White Collar - Red Lines on white Walls

[kriadydragon]

Title: Red Lines on white Walls
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Neal, Peter, Mozzie
Warnings: Blood, some violence but nothing explicit
Written for: hesselives for the collarcorner Ficathon.
Summary: An old associate of Neal's has requested his help, and isn't giving him much choice in the matter. Beta'd by the awesome rabidchild67.

ETA; It was with much annoyance that I realized I'd published the un-beta'd version of this story (I am such a tool!) It has now been fixed.

Red Lines on White Walls

When blood spatters on a brick, it runs down in wandering rivulets, like the start of a drawing, shapeless and haphazard; lines on a page that mean nothing yet. Scribblings. Sketches. Meanderings. Nothing trying to turn into something.

Neal keeps wondering what those lines would have made if he'd been allowed to watch them. He knows that what he should be wondering is why the hell he even cares. But a chillingly calm voice in his head informs him coolly that he's in shock. He's surrounded by so much he could look at, two canvases on easels covered by dime store sheets and more canvas, all blank, piled in the corner, but he can't stop staring at the sketchbook lying open on the table. The picture is just lines, folds of a cloth and the start of a face too vague to put a name to but with a tilt that Neal knows doesn't make it the Mona Lisa.

Mostly, though, he's thinking about lines of blood, about the coffee shop clerk, her face as she crumpled to the ground – contorted, terrified, sobbing. The bus boy, curled into himself on the floor, gasping, blood puddling next to him.

“Relax, they'll live,” said the masked guy who had shoved Neal into the van, like Neal has any reason to believe him. A short drive, being hustled blindfolded and cuffed into another car, a long drive and Neal finds himself sitting in every artist's dream – a studio, well equipped and begging to be used. The floor is concrete, the walls cement block painted white, tables scattered everywhere and paints and brushes scattered on the table. The only ugly flaw is the windows that have been boarded up, and that's a shame. Natural light is so much healthier for painting. It makes you feel like you are actually creating something, not just slapping lines on a canvas.

Neal had stood there. People were shot, contorted, helpless, and he'd stood there, frozen, staring.

Neal's not a fighter and he's always been okay with that. He's never needed to fight when thinking and running are such better alternatives. There's no blood, no pain, just you and everyone around you living another day. He's never had to fight, or watch people bleed, because he always runs.

Voices arguing expand Neal's awareness back to his surroundings. He looks up from the sketchbook at the door to the right swinging open. The (formerly) masked guy walks in. Neal may not know his face, but he recognizes the build. He's broad and boxy with cropped blond hair like an ex mercenary right out of the movies. The man following him is shorter by half an inch and the stocky kind of lean of someone who stays fit but can never be called thin. His face is round but his cheekbones and nose are sharp, his cornflower eyes even sharper. It's not a face you can trust. Neal knows.

“Phillip,” Neal says, the surprise that slips out only a fraction of what Neal feels. Phillip (don't ever call me Phil, please) is supposed to be halfway across the world basking in the paradise he had always promised himself. But he remaining in that paradise, Neal also knows, had always been wishful thinking. If Neal ever gets the chance to describe him to Peter (and he whispers a silent prayer that he will, not for his sake, but so that whoever the bull-dog working with Phil never does to others what he did to those people at the coffee shop) it would be of a man caught between wanting to be like Neal, but walking the path of Keller. He is neither blue collar nor white, exists wearing the soul of an artist but acts on the impulse of a drug lord. Even now, he's looking at Neal, silent apology pouring from him like water from a floodgate. He moves across the room, closing the sketchbook along the way, tweaking one of the sheets without looking at it, then grabs a chair, flips it around and straddles it across from Neal. He folds his arm across the back rest.

“I'm sorry Neal,” he says. “I didn't mean for it to go down like this. I know how much you hate violence.” He says this the same way someone might say “I know how much you hate smoking” or “I know how much you dislike this type of music,” like it's a lifestyle choice that he's trying to be understanding of.

Neal replies bitterly, “A snatch and grab wasn't flashy enough for you?”

“I wanted it to be low key,” Phillip says, eyes darting accusingly at Mercenary Man.

Mercenary Man is unapologetic. “You wanted distractions, Meyers. This'll go a long way, trust me.”

Phillip doesn't look convinced, but drops the matter in deference to Neal. “I'm sorry, Neal. But you can't really blame me, can you? Routines, Neal. Never have routines. Isn't that what you always told me? It makes you too easy to find.”

“I didn't know I had to worry about being found,” Neal says, voice level, tone cold.

Phillip's nod is thoughtful. “You wouldn't. I'll give you that. In fact, seems these days everyone's trying to avoid you. But for good reason, right?” He looks at Neal like a parent hoping their child will confess but promising not to be mad if they do. When Neal stays mute, Phillip looks away, maybe ashamed that he even tried, maybe ashamed of Neal for having chosen a side. Neal and Phillip had been just as in-between as Phillip's personality, Phillip supportive of Neal's distaste for violence, but making no illusion that he wasn't above using it. They'd parted on neutral terms, but Neal had been relieved.

“This isn't personal, Neal,” Phillip says, sincerely trying to assuage Neal's fears. Phillip is like that, eager to please on the one hand, “I swear. I just... need you out of the way, that's all,” but only when it suits him on the other. Neal persuades with charm and smiles, Phillip persuades with heartfelt kindness.

