Ruahnna

The End of the Beginning

ruahnna — Fri, 19 Dec 2014 04:03:41 GMT

Short and sweet, no need to draw it out.

An ending that ends with you one place and all the people you love and who love you someplace else is not the win-win that I expect from Neal Caffrey. An ending that leaves all those who might comfort each other estranged and awkward doesn't comfort me.

It is the sort of idea that a Hollywood writer would come up with. It leaves everyone alive and things open for a sequel.

But in a world of broken promises, I'll take it and be glad.

Kudos for the beautiful performances of the wonderful cast and crew. I'll miss you.

Predictions and Predilections, White Collar Style

ruahnna — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 04:55:47 GMT

I've been watching askance this last season of White Collar because, after last season, I do not trust that the writers who were working on the show actually understood what it was that people liked about the show. I got my fill of Peter being a jerk during the fifth season of last year, and it's put distance between me and the characters I still adore. I'm not saying I've fallen out of love--I'm saying it's more like, "I love him but he cheated on me so now what?"

But.

But, I am cautiously hopeful now. We're halfway into the last season and I'm going to be honest--my journal, why not? I'm not a fan of the antihero. The only mavericks I tuly like and respect are the ones who know the laws and the code, and can quote it chapter and verse while they're breaking it--but I don't really like "bad guys." I think I've had my fill of bad guys in the real world, so I don't have much interest in watching arrested development with a badge, or unrepentance worn like a badge of honor.

I like nice guys. I like Boy Scouts. I adore Peter Burke and the standards of fairness and honesty and integrity that he always modeled (except last season). I had no trouble believing that, seeing that--seeing what a real man is like--was all Neal needed to know where he wanted to go, to be what he wanted to be.

Neal's always been good at getting what he wanted, but he's been less good at wanting what he got. Contentment as a con man was a thing that would forever be beyond Neal's reach, but when he began to play against Peter--his intellect, his wit, his fairness, his wholenes--then Neal realized, maybe for the first time, that the path he was on wasn't going to get him what he wanted. Neal thought he wanted the carefreeness (ha!) of childhood--the lack of adult responsibilities, but what he discovered, time and again, is that what he reallyi wants is to be grown up. And seeing Peter do it only made it seem not just possible, but necessary. Neal wants to finally grow up and he needs Peter to do that. Peter, for his part, wants more of a payoff from his job than just one more artifact returned, one more crook behind bars. What Peter wants is to know that he makes a difference, that what he does matters. Neal is a living, breathing testament to the fact that he does

I'm already in too deep for most everybody, so I'll stop even though I haven't yet waxed rhapsodic about El and how amazing she is--to warrant the love and faith of one man and to nurture the love and faith of the other in a competely appropraite way. She is so strong and centered and knows her own strength and I love her for that (but I don't have time here).

Okay, enough philosophy--.

Here's what I think we will get, and not just because I hope we will get it. I think Peter will quit the FBI. I think Neal will not only go free, but might even be legally pardoned (or some such). I think they will start a business together that pulls on the best of their talents and allows them to save the day, whup bad guys and take names and still be home for dinner. I think this will mean that Peter is there--home and available--for El and the baby, and that Neal (and certainly Mozzie) will find themselves pushing their knees under the Burke's kitchen table on a regular basis. "Uncle Neal" and "Uncle Mozzie" are going to corrupt that wonderful Burke child in every way possible--all in the pursuit of justice.

We're halfway into this last season, and I have begun to hope that order has been restored to the universe. That the right order of things has now been reset. While Keller has been a nasty, icky surprise--festering and backbiting--I believe he will meet his inevitable end before it's all over, leaving our heros in peace to be warriors on the side of good. That's what i think will happen, more or less. It's the happy ending I want.

A happy ending's what I always want.

What Doesn't Kill Me, Part 2

ruahnna — Wed, 25 Jun 2014 18:15:54 GMT

Title: Sherlock (BBC): What Doesn’t Kill Me, Part 2 (For part 1, click here)
Rating: PG-13
Genre/Relationship: John Watson, Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes
Wordcount: 2,128
Spoilers: None, really
Disclaimer: Do not own
Pairings: John Watson/Mary Watson
Summary: Sherlock’s revelations and Mary’s seeming betrayal have left John reeling. The two people he loves best in the world—and the two people who love him best in the world—have proven themselves capable of lies and deceit and betrayal at a level John can’t even begin to process. But the battle hasn’t even begun in earnest, and John has never been one to shrink from a fight. Whatever happens, he’ll try to fight his way back to the life he still wants with both of them.
Warnings: Psychological dissection. Please glove up and wear a mask
A/N: With gratitude to the creators of BBC’s Sherlock, who own this version of these characters, but not the ideas of this story.

The stitches had pulled but not given out. Once he was supine and the bandages redressed, he was brought up to the room. John was a familiar figure at the nurses’ station by now, and whether it was sympathy, professional courtesy or simply bowing to the inevitable, they allowed him and Mary to go immediately into Sherlock’s room as soon as he was settled.

“Tell them, won’t you,” Sherlock drawled almost immediately when they entered. He pulled against the restraints on one pale arm.

John looked at him for a moment with no expression, then poked his body out the door and turned toward the nurses' station.

“Do you have any leg restraints?” he yelled.

“For God’s sake, John,” Sherlock snapped. “Do try to contain yourself. I’m in hospital.”

“Only barely,” John said. He was angry—well beyond annoyed—and paced at the foot of the bed like a prizefighter ready to take the ring. He seemed to realize he was doing it and stopped, took a deep breath, and threw himself into the chair. Mary walked over and brushed a kiss against Sherlock’s forehead. She had done it before—had done it countless times before and in the last week—and Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. Watching it, John felt as though he were trapped in some weird dream. Everything seemed so bloody normal, except that nothing was normal.

His phone began to buzz and he looked down, surprised to find he had 16 unread texts, 8 of them from Mycroft. He thumbed through them irritably and watched Mary help settle Sherlock more comfortably and hold a cup of water to his lips. He winced, and she put a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you hurting? Is the morphine—“

“Water,” Sherlock muttered. “I hate water. Can’t you get me a cuppa, Mary?” He was whinging shamelessly, unafraid of being denied.

She smiled at him, her mouth quirking in amusement.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said, and moved out into the hall.

The silence was deafening and, after a moment, Sherlock closed his eyes and feigned sleep.

“I know you’re ruddy faking,” John spat. “You’re probably still so wired from everything that it would take a hammer to knock you out.”

“You’re certainly wired,” Sherlock said mildly, his blue eyes drifting over to his friend. “Your respiration is up, your blood pressure—“

“Damn my blood pressure,” John growled. “And while I’m at it, damn your deductions and, oh, by the way damn y—”

“John.” He could not ever remember Sherlock’s voice being this gentle, not even with Ms. Hudson, and though it soothed the cracks in his soul he felt the old anger rising again. He did not need to be coddled.

“I’m not coddling you,” Sherlock said, and John smacked the arm of the chair with his fist.

“Stop it. Stop it, Sherlock, or so help me I’ll rip that morphine port out myself and hurl it out the window!"

Sherlock swallowed, looking very white and pale, and said nothing. Mary came back into that deadly silence and moved between them. She had a large Styrofoam cup in her hands. Steam rose from the top and a teabag label dangled over the edge.

“It’s a little hot,” she said. “Want me to add some water?”

“No, just blow on it, please,” Sherlock said, and Mary puffed the dark, brown surface of the water obediently. After a minute and a half, she held it up to Sherlock’s lips and he drank.

“Two sugars?” he asked, one eyebrow climbing. His Vulcan eyebrow, she had called it once, and John had laughed out loud. She was aware of him behind her, watching her, watching them.

“Three,” she answered. “I thought you could use the calories.”

Sherlock nodded and sipped again, looking at her. They did not need more than a look between them to know what the other was thinking, to know that they were both thinking of John, of his pain and his rage.

“S’good,” Sherlock said. “How did you—they wouldn’t let me have any. I asked. What did you tell them to make them let me have it.”

“I didn’t,” Mary said. “I told them it was for me.”

Sherlock laughed, then gasped and his hands fluttered to his wound. John was on his feet instantly, taking one long stride toward the bed and pulling the covers back. He pushed the gown away to view the fresh bandages, the bruising that spread over Sherlock’s torso. Sherlock gasped and clutched the edge of the gown on the opposite side as though to preserve his modesty, but John shoved his hands roughly away.

“Lie still,” he hissed. “Leave off and stop fussing.” He shot Sherlock a look. “It’s not like there are any secrets among us,” he said tightly. Mary said nothing, but her eyes flickered to Sherlock’s and he grimaced. John caught it immediately and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. He put his hand over Sherlock’s bandaged wound and glared at them. “Are there?” he demanded. “What else aren’t you—“

Sherlock lay still, afraid to move with John’s hands on him, but he looked at Mary and nodded.

“Magnussen,” she said. “He may try to act now that Sherlock’s back. It could come…at any time, really.”

Damn. Another level in Hell just opened up, yawning, but John found he was steady on his feet. “Where…what will he do?” He looked at Mary, at Sherlock. “Who will be target?”

Mary darted a quick glance behind them, making sure no helpful nurse bustled through to overhear them. She opened her mouth to answer—“

“Mary and I are both targets,” Sherlock said. He looked straight at John, his eyes compelling, so John didn’t see the look of momentary confusion on Mary’s face. Her own look clouded, then cleared suddenly.

“He might try to make a run at Sherlock while he’s here,” she said. She turned to John, careful in how she approached him, and handed him the tea. Numbly, he took it. “You stay with him. I’m going to prowl the halls a bit,” she said.

John’s mouth opened. “Mary, be…” He hesitated, not sure how to complete his sentence. “Be careful.” He swallowed.
“Sherlock says that Magnussen is the most dangerous man on the continent.”

“Sherlock is almost never wrong,” she said with a bleak smile, and was gone.

***

Mary had a lot to think about on her trip around the ward, but it did not stop her from noting everything was as it should be. She saw the detectives masquerading as family members of patients, but those were from Lestrade, so she did nothing but smile her hausfrau smile and make sure she did nothing that marked her as what she was. She had done it so long it was second nature, and even the hospital security tapes would show only a woman riddled with anxiety, pacing the hallways restlessly and aimlessly. They would not show an agent noting exits, phones, cameras. This was a hospital, and there was not much here that would stop anyone who tried to get in—except her. And she would stop anyone who tried to get in. Of that she had no doubt at all.

She was almost back to the room when a man stepped directly in front of her. She had seen him, had known him for what he was, but she startled like she should and turned anxious eyes up to him.

“Oh! You—sorry. You startled me.” Mary noted the gun beneath his coat, calculated exactly what angle she would use to snap his neck, smiling nervously all the while.

“Ms. Watson. Sorry. Go right in.”

She smiled cringingly and went in. Mycroft and John were squared off at the foot of Sherlock’s bed. The nurses had all apparently fled in terror.

“No one is bloody going home,” John said with the barely restrained fury usually reserved for the terminally obtuse. “As long as Sherlock is here, we’re staying, so you can either help or sod off.”

Over the months of their engagement, Mary had had many occasions to see Mycroft and John interact, but the sight of John’s compact form successfully facing down Mycroft’s studied nonchalance never failed to thrill her. Or amuse her. She bit the inside of her lip to keep from smiling and refused to look at Sherlock, who was smirking in supreme satisfaction.

“Yes, see if they won’t bring in another chair, brother dear,” Sherlock drawled. “Or a cot. And I’d like to see the papers.”

The room was already strewn with papers, although John had made a cursory attempt to corral them as Sherlock had thrown them about the room.

Mycroft ignored John by the simple expedient of looking over his head and gave Sherlock a look of pained exasperation. “Sherlock, this is a hospital, not a sitting room. The nurses have been complaining about all the…” He looked behind him, acknowledging Mary with a nod. “…people you’ve been having in here, and they said you threw a tray—“

“I was aiming for the cart. Sue me.”

“If you don’t behave—“

“I am behaving. I’m behaving in a perfectly reasonable way for someone like me who—“

“There is no one like you,” Mycroft snapped.

Mary muttered “Thank goodness,” under her breath, and Mycroft stiffened and shot her a look. “How could we manage if there were two of them?” she said, smiling.

Mycroft’s smile was tight. “From my point of view, there might be three of them,” he said, and Mary allowed her eyes to grant him just a little sympathy. Loving Sherlock was hard, very hard. She knew firsthand. If Mycroft saw anything other than womanly sympathy in her eyes, he didn’t let on, but Mary didn’t think he had. She hoped he hadn’t, but she was tired of measuring probabilities against the impossibilities that life was currently throwing at her.

John got back in Mycroft’s field of vision by backing up closer to Sherlock, and his expression said he intended to be heard.

“Sherlock’s fine—

“Oh, yes—certainly. He had a hole blown in his gut and then ran away from the hospital to do God-only-knows.” John’s face hardened, and was that very impenetrability that caught Mycroft’s attention. He stepped closer and looked at John. “Or perhaps God isn’t the only one who—“

“Shove off, Mycroft,” Sherlock said from the bed. Mary thought the morphine must be working or he’d have said something worse.

“Sherlock!” There was a wealth of impotent rage in that name, and Mary felt her heart twist within her. What do you do when the person you love most in the world doesn’t want your love, doesn’t— She snapped the thought in two, stuffing it away. She could not think about that now. She could not think about that here.

“Sherlock’s fine here,” John said, glaring at Mycroft. “We’re fine. But we’re not going.”

”I could remove you,” Mycroft returned. He said it like he was suggesting an outing, a picnic, a day at the park.
John grinned, a savage joy on his face. “I’d like to see you try,” John said, and Mary had the supreme pleasure of seeing Mycroft’s face register genuine surprise.

“You would, wouldn’t you?” he murmured.

Mary felt Sherlock stir beside her and darted him a quick look. A million things passed between them, and she cursed herself vehemently, uselessly for not knowing to trust him. She had thought she and Sherlock were partnered only their protection of John—she had not realized that he had extended his grace to her herself as well. It was sobering, cataclysmic.

Mycroft saw the look—of course he saw it—and there was an instant when Mary felt his eyes sharpen on her face. If Sherlock’s penetrating gaze was chilling, Mycroft’s was paralyzing. Then the eyes shuttered, and Mycroft’s carefully pleasant face suddenly returned. The older Holmes sighed. “I’ll see about the cot,” he snipped.

“We don’t need a cot. We’ve got this covered,” John insisted.

Sherlock had to smile—his own personal army of two. He felt decadently safe. “I told you, brother dear, I don’t need you—“

Mycroft carefully pleasant face suddenly looked ferocious. “I told you to stay away from Magnessun,” he hissed. “For God’s sake, Sherlock, show a little sense for once. This time he only shot you. Next time—“

“He didn’t shoot me,” Sherlock said languidly. “I told you that a hundred times.”

“And next time, you might not be so lucky.“

Sherlock ignored his older brother and looked over at John. He and Mary shared a small smile.

“I’m very lucky,” Sherlock said with the ghost of a smile about his lips.

Mycroft left them in a righteous huff.

What Doesn't Kill Me

ruahnna — Wed, 25 Jun 2014 15:00:10 GMT

Title: Sherlock (BBC): What Doesn’t Kill Me
Rating: PG 13
Genre/Relationship: John Watson, Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes
Wordcount: 2,045
Spoilers: None, really
Disclaimer: Do not own
Pairings: John Watson/Mary Watson
Summary: Sherlock’s revelations and Mary’s seeming betrayal have left John reeling. The two people he loves best in the world—and the two people who love him best in the world—have proven themselves capable of lies and deceit and betrayal at a level John can’t even begin to process. But the battle hasn’t even begun in earnest, and John has never been one to shrink from a fight. Whatever happens, he’ll try to fight his way back to the life he still wants with both of them.
Warnings: Psychological dissection. Please glove up and wear a mask
A/N: With gratitude to the creators of BBC’s Sherlock, who own this version of these characters, but not the ideas of this story. I was going to wait until I finished to start posting, but decided to go ahead. (Nothing like a little pressure to keep the words flowing....)

What Doesn’t Kill Me

     Who knew Hell had so many damned rooms? His week had started with nightmares and a smackhouse and ended with a mortal wound in Sherlock’s gut and his heart. “Ended” might have been overly optimistic, however, and John watched with amazing detachment as they prepared to carry Sherlock out on a stretcher, an oxygen mask over his face, his lips blue. He’d watched them stabilize him, watched his white, blanched face relax almost ecstatically with the first hit of morphine, but his eyes had been frantic, searching for John. John knelt down, in Sherlock’s view but out of the way of the paramedics and—at a nod from one of them—took Sherlock’s hand and grasped it hard. Sherlock’s grip was convulsive in return. To a casual observer—perhaps even to a trained one—it would have looked like John was comforting the fallen detective, that Sherlock was receiving support and strength from his friend’s grip. In truth, it was the opposite, and John held on to Sherlock’s hand like a drowning man, trying to puzzle out the bitter truth that had been foist upon him that night.

     Dimly, John was aware of someone crouching down by his side. “Are you riding with?” the young paramedic asked. John looked up, more than a little dazed, and tried to think of the answer.

     “I—“

     “You should go with him,” Mary said from her stand hear the fireplace. “He’ll want you to come.”

     But at her words, Sherlock hauled—hard—on John’s hand, dragging him closer.

     “No,” he gritted, trying to make it a command. “Not with me. With her.”

     There were a thousand things to say to that, but most of them would have made John’s head explode. Sherlock was struggling now, fighting the medics to try to crane around and see Mary, and she hastened around and crouched next to John at the gurney. Sherlock’s hand, still clasping John’s, moved insistently toward her and she made a sound like a little bleat, then curved both of her hands over theirs.

     “You want me to come, too,” she said. Her face was smooth and composed, but the churning of her soul was almost audible to the two men whose hands she clasped.

     “Yes,” Sherlock gasped, chest heaving. His voice was muffled beneath the oxygen mask. “Yes. Both of you.”

     “Then we’ll come,” said Mary. Her hands over theirs were cool and steady and her eyes bored into Sherlock’s as if she were memorizing every detail of his features. The press of her palms warmed quickly as she stood there holding on, as though, through touch, she could divine his thoughts.

     “Yes, John?” Sherlock croaked, demanding. John nodded curtly. He had hauled everything in—every molecule tightly under wrap—and looked only at Sherlock and not at the woman beside him.

     “Yes. Yes, damn it. We’ll…come after the ambulance. Stop talking. Rest.”

     The detective drew a shaky breath and released him, then fell back, seeming to shrink in on himself. “Together,” he mouthed. “Come together.”

     “Always your way,” John muttered as they took him out, and he tried not to sound bitter.

***

     They climbed into Mary’s car.

     “Do you want to--?”

     “No.”

     Mary got behind the wheel, and they pulled into late-night London traffic. There was something almost obscene about the normalcy of the activity. The radio was on—80s music—and though the disco beat was rude and incongruous, John seemed not to notice and Mary was afraid to turn it off and face the scalding silence. The song that was playing ended, and "Macarthur Park" came on.

     In front of them, the ambulance glittered like a beacon and they watched the bright outline of it. Mary had the sensation of being pulled along in the wake of some great beast, imagining that if she took her hands off the wheel she would still be dragged inexorably forward.

     She thought about Sherlock, his white face haggard with pain, the fierceness of his demand that they make this trip together, her and John. They had stabilized him before taking him down the steps at Baker Street, started blood and fluids and morphine. She thought of Sherlock’s pale skin, ripped open, bleeding. She had done that. She was responsible. And he wanted to help her.

     Mary had spent her whole adulthood bouncing between two very different worlds—the world of her childhood and the world of an operative. She had learned to compartmentalize. She had learned to slip from one world to the next without setting off alarms, absorbing the grinding jolt of transition. She had never felt as certain that the friction would eventually scrape her raw, slice her to the bone, obliterate her soul.

     She had almost killed him, and he wanted to help her.

     John snapped off the radio. “Were you ever going to tell me, then?”

     John’s voice was flat, hard as flint, but this was a question she had expected, a question she could answer.

     “I wanted to,” she said, keeping her voice low and even.

     “Oh, God, what a load of—“ John bit off the last word with a laugh. “I mean, how convenient. Of course you wanted to tell me.” John wielded sarcasm as skillfully as a scalpel, as proficient at wounding as he was at healing. The shock of it—her John this bloodless, this efficient at hurting her—was like a physical blow, but then, she’d been trained to take blows, hadn’t she?

     “I wanted to,” she said again. “You can’t know how much.”

     “No, I can’t bloody know, can I? I’m a bleeding idiot! My best friend fakes his death in front of me and I don’t know it. My wife—“ He twisted the word, making it a foul thing, an illness. “My wife is a psychopath who just shot my lying best friend. And the two of them—the two of you—are now playing nice with each other! Right—everyone’s in on it but poor, stupid John Watson—but I don’t—“ John stopped short, his words caught on a ragged breath, and he sat with his hands carefully splayed on his thighs, breathing hard and trying to contain himself. “You could have come to me. Why didn’t you come to me?” John said, his voice thick with tightly constrained emotion.

     Mary realized with a shock that what they had done to him was to convince him—yet again—that he had nothing to offer, that he was powerless to protect or sustain them. When she realized what they had done, tears filled her eyes, a luxury she rarely allowed herself. Above all things, she had not wanted to hurt John, and everything she had done had cut him to the quick. Another thought was pushing her, however, insistent, persistent and she tried to bring it into focus. If John had wanted her to come to him first, then some part of him had wanted to help her. Some part of him might still want to help her. She clung to that because it was all she had.

     “Because I’m a bleeding idiot,” Mary said, and said it with such anguish that he could not possibly doubt her. John let out an explosive bark of laughter that sounded almost hysterical with hurt and rage, but the expulsion of it had made him relax, made him stand down. He was breathing without the tight hardness of his shoulders making every breath a misery to them both.

     “Well, like attracts like,” John muttered, then seemed to realize what he’d actually said. His face flooded with color and he turned his face toward the window and said nothing more until they parked.
***

     Mary turned the car off, reaching for her seatbelt. John touched her elbow and she looked up, surprised at the contact.

     “We can’t…we can’t go in there like….” John waved his arms, helpless in the face of trying to explain. “We have to…you know, act normal.”

     The ludicrousness of it was overwhelming. “Oh, that’s going to go well,” Mary muttered. “You’re about to climb out of your skin and I’m about to go jump off a ledge. What’s normal about—“

     John’s hand closed over her arm like a vise and she flinched, every impulse telling her what to do and how to do it and to protect, protect and disengage and—

     “Don’t. Don’t even joke about that. Right now, I don’t bloody care how you feel, but don’t you—don’t you joke about that. Not to me. To him and anyone else, but not to me! Got it?” His grip on her arm was cutting off circulation.

     Mary realized what she had said. “Oh, my God, John—I’m sorry. Truly—I…it was just an expression. I wasn’t….” She stilled suddenly and looked at her hands, willing the earth to swallow her up.

John released his angry grip on her arm, saw the marks of his fingers and pulled back as though stung. “Sorry,” he said. “Christ—sorry.” He smacked the dashboard with a fist. “Sod it!” He took a deep breath, scrubbed his hand over his face and took in some air. It seemed to help. He took in some more air and tried to calm down.

“John.”

His heart clenched at the sound of his name on her lips. He felt like he might shatter, might fly apart into a million sharp shards, cutting her, hurting her like she had tried…wait. Had she? Had she tried to hurt him? Or was he just there, in the way, when she had gone to do what she could do to protect him. He tried to work it out but his thoughts scattered like dust in a stiff wind and he pushed them away in frustration.

He chose his next words with care.

"Okay, right. So, we’re here to visit Sherlock. That’s it. That’s all. Not like we haven’t done a lot of that this week.” John darted a quick look at her and got out of the car. He walked around, opened her door for her automatically and waited while she clambered out. Even pregnant, distracted, she moved with a compact readiness that he could not fail to notice. How had he failed to notice that? Had he failed to notice that? He couldn’t say, couldn’t think anymore. They walked toward the hospital entrance, Mary falling in step with him automatically.

“Ask me,” Mary said quietly before they reached the entrance. She knew what he was thinking and wanted it out in the air between them. “Ask me anything.”

“I don’t….” John began.

“You do,” Mary insisted. “Just ask me.”

He swallowed, then exhaled slowly. “He knew you…shot him.”

“Yes.”

They were in the doorway now, people coming and going. John took her arm and moved them out of easy earshot, the gesture oddly protective.

“And when you came to the hospital, I—“ He swallowed again. “I—“

“You went for coffee and the loo and left me alone with him.”

John stared at her, his eyes hot, his expression veiled. Mary returned it.

“I held his hand,” she said, “and asked him not to tell you.”

“I was with him for hours, for days and he…he didn’t, he never….” He was staring at her, trying to hide his horror.

“No.” Her lips trembled a little, but she pressed them tightly together. “He didn’t tell you.”

John’s question was plain without words.

“I asked him,” Mary said evenly. “I didn’t threaten him.”

“You shot him,” John fired back.

“Yes. I did.”

If they were striving for normalcy, this wasn’t doing it. John felt his throat tightening up as though he were going to scream or yell or shout or cry…. He looked shock-y and ill, and Mary reached out and caught his lapel. He didn’t pull away. In the hard days to come, she kept reminding herself, He didn’t pull away.

“He didn’t tell you because he didn’t want to hurt you. Because he didn’t want me to hurt you,” Mary said quietly. “That’s why.”

John took a couple of deep breaths. Who knew breathing was so important in Hell? After a minute, the fog and rage seemed to dissipate. “Right then,” said John. He took her arm and they went into the hospital.
For part 2, click here

Wherever You Happen to Be: Chapter 14

ruahnna — Fri, 18 Apr 2014 04:10:18 GMT

For Chapter 13, click HERE
“Reese, I’d really love to know what your interest is in this case,” said the District Attorney.
      “Well, we stumbled upon some information looking into something else. It seemed only appropriate to pass it on.”
      “Well, we’ve contacted his attorney. Actually, his attorney is deceased, but his daughter has taken over her father’s practice. She’s going to go through her files and get back to us, but so far, everything you’ve given us has panned out. What are they putting in your water coolers down there?”
      “Scotch!” said Reese, and they hung up laughing. He stepped to the door and motioned for Peter, who nodded and indicated he’d finish his briefing with Diana and Clinton later. Reese waved them all over, mouthing, “Bring them!”
      They trooped over obediently and looked at him.
      “That was the DA, and it looks very likely that the charges against Karl Cadman Marsden are going to be dropped in light of new evidence received.” He looked at Peter. “Have you talked to Kramer at all?”
      Peter shook his head. “The last time I spoke to Kramer was when I went up there to see Neal and he wasn’t there.” Everyone in the room squirmed a little, knowing the truth of Peter’s eventual visit with Neal. “We had words—I left mad. So, no. I haven’t talked to him.”
      “Well, there’s something else that you all don’t know,” said Reese. They shuffled nervously, exchanging glances. “Did you ever ask yourself why Kramer was keeping Neal on such a short leash up there?"
      “Because—“ Diana began, and then realized that she might not be comfortable speaking as freely in Reese Hughes’ office as she was in Peter's. “Not really, sir—why?”
      “Well, Peter here knows—which I suppose means that both of you know, that Kramer’s plan is to keep Neal on the anklet with additional charges.”
      “He said Neal had a lot of skeletons,” Peter said. “And he was going to use whatever he found.”
      “Well, what Kramer has is a lot of suspicions, and a lot of rumor. Now, I suspect,” he said, looking hard at Peter, “that some of what he knows is actually true, but I also know for a fact that some of the things he’s been trying to pin on Neal were done by someone else.”
      “So…what are you saying, sir?” asked Clinton.
      “I’m saying, ‘The leg bone doesn’t seem to be connecting to the anklebone’ the way Kramer hoped it would. I’m saying Kramer hasn’t found anything else he can pin on Neal. Now, when he went up before the Board, he was making all sorts of innuendo, all sorts of smoke, but the fire hasn’t materialized. I don’t think they would have approved Kramer’s deal unless they thought—like Kramer thought—that he had the goods to keep Caffrey a long time.” He paused and shuffled papers from one side of his desk to the other, then cleared his throat. “It will probably cause a stink cloud the size of Hiroshima, but tomorrow morning I’m going to go to Bruce and the Board and everyone else and make them give us our C.I. back!” he thundered.
      In the silence that followed, Diana raised her hand. “Yes, Agent Berrigan?”
      “Um, Sir, would it be okay to cheer now?”
      Reese waved them away. “Only if you do it outside my office. Peter, when the paperwork comes through, you want to go and get him yourself? Might be fun to see Kramer’s face.”
      “It’ll be pretty good to see Neal’s face,” Peter said. “Thanks, Reese.”
      “My pleasure,” he said, and waved them out without looking up.
****
      It was midmorning in the Art Crimes Division when the doors were pushed open and Special Agent Peter Burke from White Collar in New York walked in. There was a ripple through the office, but the desk where Neal usually sat was empty. Peter’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment he wondered what the devil Kramer thought he was pulling, but then Neal’s face appeared out of the conference room door, followed by the familiar heads of Agent Matthews and red-headed Agent Scooperton. Neal’s face broke into a wide grin, but he tamped it down almost immediately at a look from Peter. Peter waved Neal back and mounted the steps to Kramer’s office with alacrity.
      Kramer met him at the door, and the two men exchanged hard looks, then Peter stood still and handed Kramer an envelope from his breast pocket.
      “What is this?” Kramer demanded.
      “It’s an order returning Neal Caffrey to my custody as my Confidential Informant,” Peter said. Kramer ripped open the seal and read, his expression growing dark.
      “This is—you can’t do this.”
      “I am doing this,” said Peter. “It’s already done. I’m just here to take him home.”
      “But…I told you what would happen if you defied me. I told you I’d find something else to charge Neal with, something that will—“
      “If you could have, you’d have done it by now. And you are formally forbidden to dig through his files unless you have reasonable cause or new evidence comes to light.”
      “I—we’ve cracked those codes between him and Kate,” Kramer said, indignant.
      “I think you’ll find that none of the works of art referenced in those codes is missing any longer. I understand they made an amazing discovering just a few weeks ago in a farmhouse outside of Prague. No missing art, no crime to investigate.”
      “You won’t get away with this,” Kramer said, his face mottled with rage.
      “I will, and you know why? Because I’m on the side of justice. You made this a personal vendetta, and there’s no room in the law for a personal vendetta.”
      “I follow the law!” Kramer snapped. “I only do what the law allows.”
      “I agree—and that’s the problem! You’re skimming along the edge of the law, fulfilling the letter but not the intent.”
      “You’d know about intent, I’ll wager!”
      “I would, yes! You know as well as I do that sometimes justice is better served by grace than legalism.”
      “That’s your problem, Peter—all carrot and no stick, huh?”
      “Not what I’m saying!”
      “Then what are you saying? Spit it out, man!”
      “I’m saying if you treat your C.I. like a criminal, that’s all he’ll ever be. If you give him choices—“
      “I gave him choices! I gave him plenty of choices! And after all that, after everything I’d done for KC, he turned on me, betrayed me without even—“ Kramer broke off abruptly, looking confused. “I mean…I mean….”
      Peter’s voice was gentle. “I think we both know what you mean.”
      Kramer looked shaken, off-balance, and his breathing was rough and labored. “Not—not what it looks like,” he muttered, reaching for his tie. He swung his head from side to side as though looking for something, and his eyes grew confused. His face had gone gray, pasty, and he struggled for composure.
      “Phil?”
      Kramer’s eyes swung toward Peter but they were empty, vacant of understanding. “Not what it looks like….” Kramer said again, and crumpled to the floor.
      Thunderstruck, Peter closed the distance between them and knelt by his old mentor’s side, checking for a pulse. It was thready and fast. He stood up and threw open the glass door to Kramer’s office.
      “Medic!” he yelled. “Help! We need a doctor! Now!”

