Anyway, you get the picture? (not the Matisse) Good.
Now you see, that dear Don wasn't very rich—only a few million in his bank account—and now rumor had it he was planning to strike this time at the opening of a famous new gallery. The organizer was not thrilled, to say the least (the poor woman had had a terrible nervous breakdown in her office, according to gossip among employees.) Given the value of some of the works on display there, caution was advised. The gallery had asked the FBI for help, and that's how Peter had ended up on the case. He was delighted.
It's important to understand. Even after years of working in the White Collar division, Peter still couldn't get how a colored piece of paper could attract so many zeros. Or how some people were willing to pay so many zeros. Or not pay. Depending on the individual. But that's another story.
Still, theft was theft. And Peter was looking forward to put the handcuffs on that particular thief. One less murderer on the loose was always a good thing.
After a somewhat rocky start to the investigation, the FBI got wind that McErlean was looking for a new guy on his team (apparently, he'd had a falling out with a former associate). Seeing that no one else was particularly keen on going undercover, Peter kindly volunteer to do it (implied here: his agents ganged up on him to make him surrender.)
They had some minor difficulties getting McErlean to hire him, but everything eventually fell into place, and soon after Peter, or more accurately, Carlton Leed, was practically part of the family. Except he was frisked upon entering basically every room, the gun McErlean kept constantly on his hip reminded him not to make any mistakes, and he was under 24/7 surveillance, forcing him to live in a shabby apartment across town to keep up appearances. So, no contact with Elizabeth or even the FBI, except for the information he relayed to them every night according to a very strict procedure.
Peter was far from being able to claim to be a professional thief, but he wouldn't need to. All he needed was evidence of McErlean's dark schemes.
And to do that, all he had was a little recording pen.
No pressure.
McEarlean was a cautious man—too cautious, there was a reason he wasn't behind bars yet. No way Peter could wear comms, unless he had suicidal tendencies.
So far, apart from a few close calls, Carlton Leed has done pretty well.
And then one of McErlean's henchmen needed a pen, and things went south real quick. (The worst part was it wasn't even to write with it.)
Which led to the current situation, with a gun pressed against his temple, under the death stare of a very furious Irishman.
Yeah, Peter had known better days.
"What is that?"
McErlean's sharp voice could easily send shivers down his pine, but Peter didn't say a word. Not necessarily out of fear, or even bravery. No, it was mostly because his brain was racing to find an excuse that wouldn't make him leave the premises in a box.
Except the man in front of him wasn't exactly known for his patience towards the human race, so Peter had better hurry.
"You're not really chatty, are you. Who sent you here? Who?! Talk."
Peter could already feet the punch coming, right in his chest. He gritted his teeth. That was going to get a little rough. And then...
"I did."
Silence.
Everyone whirled around. The voice that had just broken the tension was firm, assured, resonant with charisma with just two little words.
For Peter, it was, above all, recognizable and unforgettable.
"Tabernacle. What the hell?"
Peter didn't know anybody named Tabernacle; in the other hand, he was really very extra sure that the bold and slightly smug expression of the man who had just appeared in the room was Victor Moreau's signature.
And his brain stopped working on this last point.
Realistically, he should have been wondering why the man was claiming to have hired Peter when it was clearly false, he knew better than anyone. But no, the only thought that crossed his mind was what the hell was a baker doing in the middle of a secret meeting of thieves?
The said baker didn't wait for Peter to recover from his lethargy to answer the Irishman, in that same unshakable tone, despite a revolver pointed straight at his heart.
"We set this con together, you know. So it really hurt me when I found out you were planning to double cross me and run away with my cut of the loot. I payed Leed to spy on you and report back to me. Don't take your anger out on the poor guy, the reward I gave him was pretty convincing."
McErlean's eyes traveled between Moreau—Tabernacle?—and Peter, flickering slightly. He seemed unprepared for this turn of events.
And he wasn't the only one, the FBI agent thought.
Event the other thieves of the gang (there were five, plus the boss' two henchmen) didn't try to hide their surprise. Or tried but failed miserably.