“It won't be for long. Then you can come with us. Hell, you could even help us out. I could use your expertise.” Phillip smiles. “You always kicked ass with the brushes and paint.”

Neal keeps his mouth shut. Words are his weapon, his only weapon, but on someone like Phillip, someone who knows him, they're useless.

“I'll cut you in. Should be enough to give you a comfortable life. At least one that beats living on a leash, right?”

Neal's continued silence is no longer about keeping what little of the upper hand he has left. Now it's out of fatigue, the same bone-weary bordering on annoyed heaviness he gets whenever Mozzie pushes him to pick a painting to fence, or to pick a new name, or to discuss escape plans. There was a time when talk of running, of being free, of living the life he's always wanted sent Neal's pulse racing and adrenaline surging. These days, it wearies him, and when he does indulge Mozzie's skittish need to get the hell out, it's just that – indulgence.

Right here and now, the feeling is tripled, because Neal isn't going to run, not for whatever Phillip has up his sleeve, and sure as hell not with Phillip.

“Neal, think about it,” Phillip says, quietly and carefully. “Please. Because you working for the Feds is kind of a thorn in the operation and... and we can't have that.”

This, too, is why Neal had been happy to wash his hands of Phillip. He makes threats, and makes them in a way that he sounds like he's the one being reasonable, that he's just looking out for your best interests. That he's just being “kind.”

All Neal can think of is blood painting the pale bricks red.

Neal continues to stare and remain mute until Phillip finally sighs in defeat.

“Keep thinking,” Phillip says. “You're smart, kid, and I really need you to prove it.” He then snaps his fingers, points at Neal, and the muscle that had been keeping Neal seated haul him up by the arms and out of the room. He's half-marched, half-dragged down musty hall after musty hall to a small room with no windows, and tossed inside. There's a cot and a crate, a rusted and dripping sink, a bucket, and an empty glass – all the amenities of a jail-cell on a tight budget. The door clanks shut and Neal is left crawling to his feet under the sickly yellow light of a single bulb. He moves stiffly to the cot, sits and thinks.

His first thought is whether Peter is looking for him. The answer is an automatic yes, which leads to the second thought – does he think he ran? A violent get-away is so far from Neal's style Peter wouldn't entertain it for more than a second, but Neal has worked with more than one partner who likes violence, and Keller isn't the only former associate who would love nothing more than to give Neal hell.

Neal's thoughts detour almost compulsively to the blood. He hears sobbing, sees contorted faces like a study in pain and terror. Phillip is a decent artist and a decently skilled forger, but his weakness is portraits. Like Neal, he's a perfectionist and will work at a piece for as long as it takes to get it right, so whatever Phillip is planning, it can't be on a tight schedule. There had been five easels, only two occupied. There's still time.

Neal gets up and wanders the perimeter of the room, studying its every corner, every crack, the tarnished pipes overhead and every bolt and screw of the sink. He studies the door that has a doorknob but no lock, which means the locks are on the outside. To get out, someone is going to have to come in.

Mozzie believes Neal's dislike for violence and guns is an aesthetic thing. Kate had accused him (playfully) that it's how he balances doing something wrong by doing something right. Peter thinks it has something to do with his dad or his past. Keller just thinks he's a coward.

Neal thinks it could be all of the above, because he's never really thought about it before beyond simply just not liking it. Taking a life isn't like taking a priceless piece of art. You can't forge it, you can't give it back, the art is still out there but the person's life is not. When someone gets hurt or killed, he thinks about that person, the people who loved them, the people they are leaving behind, the pain, the hole they leave in existence. The very idea of taking people from this world has always made Neal sick, and he's always left it at that. Even when he'd held a gun on Fowler, it hadn't been about violence, or death, it had been about answers. Neal doubts he would have shot him. Keller would call that cowardly, Peter would call it being smart.

Neal wonders if, maybe, he is a coward. He'd stood there, staring, while two people got shot, and didn't do a thing – not run, not call for help, not try to take the gun from Mercenary Man. Peter would have tried to take the gun. Peter would have pulled his own gun, shielding Neal with his body, and Neal wonders if he should have done the same.

You would have gotten shot for it, says a voice like Mozzie's. Better to run and live another day, let the suits handle it. But Neal hadn't even run.

Neal stands and paces, thinking harder. He needs to run, because Phillip might speak kind words but when he gives an ultimatum, it's a promise. He's going to kill Neal for not choosing to side with him. But if Neal says yes, lets Phillip take him in, he can find out what Phillip is up to, help bring him down from the inside. It's a risk Neal knows he has no other choice but to make. Going to the door, he pounds on it, calling for whoever is out there to get Phillip.

------------------------

Phillip smiles. “I knew you'd come around, kid.” It's like they're resuming where they'd left off, Neal in one chair, Phillip straddling the other, both of them back in the studio with Mercenary Man hovering in the shadows, watching them like a dog with a bone.

“Having a little time to think really does wonders,” Neal says, smiling back. “What do you need me to do?”

Phillip's smile twitches, like a dam forming cracks. It softens, turning apologetic, and it's enough to send a trickle of cold down Neal's spine.

“I need you to wait,” Phillip says with a sorry behind the words. “It's like you said, having time to think really does wonders, and I think you'd be better off sitting this one out.”

Neal's body goes still without moving out of its casual sprawl in the chair. The only visible change is his frown. “Weren't you the one asking for my help not a couple of hours ago, Phillip?”