      He loosened Kramer’s tie, unbuttoned the top two buttons and checked his airway.
      “Stay with me!” Peter said urgently. “Phil—stay with me!” His bellow had summoned help. He could hear running footsteps, sensed that others were coming. He checked for a pulse again and found it with difficulty. He touched his hand over Kramer’s chest, wanting to make sure there was a heartbeat, but while he watched the barrel chest rose and fell once, then rose no more.
      “No, damn it!” Peter snapped. “Don’t you—don’t you dare die on me!”
      Peter went up on his knees and straddled Kramer’s supine form, placing his hand over the left side of the chest. Deliberately, he pumped twice, compressing the heart, then leaned forward and breathed firmly into Kramer’s slack mouth. He pumped again, forced breath into the still lungs. And again. Nothing.
      Someone fell to their knees beside him.
      “How can I help?” said a woman’s voice.
      “He’s stopped breathing! Do you know CPR?”
      “Yes,” said the woman. “What do you want me to do?”
      “Do the breathing,” Peter said. “I’ll do the chest compressions, you do the breathing, okay? We can keep it going longer that way.”
      “Okay.” She scrambled over to Kramer’s head and knelt beside him. “What happened?”
      Compress, compress. “We were…we were arguing.” No sense lying about it. Half the office had probably heard their raised voices.
      “He’s been taking heart medication,” said the young woman. She breathed into Kramer’s mouth.   “And his blood pressure is way too high.”
      Compress, compress. “I didn’t know that.”
      “He didn’t want anyone to know it.” She paused to breathe. They were talking in rhythm with the CPR, timing their words for when each of them could talk.
      “Figures,” Peter muttered. Sweat was forming, trickling into his eyebrows. Compress, compress.
      The woman smiled, and her dark eyes flashed. “Yes—he was like that. He had a heart attack about a year ago.”
      “I…I didn’t know,” Peter said, wondering what else he didn’t know. Had he villainized Kramer without remembering the smart, patient, stubborn man he was? His arms were aching, his shoulders burning from the effort.
      Others had joined them. Peter felt a hand on his arm.
      “You okay? I can take over.”
      “That would be great,” Peter groaned. They timed it carefully, then Peter rolled and the other man took his place. Another man knelt and took over for the woman who’d been doing the breathing, and Peter stood up and helped her to her feet.
      “Thanks,” she said shakily.
      “No—thank you,” Peter said. “You…you saved my life back there.”
      “You saved his.”
      “Not yet, I didn’t,” said Peter. “Where are the damned paramedics?” But almost before the words had left his lips, they were coming, they were rounding the corner, bringing a stretcher and their expertise. Peter let out a whoosh of relief and sagged against the wall, suddenly dizzy.
      “Hey, are you okay?” asked the woman, but at that moment, Neal rounded the corner and took in the scene before him. He saw Kramer on the floor, saw the paramedics working on him, turned wildly, looking frantically around and saw Peter. He walked over and the two men grinned at each other quickly and embraced. Peter’s arms were trembling and he felt weak and unsteady, but his grip on Neal’s neck was strong and solid.
      “Hey, kiddo,” said Peter.
      “Hey yourself,” said Neal, but their joy at seeing each other was tempered by the drama unfolding before them. “What happened?”
      “He collapsed. We were…arguing. He went pale, seemed to lose his train of thought and…down he went.” He looked at Neal, at the woman at his side. “I didn’t know he’d had a heart attack.”
      “I think he had a stroke the other day,” said Neal. “He said it was nothing. I thought he was just tired, out of breath, but later, it seemed like more than that.” He looked at the woman beside Peter. “I told Chandra about it.”
      “It wasn't the only time,” she admitted. “I knew about the first one, the one he was hospitalized for.”
      “I heard that was high blood pressure.”
      “Well…that’s the story he told, but I heard indirectly that he’d actually had a heart attack.”
      “What’s going to happen?” Neal asked. His eyes slid anxiously toward the figure being lifted on the stretcher. “Will he be okay?”
      Peter came up beside him and they looked at Kramer’s gray face, at his blue lips around the ventilator.
          “Time will tell,” he said. “We’ll have to wait and see.”
****

      “How is he?” Neal asked.
“He’s recovered enough to be giving the nurses hell,” Chandra said with a smile. She touched Neal’s arm. “It’s going to be quiet around Art Crimes without you.”
“What—Party Central? Never!” The smile slipped off his face and he looked grave. “Kramer—will he be…okay?”
“He’s tough, and he’s recovering. If he does what the doctors recommend, he could outlive us all.”
“I always intended to die young,” Neal said.
      “And beautiful,” Chandra said. “Don’t forget beautiful.”
      “I won’t forget you, Beautiful,” Neal said.
      “Okay,” said Chandra. “Now I’m ready for you to go.” She smiled to soften it, then leaned in and kissed him gently on the cheek. She nodded toward the door. “Peter’s in there with him, if you want to go in.”
      Neal nodded, swallowed, and went in.
      “Hello, Sir,” he said. Kramer managed to look imposing even in a hospital gown. “I hope you’re feeling better.”
      “What I’m feeling is like a damned fool,” Kramer rumbled. He jerked his head at Peter. “Petey here’s been telling me about the charges against my former C.I.”
      “KC?” said Neal.
      Kramer nodded. Too many secrets out of the bag now. “Seems I was wrong about him after all.” He looked at Peter. “And you were right about me.”
      “Phil—“
      “No—let me talk. Honesty is supposed to be good for you, they say.”
      “It depends,” Neal muttered, but grinned when Kramer gave a wheezy laugh.
      “No—I…I should have stood by KC when he was accused. I was so busy being angry at being played for a patsy that I…well, I maybe forgot what this is all about.”
      “Catching the bad guys?” said Neal.
      Kramer shook his head. “Justice," he said. He looked over at Peter and put a hand on his arm. “A wise person once told me that justice is sometimes better served by grace than legalism.”
      “That does sound wise,” said Neal. “Are you sure you didn’t read that on your fortune cookie?"
He was doing what he often did, deflecting when he felt uncomfortable, but the two agents in the room were not fooled.
      “Neal,” said Kramer, “you have to know that my intentions were….”
      Neal’s eyes blazed, but he said nothing.
      “Well, they weren’t good, but they were honorable. I thought it was me, that I had messed up with my own C.I.”
      “You did,” Neal said bluntly. “You should have stood by him until you were sure.”
      Peter felt the leading edge of that anger touch him as well, and looked away. They would have to talk—a lot—but later.
      “I should have,” Kramer acknowledged. He looked at Peter. “They tell me KC’s getting out of jail.
        “It’s never too late,” said Peter.
      Kramer waved at all the wires and tubes. “It was almost too late.” He gave another wheezy chuckle. “Or maybe I’m too mean to die.”
      No one said anything for a moment, and Kramer looked from one to the other in consternation. “What---no contradictions from the dynamic duo?”
      Neal opened his mouth, then closed it, but Peter said, “None,” very distinctly.
      And then they all laughed.
****
      “Hail the conquering heroes!” Mozzie cried when they emerged through the walkway at the airport terminal. “What—no head on a stick?”
      “No heads on sticks, Moz,” Neal said. “Can’t get through airport security.”
      “Well, I’m going to kiss the heroes if nobody else wants to,” said June, and stepped forward to cup their faces in turn in her lavender-scented hands. She smooched them each on the cheek.
      “It’s so good to see you, Neal,” said Elizabeth. “I knew you two would emerge victorious—triumphant over the bad guys!”
      Neal smiled. “I have kind of a soft spot for bad guys.” His eyes edged over to Diana. “So do you. C’mon—admit it!”
      “I do not!”
      Sara sauntered over and linked her arm through Neal’s. “I do,” she said with a wide smile. “Apparently, I have a type.”
      “Does that mean we’re over?” asked Mozzie, looking worried.
      “I’m afraid so,” said Sara gently, but to her consternation, Mozzie sank into a chair, weak with relief.
      “Thank Socrates!” he cried. “Thank Aristotle! I’m exhausted from having to maintain appearances!” He looked at Neal. “I don’t know how you do it! She is very high-maintenance!”
      Sara started toward the little man, murder in her eye, but Neal wrapped both his arms around her and pulled her close. “It’s okay,” he told her. “The bad little man is all gone. I’ve got you now.”
      She opened her mouth to protest and he kissed her. Nobody looked away, but neither Neal nor Sara appeared to object.
      “Okay,” said Elizabeth briskly. “Don’t you think it’s time we got this show on the road?”
"I think it’s time for the show to close,” said Clinton. “I’m ready to—“
      “Close?” Neal protested, surfacing from his kiss at last. “Are you kidding me? It’s time to get things going again! I’ll bet things have been downright stuffy in White Collar without me. Admit it!”
      “Neal!”
      “Caffrey!”
      “If you don’t—“
      “C’mon! You know you missed me!
      “I do have some mortgage fraud cases that need to be looked at,” Clinton said.
      For a moment, Neal’s face fell, then he grinned all over his face. “Mortgage fraud sounds pretty damn good to me,” he said, “as long as I’m back where I belong.”
      “Prison?” asked Diana.
      “A zoo?” Peter quipped.
      “Ha ha.” He glared at them. “You know what I mean!”
      “I know, Neal,” said Elizabeth, and reached to squeeze his arm.
      “You have missed me,” Neal insisted.
      “I’ve missed you,” said Mozzie. “What am I, second-class pâté?”
      “Whatever you say, Caffrey,” said Clinton, sounding bored. Peter was smiling, but said nothing.
      “No, he’s right,” said Diana. “Until the new guy took over his desk—“
      “My—my desk? You gave away my desk?! Peter—”
      “Neal?” Peter was going for nonchalant and overshot. Neal looked at him, eyes narrowed. “You’re bluffing,” he declared. He turned and walked in front of them, leading the way out, his step jaunty and self-assured. “You didn’t give my desk away. You need me.”
      “Is that right?” said Peter, trying hard to tame the twitch of his mouth.
      “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Caffrey.”
      Neal thought about all the nights and days away from them, all the time spent wondering if he would ever…. His steps slowed, and he swallowed. “You…all of you worked hard to get me back,” he said, but, for the first time, he sounded uncertain.
      Peter stepped up and matched his stride with Neal’s, put a warm, solid hand on the back of Neal’s neck. “It’s okay, Neal. We all know where you belong.”
      “Behind bars,” muttered Diana, then grinned. “Just kidding. You belong at White Collar.”
      “No,” said Neal. He stopped and turned and looked at them all. “With you. With all of you—wherever you happen to be.”
      Peter stopped trying to hide his smile. “Darn tootin’,” he said, and turned them all toward home.

****fin****

Wherever You Happen to Be: Chapter 13

ruahnna — Fri, 18 Apr 2014 04:05:17 GMT

For Chapter 12, click HERE
    Neal had trouble with his tie the next morning. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and he was alternately worried that he was going to give it away by grinning his face off or give it away by going berzerk and trying to strangle Kramer. But at least Peter knew. And all the people who loved him—yes, loved him—knew that he was here and okay and that he missed them. He’d lain awake all night thinking of all the things he could have told Peter, all the things he should have told Peter. He remembered that he hadn’t been grateful enough for Peter’s largesse as a handler, he hadn’t been grateful enough to June for taking him in, for making it possible for him to live in style and comfort. He remembered the way Peter looked at him, hugged him tight. Not since Kate…well, really, not ever had he had someone who had pushed past all his boundaries to drag him, unwillingly sometimes, into the heady warmth of real friendship. When he saw Mozzie again he was going to give him a hug just like that, and watch the little man avoid him for a month!
    Somehow, the tie was tied. Somehow, he had managed to get both the grin off his face and the brightness out of his eyes. Somehow, he was going to go into the Art Crimes office and do whatever they gave him, whatever it took—until Peter figured out how to bring him home.
    Peter would find a way. Neal just knew it.
****
    The hardest part of the meeting, El thought, was getting them all to slow down and actually listen to each other. There was so much to tell, so much to be hopeful about, so much to be sorry about. She glanced over at Peter and saw that he was doing okay. The weight of guilt and sorrow that had fitted over him like a shroud hadn’t quite lifted, but El was pretty sure it was becoming more transparent. She had been the first to know, the first to see Peter when he got home with news of Neal, the first to share Peter’s sorrow in what he had discovered.
    He’d been kicking himself the whole way home over the things he hadn’t thought to ask about, the things he hadn’t told, but they had addresses and they had a contact and maybe a helper in Neal’s office. Things were better.
    The real bombshell of the evening, however, belonged to Sara. Well, to Sara and Mozzie and Clinton, who had helped them with knowing what to say when they saw Kramer’s old C.I. Sara’s legwork and a few well-placed calls from Clinton had gotten the ball rolling. Peter left the meeting once to go out on the porch and call Reese, who had not minded at all being disturbed at a cocktail party to come and talk to Peter about getting Neal back.
    Things were looking up. El looked around her full living room and thought, “This is Neal’s family. Neal should be here.” She wondered what had happened to Neal’s birth family—what had sent Neal hurtling into adulthood without the loving support of people who cared about him, people who worried about him, wherever he was. El looked out the kitchen window and saw the moon, smiling like it knew something. Well, Peter know something now! she wanted to shout. And Neal will be coming home soon!
    He would be—Peter would see to it!
****
    The District Attorney had been more than a little surprised to get the call, but he assured Reese he would look into it and let him know what he found out.
    “That’s all we can do for now on that front,” Peter said. “Diana—get me an update on the group looking the Mortenson Mortgage Fraud.”
    “Um, Boss—we had to pull that group to work on David Cook.”
    “Any luck there?” asked Peter, but without much hope.
    “Not really,” said Diana. “He’s sneaky. Crooked and sneaky. Damn, I wish Neal was here.”
    “Speaking of crooked and sneaky?” Peter asked, but smiled when he said it. They were all in better moods today.
    “You think Neal is holding up okay?”
    “Well, June is going to see him today.”
    “Today, Boss? Don’t you think that’s a little risky? Kramer will be watching us.”
    “That’s right,” said Peter. “Kramer will be watching us. I’m going to make as big a stink as I can about not getting to see Neal yesterday—really play it up. That will put the dogs off the scent, at least a little. June is just going up for a comfort visit.”
    Diana laughed. “Said the man who told Neal to ‘cowboy up’ when he parked his C.I. in a little fleabag hotel.”
    Peter colored. “Well, this is different,” he said gruffly. “Then, Neal was a con man, doing time that he deserved. Now—did you know Neal’s not been out of the Art Crimes office once until yesterday?”
    “I heard you say that last night, but I don’t understand. Why would Kramer do that? Neal is brilliant in the field.” She looked behind her, her face flushing. “Don’t tell him I said that,” she demanded. “If he doesn’t want Neal in the field....”
    “I think he does want Neal in the field,” said Peter. “But he doesn’t trust him. Kramer doesn’t trust anyone. It’s part of what makes him a good agent—that suspicious nature, but he didn’t used to be like this. Now he…I don’t know. Do you know the story of the dog in the manger?”
    Diana nodded. “My father used to tell it to me when I didn’t want to share my toys.”
    Peter nodded. “Maybe a little of that going on. Maybe just the inability to admit he was wrong.”
    “I’m glad you got to see him,” said Diana. “It…makes me feel better, you know?”
****
    “I understand you did very well in the field yesterday,” said Kramer, coming up behind Neal at the desk where he sat. Neal had learned to recognize his almost silent footfalls, but it was still a challenge in the busy office. At least he didn’t flinch, and luckily he didn’t say, “Yes—Agent Matthews told me I did a very good job holding her purse and looking earnest.”
    He found that he could not hold on to the biting anger that had seized him yesterday, but the awareness—the very real realization of what he might have missed had Kramer succeeded—left resentment bubbling under his skin like lava.
    “Thank you, Agent Kramer,” Neal said formally. “At White Collar, I spent most of my time in the field. I’m told I’m good at it.”
    “No doubt,” said Kramer. He looked at Neal, and Neal concentrated on making his face as bland and banal and unreadable as it could be. Still, he felt sweat break out under his armpits before Kramer was done. Neal had stood up under Peter’s worst glowers—had given back a few—but Kramer’s stares sometimes made his blood run cold. Perhaps it was the knowledge that, to Kramer, he was nothing more than a criminal, nothing more than an unrepentant (well….), irretrievable soul. To Kramer, his whole worth had been set when the prison doors had clanged shut the first time…or had they? Out of the blue, Neal remembered something Peter had once said, something about Kramer having had a C.I. That had been in the later days, the bad days, the days when Peter had thought him unredeemable, beyond saving.
    But Peter didn’t think that now, and Neal was coming to realize that he didn’t think that now. He stood a little taller under Kramer’s gaze.
    “Well, let’s see, then,” said Kramer. “We’re going to take down an art thief when he tries to fence two small pieces from the Museum of Modern Art, but the fence is not friendly.”
    “How are you guaranteeing cooperation?”
    Kramer looked surprised. “If she doesn’t cooperate, we’ll shut her down. She’ll be facing changes herself, receiving stolen property.”
    “See, that’s where you’re…I mean, that’s not how I would do it, Sir,” Neal said. Kramer looked at him.
    “Oh? What would you do, Neal?”
    “I’d offer her immunity, for starters, but when you make the arrest, make sure she’s taken into custody as well. She’s no good to you if they think she’ll snitch.”
    “They who? We already have our target.”
    “Yes, sir—this time. But in the long run, you’ll do better by building a rapport with her, building a relationship with her so that she’ll come to you when something really important comes along.”
    Kramer looked at him. “And what do you consider really important, Neal?”
    Here Neal smiled, the biggest, blandest con-man smile in his repertoire. “I like it all,” he said.
    Kramer looked at him for a long moment. “I don’t know if I want to bring you along or not,” Kramer mused. “I’m never sure which side you’re on.”
    “I’m going to be on the side that butters my bread,” said Neal. It rankled, but it was the sort of thing Kramer expected to hear.
    “I imagine that’s true,” said Kramer. “Come on, then.” He called over his shoulder. “Dack—Caffrey’s coming along. Help me keep an eye on him, won’t you?”
    Dack looked at Neal apologetically, and Neal shrugged. “It’s my first time on a big raid,” he said, sounding like a little boy. He rolled his eyes after he said it and Dack grinned and rolled his eyes back, glad Caffrey hadn’t taken offence. Kramer could be a real piece of work—legalistic old bastard—but he did usually manage to bring home the bad guy.
    “I know you can’t carry,” said Dack, “so stick close, okay? Sometimes they come out shooting when they’re cornered.”
    “You don’t have to tell me,” said Neal, and followed them out the door.
****
    “James, this is possibly the nicest date I have had in some time,” said June. They were sitting at a little café having coffee and pie while the other senior citizens bought souvenirs and tickets to take back home.
    “From you, that’s quite a compliment,’ said James, teasing her. “I was ready to bring my big stick in case I had to beat the other contenders off.”
    June laughed. “Thank you,” she said. “So far I seem to have been able to get rid of the ones I don’t want on my own.”
    “And I’m still here,” said James.
    “That you are,” She smiled and leaned forward. “Look, James, I was wondering if you would come with me on an errand. Make a little stop with me.”
    James looks surprised. “I…I don’t usually leave the bus,” he said. It was parked nearby in the bus parking lot.
    “Oh, we can take the bus if you prefer, but if you think it will be okay in the parking lot, I’ll just get us a taxi.”
    James hesitated. “Well,” he said. “I don’t guess there’s any harm in it.”
    “None,” said June. “I just want to deliver a package to a friend of mine’s daughter. She attending Georgetown. I have her address here….” She pulled out a worn address book and flipped pages. “Here it is,” she said, pointing. “It’s near Georgetown.”

****
    “Sir, I want to thank you,” said Sara. She stood, elegant in a teal wool dress with an asymmetrical neckline. “You information was very good. Very good indeed.”
    The old man sitting in the leather booth nodded, accepting her praise. “I understand you have something for me, now?” His eyes were bright behind hooded lids.
    Sara reached to take something out of her purse, and both of the enormous men on either side of him tensed. Sara smiled at them, and moved slowly.
    “Here’s a list of names,” she said, “of people in your organization who recently took out insurance policies on items that might interest you.” She handed it over. “I think it’s only fair to say that Sterling Bosch has an interest in those items as well. If they were to go missing, then my company would be responsible for paying the insurance claim, but since most of these items seem to belong to you….” She smiled.
    “You’re a smart lady,” said the man. “And very beautiful.”
    Sara smiled again, a wide predatory smile.
    “Tell Mozzie I said hello, won’t you?” said the man. “Tell him I’m pleased that he thought of me.”
    “I will, Sir,” said Sara. She hesitated. “I sincerely hope we don’t meet again,” she said gently, “unless, of course, it's under circumstances like these.”
    “I promise to do my best to make it so,” he intoned solemnly.
    “Thank you, Sir,” said Sara as she turned to go. “I know I can count on your promise.”
****
    Neal walked June down the stairs but then didn’t go out on the curb. Before she stepped out, she’d put her hat and sunglasses back on.
    “June,” said Neal, letting her hug him one last time. “Thank you so much for coming. I—you don’t know how much I miss being…home.”
    “Oh, I’ll bet I can guess,” she said gently. “You remember Byron was…away…more than once. I know how lonely it can get.”
    “And thank you for the…for the news. Peter and I, we didn’t get to talk.”
    “Well, we’ll all have a chance to talk soon,” said June. “Peter’s working on something. And Sara is helping.”
    “Sara?” Neal’s smile broadened. “If Sara’s helping, Kramer had better watch his step. He threatened her once, you know?”
    “I know, dear. It seems to be his modus operandi.” She put her hand on his cheek and he caught it and kissed it.
    “Thank you, June. Thank you so much for coming.”
    “I just wanted to see for myself that you were okay.” She put her hat back on and adjusted her sunglasses. “What do you think of my ‘date’? she asked. “I think he’s kind of hot.”
    “I say you’ve still got it, June.”
    She laughed and walked out the door. Watching her, Neal’s eyes felt hot and tight, but he was smiling broadly. How much things had changed in the past three days! Everything seemed better.
    He started up the stairs. Even work had gone better than expected. His first real outside-the-office assignment, the take-down, had gone down without a hitch—well, almost without a hitch. He was still trying to make sense of what had happened after, when Agent Dack had left with one of their captives and left him alone with Kramer at the top of the stairs.
    He had started down, but Kramer had clutched his arm, pulling hard, and Neal had swung around, ready to ask Kramer politely to let go, but Kramer seemed to be disoriented, his head turning from side to side as though looking for something and he took an uncertain step forward.
    “Agent Kramer?” Neal had said, and gripped the man’s shoulders to steady him. There was not much maneuvering room at the top of these stairs, and he didn’t have any desire to take a tumble. “Agent Kramer?”
    Kramer had looked at him, face blank, mouth moving, then suddenly he grabbed Neal’s arms convulsively, his face flooding with recognition.
    “What…what happened?” Kramer had said. “Did…where are we?”
    Neal had stared at his handler, alarmed. “We’re getting ready to go back to the Art Crimes Office, Agent Kramer,” Neal had said. “The other agents just left. Are you okay?”
    Kramer had rapidly regained his composure. “Of course I’m okay, KC,” he’d snapped. “Why wouldn’t I be? I…just got a little light-headed after the excitement, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.” He’d started for the steps, stumbling a little, but Neal caught his arm. “What?” he’d demanded angrily. “Why are you holding me back?”
    “The, um, stair rail is loose,” Neal had said. “Be careful on the way down.”
    Kramer had rattled the rail, then looked up at Neal. “I guess you’d better go down ahead of me,” he’d said. “Where I can keep an eye on you.”
    Neal had been more than happy to comply.
    What had it all meant? Back at the office—indeed, before they’d made it back to the office, Kramer had been back to his usual charming self. When the car had pulled up in front of the building and the other agents had started to get out, Kramer’s hand had closed around his forearm like a vise.
    “Don’t say a word to anyone,” Kramer had murmured out of the corner of his mouth.
    “I…no sir,” Neal had muttered, and followed Kramer into the building.

    Alone in his room, with coffee and cookies and a tin of truffles, Neal had lain back on the bed and felt rich beyond compare. But he kept seeing Kramer’s face, blank and terrified, turning from side to side. Kramer had told him not to tell, and right now, Neal’s whole world revolved around not openly defying Agent Kramer. If something was wrong, who could he tell?
    He pondered for a moment, licking his finger and picking cookie crumbs off his chest. Chandra had been his secret friend, had sent him Peter. Maybe he could tell her. That would have to do.
    That night, as he drifted off to sleep, Neal felt less alone than he had in a long, long while.
For Chapter 14, click HERE

Wherever You Happen to Be: Chapter 12

ruahnna — Fri, 18 Apr 2014 03:50:52 GMT

For Chapter 11, click HERE
“Well, I’m certainly glad you found what you were looking for in DC,” said June. Mozzie made a sweep for bugs every week, but it didn’t mean they weren’t tapping the wire.
     “Some parts of the visit were disappointing,” Peter said. “I went by the Art Crimes Division to see Neal—Bruce said he thought it would be okay—but Neal wasn’t there. He was out on assignment when I got there. Somebody must have warned him, huh?”
     “Oh, I know you were disappointed,” said June. “What a shame. Did you leave him a note—let him know we’re all thinking about him?”
     “No, I wasn’t able to leave him a note,” said Peter. "Kramer still thinks Neal will adapt better if he doesn’t have contact with his old friends.”
     “I see.” June could frost a glass with the disapproval in that voice. So…Peter had gone to DC and dropped by the Art Crimes Division to see Neal, but Kramer had made sure that Neal wasn’t there to see Peter when he arrived. What an absolutely vile person this Kramer sounded. But Peter had evidently made some sort of contact with Neal. The phone call had made that plain. June couldn’t wait until the meeting tomorrow at the Burkes. She would get to hear the whole story, get to find out how Neal was really doing.
     It was late and she was tired. Mozzie was gone—gone with that nice Sara—somewhere upstate to interview someone. Mozzie had blown out the door in a rush, but she took that as a good sign. Nothing for her to do now but go to bed, try to sleep and hope for a better tomorrow. She was hopeful she might just get her wish.
****
     In the end, Mozzie had swallowed his terror and insisted on coming in with her. It had taken him four tries to make it through the door, but he had managed. Thank goodness this was not a maximum security prison, Sara thought. Otherwise, Mozzie would still be in the parking lot.
     “You doing okay?” Sara asked. Mozzie was wiping his hands on his pants nervously. They’d spent the previous evening on the road and crashed at a bed and breakfast, wanting to be here bright and early. The bed and breakfast had been another story, but Sara was actually looking forward to telling Neal about it—and soon. June had texted Mozzie to say—cryptically—that Peter had news of Neal and they would all be meeting at the Burkes tonight. Sara thought they might have some news of their own to share.
     They looked up with the guard brought the prisoner out. He was tall, compact, with longish salt-and-pepper hair and a neat circle beard and mustache. His eyes were so dark brown they were almost black, and he looked first at Sara, then at Mozzie, then at Sara.
     “Karl Cadman Marsden,” he said. “My friends call me KC.” He reached across and shook their hands, his manner friendly and genial. “I guess we’re friends, because I can’t think of anything else I’ve got to offer but friendship.” The last was said without bitterness, but a frankness that made Sara relax.
     “If you treat me as a friend and trust me, you will find that I justify your trust,” said Mozzie nervously. “Arthur Conan Doyle.” Marsden looked at Mozzie with interest.
     “I hope we can be friends, Mr. Marsden. I’m Sara Ellis, and I was hoping we could talk about your days with the FBI.”
     Marsden laughed. “It that what this is about? What happened this time?”
     “What do you mean?”
     “Oh, nothing, I guess. After I was—” He gestured around him. “—so rudely incarcerated here in this fine institution, the FBI came sniffing around the cases I had worked on—wanted to know if I’d been, I don’t know, on the take or something.” There was still a touch of bitterness in that, although he tried hard not to show it.
     “I’m sorry to bring this up, Sir,” said Sara.
He looked at her. “I believe you might be. Okay—here’s how we’ll do this, okay? You tell me who you really are and what you really want and if I feel like it I might just help you.”
“Why would you do that?” asked Mozzie.
Marsden shrugged, the dark eyes sparking with mischief. “You seem like nice kids, and Miss Ellis here has already brightened up my day for a month just by sitting down to talk to me. Besides—“ He gestured around him again. “What do I have to lose?”
Sara’s face had softened, whether by accident or design, and she sat for a moment and tried to think how she wanted to proceed. At last, she pressed her lips together firmly as though she’d made up her mind about something, then put her hands in her lap and spoke.
“Mr. Marsden, my name is Sara Ellis—I said that, but I’m an insurance investigator with Sterling Bosch. I’m pretty good at what I do.” She smiled. “I understand you’re pretty good at what you do, too.”
The hint of a smile played around Marsden’s lips.
“I think it’s safe to say there is probably some overlap in the things you’re good at and the things I’m good at.” She glanced at Mozzie. “Let’s assume my associate, Mr. Mozart—Mozzie—has some areas of overlap with both of us.”
“That was very tactfully put,” said Marsden, and saluted her.
“Thank you,” said Sara primly. “We…Mr. Mozart and I…we have a friend, who probably—“
“Has some overlap in the same yada yada yada—got it. How can I help you? Do you want to know if he did it?”
Sara’s eyes flew wide. Mozzie flinched. “Um, no, actually,” Sara said, and at Marsden’s look of incredulity, she hastened on. “At least, not this time. This is a little different situation.”
“Do tell.”
“Our…friend,” said Sara.
“Your boyfriend, his best friend—got it,” said Marsden, helpfully, and made a “go on” gesture with his left hand.
“Our friend is, like you were, a C.I. for the FBI.”
“How’s that working out for him?” Marsden said, and the dark eyes shuttered balefully.
“It was working very well,” Sara said, “but…but our friend, Neal, when Neal’s handler asked a friend in the FBI for some help—“
“That was his first mistake,” muttered Marsden.
“It was a pretty big mistake,” said Sara. “Things aren’t going well now, Sir.”
“KC, please!”
“KC. Things are…they....” Sara floundered. She had run out of ways to describe her personal hurt in professional terms.
KC’s voice was gentle. “Is he back in?”
“No. No! It’s not…it’s not quite that bad, only it’s almost worse.”
KC snorted.
“That is,” said Sara, coloring. “Neal had a deal with a handler in New York—a good man, an honorable man.”
“An FBI agent?”
“Yes sir. A good man,” she repeated. “He’s the one who caught, that is, put Neal in jail, but later they decided to work together. They work very well together. They worked very well together.”
“And something happened, and it just so happens that the handler thinks it’s Neal’s fault, and Neal doesn’t have an airtight alibi and now….”
“Not quite.”
“What part did I leave out?” Marsden asked sarcastically.
“The part where Agent Kramer came and took Neal away to DC.”
Marsden’s head snapped up and he gaped at her. He had been well into his “country boy just being friendly” mode but now he sat up and stared at her, his eyes hot with fury.
“Agent Kramer?! Phil Kramer?” He stood up and ran a hand through his hair, then sat back down again and rubbed his hand over his face. “I’ll be damned.” He took in some air and let it out, and rubbed his hand over his face again. “I’ll be damned,” he said again. He turned and looked at her with a lopsided grin. “Any other bombshells you want to spring on me today, little lady? I’m ready for anything,” he said.
“Just one,” Sara said. She leaned forward and her voice grew conspiratorial. “We know you didn’t forge those bonds.”
For Chapter 13, click HERE