Peter couldn't really blame them. He himself was still processing the fact that apparently he'd been overpaid to be an undercover spy, and he would've liked to know! Even though okay, it was technically true since the FBI was paying him to do exactly that, but Moreau wasn't supposed to know that.
Theoretically.
While he was trying to calm himself down and get back into Carlton Leed's shoes, the Irishman heartily swore a string of insults that Peter didn't even know existed.
"Is that true?" he finally articulated calmly, much more terrifying than if he had shouted, looking straight into Peter's eyes.
Not trusting his vocal cords, he nodded. He didn't know what Moreau was up to, but it seemed in his interest to play along.
McErlean cursed under his breath once more. Then he glared at the blond.
Oh oh.
That didn't seem good.
Despite his suspicions, Peter couldn't help but flinch when the first punch made Moreau double over. The seconds seemed to pass more slowly as the Irishman landed blow after blow. Peter could do nothing but watch in silence, frozen to the spot.
Finally, the beating stopped. Moreau coughed up blood.
His attacker stepped back, looking satisfied, and Peter thought at that precise moment that never seeing Elizabeth again was pretty high on the probability scale.
"I could kill you right here, right now," the man spat aggressively.
And he was seriously itching to do it, without a doubt.
"You could," the blond confirmed, panting.
Peter stared at him as if he'd taken one too many blows to the head.
"...But then you'd never discover where I hid the treasure."
What? Because there was also a treasure in all that mess?!
And oddly enough, the argument seemed convincing to McErlean, who huffed like an enraged dragon.
"Lock 'em up," he ordered, pointing with his chin at Peter and Moreau. "I'll decide what to do with them later. Make sure they can't escape."
The two men built like a tank had a field day. Peter would have some pretty nasty bruises tomorrow (assuming he survived that long). He winced; the handcuffs were clearly too tight on purpose, but he didn't dare complain.
The place they were taken to (implied here: unceremoniously thrown onto the cold floor) looked a little too much like a cell in the undercover agent's opinion. Especially since there were reddish traces on the floor. Dark, dry, old blood.
Other than that, not a single object in sight, not a single window. Only gray walls for company and a single light bulb that lit up intermittently.
McErlean had set up a personal cell for himself. Peter didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
And the next second, he found himself alone with Moreau. Tabernacle. Doesn't matter. He didn't look in very good shape.
This gave him more time to observe the man who had lied to protect him. Because it was clear to Peter. Whatever he was doing in the Irishman's hideout, Moreau didn't have any reason to reveal his presence. Now, if he had recognized the undercover FBI agent and known McErlean's hatred of the police... he might have decided to invent a story on the fly to cover them up, until they found a better solution.
Not sure it really worked out in his favor, but Peter was grateful even so.
The question remained: why Moreau had ended up there? And was it possible that the owner of his favorite bakery was secretly a criminal?
Staring at the aforesaid man, who was breathing heavily, his eyes closed, he had rather mixed feelings on the matter. He couldn't picture him harming a fly. On the other hand, his face looked innocent enough to fool basically anyone.
But there was no time to think. They had to get out of this place, alive, thank you very much, and then Peter would finally go home to Elizabeth and Satchmo and forget about all this imbroglio that was giving him a headache.
"Okay. We need to find a way to get out befo– what are you doing?!"
Not in the least disturbed by his cellmate's complaints, Victor Moreau had just stood up with a grace that Peter was frankly jealous of—like come on, the man had just been beaten and handcuffed!—and was now casually massaging his bare wrists. While whistling. He was whistling, the smartass.
Peter blinked. Three times. The loose handcuffs on the floor seemed to taunt him.
"How... how did you do that?"
"How come you couldn't? Don't they teach you that at Quantico?"
"Well yes, actually, but not with—never mind, not relevant. Could you, you know..."
Moreau approached him, and in no time at all, Peter was free to move. He stretched fully. It felt good. But with every minute that passed, he had one more question—at least—and still no answers to all the previous ones.
"So what now?
"Now? We get the hell out of here."
The agent raised an eyebrow.
"Brilliant idea. But how exactly?"