While Phillip's expression is penitent, his shrug isn't. “Change of heart. Consider it a favor, because I know you, Neal. You aren't going to want to be involved in this one.”

Neal changes position, sitting up and leaning anxiously forward, not caring that it gives too much away.

“Why, Phillip? What do you have planned?”

There's only one reason why Neal wouldn't want to be involved.

Phillip shakes his head. “Nothing you need to worry about, believe me. It's just... not up your alley, that's all.”

“Phillip--”

“I'm sorry, Neal. You'll still get a cut for your troubles, I swear.” Phillip snaps his fingers, points, and Neal is dragged back to his cell.

Neal's anxiety ratchets up until he feels like a wind-up toy whose key has been turned too tight. He paces, and thinks, and breathes long and slow to keep from feeling like he's suffocating.

There are two jobs that Neal won't do: taking from someone who can't afford the loss, and anything where the end result is someone getting hurt. And unless there is a fundraiser somewhere showing priceless works of art to raise money to feed starving kids in third world countries, then Phillip's right – understated, but right; whatever he is doing, the risk is that people might get hurt.

Neal amends that thought. People will get hurt. People have already been hurt and with Mercenary Man backing Phillip's play, more people will get hurt. Phillip may talk a big game of not wanting to get his hands dirty, but he doesn't express the same revulsion as Neal over casualties. He doesn't back out because the collateral damage might be human lives.

But any chance of talking Phil out of it or Neal into it won't happen, because you can't con a con and you can't reason with a con who thinks he's reasonable. Neal's only hope is to tell Peter, and that means getting the hell out of here.

Ironically enough, to get the hell out, he has to wait. Neal is already way in over his head and a blind escape will drown him. He needs to find out as much as he can while he can: how many are guarding him, a general idea of the building's layout (which he already has), the best time to make his escape. So he paces, siphoning off the anxiety that just keeps coming. He sits, but he only lasts a minute. He gets a drink of water. He returns to his pacing, and his thoughts turn to red lines on a wall.

He's distracted, thankfully, by his cell door unlocking. Neal positions himself to see as much as he can through the door while he can. A man walks in, your typical muscle dressed to look big and intimidating in a heavy jacket and boots. He deposits a plate of food on the floor, practically drops it, and just as carelessly leaves.

Not before Neal sees what he needs to see – one man sitting on a chair, facing the door. He's taller than the guy who'd brought the food, his head shaved and his expression annoyed. No one likes having to babysit.

Maybe it's stupid, what Neal plans to do. It is stupid, and perhaps there's a better way, but all Neal can think about is red lines on a wall and he a statue watching those lines draw. Running away has never let him down, but you can't run forever, as Peter likes to say. Someday, something will stand in your way, and it's going to force you to make a decision: to keep going, run even faster, farther, until running is the sum of your life, or stop and deal and never have to run again.

Although Neal's pretty sure this isn't what Peter was talking about, but it doesn't matter; for once in his life, Neal feels void of options.

Picking up the food – fried chicken, rice and green beans – he chews it but doesn't swallow. Instead, he spits it into the bucket. Finished, he waits. He's normally good at waiting, but time is elusive, like mist in the dark, and it makes Neal's skin crawl. Having had enough, he drops to his knees, pulls the bucket close, and makes sure to fake-retch as loud as he can, punctuating it with moans and pleas for someone, anyone, to end his damn suffering now.

And it works, his babysitter bursts in with a scowl on his face and a demand to know what the hell is going on.

“Think... the food was... bad,” Neal gasps. When the babysitter moves closer – to see if Neal's telling the truth, to feel his forehead, to yank him back to his feet, it doesn't matter – Neal grips the bucket by the handle and swings it with everything he has right into the side of the guy's head. The guy goes down like a sack of rocks. Neal thinks this was too easy, and he learns he's right when a second man rushes in, armed with a knife, barreling too fast for Neal to get a good swing at him. Guy number two slams into Neal, driving him into the wall and Neal cries out when he feels the blade go skittering across his ribs.

Neal isn't violent but he knows how to defend himself. His technique is the technique of a man who only wants to survive – fighting vicious and dirty. He bites the guy in the meat between the neck and shoulder. The man distracted, Neal slams his elbow down on his back (something he'd seen Diana do) then knees him in the groin (something Mozzie had once insisted he get better at). He finishes the man with the bucket, and the man crumples like his buddy.

Neal runs. He makes sure to shut and bolt the door, buying time with the illusion that he's still locked up even if it's probably a long shot. He doesn't think about how he should have taken the knife until he's three hallways away, armed with only the bucket. It's not often he's ever had to think about arming himself, and he's not used to it.

But he is used to escape plans on the fly. He knows when to pause to listen and what to listen for. Wherever he is – a warehouse or old office building built a century ago and long forgotten – there are a lot of doors, lots of places to hide when he hears voices or footsteps. Being an older building, it has to have a fire escape, so Neal makes sure to slip through only those doors on the side of the building that'll have windows. He creeps like a rat making little noise, but every breath, every rustle of his clothes and beat of his heart is like a gunshot to his ears echoing onwards. He's sure, so sure, that they can hear him, that they're following him. But it's a dread he knows, background noise that he uses to keep the adrenaline rushing through his veins, the counter-balance to his focus that keeps him from getting cocky. It is like the day he escaped from prison, his movements confident and controlled even while his heart tried to beat out of his chest and his spine started to ache fighting the tension that wanted him ramrod straight.