Wherever You Happen to Be Chapter 11

ruahnna — Fri, 18 Apr 2014 03:41:08 GMT

For Chapter 10, click HERE
Peter had called the office to say he was driving back. He didn’t say when. He’d been cooling his heels hanging around the corner where the dry cleaner was without any clear idea of what he was doing there. Someone—the woman who’d gotten into the elevator with him, presumably—had known he wanted to see Neal, and the note seemed to indicate that Neal wanted to see him, too. It was against orders, but there were apparently lots of rules being broken, so he didn’t see why he couldn’t join the club.
     Finally, he walked up to the door and walked in, the bell jangling as he did so.
     “Hello.” The woman behind the counter seemed nervous. “Can I…can I help you?”
     “I hope so, Ms., um—?“
     “Albovias,” she said.
     “Ms. Albovias,” Peter said, not sure how to start. He smiled, then inspiration struck. He thought he still had one of the old pictures in here…. He dug out his wallet and his shield and showed the woman the picture of Neal. His hair was longer and he looked impossibly younger, but it was unmistakably Neal Caffrey. “Ma’am, I’m Special Agent Peter Burke with the FBI. Do you know this man?”
     “Oh! Mr. Caffrey! Such a nice man. He’s here almost every day!’ she exclaimed. The badge had seemed to calm her at first, but now she looked alarmed. “He’s not—oh, no—he’s not…dead, is he? Has something happened to him?’
     The word “dead” made him flinch, but he smiled at her. “Uh, no ma’am,” he said. “He’s just fine as far as I know, but I’m trying to get in touch with him. I have something that belongs to him (His life, Peter thought grimly.) and I’m trying to help him get it back. Has he—he hasn’t been in today, has he?”
     “Not yet, but he’ll probably come in after work.”
     Peter looked at his watch.
     “I could call him,” the woman offered.
     “You—that would be great,” said Peter. “Could you do that?”
     “I—sure.” She smiled at him shyly. “You know, I saw you watching this place for a while. I thought you were coming to rob us.”
     “Um, no ma’am,” said Peter sheepishly. “I’m one of the good guys.”
     “Glad to know. I’ll call Mr. Caffrey for you.”
****
     He had managed to hold it together until after five, but the only thing that made it possible was the protective hedge his friends…his friends had erected around him, keeping him busy and on-task. Neal realized that he had made friends here, and the thought humbled him. He put on his coat and started out the door.
     Melissa ran to intercept him and he recoiled from her, but one look at her tear-streaked face made him stop in his tracks.
     “I didn’t know, Neal,” Melissa said, her voice clogged with tears. “I just thought…I’d been asking to take you along, get you out of the office. I didn’t know he…I’m sorry. He used me, too. God, Neal—I’m sorry.”
     “I can’t talk about this now,” said Neal. “I’m too…I can’t. I’ll…I’ll see you tomorrow. Here. At work.”
     She stepped back and he got into the elevator.
     His phone rang as he got into a cab and gave his address. It was his dry cleaner. Neal scowled. He was wearing his suit, and had just picked up his shirts. What could they want? He almost let it go to voice mail.
     “This is Neal,” he said. “What’s up?” He listened, then almost dropped the phone.
****
     “So, we’re going to meet with a forger who’s in jail for forging something he didn’t really forge?”
     “That’s right,” said Sara, smiling at Mozzie. “You were listening.”
     “Eh, not really,” said Mozzie. “Eidetic memory. But what I want to know is—how is this going to help Neal? What does this change?”
     Sara took a deep breath. “Maybe nothing,” she admitted, “but you just never know. Maybe…everything.” She waved at the file Clinton had copied for her. “I’ll drive. Why don’t you put that memory to use and read up on the man we’re going to see?”
****
     Neal threw money over the seat and jumped out of the cab, then came bursting into the dry cleaner’s door. The same smiling woman he always saw was there, but she was smiling more than usual.
     “Ms. Albovias, I don’t know what—“
     “I found um, something that I think belongs to you,” she said, gesturing Neal away from the door and into the back, away from the glass-fronted window and into the room behind the counter. Neal followed her, swallowing convulsively, but when he opened the door and stepped through, there was no one in the little room. He turned around, ready to ask, and Peter Burke stood outlined against the door—large as life and grinning to beat the band.
     “Hello, Neal.”
     “Peter..how…what…?” Neal’s inquiries were muffled as Peter pulled him into a crushing bear hug, and for a moment it was…it was heavenly to just stop, just rest and feel the solid weight of someone’s arms around him. Those arms were squeezing the breath out of him, but breathing was over-rated, wasn’t it? Neal found his own arms creeping up to grip Peter’s back.
     “Hey, Peter…buddy.” It was all he could manage. His throat was tight and he felt a little light-headed.
     Peter stepped back but didn’t release him, warm hands gripping his head, his shoulder. “Neal, oh, Neal—how are you holding up? You don’t know how we’ve missed you.”
     “I might,” Neal said, and grinned. He started to take a step forward and almost stumbled, but Peter caught him and pounded him on the back again. It occurred to Neal that he should be embarrassed by being so overwhelmed, but he couldn’t care about that right now, not when Peter was here, not when Peter had come to get him and take him home.
     At last, they pulled away, grinning at each other for the sheer joy of being together.
“So—you okay? How are you? You look—is that the same suit you left in?” asked Peter.
Neal looked down and grimaced, flipping open his coat. “Yep—the one and only. It’s either that or wear the thing Kramer bought me.”
“Explains why she thought I’d find you at your dry cleaners,” Peter said. “The tie is new.”
Neal grimaced. “New to me. I found a thrift store in my radius. Wait—she? She who?”   He thought about Melissa.
     Peter looked sober. “I guess you heard I came by today.”
     “Yeah.” Just thinking about it, Neal’s jaw clenched tight and his eyes darkened dangerously.
     Peter looked at him, not sure how to interpret what he was seeing.
     “Kramer said you were on assignment. I assumed—”
     “Assignment! That’s a laugh,” Neal said bitterly. “They bribed me with a trip to the Hirshhorn Museum, but all I did was hold Melissa’s…Agent Matthews’ purse. She didn’t need me—it was just a ruse to get me out of the office.”
     “Out of the office? Why didn’t he just send you out to—?”
     “I haven’t been out of the office on work since I got here!” Neal exploded. There was a tap at the door, and they looked at each other in surprise.
     “Mr. Caffrey? Agent Burke? There’s a gentleman across the street who’s been watching the door since just after Mr. Caffrey arrived. I think he’s coming over here….”
     “Quick, Peter—hide! Get—I don’t know—get into the closet here, no—wait—get into this cabinet.”
     “Neal—I don’t think I’m going to fit.”
     “Do it!” Neal commanded. He ran into the back part of the store, where rows and rows of neat hanging clothes were encased in clear plastic bags. He ruffled through them hurriedly, finally choosing one, then grabbed his surprised drycleaner’s wife by the arm and whispered frantically in her ear. She nodded, surprised, then her eyes went wide.
     They emerged out of the back of the store together.
     “It’s lovely, Ms. Albovias, and it looks like a good fit. It was really great of you to think of me.”
     “Well,” she said, “It’s our policy that if clothes are left here more than 30 days without special arrangements being made, then we sell—oh! Oh, hello.” She stepped briskly behind the counter with an apologetic look at Neal, and Neal looked at the newcomer. He had “law enforcement” written all over him, but what branch Neal didn’t know. The man started upon seeing Caffrey and seemed to have trouble figuring out what to say or do.
     “You—that is, your store cleans suits?”
     “Yes sir,” said Ms. Albovias dryly, pointing up at the neon sign that said “Dry-cleaning.” “We clean suits, shirts, ties. What can I help you with?”
     The question seemed to startle the man, and he darted a quick, furtive look at Neal. Neal smiled at him. Whatever arm of law enforcement was, it obviously didn’t include undercover work, and whoever he was, he was surely in Kramer’s employ.
     “Um, nothing today. But, er, maybe next time.”
     “Well, I see you around here all the time, don’t I?” said Ms. Albovias, and the man visibly started. “So just drop on in the next time you’re in the neighborhood.”
     “I—thank you. I will.” The man fled the store.
     When they were sure he was gone, Neal turned and grinned at his partner in crime, then reached over and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you. You deserve an Oscar.”
     “Worth it to see the look on his face. Actually, I’m just glad to know who he is. He’s been casing the joint for, oh, about a month.”
     Neal looked toward the crack in the door, where he could see Peter but Peter couldn’t be seen from the street. “About the time I arrived.”
     “Yes—about the time you first came in, Neal. I thought he was part of the…” She looked at Peter. “Um, you know—the guys who come and try to shake us down.”
     “She thought I was one of them,” Peter said.
     “Big, Bad Burke,” Neal said, and grinned. He handed the suit back to Ms. Albovias. “Thanks for the quick thinking.”
     “Not a problem,” she said, then, “Neal, we really do have some things that have been left longer than 30 days—some of them have been here almost a year. Next time you’re in, we’ll look at them, okay?
     Peter smiled. Wherever he went, Neal seemed to find benefactors. Realizing that, and realizing that Neal still wanted to come home, still recognized someplace as home made him aware of the weight of responsibility sitting on his shoulders. He could not mess this up now—he could not.
     “Neal, he’ll probably go back and wait for you at the apartment. It’s not safe for me to go there. If Kramer finds out—“
     “Forget Kramer,” said Neal, smiling. “Just point me toward the car and we’ll go. There’s nothing I care about in my apartment—I can go like I am.”
     Peter stared at him, and his startled expression told Neal the whole story. The younger man’s face fell, his shoulders slumped.
     “You…you didn’t come to take me back, did you?”
     “Neal, I—no, but I’m working on it. I was up here on business, and I wanted to see you. Hell, I’ve been worried to death about you—we all are—but I can’t…I didn’t come to take you back.”
     Neal swallowed the bitterness in his throat. “But, but…can’t we? Can’t we clear it with Bruce, can’t we—I don’t know—just go?”
     Peter said nothing, and Neal swore and looked away.
     “Just a little bit longer, okay Neal? We’re working on it—we’re all working on it, but it’s got to go through proper channels.”
     “Don’t talk to me about…Peter. Don’t make me go back. I…please.”
     Peter almost wished Kramer’s goon had found him and they had had an old-fashioned smack-down right there on the spot. Anything would have been preferable to facing Neal’s disappointment. Neal had never even asked not to go back to prison. It must be pretty bad for Neal to ask now.
     But before Peter could respond, Neal had his conman face back on, the easy-going, laissez-faire expression that could adapt, could survive almost anything.
     “Neal….”
     “No…it’s fine. I…I’m fine, Peter. The work is…is interesting, you know. And I’m doing okay. Some of the folks who knew what happened…they were nice about it.”
     “Good. Look, I—“
     “Oh, hey—wait! You said ‘she.’ She who? Who slipped you the note?”
     “A very nice-looking woman with sort of ginger hair in braids.” He illustrated, holding his two fists to the sides of his head. “Very nice suit.”
     “Very nice legs?”
     “Very.”
     Neal looked surprised. “That’s Chandra,” he said. “The Admin—she who must be obeyed.”
     Peter smiled. “I guess I did the right thing by coming, then.”
     But Neal had already distanced himself a little. Peter saw it, felt it like a punch in the gut, but there was no sense railing against what was. They just had to find a way to fix it.
     “I guess so,” said Neal, and smiled bleakly. He looked at Peter, mimed writing something, and Peter pulled out his notebook and pen. Looking over his shoulder, Neal wrote down his address, the grocery story he frequented, the address where they were, then handed the little notebook over. “There, now you’ll know where I am, wherever I happen to be.”
     “You can always contact him here,” said Ms. Albovias. She smiled at them. “I don’t have to know what’s going on—I just want to help.”
     They smiled and murmured thanks.
     “I…I guess I better be going. Tell Mozzie—is Mozzie okay? Is June? How’s Sara? Tell El I miss her.” He stopped. This was ridiculous. He had walked away from more lives than anyone he knew. Why was this so hard? Why had it been so hard?
     Because this one’s real, his brain prompted, and Neal knew it for truth.
For Chapter 12, click HERE

Wherever You Happen to Be: Chapter 10

ruahnna — Fri, 18 Apr 2014 03:25:08 GMT

For Chapter 9, click Here
   Eating out was a supreme luxury, but Melissa told him it was on the Bureau. Neal somehow doubted that, suspecting Kramer probably went forensic on the expenses charged to the office, but he went along with it because the thought of sitting in a restaurant with actual linens and silverware and a pretty woman across the table was heady.
   Neal stopped, surprised by where his thoughts had taken him. True, when he’d first seen Agent Matthews, he’d been more than happy that his plan and his inclination dovetailed. She had been easy to chat up, easy to show interest in. She was smart, she was funny, she was…asking him something.
   “Earth to Neal,” she said. “I know it’s been a while but you do remember how to order from a menu?”
   Abashed, Neal gave the waitress his order and looked down, surprised to see that Melissa had ordered him a glass of wine. She was having one, too.
   “So, what did you think?”
“Oh, it’s definitely a gang—“ he began, but Melissa giggled and cut him off by touching his hand.
   “No, silly—not about the case. We can talk about that later. About the museum. You’ve been before.” It was not a question.
   “I have,” said Neal, “but the exhibits change all the time. It was…it felt great.”
   “I know you’re really more about painting….”
   “I sculpt a little,” Neal said, and felt himself flush at the look she gave him.
   “I didn’t know you sculpted, too,” she said. “Is there anything you’re not good at?”
   Neal gestured toward his anklet. “Resisting temptation?” he said.
   “Good to know,” said Melissa, and smiled at him.
****
   “So you drive the bus every time,” said June, smiling at the dignified older black man wearing a neat uniform with the tour line’s name embroidered on the patch.
   “Yes ma’am.”
   “June, please”,” said June, and smiled.
   “June, then,” the man repeated, “but only if you’ll call me James.”
   “Alright, James,” said June, inclining her head.
   “I make sure they get there safely, and I make sure they get home safely. I’ve never lost a single passenger—a whole busload, well….”
   They laughed.
   “I’ll bet you get tired of the same route,” June mused. “I imagine you’d rather be home with your family.”
   “Well, my sons are all grown, and my baby girl—she’s the youngest—she lives in ‘Lanta. Got kids of her own—the finest grandchildren you’d ever hope to see.”
   “You must have pictures,” said June.
   He pulled out his phone and displayed several pictures of very happy, smiling kids.
   “Your turn,” he said, and June laughed and brought up her own granddaughter on the screen.
   “A lovely young lady,” said James. “Just like her grandmother.”
   June smiled and touched her hair. “So…if I took your tour,” said June, “would I have to stay with the group the whole time? I have family in DC….”
   “There’s always free time,” said James. “We try to give them time to shop or whatever. When do you think you might want to go?”
   “Oh, soon,” said June. “I’m hoping to go very soon.”
****
   There is a moment, just before a con turns bad, that the air seems electrified and you can almost feel your heartbeat in your veins. Neal felt it just before they stepped off the elevators, and it pitched him headfirst into panic mode without quite knowing the cause. He put his arm out protectively, keeping Melissa behind him.
   “Wait,” he said. “Something’s—“
   “Neal, what are you—?“
   Neal shook his head, unable to explain. “There’s something wrong. Something’s…off.”
   They walked to the double doors and went through. Everything in Art Crimes seemed normal, but Neal’s skin felt itchy and he couldn’t relax. Something was off, something had changed. He looked at the desk where he sat—nothing different there. He looked for anyone he didn’t know. He had long since stopped looking for his old friends, always hoping one of them might drop in but never expecting….
   “Hey, Neal,” said Agent Dack, patting him on the shoulder as he passed. “Somebody who knows you was here.”
   Neal’s heart began to beat double time. “Who was it? Someone from…someone I worked with?”
   “Something like that. Scooter said they call him Big, Bad—“
   “Peter? Peter’s here?” Neal exploded. He grinned wildly, looking around. He looked up at Kramer’s office and saw the man looking back at him, a small smile on his lips and he…knew. He knew. Peter had come while he was out. The trip, the interview, the lunch—it had all been Kramer, designed to get him out of the way while….
   Neal found his fists were clenched and he glared up at the man behind the glass with such venom that Kramer took a small step back before he could catch himself. Someone touched his arm—Melissa! Of course, Melissa! Kramer’s right-hand gal! Or course he was with Melissa when Peter stopped by! It all made sense now, it all fell into place.
   “Neal, what—?”
   “Please let go of me,” Neal said, his voice barely recognizable. Melissa stepped to where she could see his face and blanched back, her hand falling away, shocked by the hate and fury in his expression.
   “Neal, I don’t know what—“
   Neal had spent a lifetime learning to show one thing while he felt another, but he was doing a bad job of it now. He fought to control his breathing, to get himself back under control, but it was impossible to even think of standing down when all he really wanted to do was march up those steps and throw Kramer through the glass wall of his office. He turned around and ran his hands through his hair, took a deep breath. He wanted to shout, wanted to hit something, and he had half-turned and started for the staircase when Scooter got between him and the stairs.
   “Hey, Neal—buddy, come and help me with something for a minute.”
   “I can’t,” Neal said thickly. “I…I can’t.”
   “Sure you can,” said Scooter. “Dag and I are trying to map out a plan for….” A red haze was swallowing his words, but it seemed to have frozen his body in place. Hands were clutching at him, pulling him, and Neal came back to himself as Dag and Scooter managed to haul him, white-face and shaking, around the corner into a conference room. Like everything else, it was glass-fronted, but they got between him and the door, offering him some privacy while he tried to get himself under control.
   “That was low, even for Kramer,” said Dag quietly. “He must have known Agent Burke was coming.”
   “Of course he knew!” Neal exploded. “Of course, he knew, because I’m not allowed to have contact with anyone from my office unless Kramer says so! If I do—” Neal managed to stop himself. Accusing an FBI agent of blackmail without proof was not going to get him any brownie points, but almost as soon as the thought came he swore and shook his head. Brownie points! Listen to him—as though anything he did, anything he contributed could ever change the way Kramer saw him, the way Kramer controlled him.
   “Gosh. I’m sorry, Neal. We all…we all just assumed something…happened, you know. The way you never talk about your old office.”
   “Something happened,” Neal said bitterly. “Kramer happened. My—Peter brought Kramer in to…fix a problem, and he fixed it all right. He….” He was talking too much, and he didn’t know who he could trust. Apparently, he wasn’t just rusty, but broken. He had thought Melissa’s overtures kind and well-meaning, but he saw now that it had just been an elaborate ruse on her part to get even with him for what he had done.
And he had almost kissed her.
He had held the door for her as they’d left he restaurant, and she had turned at the last moment, ostensibly to say something and their eyes had met and their lips…their lips had almost met. She had pulled away at the last minute, or he had, and they had dragged everything back onto a professional footing for the cab ride back to the office. And all that time, the whole day, she had just been….
Neal gestured at the map on the table before him. “Tell me about this,” he demanded. Dag and Scooter looked at each other, then back at Neal. “Please,” Neal gritted. “Give me something to do—something useful to do—so I don’t go up there and rip his head off.”
   Dag and Scooter exchanged looks again. “Okay,” said Scooter, recovering his voice first. “This is where the heist occurred. And here—“ He pointed. “That’s where they were next seen. So my question is, how did they get from point A to point B, huh? How did they make it all the way to freedom?”
   That’s what we’d all like to know, Neal thought darkly, and turned to the task at hand.
****
   “I probably should have waited for Peter,” she said. “But I…I just felt like I should bring you into the loop as soon as possible.”
   “The little man okay with this? I know you’ve been working together.”
   “Oh, who knows. Mozzie is…Mozzie is okay with anything that brings Neal home, and don’t think he hasn’t come up with a scheme or to that would make us all pull our hair out.”
   “Explains a lot,” said Clinton.
   “It does. But listen, I’ve gotten this from two different sources, so I—“
   “Reputable sources?”
   “Under the circumstances. It takes a thief, and all that. But the thing is, I think we should go and see this guy, this Marsden character. I checked around—he’s still doing time in Ray Brook.“
   “I know,” said Clinton. “I’ve been trying to get up there to see him, but work has been, well—you know.”
   “You have? See—that proves there’s something there. We both hit the same target from different directions! But Clinton—we have to get up there. This could be the ticket. This could help bring Neal home.” She smiled. “I know you’re not quite as wild about that idea as I am but don’t you miss having someone around to do your paperwork?”
   Her eyes were hopeful, and Clinton smiled. “I do miss that rascally rabbit,” he said. “Look, Peter’s out today, so it’s a no-go, but when he gets back tonight, I can—“
   “Let me go,” Sara said. “Let me talk to him. I might be able to reach him in ways that you can’t, Mr. Scary FBI guy.”
   “Scary, huh?” said Clinton, preening. “That might be, but I don’t like the idea of you going up there alone.”
   “I’ll take Mozzie,” Sara said, rising to her feet.
   “Mozzie will not go inside the prison with you.”
   “He might for Neal,” Sara said, and left.
For Chapter 11, click HERE

Wherever You Happen to Be: Chapter 9

ruahnna — Fri, 18 Apr 2014 03:15:03 GMT

For Chapter 8, click HERE
Bruce’s visit had cheered Neal quite a bit, but he had been too smart to fall for the trick. He had accepted the message, thanked Bruce for it, but had not responded. He was pretty certain that, had he tried, Kramer would have called foul and had him up on insubordination charges. He was having a hard time as it was not garnering that charge on a daily basis.

But it wasn’t all bad. It had gotten better. At least, it had gotten more familiar. Work took on a life of its own, and carried him forward. He’d found a thrift store and bought a pair of jeans and a couple of not-horrible shirts and one nice one. He’d found two ties he might have worn outside of a bar brawl, one of which had a stain on it, but he’d coaxed it out with vinegar and patience. He’d found a one-hour dry cleaner, which meant that he’d never have to wear that monstrosity of a suit that Kramer bought him again and he did his best to charm them every single time he was in to drop it off or pick it up. As it was, they were only charging him about every other time.
If the other agents noticed he wore the same suit in every day, no one commented on it, and Neal did his best to make the most of his meager wardrobe. The one area he had had to economize in the most was food. He had a limited selection of groceries in his radius, and one of those was a chain that carried the basics but not much more—no whole foods, no international cuisine, unless you counted Rice-a-Roni. He made do. He took his lunch every day, ate in the break room with whoever came and worked on anything that landed on his desk. Kramer had still not approved him to go anywhere outside his two-mile radius without Kramer himself, and since Neal was still not allowed to work on anything outside the office, this was rather cloistering. Still, it was better than jail. Once in a while, Neal felt a pang of almost overwhelming loss, remembering meals around the Burke kitchen table, or sitting with June in her big dining room, but he stuffed them away. There was no sense wanting what he could not have.
As an escape approach, it had it good points. It would lull Kramer into a false sense of security, assuming the man could ever be lulled. (He doubted it.) It gave him knowledge of his co-workers in an appropriate venue that Kramer could not object to—even those agents with whom he did not work. He worked hard at being pleasant and agreeable, gathering more information than he gave, and he deflected any and all talk about both his former exploits in crime (alleged) and his former work for the FBI. There was no telling who might be one of Kramer’s spies, and he didn’t intend to give up anything that would later be used against him. He learned who worked on what, who liked who, who didn’t like who and even, though they dared not speak about it, who liked Kramer and who didn’t. The first list was quite a bit shorter than the second one.
As an escape approach, it had its drawbacks. He was so compliant and helpful and useful that he worried that Kramer was finding him indispensable. The other agents were certainly not shy about requesting his ideas or expertise. What he missed, however, was the easy way his coworkers at White Collar had simply allowed him to share his expertise without feeling like he was constantly on the witness stand, incriminating himself. He was exceptionally circumspect in what he said, who he said it to and he even kept tabs on who repeated back to him things he had not told them directly. It was good to know who talked to who.
Speaking of…he was surprised, actually, how little contact he had with Kramer, although often he had looked up to see his new handler looking down on him with an unreadable expression on his face. Caught out, Kramer usually smiled blandly and waved, but Neal felt the insincerity of that friendly overture. Kramer watched him like a hawk, and all work that came to Neal was done inside the Art Crimes offices. Neal never thought he’d miss taking work home, but when they all stayed late to work on something, especially if they ordered food and ate together, Neal found it harder on those nights to go home alone.
And he had been spending his nights alone.
That was by choice, strictly speaking—there seemed no end of young women who either lived in his building or visited someone in his building. Many of them had been friendly—some obviously so—but he had no interest in them. Their young bodies might entice, but what Neal missed almost desperately was the feel of iron sharpening iron, whether it was Peter’s brain at work, Mozzie’s devious plans at home or Sara’s inventiveness in the bedroom. He was peer-less, adrift, and lonely beyond measure.
At least at work there was Melissa. Of all the ones in his office whom he’d expected to shun him, she’d topped the list, but she had been kind and even friendly. She was the only one in this crowd who seemed to know what he had lost, and why he might want it back. The others assumed that con men were constantly on the move, grifters and drifters who did not stay anyplace long enough to make friends. He did not let them get close enough to judge the truth for themselves—he hadn’t the energy for it—but he never contradicted them when they painted a life of broken hearts and busted friendships.
He had thought so many times—okay, constantly—about circumventing Kramer’s orders and getting a burner phone. He was sure he was watched, and he had been certain that his apartment had been searched several times in the weeks he’d been here. The note, the one with the phone numbers on it, went with him wherever he went, but he’d left his phone behind more often than not, resisting temptation. Now, when he thought about calling, he could not imagine what to say, how to start a conversation.
“Hey, Peter—do you miss me? I’m moldering away up here, or did you forget? Do you know I’m lonely and unhappy? Do you know the only thing keeping me here is the thought that my running will hurt you? If you knew, would you care?” That last one had been cropping up a lot lately in his thoughts, and he felt both guilty and defiant every time it did.
In the midst of his unhappiness, Neal conjured up a thought that soothed his troubled ruminations. He remembered standing on the balcony with Peter under the light of a brilliant moon, confessing everything he had ever done—everything. And he remembered with a flush of pleasure how Peter had listened without lecturing, had even laughed with him at the outrageousness of some of his exploits, and had—in the end—made a solemn promise not to use Neal’s trust against him. Shamefaced, Neal knew that he had racked up more things that ought to have been confessed since then—and had been—but he realized anew that, whether he had said it or not, Peter had trusted him in many ways. Peter had trusted him with his career, with his cases, with his agents and—even—with his life.
There was no balcony in his little apartment, but if he sat on the end of his uncomfortable bed and looked out the window, he could see the moon. It was the same moon that he and Peter had stood under—older and wiser, perhaps, like them—but the same moon. Neal looked out the window at the moon and felt his heart lift. Of course Peter missed him. Peter would come for him. He would.
He just needed to be patient.
****
    “El! El, Honey—guess what?”
    “Did Satchmo find that shoe you were worrying about? Because I thought—”
    “What? Not—not Satchmo, Honey. Neal!”
    El looked at him. “Neal found your shoe? Peter, what are you—?”
    Peter grabbed her arms and kissed her. Enthusiastically. She opened her eyes to see him smiling at her.
    “Honey, I’m going to DC today!”
    “Oh! Oh, Peter—to bring Neal back?”
    His face fell for an instant. “No—not to bring Neal back, but our team is collaborating on a sting with the boys in DC, and I’m going up there. While I’m there, I’m going to drop in on Neal. Bruce cleared it with Kramer.”
    “That’s so terrific, Sweetheart!” said El. “I—oh, I wish I’d baked something to send Neal! I could have made brownies!”
    “Don’t worry about it,” Peter said. “If they’re letting me see him, they’re probably going to lift the ban. That means you can send Neal brownies—hell, you can take him brownies, probably.”
    “Well, I’m still waiting for a catering job in DC to crop up. I’m still working my sphere of influence. You never know. And if I’m there, I’m sure I can finagle a way to see Neal but, oh, Honey, I’m so glad. Glad for you. So glad for Neal.” She kissed him again, then once on the cheek. “Tell him that one’s from me.”
    Peter looked at her and she grimaced. “Maybe just wait until I’m up there myself.”
    “You think?” teased Peter. He grinned and put on his coat, adjusted his tie.   “Hey—tell Mozzie and June and Sara, won’t you? Score one for the good guys!”
****
“With you?” said Neal. “What do you mean, with you?”
“You’re coming with me to the Hirshhorn,” Melissa said patiently. “There’s a curator there we’re going to interview.”
The thought of going outside the office was dizzying. “Outside” had become the two-mile radius around his apartment, and had nothing to do with work. Work was done inside these walls, with Kramer’s shadow over everything…wait.
“Is Kramer coming?” Neal’s joy in the outing palled. Kramer had not been deliberately unkind to Neal, had not done anything overt, but this confinement was slowly killing him. He worked surrounded by art and arty people every day, but he had not put one stroke on paper since he’d arrived. The thought of doing something creative made him feel antsy and ill. The thought of going out—with Melissa!—that was something worth getting excited over. And the Hirshhorn! He’d not been in the Hirshhorn in years—it was almost too good to be true. But the thought that he might have to share that moment with Kramer….
“No,” said Melissa. “I don’t need Kramer’s help to interview a curator.”
“What are we going to interview him about?”
“Her, actually,” Melissa said with a mock-disapproving frown. She looked at Neal. “I’m assuming your familiar with the works of Ai Weiwei?”
“Brilliant. Amazing grasp of art in the moment,” Neal said. “Is he going to be there?”
“I wish. Don’t be ridiculous,” Melissa said. “But it seems like someone has taken his artwork as a blueprint. You know Dropping a Han-Dynasty Vase?”
Neal snorted. “Doesn’t everyone?”
Melissa just looked at him. “Everyone here,” she said matter-of-factly, “and everyone at the museum. But everyone? No.”
“So—when are we going?”
“Now,” said Melissa.
“Now?”
“Get your coat.”
Neal felt a sudden pang of anxiety and started to look toward Kramer’s office, but Melissa caught his arm. “It’s okay, Neal. Kramer said I could take you.”
Neal made himself relax. Good grief, it was only an art museum. (Only an art museum!)
“I’ll get my coat.”
****
Work was work, and it took precedence over everything else, but as soon as their business upstairs was concluded, Peter came down to the Art Crimes Division to see Neal. He had wanted to stop on the way up, but they had been coming in on a tight schedule, and he hadn’t wanted to rush a reunion. He wanted to see Neal and know for himself that he was hanging in, was doing all right here in DC. He realized with a sense of shame that it had been almost a month since Neal had been quarantined up here, and he wondered worriedly what they’d say to each other.
I’m being ridiculous, Peter thought. It’s not like they didn’t have precedent for this. Neal was even in jail for a while, thinking I’d abandoned him…. Why, of all times, was he thinking about that time now? Neal knew he hadn’t been abandoned—didn’t he? Peter hadn’t contacted him because…because Kramer had promised to take it out on Neal. A sudden horrible thought occurred to Peter as the elevator descended. Perhaps…perhaps Kramer had never told Neal that he’d insisted his friends stay away? Suppose Kramer had let Neal believe that they had not contacted him by choice. Fury, cold and invigorating, pulsed through Peter’s veins. If he found out that Kramer—
The elevator doors slid open, and Peter was suddenly face to face with his former mentor.
“Hello, Petey,” said Kramer, and offered his hand.
“Hello Kramer,” Peter almost growled. He had a childish impulse not to take the proffered hand, but good breeding compelled him. He pulled back as soon as it was possible and fought the urge to wipe his hand on his pant leg.
“I thought we might see you here in Art Crimes today. Come in, come in. You’re always welcome here.”
Peter walked through the door, his eyes scanning the desks, looking for Neal’s Socrates head—but of course, it wasn’t here. It was back in White Collar, on Neal’s desk there where it belonged. Where Neal belonged. There was no sign of Neal—probably hanging around the coffee pot. As if reading his mind, Kramer smiled at him.
“Cuppa joe?” he asked.
“Sounds great about now,” said Peter. He followed Kramer into the kitchenette, was handed a mug which he dutifully filled. He put it to his lips, but if it was good or bad or terrible he could not have told you.
“White Collar keeping you busy?” Kramer asked.
“That it is,” said Peter. He’d be damned if he’d ask about Neal. Kramer loved head games and he wasn’t going to play this one. “It’s always busy in White Collar—especially when we’re a little short-staffed.”
The comment almost caused Kramer to grimace, but he caught it in time.
“I’m sure you’ll catch up. You have such a young staff—such bright careers in front of them.”
Peter was about to say something—something he might regret—when a fiery-headed agent came into the kitchen talking over his shoulder.
“—get that file from Lydia,” he was saying, “and go over it with Chandra after—oh! Oh, hello!” He held out his hand. “Sorry for bellowing in the kitchen,” he said. “I’m Agent Scooperton. My friends call me Scooter.”
Peter extended his hand, not waiting for Kramer since Scooperton hadn’t. “Hi Agent Scooperton. I’m Special Agent Peter Burke from the White Collar Division in New York. Nice to meet you.”
Scooperton’s eyes went wide. “Oh—hey! Not Big, Bad Burke? You worked with Neal!”
It was hard to say whose face registered more surprise—Peter’s or Kramer’s. Peter recovered first.
“Yes, that’s right. I’m, well, I mean, I work with Neal. I work with Neal,” he repeated for emphasis.
“Oh, Neal’s a great guy,” said Scooperton. “Boy, does he know stuff!”
“That he does,” said Peter. “So, he’s making himself useful?”
“You betcha. He helped Agent Dack….” He trailed off, looking at something to Peter’s left, and Peter swiveled quickly in time to see Kramer giving Scooperton a reproving glance. The man’s volubleness cut off and he busied himself with coffee. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Sorry—I’ve got to…I’m very busy.” He scurried out of the kitchenette as though a fire alarm had gone off. Peter took a deep breath, ready to have this out here and now—
—but Kramer beat him to the punch, and not the punch Peter was expecting. “Neal’s not here today,” said Kramer, his expression smug.
“Not here? What do you mean, not here? Is he sick? You sent him out for coffee?”
“He’s on assignment,” said Kramer. “I’m sure you understand that the work has to come first. Neal would probably say the same thing. He’s settling in nicely here.”
“If he’s settling in so nicely, why are you afraid for him to see me?”
If Peter had hoped to goad Kramer into action, he was fated to be disappointed. Kramer smiled, but his eyes were hard. “I’m not afraid for him to see you, Peter. In fact, I even gave permission for you to come by—“
“On a day he’s not here!” Peter accused. “Of all the—“ Ears were perked up all around the office, and Peter reigned himself in with an effort. “This is not right—this is, I will make sure that Bruce knows about this,” Peter finished through clenched teeth. “He helped set this up.”
“He did. Who knew that Neal would be on assignment the day you came? It was just one of those things….”
“Show me his desk,” he gritted. “I’ll at least leave him a note.”
“I’m afraid not,” Kramer said. “I told Bruce you could see him if he was here. He’s not here, and I haven’t decided yet whether I’m going to lift the ban on contact with his former…friends.”
“Phil,” Peter said grimly. “You and I are going to have words, and if you think it’s better for us to have them here, in front of your people, then so be it. But I’m suggesting that this particular conversation will go better if we do it away from the crowd.”
Kramer glared at him, then turned quickly and saw a long blur of faces hastily turned away. Well, he’d never been one for airing his dirty laundry in public, Kramer thought. It wasn’t proper. Out loud he said, “Fine—the conference room!” He motioned to a room along the side wall that, like all the other, was glass-fronted, but was, at least somewhat soundproof with the door closed. Peter closed the door behind him and turned on his old mentor and friend. It was quick and loud.
    “How dare you!” said Peter. “You brought Neal up here to punish him for things you only suspect he did."
    “His anklet is no figment of my imagination.”
    “He was convicted of bond forgery. He served his time.”
    “Not quite.”
“Fine—not quite. He ran. He’s serving time for that now. He did a stupid thing, but why do you have to—“
“He brought this on his own head. I’m not responsible for the things Neal has done.”
“No, but if you’re his handler, you’re responsible for the man he could become!”
Kramer stared, his eyes bugging out. “That’s—that’s preposterous! I have a job to do and if I can use the people and assets at my disposal to get the job done, then so be it.”
“People and assets, huh?” Peter said. “Which category do you put Neal in?”
“That’s your problem, Petey—you never were good with the hard choices.”
“I can live with my choices and sleep good at night. Can you say the same?”
Kramer said nothing, his little eyes hard as flint.
Peter turned away with an effort. If he stood here much longer, he was going to slug Kramer, and he doubted that would end well for either of them. He’d be in the back of a police car, and Kramer would be in the back of an ambulance. He put his cup of coffee down carefully on the table and started for the double glass doors.
“Come again,” said Kramer silkily, just as Peter slid through the door. He got in the elevator, punching the lobby button savagely. He knew there were cameras in the elevators but he was tempted to have a swearing, kicking cuss-fit all the same once the doors closed—
The doors stopped closing and sprang open, and a young woman slipped into the elevator. She was dark-skinned, with coppery hair that framed her face in two thick French braids, and she carried an armful of files. Peter was almost certain Neal would have noticed her the first day. “Could you hit the button for Level 6?” she said. “Accounting?”
“Of course.” Peter reached past her and hit the button, smiling politely.
They stopped on the sixth floor and the young woman got off without another word. Peter gave a huff of frustration and went outside to find a taxi. He reached in his jacket pocket for his phone, but remembered he’d put it in his pants pocket instead. When he fished it out, he found a pink post-it in his pants pocket and stared at it in consternation. It was folded twice and he unfolded it carefully and looked at the neat, loopy handwriting. It read:
I know you are Neal’s friend. What happened today wasn’t right. If you’re staying over, try the drycleaner at…
There was an address, and Peter stared at it, then turned the post-it over. There was nothing on the back. The taxi that had pulled up honked and rolled down the window.
“Hey buddy—you coming or not? I got people waiting!”
“So do I,” said Peter, and climbed into the cab.For Chapter 10, click HERE

Wherever You Happen to Be: Chapter 8

ruahnna — Fri, 18 Apr 2014 03:07:45 GMT

For Chapter 7, click HERE
“I know, Bruce,” Peter argued, pacing the bedroom floor. “I understand he’s within his rights. I just want to—” He stopped pacing and listened, shook his head and then realized Bruce couldn’t see it. “No—it doesn’t have to be by phone. Hell, Bruce, it doesn’t even have to be me. I just want to get a message to him.” Peter’s head jerked. “What? What do you mean, no messages? Kramer said—Kramer said?—have you talked to Kramer about this? Whose side are you—damn it, I will not—” He stopped and pushed a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he said at last. “Fine. Just fine. You do it. That will be great. As long as—right, right. When?” There was a silence. “When, Bruce? When are you going to—well, it does matter, it would matter a whole hell of a lot if it were…fine. No, that’s fine. Call me, won’t you?” There was another silence. “Thanks Bruce. No—I mean it. Thanks. This has just…you know how I feel about my people. Right. Thanks. Thanks again.” He hung up.
      Elizabeth looked up from the book she had been pretending to read and looked at him. “The end of that conversation sounded better than the beginning.”
      “It was,” Peter said, pacing again. “It was better—it wasn’t good, but it was better.”
      She waited for him, letting him tell her in his own way. “Kramer says no phone calls and no messages, but Bruce promises to get a word to Neal.”
      “What word?” Elizabeth said. “What’s Bruce going to tell him?”
      They exchanged looks. Peter could hardly impart to Bruce that they were planning on getting Neal back one way or another—as long as it stuck. “He’s…he’s going to tell him we’re concerned about him and how he’s doing. That’s the best we can do.”
      “Will Neal understand? Will he know you can’t talk to him?”
      Peter looked flummoxed for a moment. “He…he hasn’t called us,” he said at last. “I assumed he couldn’t.” Peter thought about it a moment. “Kramer probably told Neal he’ll get in trouble if he calls us. At least, that what I assumed.” The thought cheered him a little. Neal was, at least, following orders. But on the heels of that came another worry: How worried would Neal have to be to do exactly what Kramer said? What did Kramer have on him? What did he know? What evidence was hanging over Neal’s head that might fall any moment? Peter knew of a few things. Would bringing Neal back to White Collar cause Kramer to drop another bomb—maybe even send Neal back to prison? There were too many questions and not enough answers.
      Peter sighed, realizing he might just have to get used to it. He stopped pacing and looked to see Elizabeth watching him, her face suffused with tenderness. She patted the cover beside her. “Come to bed,” she said gently. “We’ll work on this again tomorrow.”
****
      Sara slid onto the barstool and smiled at the bartender. It so discombobulated the man that he overfilled the mug he held under the tap. The foam overflowed and he cursed, sidestepping the spill, then colored and clamped his mouth shut. He got a fresh stein, filled it and practically slammed it down in front of the customer who had ordered it, who looked at him in bafflement at the surly treatment. Sara pretended not to notice, tapping buttons on her phone, but when the bartender appeared in front of her she looked up and gave him another one of her dazzling smiles.
      “What can I get you?” the man asked breathlessly.
      “A white…um, how about a beer?” She didn’t like the look of the wine glasses.
      “Draft or bottle?”
      “How ‘bout a Sam Adams?”
      “Sure thing.” He trundled off.
      “Figured you for the type that orders Chateau something-or-other,” murmured a voice near her elbow. Sara started a little. She hadn’t heard him come in, but she managed a smile and turned to face her companion.
      “Stop speculating about my type,” she said pleasantly, but her eyes were like flint. “Your boss said you might know something about…what we discussed.”
      “I might.” The man smiled. The smile broadened when the bartender, upon seeing him, put a draft down in front of him without asking. “Thanks Joey.” He turned and looked at Sara. “I know lots of things. If you’re nice to me—”
      He had reached to put a hand on her knee, but that hand was now in agony. While appearing to reach for and clasp his hand with both of hers, she had his pinky finger bent back at an angle it didn’t seem to want to go.
      “I’m always nice,” said Sara while the man tried not to whimper. “You know what else I always am? In a hurry.” She smiled. “Do you have something for me, or do I tell your boss that our little deal is off?”
      “Okay, okay—hell, woman—”
      She applied pressure and he bit off the word.
      “Sorry,” he panted.
      “That’s better. Start talking.”
      “He…the word on the street says he was good for it, but that’s just talk. What I found out was the guy what did it—the real guy what did it—is a real piece of work. Fingers in all kinds of pies, heavy-duty connections. He’s a good forger, but has a bad rep.”
      “For?” Sara asked. She had backed off the pressure on the man’s finger.
      “Turning on his partners,” the man said. “Ratting people out.” His disdain was obvious. Few people were as hated in the criminal world as snitches.
      “So you’re saying the guy who took the fall isn’t the guy who did the forgery—is that right?”
      “Smart dame,” the man muttered.
      “So…how do we know this. How can we prove this?”
      “That’s above my pay grade,” said the man sullenly.
      Sara released his hand, smiling sweetly all the while. She reached in her purse and saw the man tense—evidently news of her and her baton had made the rounds—but merely fished out a bill and dropped it on the counter.
      She smiled at the man nursing his drink and his finger. “I’ll tell your boss you were very helpful,” she said, and walked out of the bar.
      She got into the waiting taxi, glad to not have to drive, and the cab pulled into traffic without instructions.
      “What’d you learn?” asked Mozzie’s voice from the front seat.
      “He didn’t do it,” said Sara. “He was framed.” She leaned forward, her face earnest in the pale light coming into the cab from streetlights. “Mozzie—we can use this. I’m sure of it.”
      “Think we should tell the Suit?”
      Sara bit her lip, thinking hard. “Not yet,” she said. “I want to try to find out if I can prove it.”