The blond stared at him. Mimicked the same eyebrow movement. Enunciated slowly, as if Peter suddenly had the IQ of an oyster:
"We just have to walk out of the front door, Agent Burke."
And again that damn grin like a Cheshire Cat. He even got that from Neal Caffrey. They actually looked a bit alike, now that he thought about it... A relative, maybe? No one knew anything about Caffrey's family, nor about his first eighteen years, which he seemed to have spent in a parallel universe. To think that in another of those hypothetical universes, the con man might have survived the explosion... What a shame such a talented man had passed away so soon. If he'd put his sharp wit to work for law enforcement, Peter was sure he would have been a hit.
He watched carefully as Moreau pulled a pin out of thin air—he couldn't even be surprised—and began to manipulate the lock. His movements were confident, tinged with habit. Yes, it wouldn't be such a surprise if he was related to Neal Caffrey.
Wait.
Moreau.
As in, Kate Moreau.
...
And suddenly, he couldn't deny the obvious anymore.
I'll be damned.
"That was you..."
His voice came out in a hoarse whisper, as if from beyond the grave.
(Then again, he had indeed just resurrected someone from his memory.)
"It was you... All this time, all these little messages slipped in ever more improbable ways, it was you!"
He was left speechless, in amazement.
As for Moreau—Caffrey, he was Neal Caffrey—he had the audacity to smile even more widely, this idiot.
"I plead the fifth."
And how could Peter have not recognized earlier that signature look? Everything about him screamed Neal Caffrey. It was painfully obvious.
To think he'd been right under his nose all this time. In his defense, though, it had to be said that the fact that he genuinely believed him to be charred didn't help.
Yeah, that too.
But he should have known that a forger as brilliant as him would have been able to create as many documents as needed to fake his death. He'd already done it with the shark thing, but this time Peter had been able to spot the scam relatively easily.
And now, the guy owned a bakery.
What a drama queen.
"So... the thing with the plane? Was it all fake?"
It was very slight, nothing more than a brief twitch of the eyelid and a subtle contraction of the jaw, but the FBI agent's sharp eyes didn't miss a thing.
"No... not exactly. I wasn't actually on the plane, which is obvious since I'm standing right here, alive, in all likelihood but... the explosion was very real. And not planned. At least not by me."
So Kate was...
Oh. Strangely, that actually explained a lot.
But there was at least one detail he absolutely had to clarify.
"You usually didn't hang out with guys like McErlean, though..."
"Oh of course, I hadn't planned on actually working with him. But he had something that belonged to me. I just wanted it back. That's why I was around today."
"He had something? Like in, past tense?"
"Like in past tense."
Peter snorted.
"I see you haven't lost your touch. Wait... that means you stole my wallet! Twice!"
"Hey, I gave it back!" Caffrey pointed out, not feeling sorry at all.
"Lucky for you."
"I felt generous."
Peter gave him a death stare. He was about to ask more questions—damn their compromising situation, he was excruciatingly curious, all right—but stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth hanging open like a goldfish. Caffrey had just opened the door.
"Well, I guess the questions can wait."
And they slipped out of the room.
***
As Neal expected, the rest of the plan (however pretty basic, if not completely nonexistent) didn't go.. quite as planned.
Murphy's law sucks.
Of course, he didn't panic at all when Peter got shot in the leg. Of course not.
No, he remained calm, courteous, and he showed remarkable composure which saved both their lives. If Peter later thought he vaguely remembered hearing someone panic like a little girl, it was probably his pain-clouded mind that had imagined it.
The most important thing was that they had made it out alive. Even though Peter had no idea how he was going to explain all this to Hughes.
The next morning, a folded yellow paper flower was lying on the bedside table in his hospital room when he awoke. He preferred to wait a few minutes for Elizabeth to let him rest before picking it up. A smile on his face, he slowly unfolded the origami, with an almost solemn delicacy.
His smile stretched even further as he read the words on the kami paper, this time in the handwriting he knew was Neal Caffrey's par excellence: "Get well soon! :)"
And in a corner, he'd hastily added: "PS: Here's a little something to make amends..."
Peter raised an eyebrow and looked around.
On the windowsill, a coffee was waiting for him.