When Neal finds a window leading onto the fire escape, he's feels sick with relief. But the window won't open. He has to use the bucket to break it, painfully aware that the noise is going to attract attention. So he works fast, breaking away most of the glass but not all of it. Crawling out adds more cuts to his body and holes to his shirt, but he's out and doesn't waste time scaling down the rusty ladder. He drops into an alley choked with garbage and stagnant water, and once again breaks into a run. He skids around the corner, to the back or front of the building he can't tell – there are too many other buildings surrounding him. But voices shouting keep him running through that maze until he finds a car parked on the curb, a Lincoln. It's the only car in sight and Neal is sure that if it doesn't belong to Phillip then it belongs to one of his crew. You never park near your hideout, and you sure as hell don't park all your cars in one place. A nearby dumpster provides Neal with a coat hanger that makes short work of the lock. Seconds later, using a rusty butter knife, he has the car's wires bared and manipulates them until the car starts.

Neal nearly laughs when he peels away but it's still too soon to feel full of himself. The relief is draining this time, dizzying. The world seems to spin and then there is pain burning across his side as though he's being caressed with a fire brand. His hand goes automatically to his flank, through the rip in his shirt to touch ragged skin. Wincing, he pulls his hand away, and it's covered in blood. He feels more blood slicking down his side, his back, his shoulders, and the thought of all those red lines being drawn on his body nearly makes him retch for real.

He doesn't know how he keeps from passing out, let alone stay on the road. His driving can't be all that great, because suddenly there are sirens and police lights, and again Neal wants to laugh, this time at himself for being so damn happy to see the cops. He gladly pulls over, stopping on the curb instead of next to it though he didn't mean to. The officer saunters up to the car, blinding Neal with a flashlight.

“License and registration, please. And spare me the cock and bull about not having had that much to drink.”

Neal finally chokes up that laugh. “Yeah, here's the thing, officer,” he says, voice trembling, and he raises his hand.

“Son of a bitch!” the officer yelps. There may have followed more cursing, and a radio call for back up and an ambulance. Neal isn't sure and doesn't really care, because now seems as good a time as any to let go, so he does.

----------------------

Neal dreams in red. Red lines drawing a picture that will be the folds of cloth when the shading is added. Red puddling on the floor. Red slicking his hands. In the background, people are sobbing, moaning, begging. Neal just stands there, wishing someone would do something, because he's not a fighter, though he wonders if it's really because he's a coward.

When Neal wakes up, it's a moment before he realizes that this isn't his bed or even his loft. For one, it smells funny, and for another, this bed is like sleeping on a pad covering a brick wall. It's the beeping that's keeping time with his heart that gives it away, and he's about to go back to sleep, happy in the knowledge that he made it, he's alive and everything will be all right, except everything won't be all right. It's too soon to be all right, and that snaps Neal's eyes open wide and his body upright – or would if there wasn't so much lethargy holding him down, like being pinned by sacks of wet sand.

“Whoa, easy there, Neal. Damn, you're slippery even when you're down.”

Hearing Peter's voice right next to him sends an electric jolt through Neal, followed by another when Peter's hand presses into his shoulder, keeping him supine. Peter's here, Peter's found him, and the relief is twice that of waking in the hospital, but short lived because Neal is still panicking.

“Peter, how long have I been here? What day is it? I have to go, we have to--” he's getting up again, but Peter won't let him.

“Neal, calm down, take it easy. You've got a hole in your side the length of my hand and you're going to pop your stitches, so will you just relax? Whatever it is, it can wait.”

“No, Peter, it can't, people are going to get hurt!”

Peter goes still, shocked by Neal's outburst and the naked urgency and fear behind it. Neal doesn't have time for Peter's alarm, nor the dizziness overwhelming him, making the room spin and his gut churn.

“The man who took me,” Neal pants. “His name is Phillip Meyers, he's a forger. He's up to something and whatever he's up to people might get hurt--”

“Okay, Neal, okay,” Peter says, snapped from his stupor and now squeezing Neal's shoulder, trying to soothe him. “I'll look into it, I swear, but you need to calm down, buddy. You've been cut up and you've lost a lot of blood. You need to rest, okay?”

Neal can only nod, having said all he could. But at least he'd said it, and Peter knows. It comes with another onslaught of relief that has him melting into the rock hard bed. He wants nothing more than to do as Peter says and rest, but it feels wrong, a luxury he doesn't deserve.

“The people. Who were shot,” he says sedately. “At the coffee shop...”

“Alive,” Peter says, and this relief nearly brings Neal to tears.

“I didn't do anything,” Neal says, and can't seem to stop himself. “They get shot, and I just stood there--”

“Neal,” Peter cuts in, exasperated. “Don't. Please, don't. There's nothing you could have done. Nothing that wouldn't have ended with you dead. That you brought me the name of the guy who did this is doing something.”

It doesn't feel like he's done anything. It feels like he did what he always does – he ran, which doesn't feel like doing anything except saving his own skin.

“You would have done something,” Neal breathes, losing Peter's response to the exhaustion that takes Neal back under.

---------------------

Neal wakes to a quiet conversation near the bed. He cracks an eye open to see Peter and Elizabeth, sprawled comfortably in chairs, Peter's plastic and Elizabeth having been given (by Peter, no doubt) the one with padding. They are eating Chinese takeout from cartons.

“So how bad is this Meyers?” Elizabeth asks.