****
      “He changed after that,” Diana told Jones. “Everybody who knew him before and after said so.” They had gone out together for a cup of coffee—any excuse to leave the office so they could talk—and now stood with their coats flapping around them in the wind and light rain.
      “But Peter knew him after that,” Clinton argued. “He didn’t know him before.”
      “It’s not the same,” Diana said. “He was Peter’s mentor.” Clinton looked doubtful, and she glared at him.
      “I want you to think of the worst—most unpleasant—instructor you had at the Naval Academy—the biggest son of a bitch you can think of.”
      Clinton looked thoughtful for a moment.
      “Well?”
      “It’s hard to choose one,” Clinton said dryly, and Diana rolled her eyes.
      “Just pick one already.”
      “Fine! Okay, got it.”
      “Did you like him?”
      “Like him? What do you mean, did I like him?” Jones was indignant. “He was impossible. He demanded perfection, and when we gave it to him, he demanded more!”
      “Made a man out of you, didn’t he?” She was grinning.
      Clinton grinned back. “A soldier at least. I like to think I managed the other on my own. But what does General—oh. Oh. I see where you’re going.”
      Diana smacked his arm. “Give the man a gold star.”
      “So…so you’re saying that because he was Peter’s teacher, well, mentor, that Peter sees him differently—”
      “Saw him differently,” Diana corrected. “I’m pretty sure he sees him clearly now.”
      “You can say that again.”
      “You know what I’d like to say?”
      Clinton’s voice was resigned. “There’s no telling.”
      “I’d like to say, ‘I’m wet and cold and can we please quit this cloak and dagger stuff for a while and go back to the office.’ How’s that?”
      “Anything for a lady,” said Clinton, and they turned back toward White Collar.
****
      Peter tried to be patient. It wasn’t his strong suit, not by a long stretch.
      There were a lot of things happening, but none of them were happening quickly. Bruce’s message—insouciant and bland though it was—had been delivered. Neal knew they were concerned about him, at least. Peter tried to remind himself that he had sent Neal undercover in much more dangerous situations than this. Here, Neal’s personal safety was not at stake, but there were bigger issues at stake.
In the two years since they’d worked together, Peter would have had to be blind not to see the changes that had taken place in Neal. He remembered like it was yesterday the time that Neal had admitted that he trusted no one—no one at all—but that he trusted Peter. Peter, who had grown up in a family as unremarkable as it seemed possible to have, had nevertheless had a kind of security that Neal had never experienced. Peter had watched the changes wrought in Neal as Neal had come to trust Peter’s advocacy and loyalty.
      True, it had been a loyalty often tried by two very different viewpoints, and the last few months had been rather harrowing after the U-boat treasure had been taken. Peter still felt ashamed of the way that had been handled. True, Neal should have told him, but that would have meant ratting out Mozzie, a thing that Neal would never do. Peter realized after the fact the vice they had put Neal in, him and Mozzie, but he still thought—still believed that, had Neal come to him, they could have worked something out.
      He tried to imagine Neal approaching Kramer with the same degree of trust and could not picture it. Even when he had been an agent under Kramer, awed by the man, under his spell, it had not been easy to go to Kramer for help. Peter hoped that Neal was managing to flourish after having been so rudely thrust into Kramer’s garden, but he did not know. From Neal, there had been no word—not even from Bruce.
      Things were busy in the office, too. The case against David Cook was nearing its anniversary, and Peter knew that that meant another heist was probably already planned. He wished Neal was here to offer his expertise, but—almost immediately—the selfishness of the thought caused him to dash it away. Was he just missing Neal because he was useful to him? Was he any better than Kramer?
      Intel and ideas continued to pour in. Diana had found a few skeletons and was painstakingly digging them up. June seemed to be on to something, but Peter tried to stay out of what Mozzie and Sara had going as well. If it worked, he didn’t want to know about it and have to shut it down. If it didn’t, he had no desire to see anyone else he cared about dragged off in cuffs.
For Chapter 9, click HERE

Wherever You Happen to Be: Chapter 7

ruahnna — Fri, 18 Apr 2014 03:01:22 GMT

For Chapter 6, click HERE
Try as he might, Peter could not get up to the previous day’s optimism. El had sensed his unhappy mood that morning over breakfast even though he had tried to hide it from her. She had kissed him gently as she left and had not tried to jolly him out of his bad news.
       He drunk his coffee determinedly, read the sport section without remembering anything he read and left for the office at an indecently early hour. Lots to do, lots to do, and no guarantees.
****
       He’d caught his own taxi into work, which was better than being picked up by Kramer, but it meant he’d have to sport the cost on his own. Still, with decent coffee in him—a luxury on his budget—and his own clothes on, Neal felt like the day at work boded better than yesterday. In the short term, good, or at least better, but in the long term—if there was a long term, he was no closer to home, or even word of it.
       He had thought, somehow, that Peter would have fixed this by now, would have pulled some magic string and come up here to bring him home. He realized how ridiculous that sounded, but it sounded pretty good all the same. He had thought Peter—or Mozzie—might have found a way to defeat the radio silence he was on, but so far there had been no cryptic notes under his door (he’d checked), no tapes that would self-destruct once the message was played. He grinned at his own silliness, but it was a grim sort of grin.
       He wondered what June would do with his room if he…. No sense going down that path. Best to stay on the path he was on, and the path he was on ended at the Art Crimes Division of the FBI. Neal got out, paid the taximan and walked into the building. He tried to remember to smile.
****
       Good thing I’ve been faithful to my cardio, Clinton Jones thought as he barreled down the hallway on the trail of an escaping art thief. He didn’t think there was any chance of the man escaping, but some of these old buildings had hidey-holes or hidden exits that you couldn’t see. He wanted to keep the man on the run until he ran right into the arms of the agents waiting below, and he rounded the corner to find that their target had run right into the arms of Agent Blake. Blake had the cuffs on him, his Opie-Taylor face split wide with a grin.
       “That’s the way to run them down, Jones,” he said. “Right into the net.”
       Their suspect made a rude comment and Blake turned and hustled him out to the waiting car. Clinton took a minute to walk, getting his breath back, then took a deep, steadying breath and hauled out his phone to dial.
       It was answered on the third ring. “Yeah, Shaughnessy—Clinton Jones here. I’m not going to make it today. I’m coming, though—soon as I can.”
       “Okay—he’s not going anywhere. What happened? Somebody sell the Brooklyn Bridge again?”
       “Something like that,” said Clinton. “It’s not the size, it’s the location that everybody likes!”
       Shaughnessy laughed. “That’s not what I hear,” he quipped, then signed off. Clinton took another deep breath and swung his arms, working off some of the tension. The paperwork on this thing was going to take the better part of the afternoon. He frowned.   If Caffrey were here, he’d get it done in half the time. The man was awfully good at paperwork.
       Which is exactly why he’s a Confidential Informant in the first place, Clinton reminded himself. Well, no rest for the wicked or the weary. He started thinking about what he was going to put into his report.
****
       “My real area of interest is Modernist and Post-Impressionist work,” Agent Matthews said, plopping down with Neal in the kitchenette. “Not that you asked.”
       Neal looked over at the young woman sitting catty-cornered from him and his misery and regret were so evident that she immediately felt sorry for being snarky with him. She colored and looked down, then started to speak. “Neal, I—”
       “Agent Matthews, what I did was wrong,” Neal said, his voice pitched very low. “I put you in a terrible position and I’m sorry.”
       She was quiet for a moment—they both were—but to all appearances they were just co-workers sharing a lunch break, not former co-workers having a quarrel. Neal thought that he had, perhaps, underestimated how good she might be at undercover work.
       “It was wrong,” Melissa said at last, but her smile was genuine. “But I do understand why you did what you did.” She did not move her head, but her eyes darted quickly toward Kramer’s office and back.
       “I was worried something would happen,” Neal began, then stopped.
       “Something did,” Melissa said gently. “And probably not something you deserved.”
       Neal smiled wanly. “Glad you think so, Agent—”
       “Please. It’s Melissa. No need to start being formal now. Is it—I guess you miss your office,” she ventured. Neal merely nodded. He didn’t think he could talk about it, not with someone who knew him, even a little. Melissa seemed to sense his misery without him saying it. “This is not a bad office,” she said earnestly. “We do a lot of important things here. What does Agent Kramer…I mean, what are you working on right now?”
       Neal shrugged. He could talk about the work better than he could talk about work itself. “I’m looking at a couple of pieces to see if they could have been stolen from the original artist’s stores.”
       “Modern pieces?”
       “No—Cubist. They’ve never been authenticated. They think these might be the work of Georges Braque, a contemporary of—”
       “I know who he is,” said Melissa dryly, and Neal blushed.
       “Sorry. I’m used to explaining a lot more where I…where I was.”
       “Understandable,” she said matter-of-factly, “but you won’t have to do that here. We’re all arty here.” She smiled at him. “Maybe these are your people, Neal,” she said, then smiled as another agent approached. “Hi Andrew—want to join us? This is Neal Caffrey, the new C.I. Neal, this is Andrew Dack. His thing is—“
       “I like it all,” said the tall, rangy agent. He sat down in the chair across from Neal. “But what I really like is catching people who steal art.” He gave Neal a hard look, but Neal met his eyes mildly.
       “You must be very busy,” said Neal. He turned back to his food and did not make eye contact again. Something must have been going on while he stared at his plate, for Agent Dack cleared his throat.
       “Sorry,” he said. “I—we’re all on the same team here, right?”
       “Right,” said Melissa firmly, then cast a worried glance at Neal.
       “That’s the story I was told,” Neal said, then smiled his best, hey-we’re-all-friends-here smile, the smile that had kept him from being shot more times than he cared to think about. He reached across the table and offered his hand. Dack took it, looking sheepish, and his grip was firm and friendly.
       “Maybe you can help me with a problem I’m working on,” Andrew said.
       Neal looked up politely. “Oh?” Being helpful meant others might reciprocate.
       “I want to know how they’re getting it out of the country,” he said, learning forward excitedly. “We know how they’re getting the art. We know where they’re selling it. What I don’t know is how they’re getting it out of the U.S.”
       “How much time between—?” Neal began, but Melissa held up her hand.
“No shop talk at lunch,” she insisted. “Talk about football or something.”
       “Sorry, not my field of expertise,” said Neal dryly.
       “It’s baseball season,” said their colleague. “Sheesh, Melissa—join the real world.” He looked at Neal. “You follow baseball?”
       “Yeah,” Neal heard himself saying, thinking of Peter, thinking of all those days and nights in the van and a hundred stories of pitches and catches and stealing home. “I follow when I can.”
       “Who do you like?”
       Neal shrugged. “The Yankees—who else?” If Peter could see me now….
       “That’s what I like to hear!”
       Melissa grinned and ate her lunch.
****
       “But June,” said Mozzie. “They’ll know you. If you try to contact Neal it will screw things up big-time. He’s not allowed to have contact with us—with any of us.” While Mozzie might have taken umbrage at being considered no more dangerous than, say, Jones, he did not at all mind being considered not more formidable than June.
       “But I’m not going to try to contact Neal,” June said, and smiled.
       “I know that smile,” said Mozzie. He grinned. “I love that smile. Tell me what you’ve got going!”
****
       Sara changed shoes in the car. If she was going to have to roughhouse with anyone, she wanted to do it in shoes she could run in, and while four-and-a-half-inch stilettos made her legs look fabulous, she could book it much faster in four-inch wedges. She slid the ankle strap in place, checking the solid feel of the baton in her clutch and opened the car door. She stepped out onto the curb, noting without seeming to the cameras that recorded everyone who came into the building. So there would be a video of this meeting—good. She didn’t see how it could hurt.
****
       “I know,” said Elizabeth into the phone. She was bustling around the storehouse checking that everything that was going to the party tonight was counted and ready. “I know exactly what you mean.”
       She paused, counting tins of caviar. This was going to be one of the more high-end parties this month.
       “No,” she said. “I don’t believe it. You’ll have to send me pictures. I had no idea she was in college already. It seems like only yesterday that we—I know! I know. Imagine! If I hadn’t seen that article in the paper, I never would have found you! We really must get together, soon, but of course my catering business keeps me pretty busy here in—DC? Why, yes—I do cater parties in DC. I have an arrangement with a caterer up there to tag-team on some events, and then if he has clients that come here—what? Yes—yes, of course. I’d be delighted to talk to you about prices. I love gallery openings….”
****
       Kramer stood looking out his window at the DC skyline, his thoughts dark. He had had some of his people running Neal’s phone records, but according to them, Neal had not called anyone at home in New York—not last night, and not today. It was what he’d demanded. It was what he wanted. Why was he not satisfied now that he had it?
       He pushed a button on his phone, and Chandra’s voice answered promptly.
       “Yes, Agent Kramer. What can I do for you?”
       “Did Neal fill out all the paperwork you had for him?”
       “He did, sir. Everything except the things that you have to—“
       “That’s fine. That’s fine,” Kramer said, but he didn’t close the line.
       “Sir? Anything else?”
       Kramer pulled at the corners of his mouth, thoughtful and brooding. “Yes,” he said at last. “Send me Agent Matthews.”
For Chapter 8, click Here

Wherever You Happen to Be: Chapter 6

ruahnna — Fri, 18 Apr 2014 02:55:02 GMT

For Chapter 5, click HERE
“Get in,” said Sara. Mozzie looked furtively around and dived into Sara’s car.
      “Sara!” he admonished. “You can’t just…just pluck me off the street corner like that. Someone might see us!”
      “You didn’t mind being seen with me earlier today,” she said, whipping the little car in and out of traffic.
      “That was when people thought you were my muscle,” he said primly, and Sara smiled her predatory smile.
      “As long as they don’t think I’m your girlfriend,” she said.
      “Heaven forbid!” Mozzie exclaimed, but at Sara’s look of outrage, he hastened on. “I mean, it would be, um, unprofessional of me to, um, be, um, on those kind of terms with my, er, muscle.”
      “Yes, there’s that,” said Sara dryly, but inwardly she was smiling. Mozzie’s internal ethics were sometimes weird, but never boring.
      “Where are we off to?” he asked.
      “Don’t you usually want to know that before you step into a car?” Sara teased. Mozzie’s face flamed red.
      “Usually,” he said, “but you have an honest face.”
      Sara laughed out loud. “Mozzie,” she said, “if I ever have to sell ice to Eskimos….”
****
      Neal sat at his borrowed desk and looked through the slim stack of files he’d been given earlier that day. It had been a long day—a very long day—but Kramer had not said he could go. Neal was sure—was certain—that leaving without permission was going to be on the list of things that got him in trouble. Until he knew more about his situation here—what Kramer had on him and what it could mean for him in terms of sentencing—he was doing his damnedest to not make waves. If push came to shove, he could still try to capsize the boat, but the best plans were usually the simplest.
      Chandra walked by and smiled at him, a brilliant, run-way worthy smile that could blind you at 20 paces. “Goodnight, Neal,” she said cheerily. “I went easy on you today, but tomorrow, I have a mountain of paperwork for you to do!”
      “I’ll look forward to that,” said Neal, and Chandra laughed.
      “Now I know you’re a liar,” she said, but without any sting in it. She waved as she went to the elevators.
      Neal stood up, then sat again, restless and miserable. There had been some good things about today. At least, there had been some things that had not been bad, but Neal couldn’t escape the rat-in-a-maze feeling that hovered over him. Kramer obviously wanted him here—wanted him for reasons that seemed to include more than revenge, but revenge was definitely somewhere on the list. Kramer wanted to command Neal’s talent, demand it as his due, and Neal felt his hackles rise each time that happened. Again, Neal contrasted the way Kramer made everything an obligation to the way Peter allowed agents (and him) to have some choice, some buy-in on the projects they worked on. True, it wasn’t always possible to give agents choices or to let them have a say in what they worked on, but Neal had been in meeting after meeting where agents jumped for the cases they wanted. No one here seemed to have even the level of choice that he had had as a lowly C.I. Again, he realized he had truly not appreciated what he’d had. What had Clinton said? “Your life is a dream with an anklet attached,” or some such. It remained to be seen whether or not this dream was going to turn into a nightmare.
      He saw Kramer come out of his office and stood, ready to go down to the car, but there was something tight and angry in the set of Kramer’s shoulders and Neal withdrew warily behind a façade of indifference. Kramer descended the stairs and came over to him, his eyes brooding and angry, but Neal could tell almost at once that this wasn’t directed at him—not really. To his complete surprise, Kramer stopped in front of him and handed him first his watch, then his wallet and, finally, his phone.
      “If you try to contact anyone from White Collar,” Kramer said without preamble, “I will make it my job to derail their career. Do you understand me?”
      Neal swallowed and nodded. “Yes sir,” he said, although in truth his mind was already thinking of the possibilities.
      “I think you understand now that I can make your time here easy, or I can make your time here difficult.” He looked at Neal, waiting for acknowledgement.
      “I understand my position here.”
      “If you screw up, if you buck me, it will come back on your friends. That’s a promise. I can’t watch you every minute, but I won’t be played. If you buckle down, settle in and do your job here, it will be better for everyone. Agreed?”
      Neal managed to nod stiffly, but he couldn’t make himself agree. Better was him in White Collar, helping Peter solve cases, learning and teaching at the same time, being part of something good. Here, at best, he was just a cog in a wheel—a tool on Kramer’s belt.
      But better was having a phone again, and as soon as he figured out how, he’d be sure to tell Peter what he’d learned.
****
      Peter delivered his news over Thai take-out, and it put a damper on the entire evening. Still, there were other, more encouraging reports, and the day and a half’s worth of work wasn’t for naught.
      June had started on a plan of her own, and Sara and Mozzie obviously had something going they couldn’t talk about. Peter tried not to think too much about that. Diana had learned a few useful things from her contacts, although how they were going to use them, he didn’t know yet, and he and Clinton had both made some progress.
      For the time being, they had all agreed not to try to contact Neal, but to work the systems and channels they had. If they did turn up anything promising, the last thing they needed was for someone to rat them out to Kramer and haul Neal back under on charges he broke his agreement with Kramer.
      Agreement, hah! Even the thought of it made Peter’s blood boil. At least with him, he and Neal had both agreed to the terms. Admittedly, they had both agreed to things they hadn’t kept, but they had managed to stay true to the intent of the partnership. Peter doubted that what Kramer was inflicting on Neal was anything like a partnership, but he hoped Neal would be smart enough to play along, to follow the rules and give them a chance to unseat this through official—well, maybe unofficial—channels.
      He saw everyone to the door, thanked them for their efforts and turned to find Elizabeth gazing at him with such pride and affection that he felt himself blush like a schoolboy. She could still do that to him, make him bashful—at least until they were completely alone. Then, neither of them were bashful. Elizabeth stepped into his arms, then stretched on tiptoe to kiss him. It was a lovely kiss, full of affection and comfort and promise. Peter caught her up against him, his mouth opening over hers, and lost himself—lost himself and found himself in the arms of the woman he loved.
****
      Neal had gotten out of the taxi and walked straight into his apartment. He was itching to explore his radius—it was still just two miles, but it was a different two miles than he’d had before and had, at least, the benefit of novelty. But with Kramer hovering over him like a fog, he thought it best to just go home, go in and stay put.
      The phone was burning a hole in his pants pocket, then his hand. Never had a phone held more promise or threat, and he finally put it down on a countertop and moved away from it as though to say, “out of sight, out of mind.” After a moment, he took the phone and, with pen and paper, copied out every piece of information the phone held. Now, no matter what happened, he’d have contact numbers, even if Kramer took the phone away again. He knew, however, that Kramer would undoubtedly keep tabs on every number that had been in this phone. He was grateful—again—that he had only talked to Mozzie on burner phones, and that those numbers could not lead Kramer to his confident and friend. Neal wondered what Mozzie was doing. He wondered what Peter was doing. He wondered what Sara was thinking about right now….
      He got up, needing to move, and looked in the cabinets again, but nothing new had appeared. He had his wallet now—access to his bank account and charge card—and he thought that Kramer could hardly object to groceries. He stood up, pocketing the phone, then taking it out and setting it on the counter in the kitchen. It was too tempting. If he left the confines of this little room, the desire to call Peter or Mozzie or El or June would simply be too strong. Neal knew well his tendency to do things because he could, but this he could not do. He would not do anything to jeopardize the careers of the people he had worked with before, would not bring down disaster on their heads because his own life was in shambles. He would just have to find another way of getting home.
****
      “Thanks for staying over, Mozzie,” said June. “It makes the house seem more…homey, having someone in Neal’s room.” It was hard to believe he had only been gone a little more than a day. Kramer’s words, relayed at the meeting that night, had made it obvious that the separation was designed to be permanent. Well, design or no, they were going to find some way of bringing their boy home.
      “No problem, June,” said Mozzie. He had cooked for them, as much a practicality as anything. Neal had not only left clothes in the closet, but food in the fridge and cabinets. Someone would have to eat it, and it didn’t look as though it was going to be Neal.
      When the dishes were washed, Mozzie walked June downstairs, her hand tucked under his arm, then returned to Neal’s room. He lay down on the couch and took off his glasses, closed his eyes and thought. There had to be something—something obvious—that they could do to get word to Neal, to tell him to hang tight.
      Alone in the dark, Mozzie worried that Neal might, conversely, forget about them. Neal was amazingly adaptable. His ability to blend had made him a good con man, but he hadn’t developed it as a con man. As far as Mozzie could tell, it was an innate talent honed to a fine point, a natural gift polished to a shine. Up in DC, Neal would be surrounded by art—by art puzzles and art heists and art-oriented agents. Mozzie had long worried about Neal’s obvious inclination to “go native” in the White Collar Division. If Neal’s deal with Peter had been in the FBI’s Art Crimes Division, it would have been a done deal by now, and Neal would have been as lost to him as, well, as he was now.
      But it wasn’t, it hadn’t been. Mozzie fretted for several minutes, worried that he had not only lost Neal to the other side, but to the other side without him, but after a moment, his brow unfurrowed and his face cleared. If he hadn’t lost Neal to where Peter was, the he wasn’t going to lose him to another FBI office. Working with Peter had long been more important than the job itself, although Neal had never tried to deny that the job held quite an appeal (excepting mortgage fraud). Mozzie knew that, however much the lure of working surrounded by art every day, it would never compare to being with people who cared about him for him. And Mozzie knew that Neal would never, ever have a chance to be himself with Kramer.
For Chapter 7, click HERE

Wherever You Happen to Be: Chapter 5

ruahnna — Fri, 18 Apr 2014 02:49:27 GMT

For Chapter 4, click HERE
“—brought your lunch,” said El. She leaned down and kissed Peter’s temple fondly and pressed a small bottle into his hand. He looked at it in surprise, then grinned. Migraine pills. Yep—those might make a dent in his headache.
“Thanks, Hon,” he said, and stretched to get a real kiss. She allowed it, then moved away. “I’m just going to drop in and see Reese before I go,” she said. She pointed at the paper sack in her hand and mouthed, “chocolate-chip cookies.” Peter grinned at her, glad she understood his obsession with seeing this through. Whatever Neal had done, whatever his past may have been, he was trying. Heck, in the past year, they’d seen more agents go afoul of the law than criminals—well, almost. Peter squirmed, wondering if he ought to include himself in that list. He knew Reese would back him if he could at all—he was as pissed about the loss of Caffrey as anyone else—and this had the shape and feel of a turf war to him. Most people didn’t try to poach folks out of his office—not and brag about it, anyway. Still, he’d cautioned Jones and Diana that as much as possible, everything they were doing needed to happen outside office hours. Official inquiries could take time on the clock, but everything else needed to be not only off the clock, but off the radar.
Peter watched El go, watched her greet Reese warmly and offer the bag of treats. Reese motioned her to a seat and El refused, but they stood in the doorway of Reese’s office and chatted for a few moments, then she turned and looked instinctively toward her husband’s office. They exchanged smiles, and El made a little gesture with her eyebrows that told him she’d have something to tell later, when he was home. She blew him a kiss and was gone.
***
   It’s a cliché, but Neal really did feel better after lunch. There hadn’t been anything in the little apartment that resembled food, nothing that appealed to Neal that morning with his stomach all churned up, but when Kramer suggested lunch, Neal had not had a hard time saying “no.” He had done it, had refused to accept Kramer’s food if it came with Kramer’s presence, but one of the other agents, seeing his plight, gave him half a hoagie and sat down across from him. It proved to be Reynolds, who smiled at Neal as he unwrapped his half of the sandwich.
   “I won’t say I hope you aren’t picky,” said the agent dryly. “I will say, ‘I hope you’re hungry.’’’ The sandwich was crammed with every meat and cheese and vegetable the bun would hold.
   “This looks great,” said Neal, pushing his knees under the little break table. “Thanks.” Without Kramer accompanying him, Neal was stuck in the office for lunch, but it hardly mattered. He had no money, no phone, not even his lousy credit card—he couldn’t even offer to buy chips. He found glasses in the cabinet and got them each a glass of water from the cooler.
Although many of the agents had gone out to secure lunch, the little break room was busy. People came in and got coffee, retrieved their lunches from the fridge, used the microwave. Many of them spoke in a friendly manner, and Neal could feel lots and lots of eyes on the back of his head, but most of them were kind enough to not intrude just for the sake of novelty.
   “I know this wasn’t what you had in mind, but it’s a good office, good people,” said Reynolds kindly. Neal smiled politely, noncommittally, wondering if Reynolds was the plant, the kindly tugboat who would help haul Neal into harbor.
   “I listened to the briefing this morning—a lot of exciting cases going on.” And not a mortgage fraud case in sight!
   “We do get our share, and our agents are good at what they do.”
Neal felt his competitive urges stir. He was good at what he did, too.
“So, Agent Reynolds—”
“Dag, please. We’re going to be colleagues.” The kindness of that remark was unexpected, and Neal swallowed.
“Dag, then. What’s your thing—pre-Columbian, right?”
Reynolds smiled. “You were listening. I’d say…yes. That is one of the areas where I’ve gone rather deep.” He smiled at Neal. “I understand you’re more of a generalist,” he said.
Neal fought the urge not to bristle, but the agent’s next words surprised him. “And I hear you’re good at just about everything.”
Neal’s anger quickly changed to pleased surprise and he smiled, blue eyes wide, but his voice, when he spoke, was wry. “I’m afraid the reality doesn’t always live up to the hype,” he said, charmingly self-deprecating.
The older agent chuckled, the expression comically at odds with his sad-faced demeanor. “I’m looking forward to seeing the real Neal Caffrey at work,” said Dag, the steered the conversation on to more general topics.
****
   Diana’s own lunch experience was slightly different. This was, in fact, the third sit-down lunch she’d had that day—she could hardly even stand the sight of food—and she was about to scream from the effort of making small talk, but the people she had called required a certain finesse if she was going to get anything useful.
   “Little Diana—all grown up!” mused the woman across the table from her. Diana did her best to smile.
   “Yes, Ma’am. All grown up and catching bad guys,” she quipped, then worried her humor had been too blunt.
   But to her relief, the older woman had laughed. “Well then,” she said, her mouth curving into a wry smile, “you’re probably very busy! You’ve been a dear to take time out of your day to catch up with me.” Her delicate, blue-veined hands played with the coffee cup in front of her lazily, but when she looked up at Diana, her grey eyes were piercing in their intensity. “I know a little about what’s going on in your office. Tell me, dear—what can I do to help you?”
****
   Although the problem of Neal was on the top of everyone’s mind, the members of Burke’s 7 who actually worked at the White Collar division had other pulls on their attention. Despite what they felt, what they were worried about, work went on as usual. It was a testament to Peter’s ability to compartmentalize that he was able to give a pretty fair imitation of himself all day. Agent Reese had called him in just after lunch, ostensibly to be brought up to date on their regular caseload, but actually to find out where things stood with Neal.
   He listened with that complete absorption he was capable of, then leaned back at his desk and steepled his fingers.
   “I do hope you know what you’re getting your into,” he said. “Kramer can be pretty formidable, Peter.”
   “I know that, Sir, and I’m willing to do this on my own time—”
   “Hell’s bells, Peter—stop with the ‘Sir’ and ‘I’m ready to fall on my sword’ crap. I’m with you on this. I just can’t be…with you, if you know what I mean.”
   Peter visibly relaxed. “I think I do.”
   “You’re going to have to do this outside of proper channels—you and…all of you—don’t tell me. I don’t want to know, and the less I know, the better—until it’s time. And you’re a fool if you don’t assume that everything you’ve thought of to get around Kramer he hasn’t already anticipated. There’s not much I can do if you defy a direct order not to interfere with his C.I.”
   At the word “his,” Peter had gathered himself, preparing to say something, but Reese waved it away. “Save it for the battlefield, Peter,” he said. “I’m just looking at it the way a judge would look at it—from the point of view of law.”
   “I’m not talking about the law,” Peter gritted. “I’m talking about what’s right.”
   “Agreed,” Reese said levelly, “but you’ve been at this long enough that you know those two things aren’t always the same.”
They traded looks, and Peter nodded.
   “Kramer threatened one of your agents, which means he threatened one of my agents,” Reese said. “If he crossed the line once, he’s probably crossed it before. Bring me the evidence and I’ll do everything I can to ram it home.”
   “Thank you, Sir—Reese.”
   “But Peter—” Peter stopped with his hand on the knob. “If Caffrey runs, there’s nothing I can do to help. If you get me the evidence, we’ll do our best to pry him out of Kramer’s grasp, but if Neal doesn’t wait for us, if he jumps the gun….” He did not finish the sentence.
   “I understand, sir.” He hesitated, and Reese sighed.
   “What?”
   “The way things are, there’s no way for me to communicate with Neal. Kramer’s blocked all access, so I don’t see any way to tell him we’re trying to come and get him.”
   At this, Reese actually smiled. If Kramer had been there to see it, that smile would have given him pause. “Peter, I’ve seen you and Caffrey work together for almost two years. These past few months…. Trust me—he knows you’ll be coming for him.”
****
“—horrible little place in Foggy Bottom. Used to be a house, but now it’s chopped up into these tiny units. I think mine used to be a walk-in closet.” Sometimes all you got out of a bad situation was a good story.
They had found him a desk—a temporary situation, he thought—and while some agents had given him a wide berth and disapproving looks, others had gone out of their way to be friendly, or at least kind. Agent Scooperton had stopped by on the way back from the bathroom to ask if Neal was moved in. Neal realized with some relief that while they all seemed to know that he wasn’t here by choice, they weren’t fully aware of his situation. He tried to think if he could use that knowledge to his advantage—especially since Kramer obviously didn’t want it widely known.
“Near Georgetown, you say. Uh—coeds?” said Scooter, grinning. Agent Scooperton was a numbers guys—could’ve taken a spot in Accounting without blinking—but he had a passion for seeing artwork returned to its rightful homeland, and he was the best logistics guy they had. He could map out an escape route in his head faster than anyone Neal had ever seen, and his encyclopedic knowledge of the various modes of transport in major cities made him invaluable. Neal almost wished he’d had someone like Scooter on the other side—almost.
   “Uh—noise?” countered Neal.
   “Well, yeah,” said Scooter, still grinning. “I guess it could be party central.”
   “Yeah, well, my party plans are pretty curtailed,” Neal said. He was careful not to sound bitter or annoyed.
   Scooter laughed. “You won’t have to worry about a social life,” he said ruefully. “Things are pretty busy here.” He stood abruptly and left. Acting on instinct, Neal turned and saw Kramer looking down from above, an enigmatic expression on his face as he watched Scooperton walk away.
   Neal took that piece of information and worried it around in his head. Scooter said they were busy and not to worry about a social life. Did that mean that all the agents here were on a short leash, tethered to their desks? If so, then maybe they had some common goals—or at least one common goal. Neal added that to his growing stack of information and tried to concentrate on the file in front of him.

****

   “Yes,” said June, sitting very properly in the travel agent’s office. “I understand you book senior citizen tours to DC.”
   “Yes Ma’am, we do,” said the man behind the counter, smiling at her and the generous length of leg her fashionable suit showed. “What are you, um, interested in?”
   “Oh, art galleries,” June said sweetly. She re-crossed her legs and smiled. “I’m very interested in art.”
****
   The office was almost empty. Peter wanted to be sure—to be certain—that no one could say he was shirking his own duties to deal with Neal, so he had made sure that every other case had been reviewed and managed at whatever level was appropriate. Now, for the first time since early that morning, he truly felt like he could get something done.
   He’d already talked to Diana, who was following up a couple of leads of her own. She had been low-key, but Peter had detected an air of suppressed excitement, so one of her leads must be taking her somewhere. “Be careful!” he’d admonished, but Diana had just smiled.
   “I’ll be careful. I’ll be ready,” Diana had said, and had left the White Collar office.
   Now it was just him and Clinton, following up on his day’s work.
   “There’s something there that can help us,” Clinton said earnestly. “I feel it. As soon as I can get out there—“
   “Just find it,” Peter said, motioning Clinton out the door as his phone began to buzz, but when he looked down, he almost fumbled the phone. His sharp intake of breath caused the other agent to turn. Peter beckoned him hastily with his hand, pointing at the phone even as he snatched it open.
   “Kramer,” he said, and there was suppressed fury in his voice. Clinton looked at him in surprise, and motioned for Peter to put the call on speaker phone. Peter did, but held the phone to his ear just the same.
   “I thought I’d better get a hold of you before you go and do something stupid, something that might ruin the lives and careers of lots of agents in your office.” Kramer’s voice was raspy and genial, but there was steel beneath the velvet.
   “Enough with the lecture. Where’s Neal?”
   “Safe. Busy. You don’t need to worry about him.”
   “I want to talk to—”
   “Peter—I’m not taking requests on this. I’ve told you—I’m doing this for your own good. And for Neal’s own good. He needs better limits than you seem able to impose, and I’ll make sure he gets them here in the Art Crimes Division. He’ll be fine—you’ll see—and so will you, once you get over your pride and see that I was right.”
   “You can’t do this,” Peter said. “Neal’s deal was with me, and—”
   “That’s right—it was with you. It’s not with you any more. There’s no sense in arguing about it. I called you as a courtesy, but I’m done being polite now.”
   Peter bit back the reply that was clamoring to burst out of his mouth. “What does that mean?”
   “That means that I’m done playing cat and mouse with you and your agents there. I’m going to give Neal back his phone, and I’m going to tell him not to call you. I’m telling you not to contact him—not in any way possible. If you do—if you persist in undermining what I’m doing here, then the consequences will not be pretty.”
   “Are you threatening me?”
   “I’m informing you. I’m telling you what I expect. Neal is under my supervision now, and if he refuses a direct request not to be in contact with you or anyone from White Collar, then the consequences of him disobeying me are…pretty severe...for Neal. Do you understand me?”
   “I understand,” said Peter. He forced himself to answer civilly, but he wanted to climb through the phone and wring Kramer’s neck.
   “Good—because if you don’t, you’ll only be hurting Neal.”
   “Kramer…!” Peter’s voice was tight, his nostrils flared with suppressed fury.
   “And the same goes for any of your agents from White Collar—the ones who are listening in on our conversation right now.”
   Clinton reacted as though slapped. Peter said nothing, but he had grown very still, his free hand on his hip, glaring at the phone.
   “Neal’s talented and an asset, but he’s not worth risking their careers over, is he?”
   “It’s not right!”
   “It’s what is.” There was a silence. “Do the right thing, Petey—do the right thing for Neal.”
   He clicked off before Peter could respond.
For Chapter 6, click HERE

Wherever You Happen to Be: Chapter 4

ruahnna — Fri, 18 Apr 2014 02:42:29 GMT

For Chapter 3, click HERE
“Anything you could tell me would be great,” Clinton said. He had stepped out of the office, ostensibly for a meeting, but the truth was he didn’t want his conversation to be overheard. In the wide open spaces of their office, his deep baritone tended to carry, so he thought it wisest to take this line of inquiry not just outside the office, but outside the building.
     “He’s a model prisoner,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “Doesn’t make trouble. Doesn’t get mouthy. Well—he complains about the library a lot.”
     Jones smiled in spite of himself. He’d definitely met a better class of criminal since coming to White Collar. “If we came out, do you think he’d see us?”
     Jones could hear the man on the other end of the phone shrug. “Can’t think why not. He’s not going anywhere, and he’s got nothing better to do. When do you think you’ll come?”
     “Let me get back to you on that, Shaughnessy. I’ve got to take care of some things at the office, and then I’ll let you know when I’m coming, okay?”
     “Sounds good.”
     Clinton started to hang up. “Hey, Jones,” said Shaughnessy. “How’d you ever get onto this case? What’s White Collar’s interest in this one? Have there been any new developments?”
     Plenty of new developments, Clinton wanted to say, but he didn’t want to have to explain. “Maybe,” he said. “It’s a little too soon to say. We’re just trying to be sure we cover all the angles.”
***
Kramer could hardly acknowledge Neal’s comment without owning his own smallness in the original jibe, but he made his displeasure plain all the same. After a few moments—a very few moments—of saying hello to his fellow workers, Kramer descended the steps and Neal was called back to his side. As far as Neal could tell, it was for no other reason than to keep him from talking to others while Kramer did a stultifying office briefing.
He doesn’t have good rapport with his people, Neal realized, and was surprised—a least a little. Peter had good people skills. He would tell you he didn’t, that he was no politician, but Peter knew how to reach people, how to treat them with respect. Neal knew Peter had admired Kramer—his skill, his tenacity, the depth of his knowledge—but he hadn’t expected to find the man so…unpersonable beneath all the surface charm. To all outward appearances, Phil Kramer was charming, his manners impeccable. He played that Southern deference to his advantage without actually giving any ground. While there was a lot to admire, there hadn’t been that much to like.
For confidence men, likeability was the coin of the realm, and Neal had made a study of how to make himself appealing to others. The fact that he was naturally appealing—indeed, the fact that he was good-looking—was a bonus, but hardly necessary. Some of the most successful con men Neal had ever known were as ugly as homemade sin! Kramer had a ready wit, an easy charm but there was something hard-edged and cutting around those deceptively mild eyes.
     While Neal watched, Kramer called on each team in turn to make accounting for their current project or projects and, by listening closely, Neal was able to pair up names and faces for a handful of agents. He saw Melissa near the back of the clump of people on the left. She was looking at him, a thoughtful expression on her face, but there was—surprisingly—no malice in her eyes. When the meeting concluded but before Kramer could hustle him back up the stairs, she made her way over to him and held out her hand.
     “Very nice to see you again, Mr. Caffrey,” she said. “How are things in the White Collar Division?” Her words were cordial, but her eyes were intense. Aware of Kramer’s hard eyes on his back, Neal smiled perfunctorily and shook her hand.
     “Nice to see you again, Agent Matthews,” he said, hoping he was conveying his genuine contrition without alerting Kramer that they knew each other except casually. “I…things in the White Collar Division are…very far away.” He smiled, but hoped she’d see the bleak truth in his face.
     “I’m sure you’ll find lots to do here to keep you busy,” she said, then pressed his hand and excused herself. His mind awhirl, Neal tried to decide if she was trying to tell him something or not, but he didn’t have much time to dwell on it. He shook the hand of a short, earnest agent with fiery red hair.
     “Hiya, Neal,” he said. “I’m Harley Scooperton. Most folks just call me Scooter.”
     “Very nice to meet you, Agent Scoo—”
     “Scooter, please.”
     “Okay, Scooter. Thanks.”
     A tall, balding fellow with sad brown eyes shook his hand with a nice firm grip. “I hear you’re quite the whiz kid,” the agent said. “I’m Reynolds. I sure hope you’re as good as they say you are.”
     Neal leaned in and dropped his voice. “Me, too,” he said. “Nothing like pressure to make you crack.”
     It seemed to be the right note, for Reynolds smiled and moved on. His place was instantly taken by a young woman who extended her exceptionally well-manicured hand.
     “I’m Chandra Dunkirk,” said a thirty-something woman with dark skin and two bronze French braids that ended in a neat bun at her neck. Her suit was perfectly tailored, and her sculpted pumps were worth more than the suit Neal was wearing. “I take care of everybody around here,” she said.
     “I’ll…look forward to that,” Neal said. “You’re…you’re the Admin,” he said. “She-who-must-be-obeyed.” It was a longshot, and it could have backfired badly. Going half on chance and a third on instinct and the rest wishful thinking, Neal had dredged up an overheard conversation Melissa had had on the phone during her time in New York.
     To his relief, the young woman grinned, revealing a deep dimple in her left cheek. “I see my reputation precedes me as well,” she said. “You don’t have to obey me, but most agents here find that their lives run smoother if they do.”
     “Even Agent Kramer?” Neal murmured, and was rewarded when there was a flicker of genuine surprise on her lovely face.
     "Even Agent Kramer,” she whispered, then moved on.
     There was no telling how many of them would have come by to meet him, to shake his hand. There was no telling because, as soon as possible, Kramer interrupted the line of agents and whisked Neal away, a hand on his back. Funny how different it felt to be steered along by Kramer’s hand on his back instead of Peter’s. The space between his shoulderblades felt hot and itchy afterwards, although Neal convinced himself it was all in his mind. It was back to Kramer’s office in the uncomfortable chair, but at least—this time—he had something to do.
     “Tell me what you think of those,” Kramer had said, and gave him a couple of folders. There was no file name on the folders and no file notes, but each manila folder held a photograph of a painting. “Tell me what you know about the provenance of these,” Kramer said, then sat down at his desk and opened a file.
     Neal looked at the folders in some surprise and confusion. “I…don’t usually work from photos,” Neal said. “Do we have access to the actual art?”
“Try,” said Kramer. “Tell me what you can from the photos.”
     Neal fought down his rising sense of humiliation. This felt like some sort of mean-spirited test, impossible to do well with the shackles put upon him—either that or busy-work to keep him out of mischief while Kramer thought about where to stash him, out of sight and out of mind. For a moment, Neal allowed himself to think of what Peter might be doing at that exact moment, if only to remind himself that he was both wanted and needed somewhere. Although it gave him a sharp pang of misery, it also cheered him. He might be out of Peter’s sites, but he knew he wasn’t out his mind. Peter would fix this. Peter would fix this just like he had fixed everything else since he had accepted Neal’s deal. He just had to think of this as a mission—just had to think of this as his job—getting through this until Peter and Jones and Diana dug up the truth and figured out how to bring him home.
Neal stared at the first picture carefully, even going over to the window where the light was strongest and purest. The brush strokes were interesting—something familiar about them, or wrong. It niggled at him, teasing the edge of his consciousness. He took a deep breath and did his best to clear his mind, to think of nothing at all but the art, the artist, the hand that brushed—
     Kramer’s voice was surprisingly close to his ear. “Here,” he said, handing Neal a powerful magnifying glass. “This might help.”
     “Thank you,” Neal whispered automatically, unnerved by not having heard Kramer’s approach. He swallowed, his mouth dry. Had he lost his edge under Peter’s watch? He wondered. He had thought not, but perhaps…. He put the glass to his eye and looked at the photograph again, looking at the burgeoning colors in the skin-tones. Ah! Now he remembered….
***
     “Take it back!” Mozzie demanded. Sara managed to insert herself between the short, bespectacled man and the wizened, cigar-smoking bookie he was trying to throttle and get Mozzie to loosen his death-grip on the man’s neck. The man coughed and sputtered a little, waving his cigar around dramatically, but proceeded to put the foul thing back between his lips almost immediately, so he couldn’t have been that short of breath. Sara looked at Mozzie in exasperation.
     “I asked you to let me talk to him,” Sara snapped. “And I can’t talk to him if he’d dead.”
     Mozzie glared at the bookie. “You take it back, Franco, or so help me—”
     “What?” the man laughed. “Take it back or your girlfriend here will—argh! Ah! Ow! Owowow….” He trailed off into a low moan as Sara wrenched his arm a little higher behind his back.
     “I’m not his girlfriend, Franco, but I am with him. I understand you may have some information that I need, and I don’t have time to wait around while you two chest beat and take out measuring sticks.”
     “Sure,” the little man panted. “Just tell me what you want to know. If I know, I’ll tell you. If I don’t—ahh!” Sara gave his arm a tug and he whimpered. “If I don’t know, I’ll find out, okay?”
     Sara smiled a brilliant smile at a sulking Mozzie. “You said he’d be helpful,” she said. “You were so right!” She leaned down and murmured her question into Franco’s not-especially-clean ear. His eye widened in surprise, and he turned and looked at her despite her hold on his arm.
     “You—you want me to tell him what?” he asked.
     Sara repeated it, and then she named a price. Franco’s mouth dropped open and he didn’t move, even when she released him. Sara looked at Mozzie and gave him a quick, hopeful smile.
     Franco seemed to regain his senses. “I…I’ll make sure the message gets to him,” he said. “How can I get in touch with…” His eyes sought out Mozzie, who refused to acknowledge him, but Sara leaned down and tucked a business card into the pocket of his loud plaid shirt.
     “Call me,” she said. “I’m easy to find.” She turned to go. “C’mon Mozzie,” she said, but he didn’t move, staring at Franco’s neck like he was wishing he still had his hands around it.
     “He called me a G-man’s errand boy,” Mozzie gritted. “I’m considering taking his head off his—“
     “Oh for heaven’s sake, apologize,” she said to Franco, looking flabbergasted. “You’re completely off the mark.” She pointed at Mozzie. “This man,” she said pointedly, “is wanted by one of the most dangerous FBI agents in the Bureau. He’s practically public enemy number one.” She looked at Franco, then back to Mozzie. “You said he was a reliable source of information, Moz,” she said doubtfully. “How can I be sure—”
     “I didn’t mean it,” Franco said. He reached out and patted Mozzie’s arm. “I was just, you know, yanking his chain a little. I know he’s dangerous.” He smiled cringingly, and Mozzie looked mollified.
     “Yeah, well, don’t let me hear you say it again,” Mozzie said. “Or…or I’ll have my, um, her, come back!”
     “Right, right—no problem. Sorry, okay? Sorry, Moz.”
     They left him rubbing his aching arm. When they were almost a block away, Mozzie looked up at her and smiled.
     “You know, Sara—you’re actually pretty handy, even without your baton.”
     Sara smiled, the smile of an angel with slightly tarnished wings. “Legwork is fine,” she said airily, “but sometimes you need a more hands-on approach.”
***
     When Neal had filled three notebook pages with neat, cryptic notes on the first photograph, he looked up to find Kramer regarding him with a small smile on his face. His delight in the process cooled immediately and the light of interest left his blue eyes as though a bulb had winked off somewhere. Neal looked away.
     “So what can you tell me?” Kramer murmured. Neal pushed the pages across the desk toward him, saying nothing. The older man picked up the pages automatically, but frowned. “Neal?”
     “Everything’s in my notes there,” Neal said, refusing eye contact. He felt itchy and irritable, frustrated and miserable. He had felt a moment’s respite looking at the art, but he had no desire to talk through his findings with Kramer.
     “Anything stand out? Anything…interesting?”
     “You don’t need me to say it. You don’t even need my notes. You’re just—” He bit off what he’d been about to say, made himself relax and stand still and quiet.
     “I’d rather hear it from you,” Kramer said. His voice was surprisingly gentle, but Neal didn’t respond at first.
     “I’d rather be in New York,” said Neal, staring at the floor.
     Kramer said nothing for a long time, but when he did start to speak, Neal cut him off.
     “I need to go to the restroom,” he said flatly. “And since I’ve only got one clean suit, you’d better let me go.”
     Before Kramer could say anything at all, Neal had turned and left the room.
***
For Chapter 5, click HERE

Wherever You Happen to Be: Chapter 3

ruahnna — Fri, 18 Apr 2014 02:35:12 GMT

For Chapter 2, click HERE

“Let’s just get up and make some coffee,” El said about four. “Maybe we’ll think of something when our subconscious isn’t more awake than we are.”
     Peter rolled over and looked at her in the dim light, glad he no longer had to pretend to sleep. “You are the most amazing woman on the planet,” he said. “I’ll scramble us some eggs.”
     Twenty minutes later, they were both robed and sitting down to fluffy scrambled eggs and strong coffee. The toast popped up and El went to retrieve it, setting two light brown slices on the edge of Peter’s plate. Other than the sandwich last night, Peter had not really eaten anything yesterday past breakfast, and the combination of nerves and gnawing hunger were making him nauseated. The eggs and toast helped, and the coffee made everything seem brighter.
     Peter was more encouraged today than yesterday. “I’m sure this is fixable,” Peter said, and El nodded and smiled tentatively. She was worried about this degree of optimism, especially at four-thirty in the morning, but she didn’t want to rain on his enthusiasm.
     “Well, Bruce will help you, if he can. Kramer can’t be the only one who can pull strings.”
     “He’s not,” Peter said, frowning, “but he does have a long reach. I should have seen this coming, El—I should have anticipated this.”
     “Sweetie, if you had been able to anticipate everything that’s happened this year—if you had been able to anticipate anything that’s happened this year—“
     “I know,” Peter groaned. “Don’t remind me.” He ate a bite of toast and talked around it. “But I’m going to take a shower, get dressed and get to the office early. I want to send a few emails, make a few phone calls and I can do that better in the office.”
     “Good. I’ll take a shower after you go, get dressed and look over that menu for the Schwartz’s bat mitzvah again. I can’t get everything they want from the same place, and we’re going to have to order—“ She stopped mid-sentence, seeing Peter’s distracted expression, then stood up and walked over so she could kiss him on the cheek.
     “What?” Peter said. “I mean, that sounds great, Honey. Just great.”
     El kissed him, this time on the lips, and her smile was gentle. “Just figure out how to get Neal back,” she said. “That’s what matters.”
***
_________________________________________________
You up?
Mozzie looked at his phone suspiciously, then recognized the number and sighed with relief. His fingers flew over the keys.
Why??
I have a plan.
Good to know. Don’t text.
?
I’ll come to you.
     Coffee?
     It’s too early for wine….
     15 minutes?
     15 minutes
__________________________________________________
     He pushed his feet into his shoes and left Neal’s apartment.
***
     “You didn’t sleep at all last night,” Christie accused, bending to brush a kiss across Diana’s hair. “What time did you actually get up?”
     “I don’t know—two?”
     “No—you woke me up at two-thirty tossing and turning.” This was said without rancor, and more than a trace of concern in her manner. “Four maybe?”
     Diana was looking at her phone. “Four-thirty,” she said. “I must have slept a little.”
     Christie sat down on the footstool at Diana’s feet and smiled at her, drowsy and rumpled and beautiful. Diana did a double-take, then put her phone down and leaned forward and kissed her properly. “Hey,” she said when Christie opened her eyes. “I should’ve gotten up instead of tossing and turning all night. Sorry for being such an inconsiderate jerk. I know you have a long day today.”
     “Don’t you dare apologize,” Christie cried, indignant. “You’re worried about Neal—we’re all worried about Neal.” She hugged her knees and looked at her partner. “So…what’s the plan? What are we going to do to get him back?”
     “Well, first we have to find him,” Diana said. “Then—”
     “I thought he was with Kramer, right? What do you mean, find him?”
     “He is with Kramer,” Diana said. “So we know he’ll be in the Art Crime Division, but apparently Kramer has made the White Collar Division here—the people who worked with Neal—off-limits. For now, anyway. We can’t contact him through official channels.”
     Christie looked troubled. “He can really do that? He can keep you from getting in contact with Neal?”
     “He can try,” Diana said fiercely, and Christie wanted to kiss her. Seeing the look she was getting, Diana blushed and smiled. “I mean, as Neal’s handler, Kramer can argue that Neal will acclimate better to his new responsibilities if he doesn’t have contact with his old friends. The handler gets the final say.”
     “But—surely that’s not how that rule is supposed to be applied!” Christie cried. “That’s to keep Neal away from…unsavory people.”
     Diana snorted. “You mean like Mozzie?”
     Christie grinned. She had met Mozzie twice, and liked him. He was a strange little man, but charming and funny. She knew that, despite her protests to the contrary, Diana liked him, too.
     “Oh! Maybe Mozzie could get in touch with him—he doesn’t work at White Collar!”
     “We’re pretty sure that sending Mozzie up to DC to talk to the folks in Art Crimes isn’t going to be a smart move. Kramer’s pretty savvy, has some feelers out pretty far. If Mozzie blips on Kramer’s radar, it’s liable to open up a whole new can of worms.”
     “But you have a plan?”
     Diana looked away from Christie’s hopeful expression. “Not yet, not really. But we’re all working on our own piece of it.”
     Christie put her hand on Diana’s arm. “What’s our piece?” she asked, and Diana’s frown melted into a smile, undone by the “our.” Marriage suddenly didn’t seem so scary.
     “Well, I’m going to put out feelers to the other departments in DC. I still have some ties to the diplomatic corps and some folks from Accounting who helped us—oh! I know someone I can call!” She pulled out her phone but Christie covered it gently.
     “Maybe not on your phone,” she said. Diana looked at her, surprised, and Christie explained. “If Kramer’s got feelers out, you might not want to do that on your phone. Didn’t you say he threatened you the other day?”
     Diana waved it away, sorry she had mentioned it. “It was nothing. But you’re right about the phone. I’ll pick up a burner phone on the way to work.” She stood up and slung her purse over her arm, then swung back down and kissed Christie on the mouth.
     “Mm—coffee breath,” giggled Christie, and patted her on the bum as she left.
***
     Neal tried not to look at himself in the mirror once he was dressed. The only thing that felt even vaguely normal was his anklet, and that rankled as much as it ever had. Everything about the suit felt wrong—the fit, the cheap wool blend—even the color seemed dingy. He had tried wearing his own suit with the new shirt—yesterday’s shirt was unsalvageable for another day spent in close proximity to others—but it had been disastrous, the fine texture of his suit making the shirt look even more cheap and ill-fitting. He had donned the new suit with distaste, but he had managed it. He knew, or thought he did, that this—this isolation, this lack of familiarity, the indignity of having his wardrobe chosen for him like a child—was part of Kramer’s plan to put him off, to humiliate and unsettle him. Kramer liked to keep people off-kilter, liked to control them and he wanted to be anything but predictable. He needed more information if he was going to figure out a way out, hopefully on his own terms.
     He did his best to ignore it all—this was no time for vanity—and slicked back his damp hair trying to decide if he needed to use the blow-dryer before he realized he didn’t have one. The weather here was cool and rainy anyway. He left the apartment and started down the stairs, meeting Kramer on the way up. That was his intent—he did not want Kramer in his very small apartment unless absolutely necessary—and he noted with satisfaction that he looked both surprised and displeased, which was what Neal had hoped for.
     Neal looked at his watch, or where his watch would have been if he’d still been wearing one. “Don’t want to be late the first day,” Neal said, and left Kramer to trail after him down the stairs.

***
     Diana had been more than happy to see Peter when she arrived at the office. She dropped into the chair in his office and handed him a sack from the drugstore. Peter looked inside the paper sack and his eyebrows rose.
“Good idea,” he said. He looked at his own phone ruefully. “I’ve already called Bruce and a few others, so they know we’re not going to take this lying down.”
“No—it’s fine that you talked to Bruce and everybody else on your phone—that’s what they’d expect you to do. This phone is for…other calls. Calls you want to keep off the Uboat radar, if you know what I mean.”
Peter nodded. “Good thinking, Diana.” He started taking the phone out of the package.
Diana smiled. “It was Christie, actually,” she said. “She was worried because of what Kramer said to me….” She trailed off, realizing she hadn’t told Peter about Kramer’s veiled threats and insinuations.
Peter looked at her, mouth pursed, eyebrows climbing. “Diana?”
“Look—it’s no big deal,” she said. “Kramer must have felt I was…holding back or something. He said something about…not wanting me to lose my job—something like that,” she muttered. Her cheeks felt hot and she was afraid to look at Peter. Damn! She hadn’t meant to tell him, hadn’t meant for him to know.
“He…threatened you? Kramer threatened you? One of my own people, in my own office…!”
“Peter, look—I think he was just using that as leverage. Besides, he’s not the only person with some clout. I know a few people, too.”
“People you used to work with?”
Diana inclined her head and made a face. “Well….” she said.
“People you used to work with…unofficially?” Peter asked. Not all diplomacy happened through legal channels.
“Close enough,” said Diana, moving hastily on. “The important thing is, I found out some things that might prove useful.” She pulled out a notepad covered in her neat scrawl. “There’s no smoking gun, but there’s some definite leads to follow up.”
“What were you looking for?” Peter asked, and Diana’s answer made him smile..
“Leverage,” she said. “Anything that works.”
***
     “The scarlet bird never sings the same song twice,” said Mozzie from behind his newspaper.
     “The looney bird is going to have a cup of coffee poured over his head,” said Sara. She sat down next to Mozzie on the bench and handed him a cup of coffee. She took the top off her own coffee and blew on it, letting the steam play over her face.
     Mozzie took the top off his own cup and inhaled. It wasn’t wine, but it wasn’t bad.
     “You have an idea?” he asked after taking a sip.
     “I have some ideas,” Sara corrected. “But we might need help from some of your friends.”
     Not for the first time, Mozzie looked at Sara with renewed respect. Sara was all about getting the job done, and she wasn’t above getting her hands dirty if necessary. At the Burke’s last night, when people had paired or grouped last night based on what they intended to pursue, she had made a beeline for him, proof positive that she intended to make sure that the less legal avenues were equally explored. If she needed help from one of his friends, he knew they’d be safe in her hands—unless they crossed her.
     “Tell me what you need,” said Mozzie. “I’ll do anything I can.”
***
     This time, Kramer wanted a public venue. There were times when it better served your purpose to meet with people one-on-one—he had certainly found his private conversations with Diana very useful. Although she had remained outwardly calm and polite, had done everything he asked, he could tell his questions and insinuations had made her squirm. It had been a necessary evil, unsettling a good agent like Berrigan, but he’d trusted that the outcome would justify the means. But today—for this—Kramer wanted a more public arena. Caffrey was slippery, and he had friends—that much was certain—but Neal was in his arena now, and he wanted everything out in the open. Everything.
     If that meant making a few people uncomfortable, so be it. He had kept Neal close once they’d arrived at the office, discouraging contact from any of the other employees by the simple expedient of closing his office door.
Neal sat on the uncomfortable chair beside the desk in his boxy suit and clamped his mouth shut, determined not to ask for anything. He was glad Kramer hadn’t humiliated him by sending him for coffee, but later wished he had—at least it would have gotten him out of Kramer’s office and into contact with other people. Neal had already checked where the phones were, where the computers were, where electrical outlets were placed, what blind spots there were in the big, open room. The room itself was architecturally distinctive, older than their building in New York, but the floor plan of a busy, functioning office is just that, and while it was not the same as his old office, it was not an interesting sort of different.
     He was surprised to discover that Kramer’s office was rather pedestrian. There were a couple of original art pieces on the wall that Neal grudgingly admitted were in good taste, and there were a handful of nice art prints scattered around—Van Gogh’s “Sunflowers” and a lesser-known Matisse that made Neal feel both more comfortable and more uneasy. There was a lot here that Kramer could entice him with—he was an old hand, knowledgeable about using the carrot as well as the stick—and Neal kept his force fields up. If he’d had phasers, he’d have put them on stun, but he hadn’t even been given back his watch or wallet, making him dependent on Kramer for everything.
They had not talked other than out of necessity on the cab ride in to the office, although Neal had worked to remain civil, to keep his expression fixed and neutral if not polite. Here, it was a challenge to be in close proximity to Kramer, watching him work without anything of his own to do, but he sat with every appearance of calm as the big room downstairs filled with people. He realized he was rather on display where he sat, and knew that there were probably many curious glances coming his way, but he refused to turn around and look. Plus, he suspected that, if he tried, Kramer might try to make him go stand in the corner. The image made him want to smile or grimace, but he handled it. This was awkward, but he wouldn’t be under Kramer’s watchful eye the whole time. As soon as he had a chance to talk to the other workers, he could figure out how to deal with the lack of a phone.
     Kramer looked up, over his shoulder, then smiled and closed the folder that he’d been reading. He had been reading files since they had arrived, and while he hadn’t made a big show of it, he had made sure that Neal saw nothing—not even the names on the files. It was just another subtle reminder that he, Neal, wasn’t to be trusted, and that everything he got was going to be doled out to him in little pieces. This was a waiting game, with Kramer hoping to grind away at his resolve like a millstone, but Neal had learned patience running cons, and had honed that patience to a fine art in prison. He thought he could summon up some in this prison, too, if it meant scoring a few points off Kramer.
     Kramer stood up and gestured Neal toward the door. Neal managed to stand and reach the door without coming in range of Kramer’s hand on his back. The memory of Peter’s hand on his back, warm and solid and comforting, surged unbidden into Neal’s mind and he shoved it irritably away. There was no point in wanting what he couldn’t have right now—he needed to concentrate on getting back what he had lost.
He opened the door and went through it, then waited for Kramer to take the lead, but Kramer motioned him forward, herding him down the hallway, toward the staircase. Neal put on his best “professional” smile—polite, composed—and tried to think of this as just another undercover job. The problem was, this wasn’t undercover. Everyone here would know him, know things about him, and not in a good way, perhaps. Melissa was here, also, and he suspected that she wouldn’t exactly be a fount of sympathy now that he was here in her Feeling exposed, Neal picked his way down the stairs and saw that every eye—every eye in the office—was fixed on him. Well, him and Kramer. Lacking different instructions, Neal walked down to the main floor where everyone else was. He had resisted the urge to look around to see what Kramer was doing, so he didn’t know that Kramer had stopped at the landing and was addressing everyone from the railing until he heard him speak. He turned around and looked up, thinking of all the times he had looked up to see Peter beckoning to him with that two-fingered summons. He felt a surge of fury, then sorrow, and struggled to keep his face serene.
     “Good morning, everyone,” Kramer said genially, his good manners on display. “Glad to be back and very glad to see how much you’ve accomplished while I’ve been gone.” Maybe he was hypersensitive to it, but Neal thought he detected just a hint of a threat in Kramer’s comment. He had spent the morning going over files—had that been more to keep tabs on what his people had been doing—or not doing—while he was gone than a desire to reacquaint himself with what the office had going? More than a couple of people shifted uneasily and Neal tried to memorize faces. It might be worth knowing who else was uncomfortable here.
     “I know the rumor mill has probably been working overtime,” Kramer said, striving for humorous and coming across reproving, “so I’m sure you’ve all heard by now that we have a new worker here at DC Art Crimes—Neal Caffrey. Some of you have met Neal, and the rest of you, I think, know him by reputation, so I don’t think I need to tell you…better lock up your valuables!” He smiled, a fatuous little smirk that made a couple of people blink in surprise before curving their lips into the semblance of a smile. Neal felt his face flush at the unexpectedness of the attack, but he braved it as best he could. He put his hands in his pockets, looked at his toes in mock-bashfulness and smiled.
     “Not everything,” he said, looking up and shifting his smile from “professional” to “mischievous.” “Just the good stuff. I do have a reputation to uphold.”
     There were smiles and grins all around, but most of them were quickly hidden. Neal didn’t have to see Kramer’s face to know he had squelched their amusement with a glare. So…Kramer wasn’t above a low blow in public, but he was obviously more practiced at dishing it out than he was at taking it. Good to know, Neal thought. At this point, anything and everything was good to know.
     “Seriously, though,” said Neal, and tamped his smile back to “genuine.” “It’s very nice to meet you.” He shook a few hands near him—firm grip, eye contact, dry palm. “That is—I hope to be meeting all of you very soon.” This said to make them all aware that he was aware that Kramer would probably try to oversee most of his contact with everyone. He saw a couple of eyebrows raise in surprise or bemusement, quickly masked, but he was taking mental notes. They were watching him, waiting to see what he was like, waiting to see what he would do. One of these people just might be his ticket to the outside world, and he was going to make every contact count.
For Chapter 4, click HERE