“About Keller bad and Neal slick. Violence isn't a major part of his MO, but he's not afraid to use it. He's a little more...” Peter gestures with chop sticks in his hand as he searches his brain for adjectives.

“Flamboyant?” El offers.

Peter grimaces. “No. More like a magician, likes to make you look the other way. He likes using distractions to pull a heist, something to keep the police busy. Robbery at a bank, at a cafe, short-lived hostage situation at a mall that ended a little too easily with no one to arrest, a riot on the streets. What we can never tell is whether he orchestrated these distractions or if some are a matter of chance.”

A little of A and a little of B, Neal thinks. The riots Phillip had seen coming, because it had been in a country where riots were as much a part of life as getting up and going to work. Everything else was all Phillip.

“Were there any casualties?” El asks.

“Yeah,” Peter says somberly. “A few.”

Which Phillip had apologized for. Always apologizing, Phillip. Not because he'd killed, but because he'd upset Neal.

“But here's the real kicker – Meyers is actually in the business of doing reproductions. He runs several businesses where he creates paintings for the purpose of letting people think they own the real thing even though they know they don't.”

“Is that legal?”

“He signs them so that people know they're copies. That's how he moves the paintings without them getting noticed – by signing them. I guess he removes the signature later, somehow, I don't know, but it definitely makes it harder to tell them apart in customs, and no one's been able to corner this guy long enough for a warrant to get through. By the time it does, he's gone and so is the art.”

“And Hughes really thinks this is a partnership gone wrong? That Neal would even want to partner up at all?” El says, sounding a trifle disgusted, making Neal's lips twitch with the desire to form a smile. “Neal wouldn't work with someone like that.”

“But he did, once,” Peter says. “I mean, yes, probably before he knew what Meyers was, but the name of one of Meyers' alleged business partners is a known alias of Neal's. Granted, we can't prove they worked together on any of his heists, but you never know what kind of situation might crop up to force them to work together again. As much as I hated it, we had to consider the possibility.”

It feels like a kick to the chest, pain morphing into anger that has Neal opening his eyes and lifting his head to glare at Peter.

“I wouldn't work with Phillip even if he had the power to bring Kate back to life,” Neal practically snarls.

El jumps with a gasped, “Neal!” Peter is on his feet, patting the air as though it actually has any affect.

“Neal, I said considered. Considered all possibilities. I don't believe for a second you would work with Meyers, not unless he made you. Did he make you?” Peter furrows his brow as he sits back down, contemplating Neal. “Why did he take you?”

“To get me out of the way,” Neal says, relaxing not because he wants to, but because getting angry drains him. His side is throbbing, which means his pain medication is wearing off.

Peter frowns. “Out of the way as in dead?”

“Out of the way as in out of the way. He knows I'm a CI, so wanted to keep me where I wouldn't be in a position to trip up his plans.”

“Which are?”

Neal shrugs. “Don't know. He wouldn't tell me. It involves art, I know that. He asked first if I would help him with some forgeries, then changed his mind.”

But Peter shakes his head. “And, what, he was going to let you go afterward? He really trusted you that much to keep your mouth shut?”

Neal scowls, feeling as though he's being accused even knowing that this is just Peter being blunt and getting to the heart of the matter like he always does.

“No,” he says flatly. “He gave me an ultimatum. To go with him or...”

Peter's expression softens. “Or go nowhere.”

“Yeah,” Neal says hoarsely.

“Would you have helped?” Peter asks. “If he hadn't changed his mind?”

“Yes, to figure out what he was doing,” Neal says. Drugs, pain and exhaustion have put him on the defensive. He can't run, can't deflect, and Peter's usual method of getting answers that Neal always took in stride and played along with makes him feel cornered, as though having escaped and being injured isn't enough to prove that he would never truly work with someone like Phillip.

Elizabeth intervenes, looking pointedly at her husband. “Maybe you two should discuss this another day. Say when Neal is a little more up to it?”

Peter opens his mouth, probably to defend his need to get as many answers as possible since time wasn't on their side.

Neal both wants him to and wishes he would stop. Phillip needs to be caught, but Neal's heart rate has increased and it's making him feel nauseous. He says instead, to cut the tension. “What day is it?”

“Friday,” Peter says.

“I was found Thursday?” Neal clarifies.

“Thursday morning,” Peter says.

Neal nods. “When do I get out of here?”

----------------------

New blood made by Neal's own body and a transfusion have replenished Neal's blood supply but he's still pale, drawn and light headed. He's home Saturday morning, his only responsibility to eat, rest and take his pain medication and antibiotics.

Peter drops him off, with El tagging along and pointing out the obvious that she has a much better bedside manner than her husband. She makes sure Neal has everything he needs, has even brought Tupperware dishes of pre-made food so that Neal doesn't have to fend for himself too much. She places several glasses within easy reach on the counter so that Neal doesn't have to stretch, and sets a filled pitcher and glass on the nightstand by his bed. She would prefer Neal stay with them, but even she has to acquiesce to the need that is privacy in your own space after enduring the never-ending attentions of hospital staff.

Peter stands awkwardly, wanting to help but not even knowing where to begin. Neal assures him ribbingly that it's the thought that counts, and the easy joking quiets Peter's discomfort.

“You call,” Peter orders before he and El leave Neal to his solitary convalescence. “If you need anything, you call. You spike a fever, you call. If you think of anything else about Meyers, you call.”

Neal gives him a tired smile. “Yes sir, Captain Burke, sir.”