Wherever You Happen to Be: Chapter 2

ruahnna — Fri, 18 Apr 2014 02:20:34 GMT

For Chapter 1, click HERE
Kramer had watched Peter go inside the building to testify before turning back to face Caffrey. He had looked at the young man in front of him and felt two distinct things—the thrill of victory and the bitter taste of betrayal. He had gained his man and his point, but lost the admiration and regard of his former mentee. It galled, that after everything he had done for Peter, Peter seemed willing to cut him out rather than admit his C.I. was doing an end- run on him that he was too blind to see. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Caffrey, standing without apparent discomfort between two burley Marshalls, making what passed for small talk between hunters and hunted. One of the men—not one of the ones holding him—had smiled at something Neal said, and the other guards' relaxed stances and amused faces told Kramer that the Caffrey charm was evidently on display. That would have to stop. He had hoped to cow Neal, hoped to subdue him with the over-the-top escort, but—as usual—Neal had somehow managed to turn his adversaries into allies. Kramer had frowned, making sure he caught the eyes of the Marshalls, who’d straightened and dashed the smiles from their faces.
    Caffrey’s eyes on Kramer had been composed, however, and his smile had lingered, even when they’d taken him away.
***
    Had the outcome not been moot, waiting for the Panel’s decision would have been excruciating. El had paced and chewed the end of her thumb. Peter paced and swore. Neal had been whisked away, and Peter did not know whether or not Neal knew or cared any longer what the Board had to say. As soon as his testimony was done, Peter had been on the phone, all but shouting more than once, but there was nothing conclusive to tell, nothing conclusive to know. Kramer’s drummed-up charges were apparently going to be allowed to stick, and Peter’s own claims to Neal as his current handler had apparently been over-ridden under whatever authority Kramer had dredged up.
    Useless at work after Peter’s call, El had finally left. She had gone to Peter’s office, but his nervous energy was unsettling, and her phone battery had gone down. She went home, plugged in the phone and found no less than 27 text messages waiting for her, 15 of them from Mozzie. This from being down less than an hour and a half. She thought of the uneaten cakes awaiting them in the dining room and couldn’t bear to look at either of them. She wondered again which one would be appropriate and whether or not Neal would get to eat any of either of them. From what Peter had finally dragged out of Bruce, cake seemed the least of Neal’s worries, and El knew that Peter’s worries were going to be off the chart, and soon. Her own worries for the man she loved, and the young man he mentored were eating at her even now.
    Peter had long known that Phil Kramer didn’t like losing. It had been one of the things Peter had admired about him—his doggedness when in pursuit of the truth. He wondered now about his perception of Kramer as a harbinger of justice. There had been a time when Peter had idolized him, impressed by his experience and skill, but had that admiration blinded him to what the man really was? Or had Phil changed, hardened? Peter hadn’t known about Phil’s experience with his own C.I., and wondered guiltily if knowing about it would have made him think twice about bringing him in to help with Neal. When he’d asked him to come, he had wanted Kramer’s help to prove Neal’s guilt. He had wanted to find Neal guilty, wanted to haul him to justice…. He remembered saying something to Neal, something about being careful what he wished for… Bile rose in his throat, and the taste of ashes. He had done this, he had brought Kramer in, and now Neal….
    Neal was in Kramer’s clutches, and getting him out didn’t look to be a quick fix.
***
    “This is a catastrophe!” Mozzie cried. He paced back and forth in June’s dining room, gesticulating wildly. June perched on one of the ornate chairs and fretted, but gracefully. Mozzie’s fretting was anything but graceful, and he patted his sweating brow with one of June’s fine linen napkins and hummed snatches from Tosca in a vain effort to calm himself.
    “Just wait and see what the Board says,” June said, but there was a tremor in her upper lip that belied her sangfroid. “We’ve all done what we could—now we just have to wait and see what the Board says.”
    “Wait? Wait?! Why, even now, Neal could be on his way to DC with a sack over his face, never to be seen again!”
    June knew all too well that that scenario, however aggrandized in Mozzie’s mind, might actually be close to the truth. Elizabeth had told them that Peter had been unable to punch through the red tape, even with help from friends higher up. Neal had been taken into custody and was presently under Kramer’s personal supervision. The Panel had not yet returned a verdict, but Diana had managed to find out that their decision had been put on hold, pending the outcome of Kramer’s newest charges. “Hurry up and wait” had turned into “hurry up and stew” and there was no telling when a resolution might be reached.
    “At least they haven’t come for Neal’s things,” June said soothingly.
    Mozzie stopped his frenetic pacing, his face breaking into a cautious smile. “They haven’t!” he cried. “That—that has to be good—right?”
    But they were wrong.
***
    New York to DC is a blink in an airplane—actually going through the airport usually took longer—but Kramer hadn’t been willing to chance taking Neal through a crowded airport, even with a cadre of Marshalls. Kramer frowned as he followed the brown-shirted officers down the long passageway, his gut churning. He had thought the escort would help him control Neal—a show of force that commanded respect—but Caffrey had been the poster boy for compliance since he’d arrived on the steps. He had followed all directions, answered all questions, put his hands out for the cuffs without a tremor or a hard look. His docility made Kramer look weak in contrast. Even the Marshalls, who knew Caffrey by reputation, seemed to feel that they were there more for show than necessity.
    Kramer seethed, but he knew they were wrong. While he hadn’t wanted to take Neal through the airport—way too much potential for a seasoned runner like Caffrey—he was still aware that hopping trains was nothing knew, whether you were hopping on or hopping off. Once they got settled in DC, Kramer would be in his own comfort zone, and Caffrey would be out of his. He felt certain that, with a little time to explain things to Caffrey, he could convince him of the futility of running. And once they were in DC, Kramer had no doubt—no doubt at all—that he could bend this brilliant, talented young man to his will.
    He settled his bulk into a seat facing Caffrey and Neal looked up from the magazine he’d been perusing. They’d taken Neal’s wallet, phone and watch and cleaned out his pockets. Sympathetic to his boredom, one of the Marshalls—Evan, by name—had bought him a travel magazine to pass the time. Neal had accepted it without irony and was now thumbing through the glossy pages.
    “Planning a trip?” Kramer asked, indicating the periodical. His voice was warm, almost friendly.
    “Taking one,” Neal said easily. He put the magazine aside and looked at Kramer without flinching. Kramer returned the look.
    “You’ll like DC,” Kramer said at last.
    “Oh, I don’t know. I love the hustle and bustle of New York,” Neal said, and smiled. The smile didn’t reach his eyes.
    “Plenty of bustle in DC,” Kramer said mildly. “But maybe not as much…hustle,” he added. Neal looked away rather than let Kramer see the flash of fury in his eyes.   He said nothing, waiting Kramer out, and eventually the older man spoke again. “This is for the best,” Kramer said. “You’ll see. You’ll get to work on exciting cases, bring all of that talent to bear.”
    “I think my record proves that I was using my talents pretty effectively in the White Collar Division,” Neal said, trying to remain civil.
    “You mean Peter’s record, don’t you?” Kramer said, his eyebrows climbing. “Your record…well, that’s a different thing, isn’t it?” Neal turned back and looked at him, and the hardness of those eyes made him swallow. Kramer might look like a soft man, but he wasn’t—he used the illusion of softness to draw people in, to disarm their defenses. Neal knew what he was looking at when he saw it, and what he saw was very, very good. “You and Peter certainly closed a lot of cases together,” he said. “You seem to work awfully well as a team.”
    “We did. We do,” Neal managed. Panic was making him stupid. He needed to reach this man, needed to figure out what made him tick so he could use it for his own benefit. Thinking like an agent wasn’t helping him now—he needed to think like a con. “We…Peter knows so much about…justice. About how it’s supposed to work.”
    “And you think what happened in all those cases you worked was justified? You’re satisfied with the outcomes of all those cases?”
    Neal thought about Keller and tried not to squirm. “It’s not for me to say, Sir,” Neal said, using the honorific carefully. “Our goal was always to get the best possible outcome.”
    “That’s good to hear,” said Kramer. He smiled and Neal felt like an ice cube was sliding slowly down his spine. “That means we—you and I—have some common ground.” The way he said it made Neal feel like the ground had gone spongy underneath his feet.
    “I don’t—”
    “We both want what’s best for Peter, don’t we? Neither of us wants to see his career take a…bad turn. I know you appreciate all he’s done for you….”
    Neal swallowed, trying to sort through this minefield of a conversation. “I want what’s best for Peter,” Neal said finally.
    Kramer reached out and patted him fondly, like a faithful dog. “Good boy,” said Kramer, then got up and strolled toward the front of the train, leaving Neal alone with his thoughts and the Marshalls.
***
    Burke’s 7 had reformed, with June taking over Neal’s role, and the group of them taking over the Burke’s kitchen.
    “I don’t understand,” El said, handing Peter a sandwich. He stared at it, started to hand it back and then bit into it savagely. Diana spoke while Peter chewed.
    “Bruce said that Kramer pulled some strings and had Neal’s deal transferred to him. Neal’s on his way to DC.”
    Peter swallowed. “He’s not flying. We checked all the airports. They must be driving,” Peter said.
    “Train, actually,” Jones said, coming in from the other room where he’d been on the phone. He’d called a girl he’d dated a few times, one who had seemed to want to date him again, and she’d come through at the promise of dinner. A nice dinner. “Tanya—that is, my contact works for the Marshall’s office, and she said that there were six train tickets purchased earlier—”
    “Train tickets—damn!” said Peter. “I should have expected Kramer to pull a fast one.”
    “You should know,” said Mozzie pointedly. He was sitting on a stool in the kitchen, pouting, but at least he was there. Diana shot him a dark look but El patted him as she handed him a sandwich, too.
    “But I still don’t understand how Kramer can override Peter’s agreement,” El said. “Peter signed papers saying that Neal was in his custody, and that he’d be responsible for Neal’s behavior. How can Kramer just—”
    “He pulled rank,” said Jones.
    “He did an end run,” said Diana shortly. “He’s got somebody’s ear.”
    “Not the body part I was thinking,” June muttered. “They didn’t even let Neal get his things.”
    “Well, maybe he’s not going to be staying long,” Sara said, leaning elegantly against the kitchen island. She’d come when Peter had called, bristling with indignation and worry. “That could be a good thing, right?” No one answered, but the varying looks of disgust and anger convinced her that it was wishful thinking. “But…but how will Neal…he doesn’t even have any clothes.”
    “Kramer will take care of that,” Peter muttered. Eventually all eyes turned to him, waiting for him to explain. He sighed, then took in a deep breath, trying to loosen his chest enough to talk without shouting. “Kramer will take care of everything. He’ll find a place, plop Neal into it and control everything until Neal knuckles under and does what he says.”
    They stared at him.
    “Honey, what do you—?”
    “I’ve seen him do it before. We had a co-conspirator who agreed to turn on his buddies, so we put him in protective custody. Kramer put him in a safe house and controlled everything that came in and went out—kept the guy in a bubble until the trial to make sure he didn’t make contact with the outside world, and no one made contact with him.”
    “But…Neal isn’t under protective custody,” June finally objected. “He’s working for the FBI.”
    “True,” said Peter, “but he is under Kramer’s control. Remember those forms I had to sign, June, so Neal could stay with you?”
    “Yes, but what—?”
    “Pretty much, what you get and what you do are up to your custodial officer. Since we’re responsible, we get a say in practically everything, if we choose to exercise it. I’ve seen agents who were real sticklers about mail, former contacts, phone calls—you name it. If they thought the contact would be harmful to their C.I., they nixed it.”
    On his perch on the stool, Mozzie swallowed. He hadn’t realized, exactly, that Peter could have ordered Neal not to have contact with him (not that it would have made any difference). The fact that he hadn’t done that made Mozzie both grateful and ashamed, and his expression (as well as his heart) softened a little in response.
    “So, you’re saying Kramer could keep us from calling Neal?” Sara asked.
    “We know his phone’s been off since Peter went in to testify,” Diana said.
    “Everybody knows not to send, um, anything by text or email, right?” Peter said, but quite unnecessarily. They all nodded. “We have to assume that Kramer is going to monitor everything.”
    “Wait, wait,” Elizabeth said. “Are you actually telling me that we won’t be able to contact Neal?”
    “It looks that way.”
    “Well, Neal can contact us then,” said June, “when he gets his new number.”
    Peter’s look was answer enough, and El put a hand to her throat involuntarily. “You mean…you mean he might keep Neal from contacting us, too?”
    “It’s…I’ve known cases, but that was where there was misconduct between the Agent and the C.I.”
    “Would Kramer consider—” June began, but Clinton broke in.
    “No—he means misconduct. Not, um….” The big agent faltered before June’s clear-eyed gaze.
    “Oh,” she said. “So there isn’t a precedent for…this sort of thing.”
    Peter huffed out an exasperated breath. “What does that mean—” he began, then stopped and took another big, calming breath. “Right now,” he said carefully, “Kramer hasn’t actually said that we—that I’ve done anything wrong.”
    “He’s sure as hell implied a lot,” Diana muttered.
    “He’s like that,” Peter said, realizing with a pang that it was true. Underlying his concern about Neal was watching one of his heroes crumble before his eyes. It was a double whammy, a double loss, but he needed to concentrate on the side of things he could fix.
    “So, Suit—um, Peter…are you saying that Kramer threatened you? And Neal is in his custody? Under his thumb?”
    Silence was more eloquent than anything Peter could have said.
***
    Four walls, a bed. An electric burner. An ugly lamp. Neal lay on the hard bed with his shoes off in the only clothes he had and wondered what the Board had said. He had not been allowed to go back to hear the decision, and the lines he'd prepared, had been preparing all week, regardless of the outcome, rattled around in his head like loose change. Would the Board members know he hadn’t been permitted to come back for their verdict? If they didn’t, would it count against him? If someone told them he’d been taken into custody, it wasn’t exactly going to help. Neal sighed and stared up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. Dusty, he told himself sharply. The room was dusty as well as ugly. Never con a con man, Neal thought dismally, and tried to calm his nerves.
Was he free? Or would he be, if they could sort this out? He wondered what Peter was doing, wondered if Peter even knew where he was. He wondered what Mozzie was doing, if he’d run when Kramer had lowered the boom. He wondered what Sara would think, and if she would miss him. Things had gotten on a pretty good footing between them, but…. He exhaled loudly and heaved himself off the bed. He was in DC being held captive against his will—more or less—and he was worried about his love life? Why the hell couldn’t he think? What was the matter with him?
Adrenaline. He was o’d-ing on adrenaline, practically climbing out of his skin, and he could not think, could not plan what to do. He had spent the last few weeks shoring up his support network, reminding himself of all people he cared about, all the people who cared about him, all the things he had going for him in New York, and the sudden loss of everything—everything—was making him dizzy, drunk with sorrow and loss. He paced the small room, trying not to pant, and the four walls pressed close.
He put his palms together, biting his thumbs, then raked his hands through his hair, reminding himself to breathe, to relax. Think. He needed to think.
At the train station, Kramer had put Neal into a taxi, climbed in after him and sent the Marshalls on their way. The message had been clear—Kramer was no longer worried about him fleeing. He was counting on the fact that his insinuations, his threats against Peter, were going to do the job for him without the need of muscle. While his own predicament was dire, Neal couldn’t help but admire the skill with which Kramer had closed the trap, pulled the noose tight around his neck.
Yesterday, victory had been snatched out of the jaws of defeat. Peter, Mozzie, Sara…Ellen—they had all helped, and yesterday he had gone to bed free in spirit if not in body. Today, all of that was gone, wiped out by the blind, blunt will of Agent Kramer, who wanted to own him.
There was a noise in the hall and Neal stopped suddenly, watching the knob. Sure enough the doorknob began to turn and he had only enough time to smooth his hair and slip to stand in front of one of the two cupboard doors. He had it open and was surveying the contents when Kramer opened the door without knocking.
“A few things for tomorrow,” Kramer said. He had a cheap suit in a plastic hanging bag and a couple of bags from a drug-store chain. He walked in without apologizing, crossing uncomfortably close to where Neal stood in the kitchenette and peered over Neal’s shoulder into the cabinet. The cabinet held instant oatmeal, some processed cereal, a box of saltines and a can of tuna—in short, nothing edible. There was a small tin of cheap coffee and some powdered creamer, which Neal looked at with distaste.
    “You’ll be fine,” Kramer said, although Neal had not complained. “We have coffee at the office, too.”
    He hung the hanger in the small closet and unpacked the other articles onto the bed. There were some cheap cotton boxers and some dress socks, bargain shampoo and toothpaste and a blue toothbrush. Neal looked over the contents without expression from where he stood, and watched as Kramer took the plastic wrappers off of everything, including the suit, and stuffed them into one of the plastic bags.
    “That should get you started.”
    Neal said nothing, but his eyes bored into the back of Kramer’s head until the older man turned to look at him. The intensity of Neal’s gaze seemed to discomfit him a little, but only a little, and he gave a little half-smile and started for the door.
    “I’ll pick you up around 7:00, Neal,” Kramer said. “Don’t want to be late for your first day.”
    Neal held his tongue until Kramer was almost out the door.
    “This won’t stand,” said Neal. “You can’t keep me here forever.”
    The half-smile bloomed into a real one. “We’ll see,” said Kramer, and pulled the door shut after him.For Chapter 3, click HERE

Wherever You Happen to Be

ruahnna — Fri, 18 Apr 2014 02:09:39 GMT

http://oi62.tinypic.com/msmbm.jpg
Title: Wherever You Happen To Be
Rating: Gen
Genre/Relationship: General Friendship
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 35,648 This section: 2,264
Story Summary: When Peter gives Neal the signal to run, Neal stays to protect Peter instead. Life in DC’s Art Crimes Division can’t be that bad, right? But living under Kramer’s thumb and out of Peter’s protection is harder than Neal imagined. Will Peter be able to set things right? And can Neal hang on until he does?
Written for White Collar Reverse Big Bang April 2014
Acknowledgements: Fabulous art by Qwertyfaced

Wherever You Happen To Be

Those who do not know the value of loyalty can never appreciate the cost of betrayal. -- Anonymous

“What is this?” Peter knew enough to know that this was not a welcome committee.
Peter’s former mentor planted himself on the steps, his expression hard. “These Marshalls are here to take Neal into custody when he returns.”
Torn between indignation and disbelief, Peter gaped. “For what?”
“If you’d only listened to me.” Peter knew that voice, knew it from a hundred lectures, all delivered with a stultifying parochial authority that made Peter chafe.
“For what?” he repeated, hands on hips.
“Public endangerment. I’ve got a dozen eye-witnesses who saw Caffrey hop that tram. Combine that with evading arrest, obstruction of justice—hell, I may even throw in a jaywalking charge for good measure.”
Peter’s surprise gave way to outrage. “We’re not in the revenge business. Neal pissed you off, and now you want to hurt him.” Peter was angry—yes, but he was also hurt. He had modeled himself in part after Kramer, who had been a good mentor in so many ways. This, however—this personal vendetta directed at Neal—was making him see his old mentor in a new light.
“Just control him,” Kramer countered mildly. “Neal’s got a lot of skeletons. I’ll pick one, slap that anklet on him and he’ll work for me in DC permanently. You understand this is best for everyone, don’t you?”
Not for Neal, Peter thought darkly. “I understand this is not the way we do things—” he began, but the older man cut him off with a chuckle.
“I think we’ve had quite enough of the way you’ve been doing things, lately,” Kramer said. “You brought me in to solve a problem, and now that I’m here, I’m going to solve it. You’re in too deep with your C.I.—you’ve forgotten what you’re supposed to be doing, what you’re supposed to stand for—”
“Don’t you lecture me on remembering what justice means!” Peter said, taking a step forward. His voice was low and dangerous, his eyes blazing. On top of everything, Kramer’s pointed reminder that he was the one responsible for his presence here was like salt in an open wound.
From his vantage point on the sidewalk below, Neal couldn’t tell what Peter was saying, but he was getting a pretty good general idea. He saw Peter step forward, saw the way his body hunched in anger.
A key component of being a successful con man was reading people—their expressions their body language, their tells. Even from this distance, Neal knew that Peter was heartbeats away from slugging his former mentor, goons or no goons surrounding them. Neal thought about the risks that Peter had taken on his behalf, the way he had shepherded and sheltered him during his time as a C.I. He’d seen Peter’s headshake, knew it for the signal to run… There wasn’t time to choose—not really—but it hardly mattered: there was no real choice to make. He did what he did best.
     He ran.
     He ran up the steps and slipped into the circle of taut and angry men, slipping past Kramer’s elbow to stand, half-shielding Peter from the older man. He flashed his trademark con-man smile, blinding in its brilliance.
     “Did I…miss a memo?” he said. “I thought we were—hey now!” Two of the Marshalls stepped forward and gripped his arms. Part of the art of conning was knowing when to give way, knowing when to let go. He held himself in check and did not resist. The Marshalls were well-trained, and they held him with only necessary force. Although his demeanor showed surprise, he continued to smile—not at Peter, but at Kramer. Kramer returned the smile, but smugly, and Neal felt Peter rouse behind him.
     Urgently, Neal extended the fingers of his left hand in the subtlest of gestures, but he knew Peter would pick up on it. Neal knew Peter was tuned to him now, watching him for clues as to what he was up to, and Neal walked the fine edge of wanting to tell Peter what he should do without entirely revealing what he was up to himself. Peter stood down, but grudgingly. His eyes were on Kramer’s face, but his whole body tensed for sudden action and Neal put all of his energy toward one purpose, into one outcome: whatever happened, he could not let Peter do this, could not let Peter be compromised any more because of him.
     Neal looked at Kramer—polite, confused—and smiled as charmingly and as meekly as he could.
     “I… I heard you testified at my commutation hearing,” Neal said, looking pleased and almost bashful. “That’s…wow. That’s very…gracious of you, Agent Kramer.” Beside him, Peter scowled, and would have made a black retort, but bit it back as the smugness on Kramer’s face turned to puzzlement.
     “Don’t be so sure,” Kramer said, frowning. “I testified, although it hardly—” He broke off, his frown deepening into a glower, but there was something cagey in his expression now, something secretive that did not sit well with Peter or bode well for Neal.
     “That was kind of you,” said Neal, selling his earnestness. “I know your opinion carries a lot of weight.” He felt Peter buck beside him, less of a move than a shift in stance, and Neal dug in and planted himself, telegraphing to Peter that if he planned to take on Kramer, Peter would have to do it by going through him. Neal turned and flicked a look in Peter’s direction, not quite meeting his eyes, then looked back to Kramer. “Peter was just going in to testify,” he said. He smiled quickly but let his nervousness show and chase the smile away. “The Board’s still taking testimony.”
     Kramer started to speak but stopped himself, still looking secretive and defiant. Peter turned and looked toward Neal but not at him, then spoke. “That’s right—the Board members haven’t made up their minds.” He turned and looked at Kramer, eyes narrowed. “We’re still waiting to see what they’ll say about commuting Neal’s sentence.” The gantlet had been thrown down, and Peter stared at Kramer, daring him to say the Board’s decision was irrelevant, daring him to pit his authority against the panel that was still in session. Internal dogfights could be vicious, and often both parties left limping or maimed.
But Kramer was an old dog, survivor of a dozen internal skirmishes, and he did not take the bait. His face smoothed over into blandness, and he spoke to Neal but looked at Peter.
     “I don’t know what the Board’s decision will be,” he said smoothly. “That, of course, is up to them, but I don’t know that my testimony will have the effect you hope, Neal.”
     “Sir?” Neal said, and again, felt Peter tense, practically heard him grinding his teeth. Neal shifted uncomfortably, eyeing the Marshalls and swallowing, looking nervous and scared. Peter knew that Neal was more than capable of hiding his true reaction—whatever it might be—so this was obviously for Kramer’s sake. “I don’t understand.”
     Kramer’s face showed disbelief, then annoyance, then the mask slipped back into place. His voice took on a parochial tone and his eyes crinkled in a parody of warmth. “Neal, I’ve been looking into some of your…past activities. I’m not going to lie—“
Peter tightened behind him, seething.
     “Past activities?” Neal said, sounding surprised. “I was hoping you’d be looking at my recent activities—the time since I started working with the White Collar Division.” He smiled and flashed a quick look at Peter. It was a calculated look, full of respect and admiration and deference that bordered on hero-worship. Neal knew enough of what that felt like to do a pretty convincing imitation.
     “Oh, I’ve been looking at those, too,” Kramer said, affable and smooth. “In fact, it was some of your recent activities that caused me to…um…backtrack.” He looked at Neal, looking to see if his words had hit home. They appeared to have done so, for Neal swallowed again, distinctly unhappy now. Kramer pulled some papers out of his jacket pocket, tapped them lightly against his palm. “Would you like to try to explain what happened yesterday on that tram?”
     “I…I got nervous,” Neal said. “The Board, the responsibility of authenticating the Raphael.” He darted another look at Peter, doe-eyed and contrite. “When I get nervous, I…well, I run, but Peter talked me through it.” He smiled at Peter, and while his posture was submissive, his eyes boring into Peter’s were hard. I am doing this, the look said plainly. Get on board and deal with it.
     “Running wasn’t very smart when you’re so…close,” Kramer said carefully, watching Neal. He seemed to be looking for something in Neal’s reaction, something specific.
     “That’s what Peter said,” Neal admitted sheepishly. “He brought me back around. He usually knows when I’m up to something in time to head it off.” He looked away, looking embarrassed at being so well-read.
     Kramer was quiet for a moment—thoughtful and shrewd, then he appeared to make up his mind. He shot Peter a look and stepped forward. The step took him right into Neal’s space, and Neal was currently backing up to Peter’s space with little to spare. The Marshalls hemmed him in on either side, but they were stoic, taking no part in melodrama. Kramer looked at Peter for a moment, then away, marking him as irrelevant. He pitched his voice low, intimate, and looked directly at Neal.
     “I know when you’re up to something, Neal,” Kramer murmured. “And I know what you’re doing now.”
     There was a moment—a moment that crackled with electricity—then all of Neal’s meekness fell away. He squared his shoulders and looked at Kramer, his blue eyes hard.
     “So what happens now?” Neal asked.
     “If you come quietly, I won’t cuff you in front of your friend,” Kramer said. The way he said it, the way he dismissed Peter’s authority—made Neal want to slug him, but he shoved the impulse down. Right now, it was about surviving the moment, making things easier for Peter. He could deal with fallout later, when it was just him and Kramer.
     “Fine,” said Neal. Get it over with, get Peter out of harm’s way, get on with it already. The die was cast—there was nothing for it but to ride it out.
Kramer smiled, then looked toward Peter. “Smart boy,” he said softly. Peter’s expression was fierce, his neck tense with fury, and he met Kramer’s insouciant expression with venom.
     “This isn’t right,” Peter said, practically growling.
     “A judge determines what’s right,” Kramer countered. “It’s not too much to let a judge decide now, is it?” Peter heard the patronizing wheedle in his tone, found himself thrown back to his rookie days when he had been mentored and shaped by this man. The thought was all but intolerable to him now, and he felt his gorge and his anger rise in equal measure.
     “Damn it, Phil,” he cried, trying to reach the man who had once been his friend. “This isn’t some game, where you just—”
     “I assure you, Peter—I’m taking this very seriously. Very seriously indeed.” He cocked his head and studied Peter, a look that Peter knew well. That look preceded a lecture on the faults with your deductions, the faults with your understanding of the evidence. Peter did not think he could stand here and let the man lecture him while— “Aren’t you supposed to be testifying, Peter?” Kramer said. He nodded his head toward the building looming behind them.
     “What difference does it make now?” Peter said bitterly. He had a hard time getting the words over his teeth.
     “Oh, I’d say it makes a lot of difference. After all, you are Neal’s handler—at least, right now you are—and I’m sure we’d all like to know what you think about his performance as a C.I.—for the record, you know.”
     The threat was obvious, and Neal and Peter were both aware that the Marshalls shifted and stiffened. They were stalwart men, obedient and dutiful, but they were also men who were not strangers to conflict or violence. Whatever this was, whatever they had assumed their duties to be, this sounded like something else, something low and foul.
     “What about Neal?” Peter asked, but could not meet his C.I.’s eyes.
     “Oh, Neal will be just fine here with me. We have a few things to sort out.” He nodded toward the building. “Go on—go ahead and testify. It will be…interesting to see what the panel does.”
     Peter looked toward Neal, meeting his eyes at last. He was loathe to leave not knowing what might happen once he was out of sight, but Neal’s expression, while grim, was resigned.
     “Go,” Neal said. “Go and testify. That’s the best thing you can do now, Peter.”
     “But—“
     “Peter.” He held Peter’s gaze, staring him down, standing him down.
     “I can’t just—”
     “You can.”
Peter frowned and shook his head, then shot Kramer a look that should have given the man pause, but if it had any effect it did not show. Peter turned on heel and stopped, obviously trying to calm himself before walking up the steps and entering the building. Neal did what he could.
“It will be fine,” Neal called after him, thinking this was as close to telling Peter a lie as he had ever come.

For Chapter 2, click HERE

Sherlock Holmes & Mary Russell: Fond Goodbyes

ruahnna — Tue, 04 Mar 2014 05:01:31 GMT

Title: Fond Goodbyes, Chapter 1

Rating: PG-13

Genre/Relationship: Sherlock Holmes/Mary Russell (husband and wife)

Spoilers: None, really.

Warnings: None, unless you are horrified by depictions of domestic bliss

Word Count: whole story—1,453

Whole Story Summary: Russell’s keen brain needs stimulation of an academic sort, but she is eager for stimulation of another sort before she catches her train. Holmes is happy to oblige.

Fond Goodbyes: Chapter 1

“The game’s afoot, Holmes,” I whispered into a well-shaped ear half-obscured by an eiderdown quilt. The eiderdown quilt emitted a grumpf of noise and ignored me.

Uncle John would have you believe that the great Sherlock Holmes (ahem) opens his eyes instantly at the first sign of dawn and springs into action. He believes this because he, for many years, shared rooms with Holmes on Baker Street.

He did not, however, share a bed with the man. As the first and only wife of the celebrated Mr. Holmes, I can attest that dear Uncle John is as generous in his praise as in anything else—and as foggy in his interpretation of facts.

I tried again, burrowing under Holmes outstretched arm.

“Holmes,” I said patiently. (At least, I tried to be patient—or I meant to be.)

“Russell,” Holmes said foggily, his voice clouded with slumber. “I’m too old to keep these kinds of hours.” His tone was reproachful, as though I were the one who had insisted we go to the local inn for dinner and some gay conviviality the previous night. That had certainly suited me more than the trappings of a fine dinner in town, and Holmes really does dance a lovely jig.

“It’s not hours I’m interested in, Holmes,” I said archly, and he let out a short bark of laughter.

“Thank goodness for that!’ he said, running a hand over his face and opening his eyes to look at me.

It is an interesting view, to see someone from the vantage point of lying beside them. Things are more leveled out—putting everyone on more equal footing, or bedding, as the case may be.

“The great leveler, eh, Russell?” he said, almost divining my thought as he was often wont to do. He yawned hugely, and I felt a twinge of guilt for waking him. But just a twinge.

“My train, Holmes,” I nudged. I felt and heard his body slump.

“Oh God, yes. Your conference.”

“Yes,” I repeated, smiling. “And I must be up and dressed and at the train station in an hour and a half.”

I knew—I knew—that he was contemplating a cheery “godspeed” and rolling over to go back to sleep, so I decided to take matters into my own hands. I had already wriggled into his arms, and it was a short step (or roll, perhaps) to cover his sleep-warmed body with my own.

Holmes answered my forward kiss with every sign of patience indulgence, but when the kiss ended and I opened my eyes, he was looking at me with the usual keen interest he gave to troubling enigmas. My mood had been teasing and playful, but his expression was in earnest, and he tangled one hand in my sleep-tousled tresses and drew my mouth down to his.

I had been fortunate enough to learn the art of kissing in the more misspent periods of my youth, but I could find myself pleasantly overmatched by my husband. Uncle John would have you believe Holmes quite the thinking machine, devoid of human passion. Again, let me point out that living in close proximity to someone and living in intimate proximity are quite often very different perspectives.

I was currently in quite intimate proximity to my spouse, and I heartily approved of the arrangement. Using Holmes’ methods of deduction, it seemed safe to say that he rather approved of the arrangement as well. I was beginning to regret the length of my trip to town, but it looked likely that I might get a proper send-off.

“I won’t be gone long,” I murmured, more to reassure myself than Holmes. He seemed deep in concentration as he let his lips trail along my jaw, then slip down to the hollow of my collarbone. In spite of myself, I let out a sharp gasp of pleasure, and heard Holmes chuckle, pleased with his success. I felt myself flush with desire and indignation. I had started this and I did not intend to be so easily hoist on my own petard—or anyone else’s!

I have never been voluptuous. My frame tends toward tall and spare, but I have discovered that an excess of something is not necessary if you know how to use the amount you already have. I relaxed my body against his, and the sharp outline of his body became more pronounced against mine. My hands had been resting on his chest, but I used them now to unbutton the top of his pajamas. Holmes allowed it, watching me through half-closed eyelids—a sure sign of his contentment.

But I was not interested in contentment. I wanted abandon.

I bent and pressed my lips to the curls of salt-and-pepper hair so enticingly revealed by the deep V of his pajama top and then let my tongue flick against his skin. Holmes gave a grunt of surprise that was almost a moan and I smiled. Holmes seemed mildly piqued over my amusement, but his eyes glittered with intent.

“Russell…” he chided, his tone lazy, but the next moment found our positions reversed and he was cupping my face and my curves while he pressed slow, searching kisses on my mouth. Too old, my hindquarters!

It was on the tip of my tongue to berate him for so bald-face a lie, but there were other things more pressing on the tip of my tongue. I held my peace as closely as my husband and lover held me.

I had run for a great many trains, but found it incongruous to do so wearing petticoats and ladies shoes. I had often pleaded with Holmes to let me wear my regular shoes beneath the folds of my dresses, and I think he would have let me, too, but the disappointed face of Mrs. Hudson always swam into view, and I cursed my luck and shoe hooks in the same breath, killing two birds with one stone.

Holmes walked me to the station, but only because he was walking to the village anyway. Our walk was quiet, but there was something pleasant that hummed between us as we strolled with long strides down the lane. At one point, the cooing whoo whoo of an owl stopped up in our tracks until we had located the impressive old bird perched unmoving in the budding branches of a nearby tree, and when we resumed our walk I found that Holmes had taken my hand and tucked it under the crook of his elbow.

This little show of domesticity moved me almost as much as our good-byes this morning had done, and filled me with melancholy. I had been looking forward to this trip, but now I was beginning to think of it as a necessary evil.

Holmes had used his influence in the mildest of ways, prevailing upon a friend of an acquaintance of a gentleman he had once solved a matter of some 100 pounds for. The man expressed himself delighted to be of assistance, and appropriate letters changed hands, establishing my bona fides. That the welcome of my ingress was due to marriage and not because of the import of the research I was doing still rankled, but Holmes had been kind about it.

“Take your facts where you find them, Russell,” he had insisted, “but above all, take them.”

I had swallowed my own pettiness and pride instead of theirs and the small victory was gravely approved by Holmes.

I found my seat on the train and looked out. Holmes had said he had errands in the apothecary shop in the village, but he stood on the platform and watched my train leave. I smiled at him through the dingy window as the train began to move out, but bravely resisted the urge to trail a scrap of linen embroidered with my initial out the window. As if reading my thoughts, which he often seemed to, I saw Holmes’ dark eyes catch suddenly with mischief and the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile.

I could still feel the shape of that sardonic mouth over mine as we had bantered and traded hasty kisses in the aftermath of our leave-taking this morning. The grit from the dusty roads blew back into the window, and I hastily removed my spectacles and wiped them with a soft cloth. By chance, I had grabbed up one of Holmes’ handkerchief instead of my own—a long-time habit caused by wearing male dress on frequent occasions. I used it to wipe my glasses, then my eyes, which must have been irritated by the dust and seemed damp. Then I put my spectacles back on and set my face toward London.

Sherlock Holmes & Mary Russell: Cuppa

ruahnna — Tue, 04 Mar 2014 04:59:04 GMT

Title: Cuppa

Rating: PG-13

Genre/Relationship: Sherlock Holmes/Mary Russell (husband and wife)

Spoilers: None.

Word Count: whole story—1,782

Whole Story Summary: Russell goes down to make a cuppa, but is it tea she really wants?

Cuppa

It was no use. I got out of bed and went downstairs on the pretext of tea. If he was contentedly puffing away in his armchair, I would leave him to it, but it was quite as bad as I had feared. I usually like a pipe—at least, I usually liked the smell of Holmes' pipe—but the air of our sitting room was befouled with smoke and the mood of my husband was as dark and impenetrable as the fug that surrounded him. He registered my passing—I felt his eyes fasten balefully on my back—so there was nothing for it but to actually make the requisite pot of tea. I fretted in our kitchen, my feet cold on the floor, as I waited for the water to heat.

If I had really wanted tea, I might have pulled the pot before it whistled—I have been known to be impatient with things culinary—but tonight was high theatre instead. I waited for the first wail of the kettle because I knew he would expect to hear it, and I did not fancy being caught by him in a lie in the mood he was in.

Finally, the shrill, thin pipe of the kettle sounded. I filled the teapot, put on the cozy and threw a cream pitcher and some random biscuits onto a wooden tray and backed through the door, planning to brave it out. My attempts at subterfuge were for naught.

“I do not need to be checked up on,” said Holmes coldly. If there had not been such animosity in his eyes I might have laughed at the picture he made. He sat huddled aggressively in that horrible dressing gown, glaring at me and pulling so furiously on his pipe that I knew he could draw no pleasure from either its stimulus or the soothing comfort of familiarity.

I bristled, but the sight of his haggard face and the sooty smudges under his eyes softened my response.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I sniffed, though I dared not look at him with so bold a lie on my tongue. “I couldn’t sleep. I came down for tea.”

“A pretext,” he snapped. “When you make tea, you don’t wait for the kettle to whistle.”

I slapped the tray down on the table, jarring but not upsetting the crockery.

“Oh for decency’s sake,” I said. “Stop being so paranoid about everything.”

He gave an elaborate sniff and withdrew into the folds of the gown. For a man so tall and solidly built, Holmes could shrink down into nothing like a spider retreating into a crack in the wall. Again, the aloneness of his self-imposed exile tugged at me, and my momentary ire fled. I crossed the room and sat down on the footstool near him, tucking the edges of my gown beneath my freezing feet.

“Why don’t you tell me about it—“

“I have already done so!”
“—again,” I finished levelly, willing my voice not to show irritation.

“For what possible purpose?” he muttered. “I’ve already looked at it from every conceivable angle.”

Except, perhaps, the vantage point of a decently fed and well-rested body, I thought, but I knew better than to say it. He was, as it turned out, completely correct—the final piece of this convoluted puzzle—the piece that would make everything else fall neatly into place around it—was beyond him now, unavailable until later events would reveal it.

“Then…” I said, smiling as gently as I could. “If tobacco won’t solve this, perhaps rest will.”

“Rest, bah!” said Holmes. He ran a hand through his dark hair, and I was seized suddenly with the desire to do the same. “What good is rest? I need facts!”

He had turned away and did not see me rise nor approach until my hand was almost on his glossy head, then he turned suddenly, startled and caught my wrist. “Russell,” he muttered. “What the devil are you doing?”

He only had a grip on one wrist. My other hand rose to complete the task, stroking his dark hair fondly. Holmes allowed it, shifting uneasily, but when my hand cupped his face and turned his countenance up to mine, his expression softened a little.

“If rest won’t do,” I said softly, “perhaps exertion…?” I let the invitation hang on the smoky air. Despite my natural reserve, I let him see the hope and entreaty on my face. His eyes flashed wide for a split-second and I thought, perhaps, that he colored slightly, but then he said, quite calmly.

“What did you have in mind, Russell? A brisk constitutional around the city?”

I let my own amusement show, but indicated my cotton nightshirt.

“I’m not dressed for a walk,” I said, suddenly feeling his awareness of me beneath the shirt. “And neither are you.”

“Russell,” Holmes began. My heart sank, but then he took the pipe out of his mouth, and I knew I had him.

He gave a little tug, pulling me into his lap. I am not petite, but Holmes, who had seemed so diminished moments ago, seemed now quite the proper size to hold his wife on his lap. With an amused expression, Holmes tucked the gown under my feet before turning his attention to the rest of me.

For a long moment, Holmes and I studied each other. His face was thoughtful, his eyes heavy-lidded and dreamy, then he put one long-fingered hand behind my neck and kissed me.

Kissing is a curious art, is it not? I say that Holmes kissed me and not that we kissed each other because, just before his lips covered mine, he shifted his hold on my form. I startled slightly as my head tipped back, and he put his lips over mine with great deliberation. After a scant two months of married life, I had teased Holmes that he ought to write a monograph on the subject. He had responded with something rude—and more kisses. While the subject was still a sore spot, and I had but to mention it to bring him to shouts, he nevertheless flushed at the suggestion and I think some part of his vanity was pleased.

Holmes had known me long enough and ought to have known me well enough to know that I did not flatter without cause. As I have mentioned, Holmes is a serious student of the obscure, the arcane and...the useful. He was capable of reducing me to hormones and bare need, but I had been his student for too long not to know his methods—and how to employ them.

I put my hands on his chest beneath the lapels of his dressing gown. It seemed funny to me, since I am always more apt to associate Holmes with quicksilver than molten iron, but his skin beneath the silk was warm, branding my palms with heat. I felt the tension in his muscles wrought by sleeplessness and mental exertion, but some of that tension was seeping out, to be replaced by a coiled readiness that was oh-so-familiar to me.

Holmes’ purchase on my frame had become more intimate, and my head fell back against his shoulder.

“Holmes,” I murmured against his mouth, but he deigned to answer, his mouth being rather too busy for speech. I opened my mouth to speak but found my vulnerability taken advantage of as he pressed his suit. It took me a long time to remember what it was I had hoped to say, but awareness of my surroundings came in spite of his skill as a lover.

“Holmes,” I said, while he pressed a gasp-inducing kiss against my neck.

“Yes, Russell,” he murmured indulgently.

“You—you really stink.”

He paused for a moment, and I felt his frame tighten.

“It’s this terrible old dressing gown—it smells like it’s been through a thousand house fires.”

Suddenly, Holmes began to whoop with laughter.

“My God, Russell,” he said, laughing great laughs that made his whole body quiver. “What a marvelous facility you have for pillow talk.”

I wrinkled my nose with distaste, but managed, at last, to take his face between my hands and kiss his laughing mouth. He let me the first time, but on the second he joined me, until we were without question kissing each other thoroughly.

With a sudden movement, Holmes stood, my tall figure still cradled in his arms.

It sounds wonderfully romantic to say that Holmes carried me off to the marriage bed, but the truth of the matter is that Holmes and I had both had numerous occasions to have to carry each other, and the act had lost some of its charm. Besides, unless one is careful, you are apt to whack your head or your heels going ‘round the corners. He sat me down on my feet but kept his arms around me for longer than necessary.

“Since you object to my attire, I shall have to do something about it,” Holmes said lazily.

“I do object to your attire,” I answered, not adding that—at the moment—I objecting to any clothing between us whatsoever. Though I did not say it, Holmes divined my meaning and a wide, wicked smile spread across his face. He set me back from him but touched my face to soften the parting.

“Let me dispose of the offending article and tend the fire. I’ll come up in a moment.”

I eyed him skeptically, wondering if he’d slump back into the chair with his pipe, but the alacrity with which he stripped off the dressing gown and hung it over the chair convinced me that I would find him by my side in a moment. I collected the tea tray and started up the stairs.

“Holmes?” I said, my foot on the step.

“Yes, Russell?”

I regarded him steadily. “What gave me away?”

Holmes voice was muffled as he bent to the fire. “The cozy,” he said.

My silence must have indicated my absolute puzzlement, for he turned his shining eyes upon me.

“Russell,” he said, patiently, as though explaining things to Watson. “You wouldn’t have wanted the cozy unless you hoped to keep the tea hot for a…” His eyes were on mine, alive with possibilities. “…a long time,” he finished, straightening at last.

I covered my blush by turning and all but bolting up the stairs. In a moment, I heard his light tread on the steps behind me, and dived into the bed.

As usual, Holmes was completely correct. The tea was remarkably hot a long, long time later when I finally poured myself—and Holmes—a cup.

Sherlock Holmes & Mary Russell: Reading Between the Sheets

ruahnna — Tue, 04 Mar 2014 04:56:25 GMT

Title: Reading Between the Sheets (Tag to Locked Rooms, by Laurie R. King)

Rating: PG-13

Genre/Relationship: Sherlock Holmes/Mary Russell, huband and wife

Warnings: Unless you're horrified by stories of domestic bliss....

Spoilers: None, really, but refers obliquely to events in Locked Rooms

Word Count: whole story—1,896

Whole Story Summary: This is a tag that takes place during the mystery "Locked Rooms." Russell is full of doubts and fretfulness, but Holmes deduces what the lady needs.

Reading Between the Sheets

Lying beside Holmes in the darkness, miserable in mind and body, it was half on my tongue to blurt out an apology or an accusation, but pride or hurt wouldn’t quite seem to let me, and I bit down grimly on my lower lip to keep the demons inside. I heard the soft regular sound of his breathing, and the slight rustle of the sheets against his pajamas, and wished that I could lose myself in the oblivion—if not the peace—of dreamless slumber.

I lay as still as I could and tried to make my breath settle into the peaceful rhythm of sleep, but my breath left me in a whoosh when one of Holmes’ warm, long-fingered hands slipped beneath my cold one and held it.

Tears sprang up under my closed eyelids and I squeezed them tightly shut. It was…it was such a tender gesture, his hand enveloping mine. My eyes felt hot, my chest tight, but the thought of crying somehow horrified me. Instead of a deep, air-suffused gasp, my hand gave a telling convulsive clasp. It was all the encouragement Holmes needed.

He surged up in bed beside me and his free hand went without hesitation beneath the nape of my neck, drawing my lips up to his as his mouth descended over mine. The room was dark, but the moonlight glazed the room in sufficient light for me to see the eager form of my lover and husband as he gathered me against his chest.

I had been miserable, fragile, consumed with fear and unhappiness, but it all fled in the face of this warmth, this communion. I found my arms around his shoulders, and the smooth tautness of his muscles beneath the skin reminded me of the strength that lay so often dormant in his wiry frame. Strength, I thought dimly, and cleverness.

Those beautiful, long-fingered hands were capable of picking locks and forcing puzzles to divulge their secrets. The mysteries of a fairly mundane English nightgown stood little chance, and then his arms were beneath the fabric, beneath me and holding me firmly along his length while his mouth plundered mine with insolence.

I felt the insolence and the joy in him, and a great well-spring of laughter bubbled up inside me even as I found my pride tweaked. Drat the man and blast him!—whatever I might not know about myself seemed irrelevant in this moment of heat and passion—but I was not to be outdone on home turf!

His own pajama buttons were unremarkable, which was just as well. We would have to hunt for one of them in the morning light since my eager hands had not released it before I tore the pajama shirt from his shoulders. The dark curls of hair on his chest were peppered with gray, touching proof of his mortality. I ran my hands over his chest and felt him tremble like a hound quivering to be released for the hunt. Though I could feel his quickened heartbeat beneath my hands, his voice was light and dry.

“Good lord, Russell,” Holmes murmured chidingly. “I shall have to find a tailor tomorrow—“ His words were cut off abruptly as my fingers skated through his hair and pulled his mouth sharply down to mine. This kiss was the more satisfying because we were now pressed skin to skin except for the annoying presence of his pajama bottoms. If I could have gotten free from his fierce embrace I would have dispatched them with equal fervor, but Holmes’ hold on me was unbreachable.

I do not like to be confined. I do not surrender my will easily or comfortably, but the resolute hold my husband had on me was not without purpose. Now that my senses—long ignored by me during our difficult trip—had been roused, I wanted him urgently, insistently, this moment—on me and in me and—

His mouth over mine was gentle, but he pulled me even tighter against him and deepened the kiss until I felt positively light-headed. I let out a gasp, and he used that against me—clever fiend!—to plumb the softness of my mouth with teeth and tongue. It was like melting, like fusing to something white-hot. I tried to right myself in this new universe, but there was no righting, and no need. My husband’s arms were warm, and safe—I need not worry about anything. Having secured my goodwill as well as my surrender, Holmes began to press scorching kisses at the base of my throat, against the line of my jaw, beneath the lobe of my ear. I caught his head between my fingers, loving the short, springy feel of his hair beneath my hands, and held his head as though to guide him.

But he did not need to be guided. He knew this sacred land well, and approached it as one who both knows and loves the country he travels through. I had known him most of my life now, and I had never known him to do anything by half-measures. That knowledge—that certainty—made my body tremble violently.

Holmes could be careless of himself and his appearance when in the throes of some mental exertion, but I could tell from the satiny brush of his skin that he had shaved again before supper. I had often liked—though I had never said—the soft scrape of his chin in the morning when I had turned into his arms, playful and teasing. With a pang, I realized it had been some time—too long, in fact, since I had done so. I tried to think back to when we had last—but independent thought was growing more and more difficult as Holmes worked his deliberate way through my last defenses.

As if sensing that he did not have my complete and undivided attention, Holmes set about claiming it. This time I did gasp as his hand moved languidly down the line of my body, coming to rest with proprietary interest on my hipbone. There was a moment, then, when we were both uncomfortably aware of the lack of flesh over my bones, and this awareness seemed to arouse some implacable beast in my husband, unsettle some long-settled place.

“Dammit, Russell,” he muttered, then those clever hands began to work their magic, drawing—no, demanding—a response from my fevered skin. I heard a sound like a groan and realized belatedly that it came from me. That, too, seemed to rouse him, and he caught my mouth beneath his again. Some of the tenderness was gone, stripped away by my need and his, and his touch became more urgent. He was drawing me, pulling me toward some mythical place with his touch and his kisses and by sheer force of will. My arms were locked around his shoulders now, our ribcages pressed close, so when the world erupted into pieces around me he was there, holding me, coaxing and cajoling and urging me with hot, hasty words past the edge of reason.

“Holmes! Holmes, darling!” I heard myself cry, and the absurdity almost made me laugh. I never called Holmes “darling,” and, for his part, he rarely even called me anything but Russell. But he was doing so now, whispering sweet, incendiary things against my throat while my body bucked and trembled helplessly. I thought I had given everything, but there was no respite from his deliberate plunder of my body. Impossibly, I felt my senses stir anew, felt my mind go foggy as the sensations of my body reigned.

“Come now, Russell,” Holmes was saying, his voice languid and teasing, although I could hear, beneath the surface, the huskiness of need. He wanted me, and that part of me that had first thrilled to know it had never dimmed, but now—this moment, he wanted more than carnal knowledge. He wanted me, and wanted to know me and wanted for me to know myself understood, cherished, known. All this and more was in the smoky, electrifying feel of his hands and mouth on my skin. Holmes said something in Yiddish—a silly endearment—and the sound made me shout with laughter, and then passion. I said…I said several things, some I don’t remember, but when sanity was at last restored to my mind if not my mutinous body, I opened my eyes to find him looking at me.

God—the look in those hawk-like eyes. I might have been prey before a predator for all the mercy that they showed, but I was not afraid—I was transfixed, transported. The want in them, the urgency, the command.

It was the latter that made me raise my chin—and a look of defiance lit up behind my eyes. Holmes saw it—I saw him see it—and the quick dark look of satisfaction, of challenge thrown down and engaged made his breath go harsh. I reached up and bit him firmly on the neck, and heard with satisfaction a groan wrenched from some deep place inside him. His heartbeat quickened, and I felt his pulse, hot and rapid against my own flushed skin.

I twined my arms around his neck, my legs around his torso and nipped him impudently on the collar bone.

Someone spoke my name, difficult to hear above the pounding of my own blood, but I silenced him with kisses and little teasing bites across his jaw. Holmes was strong, but I had the arguable advantage of youth. With the element of surprise, I pushed him onto his back and reached for the tie of his pajamas. He made as though to help me, but I pushed his hands away impatiently. His expression, stunned and more than a little amused, goaded me on. When I had what I wanted, I leaned across his heaving chest and kissed him open-mouthed.

My advantage—and my vantage point—were short-lived. Holmes made a sound very like a growl and tumbled me down, limbs intertwined. His weight on me a blessing, his breath in my ear sweet music because I had him, and he had me, and neither of us would yield, or give ground or rest until there was nothing left to yield, or give, or take.

***

There was something wickedly indecent at sitting across the breakfast table the next morning—him shaved and showered and more coolly distant than was his wont, me reserved and even brusque. The energy of the previous night hummed between us like a wire, making my pulse thrum beneath my pale skin. Only once, reaching absently for the coffee pot, did our fingers touch, but that touch make my skin jump and I saw the quick, dark gleam of passion flare behind those cool grey eyes. Cool now, I should say. I withdrew my hand quickly, but Holmes moved slowly, and I felt his eyes on me though I daren’t look.

He asked me something and I answered rather flippantly, irritation in my voice. The puzzle of my childhood was beating at me again, flaying my strung nerves, but Holmes presence across the table was a solid, comforting warmth.

“Do you want more, Russell?” my husband said, ostensibly talking about coffee. I raised my blazing eyes at last to meet his.

“Of course,” I said coolly. “I always want more.”

Title: Sherlock (BBC): Superficial

ruahnna — Sat, 01 Feb 2014 23:38:56 GMT

Rating: Gen
Genre/Relationship: John Watson, Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes
Wordcount: 1,514
Spoilers: None, really
Disclaimer: Do not own
Spoilers: None, really
Summary: After Sherlock reveals he is not dead, but before he and John can find their footing again, John is kidnapped by forces as yet unknown. Sherlock helps Mary to save his life, but there are other wounds that might take longer to heal.
Warnings: Psychological dissection. Please glove up and wear a mask
A/N: With gratitude to the creators of BBC’s Sherlock, who own this version of these characters, but not the ideas of this story.

Superficial

There were worse things, really. He’d suffered his share, to be sure, and then some. For inventiveness, it didn’t really get better than this—or worse—but in the end, the goal was almost certainly the same. The war hadn’t managed to end him, and Sherlock’s loss—while it had been a near thing—hadn’t done after all. Seeing him last night hadn’t ended him either, so he supposed he was pretty hardy stock. Or lucky. Very lucky.

Nonetheless, there was a roaring in his ears, and he still couldn’t talk. He smelled of petrol and dampness and there was a foul taste in his mouth.

They’d drugged him, of course. Still, he hoped he’d made a pretty good show of it. His muscles were sore, and there were scrapes and bruises along his knuckles, so probably. He didn’t seem to have been handled all that roughly—the scrape along his scalp was new, but he thought it might have happened when they’d dumped him in the pyre. He felt along the edge of it gingerly, wincing as he touched the broken skin, but Mary was there immediately, taking his hand and pulling it away. She kissed his knuckles, clucking over the bruises, and he felt some of the tension in his frame ease just with the clasp of her hand.

“John—John, Sweetheart, it’s okay. We’ve got you.”

We? We who? The pale moon of Sherlock’s face swam into view. Now I know I’m dreaming, John thought, but dazedly. Why, only last night he’d imagined that Sherlock was back, that he wasn’t really—

“John—we’ve got you. We’re here. It’s all right.” Sherlock’s voice, raised in pitch from his normal baritone. “We’re going to get you to hospital.”

John shook his head violently despite the pain. He tried to sit up and begin to cough.

Four hands steadied him—he knew them all, knew them well, and they knew him, too, knew better than to try to restrain him, knew how to soothe him. He coughed and coughed and felt like wretching, but his stomach was empty, his head pounding. Mary was on her knees and she reached to wrap her arms around him. Confident that there were no broken bones, she hauled him to a sitting position and cradled his head against her shoulder. He felt floppy as a rag doll, but it was good—it was wonderful to rest against her, and when he looked over her shoulder he saw his old friend, his face contorted with worry, hovering in the background. He raised his eyes to Sherlock’s pale blue ones and the instant their eyes met, Sherlock dropped to his knees on the ground behind Mary.

“John,” Sherlock said. He reached out tentatively, but stopped short. He rested his hand on Mary’s shoulder instead, but his eyes remained fastened on John’s until the paramedics arrived.

***

It is difficult to pitch a fit when you cannot talk and are barely in control of your limbs, but he managed. He managed primarily because Mary knew him, and Sherlock knew him, and they knew how loathe he was to being checked in to the hospital.

“No, really,” Mary kept insisting. “I’m a nurse. He’ll be perfectly fine with me at home.” Even with her determination, she wouldn’t have won the day without Sherlock’s aggressiveness, and finally finally the emergency workers withdrew and left them to it. John was semi-mobile by then, able to manage a hoarse whisper (though not reliably), and Mary hailed a taxi while Sherlock stood with one long, rangy arm around John’s middle, holding him upright. John felt Sherlock’s vigilance beside him like an army unit rallied for battle, and did not worry about anything.

Next, they bundled him into the back of the cab and Sherlock made arrangements with a service to return the motorcycle to its rightful owners. He could have ridden it back himself, but one look at his face and Mary had known that wasn’t going to happen. She sat on one side of John, against the far door, and Sherlock pushed in on the other side. For the first time in hours—for the first time in his life, maybe, John felt warm.

He saw Sherlock and Mary exchange glances. “Home,” Mary confirmed. “Let’s get him home.”

Home was a reverse of the process of getting John into the cab. Mary put her shoulder under his, and Sherlock stooped to support them both and they half-walked, half-dragged a mostly boneless John into the house while he cursed his helplessness. Sherlock wanted the bedroom, and Mary tried to insist on it, but John managed to bully them both, helpless as he was, and was soon ensconced on the couch. Heedless of his modesty, Mary stripped him down to his boxers and washed all traces of dust and smoke and grime away from his body with a warm washcloth. She had beautiful, competent hands, and John looked down and loved those hands, loved that those hands were touching him, taking care of him, even as he felt enraged over his inability to take care of himself.

John saw Mary making gestures over his head, obviously to Sherlock, and tried to turn his neck. It hurt. It hurt quite a lot, but John winced and turned his head just in time to see Sherlock step up behind the couch and drop a towel over his shoulders. He had a casserole dish in one hand, full of steaming water, and John’s shampoo, and before John could protest—if, indeed, he would have—Sherlock had dipped a washrag into the hot water and was running it over John’s filthy hair.

I’m not bloody helpless, he thought furiously. His throat felt swollen and useless, like your tongue after you’ve been to the dentist, and he wondered again what they might have given him.

“Of course you’re not,” soothed Mary.

“Some sort of paralytic, obviously,” said Sherlock.

For some reason, this made him laugh, being read so expertly on two tracks by his…by the people who knew him best. The water over his head wasn’t warm, it was hot, and Mary kept changing out for a fresh cloth. Soon, he was clean, dry, redressed in sweats and a sweatshirt—a two-person job if there ever was one—and half-sitting/half-reclining on the sofa. Mary held a cup of something hot to his lips—broth, salty and delicious, and his hand closed over hers. He had stopped fighting her taking care of him, not just letting her but assisting her, and he tried a smile—his first real smile since he’d been attacked. The broth loosened his throat some, which was not only sore but dry from the smoke and then the oxygen. He drank all of it, and Mary went to get more. He turned his head to follow her movements, but a great dark shape dropped in front of him and he turned and looked into the pale blue eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

“All right, then, John?” Sherlock had asked. There was little expression on his face, but John knew him so well that he could read a lot out of that little. The sight of that familiar face, so grieved for for so long, made John’s heart clench in his chest and his eyes felt full and hot. He told himself it was the aftermath of trauma, this sweep of emotion that threatened to engulf him, but he knew better than to examine that lie too closely.

“Yes,” John said, his voice raspy and cracked. They looked at each other. Gently, Sherlock’s pale, long-fingered hand reached out and checked the cut on his temple. His fingers were light and dry.

“Superficial.”

John looked at him, his eyes enormous. “No,” he said, his teeth clenched. “It’s not.”

Sherlock’s hand stilled where it was and John watched his Adam’s apple bob for a moment as he pinned him with his gaze.

“John…I—“

“Bastard,” John said. His voice was like gravel, but his eyes were surprisingly soft. “Thank God you were there.”

Sherlock looked stunned, and he opened his mouth to say something.

“Here now—have some juice,” Mary said, sliding in next to John on the couch. She pressed a glass of something cold against his lips and he took a sip of ice-cold apple juice. It was sweet and almost painfully cold, but he drank it all, aware of their eyes on him. His own eyes were closing, his body betraying him and he was literally unable to keep his lids open. Mary eased him down on the couch and covered him with a blanket and he couldn’t move, couldn’t…couldn’t anything, but it was different, it was okay. Mary was here. Sherlock was here. Nothing could hurt him now but them.

He heard them walk to the door, Mary’s shoes squeaking, Sherlock’s coat rustling as he swept it on.

“He’ll be all right.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes. He’ll be fine. I’ll take care of him.”

“I know you will.”

He heard a light step and knew without seeing that Mary had stepped close and put her hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Thank you. I couldn’t have…thank you for…saving him.”

“Mary.”

That was all. Mary. That was all. Mary and Sherlock. Watching guard over him.

Everything else could be sorted later.

Title: Sherlock (BBC): Food for Thought, Part 2

ruahnna — Sat, 01 Feb 2014 19:20:05 GMT

Title: Sherlock (BBC): Food for Thought, Part 2 For Part 1, click HERE

Rating: Gen
Genre/Relationship: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes
Wordcount: 3042 out of 5294
Spoilers: None, really
Beta: Cygnet7 (with many squishy cuddles)
Disclaimer: Do not own
Summary: Why is John being nice to Sherlock after he’s been such an arsehole to, well, everyone? After a little food, and some food for thought, Sherlock unlocks the mystery and discovers something about human nature that had eluded him before.
Warnings: Psychological dissection. Please glove up and wear a mask
A/N: With gratitude to the creators of BBC’s Sherlock, who own this version of these characters, but not the ideas of this story.

*This story was meant to be read as a whole, not chopped up like cabbage for slaw. Story breaks have been made at (I hope) the least annoying places. My apologies.

Food for Thought, Part 2

Sherlock drank his coffee sullenly. Watching him, John suddenly understood what it was that Sherlock didn’t understand.
“Hang on,” said John. “You don’t—that is, you never…you’ve never…done this before, have you?”

“Done what?” Sherlock snapped. “You’re talking in riddles, John.”

But instead of reacting to Sherlock’s temper with his own, John’s eyes widened for a split second and then his expression shifted almost imperceptibly. The ghost of a smile played about John’s mouth and he reached for his tea, hoping to disguise it.

“There now—what are you smiling about?” Sherlock demanded. “Did I say something funny?”

“No,” John had said, no longer trying to hide the smile. “No. Not funny. Not...I’ve just worked out…that is, I’ve just deduced something.”

“Yes?” Impatient, but needful, too.

“I’m just realizing that you probably don’t understand what I’m talking about.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked away.

“Sherlock—look. Haven’t you, well, I know you have. Let me see how… Okay—do you remember the time Lestrade got angry with you—“

“Which time?”

“About the Pine-Scented Cleaner Murderer.”

“Of course. He went on about it.”

“Yes, yes he did,” John admitted. “But he was annoyed. You let him run around following up leads that weren’t necessary when all the time—but I digress. I know you remember he was angry.”

“He stopped answering my texts for a bit.” John took this admission—or recognition, whatever—as a good sign.

“Stopped speaking to you for a bit, also. Wouldn’t call you for a few days.”

“He called when he needed me.”

“Yes. He did. But it took a bit, didn’t it, for things to get okay between you?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “He was pissy for a bit but he got over it.”

“He forgave you.”

“For what?”

“For being a complete asshole,” John said firmly.

“Ridiculous. I wasn’t any different than I normally am,” Sherlock protested.

John let out a short bark of laughter. “Yes. That. Exactly.”

John was able to gauge the effectiveness of his explanation by the curl of Sherlock’s lip. The detective made a sound somewhere between a growl and a hum. Also a good sign.

“You’re saying Lestrade wouldn’t call me in and didn’t want to do things for me—“

“Or with you,” John interjected.

“Because we’d had a…a row?”

“And?”

“And that’s why, when he got over it—“

“Forgave you.”

“Fine. Forgave me, he invited me out for a pint afterward.” He looked at John for confirmation. “Is that right? He was trying to tell me he still wanted to be, well….”

“Let’s go with friendly,” John said resignedly. It was as close as he thought they were likely to get.

“Interesting.” Sherlock had steepled his fingers and was bumping them against his lips thoughtfully.

“Do you mean to say…?” John stopped, frowning, his eyebrows coming low over his eyes. He shifted his feet, as though trying to think how to approach this on foot instead of conversationally. “You and Mycroft.” John had a talent for asking a question without asking one.

“Yes.” Sherlock was working hard to sound bored, when John was pretty certain he was not bored—just uncomfortable.

“When you two argued, how did you…that is…hmm.”

“Yes, we argued. We argue. What about it?”

“How did you…were you…what happened when the arguing was over?”

“I don’t understand.” Sherlock’s voice was flat and defensive. Normally, he would prefer a beating before admitting he didn’t know something, but Sherlock had no hope of out-bluffing John Watson on matters of interpersonal communication and there was the possibility that he might learn something new if he listened. He listened.

“When you and Mycroft had arguments—I know you did, all siblings do, Harry and I tried to annihilate each other on a weekly basis—what, um, you know, tell me what happened when an argument was over.”

Sherlock just looked at him. John sighed and rubbed his temple, which was suddenly throbbing. If he was hoping to mend an argument, pissing Sherlock off by bringing up his brother might not have been the best tack. He paced in a tight circle and returned to the table.

“Um….” Sherlock was doing that thing he did where he narrowed his eyes and it felt like you had a laser pointed at your forehead.

“Sherl…?”

“What do you mean,” Sherlock had asked carefully, “when an argument was over?”

John’s patience was a little worn, but this stopped him in his tracks. He looked at Sherlock, his eyebrows climbing. “When you…after you, um, work out your differences and get back on good terms….” Sherlock was staring at him woodenly, and John trailed off.

John looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked back.

It took a moment, but when the light hit, it was blinding.

“You’ve never patched…hang on. You mean to say…that is…hell, Sherlock.”

“What? I speak several languages but I am having a bit of trouble following—“

“Shut up.” He walked away from the table, then back. “Bloody hell,” John said, awe in his voice. “You’ve never patched up—not once, have you? You’ve never successfully…I mean, jeez, Sherlock.” There was something in John’s voice, some catch that fascinated Sherlock and alarmed him at the same time.

“What are you going on about?” Sherlock asked, but there was none of the usual bravado in his voice. Instead, he looked wary and confused.