“I'm serious,” Peter replies with a stern point of his finger. “Call” He backs slowly out of the room, never taking his eyes off Neal until the door is finally shut.

Neal lets the smile drop from his face and his shoulders sag. Dealing with people is as easy as cutting butter for him, but when weary to the bone, it's like cutting cement. He wants to sleep and he doesn't, knowing what he'll dream, but the medicines he has to take don't give him a choice. Neal drags himself to the bathroom where El had set out his silk pajamas on the side of the sink.

Changing clothes means changing his bandages, and also means taking his first real look at his injuries. The cuts on his back and stomach from climbing through the window are small, but the one on his side is like an angry red river. It starts near the bottom of his ribs, runs jaggedly up, then along, then around his ribcage stopping eight inches from his spine. Black stitches keep it closed. The ribcage had prevented it from going any deeper, but the blood loss had been bad, and the muscle damage allows for very little movement.

Neal spreads some kind of antibiotic ointment the hospital gave him over it, making it sting and him wince, then covers it with a rectangle of gauze and tape. When he slips into the silk night shirt, it slides easily over the wounds that don't need to be bandaged without catching. Neal goes to bed.

He dreams what he's been dreaming since he escaped, of red lines and blood and standing there while people moan and beg. He wakes up, sweat-slicked and panting.

When Neal had broken his partnership with Phillip years before, Phillip had been sad and disappointed while acting ultimately understanding. It happened after Phillip's “distraction” had ended in two deaths, and Phillip had shrugged it off as if to say “these things happen,” only to apologize profusely when Neal had freaked out.

Phillip kept assuring Neal that the deaths couldn't be traced back to them. It took him a while to realize what the problem was, then he'd laughed, then realized Neal was serious, and wore the mask of a comforting friend.

Neal doesn't doubt Phillip had liked him or he would have simply shot Neal instead of offering him a second chance at partnership. But he's still a sociopath, and Neal had run from him, again, like he always does when things are so bad he can't take it anymore; leaving behind another life because it didn't want to play by his rules.

Neal closes his eyes, drained. He sees red lines behind his eyelids, so he opens them, gets up and paces. But that's even worse, leaving him wide open to think, to remember, and he feels like ants are crawling through his veins.

He goes to his laptop instead, to the Internet and his collection of bookmarked art sites, scrolling through image after image of famous works that appeal most to the black market world. And Neal sees it, and knows – lines like the folds of cloth, a faceless head turned in a certain way. Neal is out of his seat and in his closet where he keeps his small collection of canvases.

Phillip's love of art is more tempered compared to Neal's love. He enjoys it, is good at it, but his passion is limited, as is the number of artists he likes, and most of what he forges are what he either feels are the easiest to tackle, or those that happen to be within reach. Phillip is terrible at faces, the fewer faces he has to paint the better, and there's a Vermeer at the Met – Portrait of a Young Woman, whose fold of cloth and tilt of the head match perfectly with the red lines haunting Neal's dreams. And he would recognize it subconsciously. He's always liked that painting, how gentle it is, how kind the young woman seems, like a friend you can always count on to be there for you. Neal had talked to Phillip about it once, and he had laughed, then apologized for laughing even while he continued to smile.

Neal prints up picture after picture of Portrait of a Young Woman, leaves the image on the computer screen where the color is more vibrant, opens every art book that holds its image. He sketches the lines he couldn't get out of his head onto canvas, filling in the once blank face. He is quick with his motions, ignoring the discomfort it causes, and can almost hear time ticking away. Phillip is terrible at faces but enough time must have passed for him to get it right, and the switch could be made at any time.

Neal changes out of his pajama top into his wife beater and paints. When he paints, he takes himself to a place of color and shades and brush strokes, a place where the woman in the painting is alive and telling the artist her story as he makes her image immortal. She is both shy and happy and excited, and whether she was like that in real life, it doesn't matter, because that's how Neal sees her. He's in another world where the only thing that matters is the lines and colors morphing from chaos to order to something beautiful. Time loses its power over Neal, loses its existence, and he doesn't see when the sun sets and rises again.

He only stops when his hands start to shake, interrupting his precision. It's like stepping from a room into the daylight after being inside for so long, or waking up, awareness swallowing him with aches, pains and fatigue like a sack of bricks strapped to his back. As he steps back to judge his progress, a knock at the door makes him jump. It's a moment before he recognizes Mozzie's staccato rhythm.

“Come on in, Moz,” Neal calls, making his way to the sink. Mozzie walks in while Neal is washing his hands clean of most of the paint. He can see Mozzie out of the corner of his eye, standing there as though surprised.

“Shouldn't you be in bed drugged to your eyeballs?” he asks.

“Probably,” Neal says. “I had more important things to do.”

Mozzie drifts towards the table, his eyes wandering over the printouts before settling on the canvas and moving around to give it a look.

“Planning something or bored?” he asks.

“Planning something,” Neal says before occupying his mouth with greedy gulps of water. He fills the glass again and moves to the table. But he doesn't sit. He can't. He knows that if he does, he won't be able to get up again.

Mozzie peels his attention from the painting and sets it on Neal, more specifically the glass, the surface of the water rippling from the tremors in Neal's hand.

“Neal, please tell me you haven't been at this all-- oh, crap, Neal, you're bleeding.”

Neal looks down at his side where blood flecks his shirt. Neal lifts the shirt to see that the bandage is soaked through. He stares at it as though it's happening to someone else, and it makes him compliant when Mozzie shoves him into a chair and has him press a washcloth against it.

“You do know that Portrait of a Young Woman isn't part of the treasure, right?” Mozzie says before vanishing into Neal's bathroom. He emerges armed with the gauze pads, tape and another wash cloth, this one wet.

Mention of the treasure makes Neal bristle in irritation and not for the first time. Since saving the it, Mozzie's world has come to revolve around that treasure, of keeping it hidden, shipping it out, and struggling for new escape plans. He has every reason to be paranoid and make assumptions, but today Neal's patience for it has flat-lined.

“It has nothing to do with the damn treasure, Moz,” Neal says. “It's for something else. Not a heist.”

“So it's a Fed thing,” Mozzie says. He kneels by Neal, lifting his shirt to mop up the blood. A stitch had popped, but the bleeding seems to have slowed to a stop.

Neal, elbow on the table, scrubs his clammy face with his hand. “It will be when I tell them.”

“Care to fill me in?”

“When I fill Peter in.”

“So this is about Phillip,” Mozzie states. Neal had told Mozzie everything at the hospital, when Mozzie had sucked up his fear of germs enough to visit him and make sure he would live. Mozzie doesn't know Phillip as well as Neal – having had his own side project he'd been focused on at the time involving carrier pigeons, coded messages and a Monet – but he'd met him, and complained often about how Phillip's smile was too serene, too wistful, and that you can never trust a man who smiles that much and that sedately.

Mozzie sighs, taping a fresh pad over Neal's wound. “I'd never thought I'd say this, but want me to call the suit for you? Strike that, I'll have to call the suit. You move you're going to bleed again. When the suit chews you up spits you out, you make sure he knows I had no part in this other than being the Good Samaritan, got it?”

Neal smiles gratefully, resting his head against his hand. “Got it.”

When Peter arrives, it plays out exactly as Neal imagined it would – alarm and worry, followed closely by shock with stern suspicion riding shock's heels. He looks at Neal, then the printouts, then the painting, then looks everywhere but Neal, his hand scraping down his face.

“Do I want to know?” Peter asks.

“You need to know,” Neal replies. “I need your help.”

“You can explain on the way to the hospital,” Peter says, which makes Mozzie roll his eyes. If he wants to hear what Neal has to say, then he has to tag along.

Moving from the loft to the car restarts the bleeding, not heavily, but Neal can feel it hot against his skin under the bandage.

“It's the paintings Phillip plans to steal,” Neal explains, keeping his hand pressed to the wound in case the bleeding increases.

“You're sure,” Peter hedges.

“Not at first. There were only two paintings done – maybe done, I don't know – but they were covered and I only saw his sketchbook. But I recognized the lines and shape, it just took me a while to remember them, and Phillip is comfortable forging Vermeers.”

Mozzie perks up like a dog hearing a can opener. “So the plan is to switch your fake one for the real one so that Phillip ends up with a forgery.”

“By not breaking into the Met, I hope,” Peter says pointedly.

“That's why I need your help, Peter. To convince them to switch the paintings. Look, this isn't just about protecting the Vermeer, it's also about putting Phillip in a position where he can be caught.”

“Can't you just testify against him?” Peter says, and Neal thinks he detects a whine. He doesn't blame Peter; the folks at the Met aren't going to be happy about this and even less happy knowing that someone is going to steal their art and no one knows when.

But Neal gives Peter an are-you-serious glare, because the word of one con isn't much against the word of another, and Peter had said that the Bureau thought that Neal had run to join up with Phillip.

“Wait, wait, wait” Mozzie says, “It'll get Phillip caught but it won't stop whatever he has planned as a distraction.”

“I know,” Neal says hoarsely, feeling sick inside. “But it's all I've got.”

“No,” Peter says. “You've also got me. We know Meyers likes to use whatever would monopolize the attention of the police the most – riots, bank robberies or hostage situations. And you said he was working with someone.”

Neal nods. “Yeah, big guy, cropped hair--”

“You give me a good enough description and maybe we can track him down, figure out how he works and go from there. I know it sounds like a long shot but the more we have to go on, the better chance we'll have of heading this off.”

Neal nods again, hope fluttering like a bird in his chest. “I can do you one better.”

After enduring the hospital, again, even if it is a shorter stay, Neal is taken home where he endures Peter forcing food on him courtesy of a concerned June. Neal is feeling heavy, his head and side aching and his stomach double-knotted but he eats enough to get Peter off his back. Then he is sketching rapidly in his sketchbook, giving Peter a face he can work with.

But no amount of badgering, threatening, even bribing can stop Neal from finishing the forgery. He's almost done, anyway, and has enough control of his hands to make it happen. Peter leaves him to it to run up what he can on Mercenary Man. Mozzie remains, sipping wine and waiting to do the part of a forgery he is skilled at.

“It's good enough,” Mozzie says when Neal dwells obsessively on the final touches, adding this and smoothing that until his hands are shaking once again and it's nearly noon.

“It's gotta be perfect, Moz. Phillip can't tell there's a difference.”

Mozzie gives him a long-suffering look. “Neal, this is a forgery by you. You've done a lot more in less time and even the experts couldn't tell the difference. I highly doubt Phillip will. Now hand it over so I can cook it and go clean up. You've earned your fifteen hour nap.”

Neal freezes, hand up, the small brush inches from the canvas.

“Neal? You okay?” Mozzie says, concerned.