John sat down suddenly at the table and leaned forward, peering at his flat mate intently. John opened his mouth to speak, shut it with a click and wiped a hand over his face. He looked at Sherlock for a long time—so long in fact that Sherlock stirred, uncomfortable. There was a play of emotions over John’s face—little fits and starts of feeling that Sherlock couldn’t even begin to catalog. It was a foreign language with no rhyme or reason and it both baffled and captivated him. John opened his mouth again, closed it, then took a quick breath and held it for a moment.

“I…trying to think how to say this—“

“Obviously.”

“Shut up.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Stop rolling your eyes at me,” John snapped. “You’re not twelve, and I’m not Mycroft!”

That was, in fact, not at all what John meant to say, but the more he thought about it, it was exactly what he meant to say. Sherlock stared at him, eyes wide, pupils dilated—fury on his face and in his bearing. He pushed back abruptly from the table and stood.

“Of course you’re not Mycroft!” he gritted. “For one thing, you live here. For another, you’re not a complete pratt all the time, so I hardly think—”

“Friends make up, Sherlock. Friends apologize.” John was looking at him with something undefinable in his eyes, and whatever it was, it was sapping his rage. The anger was still seething beneath the surface, bubbling like lava beneath his skin, but none of it seemed to be directed at John. Sherlock clenched his teeth, trying to keep what he was thinking from bursting out of his mouth.

“Look—your big brother treated you like you were a waste of space—“

“Treats me.” There barely seemed to be enough room between Sherlock’s teeth to get the words out.

“Yes. Right. He was a bastard—is a bastard—but it doesn’t follow that everyone will be like that.”

“Mycroft was remarkable adept at pointing out my faults, which—according to him, are legion.”

“Well, he’s right about that,” John said absently. “But, look—I know he messed with you every chance he got—”

“Still does,” Sherlock muttered.

“Yes,” John admitted. “But when…when friends screw up and say stupid things—“

“I don’t say stupid things.”

“Yes. You do. You’re just too stupid to know it.”

“I—“

“You are. Trust me on this—I’m right.”

“Fine. You’re right.”

Amazing how someone so insensitive to the feelings of others could be so easily wounded—or pretend to be. John let it go for the time being.

“When friends mess up and do stupid things, they try to fix things—they try to make them right.” He took in a deep breath. “Look—I said some things earlier about you being—“

“A restless, annoying, heartless prick—“

“Don’t forget inconsiderate,” John said, unperturbed.

“—and an inconsiderate jerk,” Sherlock flung. “And I said you were a fussy, uninspired—“

“Right. Got it. I think we’ve already established that we can both be complete dicks. Moving on.”

“To what?”

“Come again?”

“Moving on to what?” Sherlock snapped. “What are you trying to say?”

“That we’re friends, damn you. That’s…that’s what I’m trying to say. And I don’t want to argue with you anymore. I’m sorry. You were an ass, but so was I. I was just looking for an argument because I had a row with—“

“I know.” Sherlock’s voice was very soft. Somehow, he managed not to explain to John how he knew. “So, you won’t be seeing her anymore?”

“No.” Like a rifle shot.

“She was rather dull. Far too tame for—”

“Sherlock, I’m warning you—“

“Just saying. So you could…accompany me on a little experiment I’m conducting later? It’s after your clinic hours today.”

“How do you know it’s—“

“Because I scheduled it after your clinic hours today.”

John had gone still. He was looking at Sherlock, his expression hard to read.

“You scheduled it after my clinic hours because….” John was looking at him. There was obviously a correct answer here, and Sherlock groped for it.

“Because I…because I want you to come.”

“Close.”

“Because you like to come.”

“Better.” John looked at him, his eyebrows knitting together, for a long moment, then he flashed a quick grin and looked away. “See? You do get this.”

“Get what?” Sherlock asked, and John began to laugh.

****

Standing at the edge of his bed, looking at the laundry—neatly folded, two creases to his shirts—Sherlock thought about that conversation, and thought about the food that was waiting in the kitchen now. He tried to apply prior knowledge to current events, but it wouldn’t quite match up. John seemed to be making peace, but he had been in the wrong. He dressed slowly, thoughtfully, trying to work out how best to proceed.

He was quiet as he emerged, and when he came round the kitchen door John looked up as he did and they both looked away.

“Right then,” said John. “There’s food.”

Sherlock sat and looked at his plate and tried not to dive headfirst into it.

“Thank you,” he said, and though he meant them the words came out stiff. He looked up quickly and found John was looking at him.

“Sherlock—about what happened with the Major—“

“Yes, sorry about that.”

John caught himself before his jaw dropped open in surprise, but his eyes still flared wide, staring. “Come again?”

“I shouldn’t have been berating the client.”

“Yes…true.” John seemed doubtful. This was certainly going too easy.

“But he was being so completely annoying,” Sherlock said quickly. “I know you said—“

“Forget what I said. I…look, I was out of line.”

Sherlock shook his head, speared a sausage and shoved it—whole—into his mouth. John had been relieved to see that Sherlock’s company manners were not completely ingrained. It might have made sharing a flat with him unbearable. “No—you were quite accurate.”

“That’s usually more your line.”

“Yes.” Sherlock seemed more subdued than usual.

“Anything going on? I mean, anything you want to, you know, talk about?”

“I’m working on a blog entry about the viscosity of entrails that have been frozen compared to entrails which have not.”

“Not what I was talking about,” said John, deliberately not looking at the plate of gleaming sausages.

“Oh. Nothing comes to mind.”

“Then what was with the three-day funk? You’re working on some things for your…for Mycroft.”

Sherlock waved his hand as though dispelling smoke. “Tedious,” he said. “Lots of bother but nothing to sink my teeth into.” He punctuated his words with an enormous bite of toast and his eyes looked wistful. “Sometimes…sometimes I wish I still smoked.”

John put his elbow on the table and his head on his fist, looking at Sherlock. He smiled. “Liar. You always wish you still smoked.”

Sherlock cleared his throat and forked up a huge piece of fluffy omelet, strings of cheese dripping off the end. He opened his mouth and poked in a tomato wedge.

“Starving, were you?”

“You know my methods.”

“Yes—starve yourself for days and then eat everything in the cupboard.”

“This is better than raiding the cupboard, John.”

“I should hope so.”

Things were easy between them, suddenly, but Sherlock had never been good at letting sleeping dogs lie.

“You did my laundry.”

John looked away. “I threw in a few things when I did my own.”

“I—yes. Thank you. I was expecting I might have to make use of the sheet again.”

“And now you know why,” John said, but he was smiling. Sherlock was obviously trying to get something out, so John tried hard to wait. They were neither one any good at this—except when they were spectacular at it.

Sherlock laughed, then sobered and took a sip of the second cup of perfect coffee that had been perched by his plate. Just the way he liked it. The coffee seemed to decide him.

“Here now—I was wrong, but you’re being nice to me.”

“What—you don’t like it?”

“No, it’s—“

“Because—trust me—I can go back to being a bleeder any time you like.”

“And probably will,” Sherlock muttered, but they were both smiling. “No, I’m serious. I don’t understand.” His pale eyes were fixed on his friend’s face, looking to him for guidance. They had both got used to John being the moral compass for both of them.

John got up and went to the stove, turned off the burners that were on and then sat back down, wiping his hands on his corduroys as he did so. He cleared his throat once, twice, then coughed discreetly.

“Any time now,” Sherlock said.

“Shut up.”

“Just saying….”

“Just stop saying. Just eat.”

“I—“

“Sherlock, so help me. If you want me to turn back into a bounder—“

“No.”

The silence fell awkwardly between them, and they both ate for a moment. The food was good, really good, so it was not hard to do it justice. They passed the bread and jam and tomatoes and sausages around until there were none left, then John pushed his plate back.

“You don’t understand why I’m being nice to you.”

“John, that’s not what…I know that’s what I said, but I’m…”

“Right. Well.” He cleared his throat again. “You were a rotter to Major Patel. It’s a good thing I’m not active duty anymore or I’d have been bounced down to 2^nd Lieutenant.” He smiled humorlessly, but Sherlock nodded gravely instead.

“That is a good thing,” he murmured.

“But if you can locate his—”

“Already found it,” Sherlock announced.

“You—what? When? You know where he left it?”

“He didn’t leave it. It was pinched.” The last word came out like a pop.

“Pinched? By who? And who would want it? It’s not like it was valuable.”

“It’s not—not in any monetary sense, but it’s meaningful to him.”

“So…we’re looking for someone who would want to take something…wait. You said you knew…what do you know? Do you know where it is?”

“His brother took it.”

“His brother? Why? What possible reason—”

Here, Sherlock shrugged and inclined his head. John looked a question at him, but he shook his head. “Old grudge.” There was an edge of…something in his voice that caught John’s ear.

“How did you know?”

“He told me, in so many words. Something important to him goes missing. He suspects his brother, but doesn’t want it to be his brother, so he—”

“So he hired us to find his key fob, to prove…wait. Hold on. He hired us to prove his brother did it?”

Sherlock’s expression was hard to read. “No,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble of sound, as though the words were rolling around in his chest instead of coming out of his mouth. “He hired us to prove his brother didn’t take it.”

“Now I don’t understand.”

“One mystery at a time, John,” Sherlock sighed. “He hired us so that he could go on believing that his brother didn’t do it, that his brother wouldn’t do something like that.”

“They why did he—”

“You were angry at me for pushing on the Major about whether or not he was mistaken about when he saw it last. I was rather hard on him, but I needed to know if he had a decent story and would stick to it. The reason he was so insistent about when he’d last had it was because that was after—”

“After his brother had last visited. I see.” John leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. “So…what are you going to tell him?”

“It depends. It depends on what the brother has to say for himself. If he knows we’re on to him, he might return it, pretend to find it at his brother’s place.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“If he doesn’t, then I’ll return the Major’s money and tell him I can’t help him.”

John stared, then shook his head. “You’re going to lie to him?”

“Probably,” Sherlock said. He looked at his flat mate levelly. “Surely you know by now that I don’t have a problem with stretching the truth.”

“But doesn’t he want to know that his brother would do something like this?”

Sherlock’s voice was very quiet. “Would you?”

It was still in the flat for a moment, then John nodded. “Not one for the blog,” he said.

“No. Not one for the blog.”

John stood up and began to put dishes into the sink. Sherlock stood up and started to carry his plate to the sink, but John reached to take it from him.

“I’ve got it.”

Sherlock held on to the plate, staring at John with a frown on his face. “You don’t have to be nice to me when I’m in the wrong.”

John tugged the plate away, and though his expression was neutral, his eyes were merry. “I don’t have to be nice to you at all. We’re friends.”

This time, when Sherlock smiled, the expression made wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “True, that,” he said, and went to call Mycroft.

***FIN***

Title: Sherlock (BBC): Food for Thought, Part 1

ruahnna — Sat, 01 Feb 2014 19:08:06 GMT

Title: Sherlock (BBC): Food for Thought (Part 1 of 2)

Rating: Gen
Genre/Relationship: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes
Wordcount: 1212 out of 5294
Spoilers: None, really
Beta: Cygnet7 cygnet7(with many squishy cuddles)
Disclaimer: Do not own
Summary: Why is John being nice to Sherlock after he’s been such an arsehole to, well, everyone? After a little food, and some food for thought, Sherlock unlocks the mystery and discovers something about human nature that had eluded him before.
Warnings: Psychological dissection. Please glove up and wear a mask
A/N: With gratitude to the creators of BBC’s Sherlock, who own this version of these characters, but not the ideas of this story.

*This story was meant to be read as a whole, not chopped up like cabbage for slaw. The story break was put at (I hope) the least annoying places. My apologies.

Food for Thought, Part 1

“Is there anything to eat?”

John looked up from the newspaper balanced on his knee. Sherlock had been an unmoving, inert lump for so long John had stopped expecting him to respond to questions, much less ask them.

“Short answer—yes. Were you asking if there was food in the flat, or if there's anything prepared?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it.

John raised his eyebrows and waited. He was good at it.

“What day is it?”

“Thursday,” John answered, then added, “The 20^th,” just to be sure he'd covered all bases.

“Yes, I do know what month it is,” Sherlock said coolly, flashing petulant eyes at his flat mate. But John didn't notice. He'd stepped around to the kitchen and was pouring a cup of coffee.

Out of his fugue, open again to what was happening around him, Sherlock inhaled the scent greedily but was too proud to ask after being snappish. His eyes narrowed as he watched John stir in two spoonsful of sugar and then his face relaxed into a smile.

“Thank you,” he said when John handed it to him. “Thank you” wasn't tantamount to admitting he'd been an arse, that he was an arse. He sipped his coffee, which was perfect, exactly the way he liked it. His eyes narrowed again, taking in data.

“I'm making an omelet,” John said. Sherlock looked at him suspiciously. There were multiple ways to respond—17 occurred to him immediately—but before he had soused them out and picked one, he saw John pull six eggs out of the carton and realized no response was necessary. Real butter sizzled in the skillet, making his mouth water. He sipped his coffee and tried not to drool.

“Shower.” It was not a question. Sherlock sniffed his sleeve and shot up off the couch in a quick, fluid movement, covering the steps to the bathroom in four long strides. The door banged behind him and John heard the water start to run.

Standing under the scalding spray, Sherlock scrubbed and thought. At least he couldn't smell the food in here with the water pouring over his head. He tried to puzzle it all out, tried to make sense of the coffee, the food.

John was far more domestic that he was. At least, he was far more regular in his domestic habits, but who wasn't? Still, John made his own bed, washed his own clothes (and frequently Sherlock's) and seemed to prepare and consume food on a semi-regular basis. He packed his lunch—that working class frugality was deeply ingrained—changed his toothbrush with appalling regularity and even tidied up the living area when it got to be too much. The lab equipment he had learned to ignore or work around—the first time he'd interfered with one of Sherlock's experiments had led to rather a loud row (loud on both sides), and there now seemed to be a collection of TV trays upon which to eat when one did not wish to bother with setting a real table, which was pretty much...always. The first time they'd eaten at a really nice restaurant, he was aware of John watching him with interest as he worked his way through the silverware.

“The fact that I have good table manners is not my fault,” he had muttered sulkily, and though John had said nothing, a muscle had jumped in his cheek and Sherlock could tell he was amused.

“You'll have to add it to the list,” John said dryly, but that was all.

Why was John being nice to him? He was sure—he was quite sure that he'd been rather appalling earlier, and he was quite sure because John had told him in that clipped, furious way of his. The Case of the Missing Key Fob, (God, he was doing it now—naming the damn things) while completely inconsequential, had stymied him into a funk of bad manners, and apparently you weren't allowed to use your bad manners with little old men who had asked for your help. John had supplied the manners part—that was part of why he'd come, after all—but things had been stiff after that. The cab ride home had been rather unpleasant, but then he'd never been good at chatting.

That was some days ago—three to be exact, and he'd come in, dropped onto the couch and...disappeared inside his own head, his “mind palace.” Mycroft was being an effluviant orifice—well, the man defined the term, didn't he?—but they'd “traded favors,” as John had once called it and he'd put the key fob mystery and Mycroft's three puzzles into the mix to simmer. Trading favors, hah! These things with Mycroft always had the shape and feel of hostage exchanges. Speaking of hostages....

He wondered if he had any clean clothes. Probably not, since he'd been a complete git. At least, John had so indicated in the short space of time they'd actually been talking in the taxi. So why was John making food?

Well, John was nice, wasn't he? Perhaps not in the classical sense—John could be very un-nice with his revolver in his hand, and he had been very un-nice when they were back-to-back against a field of toughs a couple of capers ago, and he was un-nice when complaining about the...well, that wasn't strictly true. John was even nice when complaining about, urm, all the things he seemed to find objectionable about sharing a flat with someone as difficult and unsocialized as.... But why was John being nice now?

He shampooed his hair—once, of course, since twice was completely unnecessary and a ruse to convince ignorant people to use up their supply of personal grooming product twice as fast—shaved by feel without looking at his face and banged out of the bathroom without bothering to dry off. The smell of sausages and hot bread tortured him as he dashed into his room. He wondered if John would let him eat wrapped in his bedsheet? The last time he'd come to the table less than fully dressed, John had almost sprayed him with a mouthful of cranberry juice, although he’d managed not to choke.

“Clothes. Now.”

“I don't understand what the problem is,” Sherlock had objected. “If it was good enough for The Queen—“

“I am not the bloody Queen.”

“So you keep telling Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, but he was brilliant, so he knew enough to run after he did. If John hadn't murdered him then....

“GO!” John had bellowed, pointing. Sherlock had stomped down the hall and returned wearing his best bespoke suit, a silk tie and a shirt that John had never seen before.

“The diamond cufflinks are a nice touch,” John muttered. “When did you get a shirt with French cuffs?”

“Mummy,” Sherlock had huffed, and eaten his chicken parmesan with impeccable fashion sense. If he’d hoped to annoy John by being overdressed—and he had—it didn’t work, and John had eaten his own dinner in denim-clad comfort.

***

Remembering, Sherlock pulled up short and stared. There were clean clothes on the end of his bed. He had done things, when ruminating on a case, things that he’d been quite unaware of, but laundry was certainly not one of those things, so…. Deduction: John had done laundry. More specifically, John had done his laundry. Why? Whywhywhywhywhy?

It could be a peace offering, but then, it really couldn’t be, either. He had been the offender—at least, according to John. If he understood the concept—and it had been a new one to him, having never made peace with anyone before—after a row, friends sometimes did little things for each other, little nice things for each other, in order to reestablish their intention to remain on good terms with each other. He could still remember John’s incredulity, then the halting, awkward way John had explained it to him. The first time they had argued (not about the test tubes on the kitchen table), he had been both surprised and suspicious of John’s attempts to smooth things over. He himself tended to ignore unpleasantness that had happened, but this wasn’t quite the same. While his roommate had not referred to the argument or the specifics of it, John made a noticeable attempt to make himself agreeable, to not chide, to not complain and to turn the conversation in directions that Sherlock liked best.

“What are you doing?” he had demanded, eyes narrowed.

“I don’t really know,” John had sighed, with just a touch of longsuffering. “Sometimes, I have no idea what I’m about here.”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock had huffed, waving a hand. “I get that it’s a philosophical debate, but I meant…what are you doing now? Right now?”

“I’m reading the paper.”

“Not what I meant.”

“Of course not,” John had muttered, and scrubbed his face with his hand before putting on an expression of patient attention. “Ask your question again, please.”

The “please” both baffled and annoyed him, and his eyes narrowed. “You’re not just reading the paper,” he’d accused. “You’ve skipped right over the sports section, which you like and I don’t, and you’re reading out the bits you think I’ll be interested in.”

“Brilliant deduction,” John had said, and though it was said gently, John’s eyes glittered with a warning that starting another argument would not be a good use of time.

“You usually read the sports section.”

“Only when I’m trying to avoid conversation.” He did not add “with you,” as it was both obvious and unnecessary. Still, Sherlock had blinked. He had made the first deduction, but the second had not occurred to him before. Something in John’s face made it occur now and he thought back through all the times John had retreated into the sports section…. Hmm. He had noticed, apparently, but hadn’t put the bits together. Sherlock did not know it, but at the moment, his own train of thought was as obvious to John as most other people’s thoughts were to him.

“I’m trying to make peace,” John had said, trying to soften it a little.

Sherlock had stared at him owlishly. “Peace? Exactly who are you at war with?”

“With you!” John had cried. “Oh for heaven’s sake—”

“We are not at war,” Sherlock had said after a moment, confusion clouding his face. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Well, we had a…a fight earlier. You were being….you, and my temper got the best of me.”

“Yes it did. And you said some—“

“I know what I said!” John had snapped, then got a hold of himself. “I…Sherlock, I know what I said, but I was angry.” A muscle jumped in John’s jaw.

“Are you angry? Now, I mean.” Sherlock had seemed genuinely interested.

“I was,” John admitted. “I was annoyed about…well, look, this is counterproductive. I was just trying for us to have a nice, peaceable afternoon in the flat instead of sniping at each other.”

“Sniping? What do you mean, sniping?”

“I mean,” John had said, a flash of irritation on his face, “that I was trying to stop arguing with you.”

“You did stop. We haven’t argued for hours,” Sherlock said. John sighed again.

“Well, maybe we haven’t been arguing out loud for several hours, but I’ve still been arguing with you in my head.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I have no idea,” John had cried. He looked up and rolled his neck, tension evident in his compact frame. He’d started to stand up, reaching for his mug.

“So…you’re telling me that, even though we worked out the disagreement—“

John had straightened, leaving the mug on the table. “We didn’t work it out! We just stopped fighting about it.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“It is.”

John had leaned over, his palms flat on the table in front of him. There was a dangerous glint in his eye. “It’s not. I’m telling you—it’s not the same thing.”

“Oh.”

John’s eyebrows had gone up. He’d learned to read Sherlock better in the months since they’d lived together, and “oh” was often a good sign. He’d raised his own eyebrows in response.

“Oh…what?”

“Nothing,” said Sherlock. “I mean—it’s nothing.”

“It might not be nothing to me,” John had said. He did not whing, and even managed not to sound aggrieved. He was merely stating a fact.

“I was just applying the information you have so thoughtfully provided to previous…that is, I’m thinking back and—“

“Realizing why people you’d argued with stopped talking to you or answering your calls.”

“I usually text.”

“Usually,” John had said, unperturbed. “But not the point I was making.”

“The paper.” The ground felt spongy under Sherlock’s feet and he wanted to get back onto firmer footing.

“Yes.” John offered nothing, damn the man anyway.

“So…you’re reading the paper to me…to apologize? It’s completely unnecess—“

“No.” Like a thunderclap.

“So…you’re not apologizing to me.”

“No.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Matching t-shirts it is,” John had muttered. He’d rolled his eyes heavenward and prayed for patience.

For Part 2, click HERE

Sherlock (BBC): A Long While

ruahnna — Mon, 20 Jan 2014 23:10:24 GMT

Title: Sherlock (BBC): A Long While
Rating: PG-13ish
Genre/Relationship: John Watson, Mary Morstan, Sherlock (off-screen)
Spoilers: None, really
Word Count: 2.635
Summary: It's been a long while since Watson felt much of anything, but that's about to change.

A/N: With gratitude to the creators of BBC's Sherlock, who own this version of these characters, but not the ideas of this story.

A Long While

The key made a raspy sound in the lock—a soft sound, a normal sound, but his heart began to race when he heard it. He’d had trouble before adjusting to normal, but this wasn’t that. This was something else. This was fear, plain and not-so-simple—fear of being let in, of letting someone else in. But this was Mary, and it was okay. It would be okay.

As if sensing his turmoil, she turned and put a hand on his arm. “I'm glad you’re coming in,” she said, and smiled at him. He smiled back, a quick reflexive upturn of the lips, and put a warm hand on her waist. She turned the doorknob and pushed open the door. Mary took off her scarf and hung it on the coat tree and he helped her off with her coat. It was nice, it was domestic, and he grinned when she grabbed his shoulders and turned him around so she could help him off with his coat. He turned back to her, intending to say something semi-clever about turnabout being fair play, but before he was quite facing her, she had sort of launched herself at him, her arms around her neck, her mouth on his.

It was unexpected. It was surprising. It was…perfect. John realized he’d been hoping for this, longing for this, almost since the first time he’d seen her this evening.

Life had been gray, dull, shades of obligation and perfunctory, but she had not been any of these things. A quick wit, a tidy figure, an earthy sense of humor. It was as though a shaft of sunlight had suddenly pierced through the gloom, illuminating her. He knew what it was like to stand near that sort of light, to bask in the reflected warmth of a light like that, but it had been a while. A long while.

His body seemed to know what to do—thank the Lord for that—giving his mind a chance to catch up. His arms surged around her, clasping her against him, and it was welcome, it was splendid, it was everything he might have hoped for.

The first kiss was ending, and she gave a breathy laugh. “There now. That’s better, isn’t it?” she asked. “I’ve been thinking about that for a while.”

“Great minds,” he murmured, and kissed her again, but she laughed, a throaty chuckle, dislodging his claim on her mouth

“It’s not your mind I'm interested—oh!”

He had lifted her up against the wall, hands cupped beneath her delectable bum. Her legs locked around his waist, a flash of heat against his groin, and she pushed her hands through his hair to get a better purchase while she kissed him senseless. There was a sound, a moan maybe, and he worked to find a footing that would give them some traction. His foot scraped an electrical cord, pulling a lamp off-kilter, and his hand shot out as hers did to steady it. He turned, surprised at the polished texture beneath his fingers, admiring the finish of the lamp base with a cultured eye.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” he said, and they both burst out laughing. Mary smiled at him and cupped his face.

“I'm glad you’re here,” she said. “Glad you’re staying.”

Was he staying? Apparently he was. “Me, too.” He smiled and they tilted chins to kiss, slowly and thoroughly, savoring the taste and touch of each other’s lips. He closed his eyes—Weren’t you supposed to close your eyes?—but when he opened them again hers were open, too, and she was looking at him. The expression on her face made his whole body flush with heat, a fire ignited by the smoldering look in her eyes. His hands slipped beneath the skirt and her skin, even with the tights, was hot enough to brand his palms. She wriggled, pressing against him and one of her hands snaked into his open collar to touch the hollow of his collarbone, the side of his neck. He trembled like a stallion beneath her hand and tried to take in enough air, but there didn’t seem to be enough air. He crushed her to him, his mouth hard over hers and there was no way she could be unaware of his desire. She shifted urgently, inching her hold on his hips down until he groaned.

“Well, this is no good, is it?” she muttered against his mouth. He froze, stung and immobile.

“I—what?” he said dazedly. He had thought—

“I said, ‘This is no good,’” Mary repeated, then went on in an aggrieved tone. “I mean, I want to get you out of these clothes, and I want you to get me out of my clothes, and we can’t ruddy do that like this, can we?”

She was looking at him expectantly, waiting for his answer as though she’d asked him to solve a particularly sticky logarithm.

“Your room…?” he asked, feeling surreal. She smiled at him and pointed.

“Second door down the hall,” she said. He carried her over the threshold.

***

That had been the first time, the first taste of heat and need and freedom in her arms, and she was everything in his arms that she had promised to be in his dreams. She was playful and inventive and occasionally wicked and she poured herself over him like a balm, soothing the rough, torn places in his soul, dispelling the darkness that sometimes threatened to smother him.

The darkness worried her, but it didn’t frightened her. When she could—when he would let her—she would venture in far enough to hold him in it, or through it, and when that was not enough, she was simply there, loving him from whatever distance he would allow until he could find his way out, find his way back to her.

John might have said he was happy, and he might have believed it. It was true, in its own way, but happiness was something he’d not dared give breath to in…well, a while. A long while. It fluttered inside him like a bird trapped in a cathedral, beating at the windows but unable to get free. Mary seemed to know that, seemed to love him knowing he was damaged and did not demand proof of anything to know him worthy of her love. As much as he could, he opened himself up to her and loved her with a ferocity that shook him to his core but didn’t threaten to make him shatter.

They moved in together with very little fuss. “I don’t much care, either way,” Mary had said. “I’ll come to you, or you can come to me. As long as we’re in the same—“

“Bedroom,” John had ventured, and smiled.

“I was going to say ‘flat’ but yes—the same bedroom, I'm all in.”

And his smile had blossomed into a laugh and he had kissed her. “I'm all in, too.”

“Good to know,” she said cheekily, and whispered something naughty in his ear.

Work had saved him, not because of the work itself, but because she was there. It was happenstance, really. She had come from the service to fill in for Darcy, one of the usual nurses, and when he had emerged, engrossed in the chart he was making notes on, he had looked up to see her inquisitive face instead of Darcy's usually long-suffering one.

“Um, hello,” he said. “I don't...that is...you're not Darcy.”

“I'm not,” she had said with a smile. “Remember? She's out today and called the service for a replacement.”

“I didn't actually. Remember, that is.” God, what a conversationalist he was proving. He stuck out his hand, as much from awkwardness as good manners.

“Good morning, Dr. Watson. I'm Mary—Mary Morstan,” she had said, and he could not shake the feeling that she was amused as she took his hand. Her fingers were warm.

“I'm John. John Watson, the, um, doctor.”

“I gathered that much,” she said, indicating the white coat.

“Oh. Right. Well, thank you for, um, being Darcy today.” He had tried for clever and it hadn't come off, but she smiled at him anyway.

“Oh, I'm not Darcy,” Mary had said. “You'll see.”

And he had.

***

It had started with coffee. Well, actually, it started with decent coffee. Mary brought in a coffee pot and some decent dark roast and brought him a cup on a day when his morning had gone from bad to dismal. He'd look up in surprise.

“Well, taste it, won't you?” she'd teased. And he'd taken a sip, then another, his taste buds dancing. “Better.”

It was not a question. “Yes,” he'd said, then, “Thank you.”.

A few days later, she'd poked her head in and asked if he wanted some fish and crisps. He'd looked up, eyes drifting toward his brown bag. It had been too busy for him to justify taking an actual lunch break these past few days.

“C'mon—hot food will do you good.”

He'd smiled and reached for his wallet, but she'd waved him on. “Catch me

later,” she'd said.

And he had. For dinner that Friday.

***

Darcy never returned—the sister she'd gone to take care of apparently needed long-term care, and although he felt a twinge of guilt, John had had to admit how much brighter the office seemed with Mary there. She was cheerful, happy, competent and always surprisingly glad to see him. Her manner with the patients was above reproach, and her manner with him...life began to seem worthwhile again, no longer a drudgery.

For all that, he was slow, still reeling from...everything. Still half-expecting Sherlock to emerge from the shadows and say it had all been some awful, some horrible mistake. Still finding his feet and his thoughts turning toward Baker Street instead of the hole-in-the-wall he'd rented. The blog had been shut down and he'd closed his email account linked to it. He hadn't been able to talk to any of the old crew—not Greg Lestrade, not Ms. Hudson. He'd hunched his shoulders against the world—friends and foes alike—and clomped solidly forward. Except that Mary was now walking beside him.

***

It happened gradually, almost imperceptibly, in increments of trust the size of crumbs, but it happened. And after supper one night, without panache, she had asked him in, had told him to stay. And he had.

***

It couldn't have been a surprise to her. He wasn't good at surprises. He wasn't good with surprises. But still—in spite of everything—he'd had trouble getting the words out. Perhaps it was because some part of his life still seemed unfinished, broken somehow, and dangling. He had tried and tried to put the pieces together, to make sense of Sherlock's improbable suicide, but nothing came. How was it possible, he'd asked himself, that he—who had thought of it more than once since returning—could not have recognized the signs of despair in his friend? He remembered the times he'd chided Sherlock for his bragging, his obnoxious boasting—and each instance scored him now with scars that burned, making him writhe with remorse. But it had not been his chiding, or even Moriarty's, that had killed that great mind. The tide of public opinion, that fickle temptress who promised so much and delivered so little had crushed the heart of the man, had stolen his thunder and then his life. Well, he was done with that, at least. He was done with limelight. He wanted the heat of the hearth, not the blaze of the spotlight.

At least, that's what he told himself.

The ring was easy. He'd watched her style, the way she ornamented herself, and he knew—knew without asking—that she would like anything he picked simply because he picked it, so he had picked it, had chosen something strong and lovely for her, and had waited with the velvet box to say what needed saying, and then....

Damn the man. Damn the man anyway. Damn him to hell and to its lowest point, and yet—fighting with his fury and the almost blinding pain of betrayal—he had felt joy. Not just happiness—that emotion he'd so clumsily convinced himself he possessed—but joy, damn it.

But the joy had been buried under the fury, the peace obscured by the white-hot rage set off by Sherlock's idiotic sense of humor, his juvenile delight in stopping John's heart. He'd wanted to kill him, wanted to hurt him...wanted to thrash at him for the pain of finding and losing and finding again. And it had been too much, too much to take in in an evening that had been so fraught with promise.

Promise! He had wanted Sherlock not to be dead, and he had gotten his wish. Be careful what you wish for. But Mary...Mary had seemed to take it all in stride. Mary had understood his rage, had understood Sherlock nature's, his seeming lack of warmth, his brilliance She had let him have his say, his rage, and then, when he had nothing left to say, she had taken him home.

Words had failed him, were beyond him, and she did not try to get him to talk. She had put her shoulder next to his in the taxi, put her cheek on his shoulder to let him know she was close. He had sat in a daze, miserable and elated, his emotions churning till he felt light-headed and ill. There was nothing to say to that, and nothing to do for it and she didn't try, didn't pester. He would have to sort the worst of it out on his own.

They reached the flat, coming in as they had that first time, as they had hundreds of times before, stopping in the lobby to deal with coats and scarves. At last, he stood there, shivering not from cold but from shock, and she had taken his hand and led him back to their room. It took only moments to strip him down to the essentials, to tuck him beneath the sheets and join him, draping herself across him, holding him close against the maelstrom beating against his brain.

It is hard to seduce a distracted man—hard, but not impossible. Mary was

patient, gentle with him because he seemed so lost, and determined to find a place he felt at home. At some point John had seemed to waken to himself, had turned and looked at her as though just aware that she was there, of her insistent caresses and her warm embrace. He had kissed her, gently at first, and then with more earnestness, more need and urgency until the noise in his head had been blocked by the sound of the blood rushing through his veins....

He had missed that, the thrill of the unknown, the thrill of danger and imminent destruction and he tried, he did his best to self-destruct in his lover's's arm, to drown the sorrow and beat back the little knife-pricks of shame and anger and betrayal that were plaguing him. Sherlock was not dead. He had not failed his friend. He was loved, was valued, was needed. Sherlock had said it, and Mary had said the same. He was needed. He was needed. The universe was righting itself, and the thought of going forward with both of them at his side...it was enough. Enough to be going on with.

In the bleak morning hours, Mary drowsed against him, her silky head on his shoulder, and pressed her face into the hollow of his neck. He felt her breath stir against his skin and felt...alive, alive and grateful.

He felt alive for the first time in, well, a long while.