Neal blinks, a shiver shaking off the dread that attempted to hold him in place. “Yeah. Fine.”

Mozzie snorts, knowing better than to believe him, but cuts Neal some slack by saying nothing.

Neal sets the paintbrush down.

------------------------------

“It worked, really?” Mozzie yelps.

“I know,” Peter replies, his tone almost giddy. “To be honest I didn't think we'd find anything with the face alone, but it's a pretty distinct face. His name's Collin Kline. Suspected of bank robbery in more than one state, and several countries. He knows how to keep a low enough profile that even if you happen to spot him you can never really find him.”

“So then it's a bank robbery you have to worry about. In New York. Wow. Good luck with that.”

Peter sighs. “I know. Right now we have all the banks on high alert and have an BOLO out on Kline. I doubt it'll help us catch him but it will make whatever he has in mind a lot more difficult to pull off.”

“What about the painting?”

“The Met guys were iffy but they cooperated. It's up and the original locked away safe. What I want to know is how a forgery is going to help us catch Meyers?”

“Just have a black light handy when you go raid Phillip's little shop. The chemical compound Neal slapped on it after I aged it will do the rest.”

“Speaking of, how is he?”

“Dead to the world.”

Neal stops listening after that, sliding back into his dreamless coma.

----------------------

Neal finally wakes up to late afternoon sunlight pouring antique gold through the French windows and down from the skylight. He is content to lay there and watch the dust motes wander aimlessly. The drugs and the all-nighter had joined forces, submerging Neal into a state of such utter exhaustion that if he did dream, he doesn't remember it. The weight of that exhaustion is gone, leaving only the comfortable ache of a good night's rest and the itch of scabbing wounds. Neal doesn't even know what day it is, and that's okay.

A knock on the door forces him from the comfort of his bed. He expects to find Peter on the other side and isn't disappointed, but the smile on Peter's face surprises him. Lingering drowsiness makes his brain slow to process, and his eyes widen when he finally puts two and two together.

“It worked?”

“Oh, yes,” Peter says. “Beautifully.” He holds up his keys. “Care to take a little trip?”

The lingering drowsiness is gone, and Neal hurries to get ready.

“No one was hurt,” is the first thing Peter tells Neal when he pulls the car away from the curb. “Meyers was using a bank robbery, pretty professional. But since we knew who was behind it and knew how they operated, we let it play out and got 'em when they made a break for it. Not a single shot was fired.”

The knot that had taken permanent residence in Neal's gut loosens and he feels like he's melting into the seat.

“How did you know which bank it would be?” Neal asks.

“We didn't. Well, we didn't know exactly which bank but knowing Meyers' past jobs, and that he stages the distractions as far as possible from the places he hits, we were able to narrow the list. Kline also likes to make things easy on himself by hitting small banks. We couldn't stake every single potential target out but we had enough uniforms cruising by to eventually spot trouble.”

“So that just leaves Phillip,” Neal says.

“We had the painting checked out soon after.” Peter smiles. “He really doesn't hold a candle to you.”

Phillip's New York based art shop is located downtown far outside Neal's radius, in a district full of older buildings renovated into shops and lofts. They park half a block away where back up is waiting. The non-authenticity of Phillip's forgery had been determined a little over twenty-five minutes ago, the actual theft having taken place only an hour ago, and Phillip doesn't like to skip town moments after a theft. He's never had to.

When the FBI and Neal storm their way into the little shop, Phillip is idling behind the counter as though he's been there all day, waiting to prove how wrong the feds are about him. His smile is genuine, triumphant, then he sees Neal and his eyes flicker, the smile fighting to stay in place.

Study of a Young Woman is on display between a Rembrandt and Picasso, but Neal knows it’s a copy before Diana shines the black light on it.

Phillip's smile fades and he glares at Neal. What did you do?

Neal glares back. The smart thing.

More copies are housed in the back, wrapped in plastic and piled on metal shelves. There are five paintings of Portrait and Diana, Jones and two more feds go through each. It reminds Neal of those find-the-difference pictures, only the difference is painfully obvious, words fluoresce in green that read “this is a fake” cutting across the painting like glowing slash marks.

The cuffs are slapped on a fuming Phillip, and what is left of the knot in Neal's gut dissolves.

-------------------------

“They're going to be all right,” Peter says, nursing a beer. They are sitting in the back yard of the Burke's home, Satchmo at their feet, Elizabeth inside putting the finishing touches on dessert – German chocolate cake - and Mozzie is helping.

“The two kids from the coffee shop,” Peter clarifies unnecessarily.

“Glad to hear it,” Neal says, and means it, though images of red lines on walls still want to occupy his thoughts. It's not as bad as before, not as often, but they still make him feel ill. He knows they will go quiet, hover like mist in the background of his thoughts, but they will never go away.

“And I doubt either Meyers or Kline will be out before they need a walker to stay upright.”

Neal's right hand is on his glass of iced tea, his left brushing across the bandage under his shirt. “Really glad to hear it.”

Peter takes a swig from his bottle. “I can see why Meyers wanted you out of the way.” He wags a finger at Neal. “You, my friend, are dangerous.”

Neal snorts a derisive laugh. Peter looks offended.

“I'm serious, you are. I mean, think about it; you took down a double job probably months, maybe even years, in the making with just a painting, a sketch and some glowy chemical crap.”

“That might mean I'm smart, but it doesn't make me dangerous, Peter.” Neal stares down at his glass, wiping away its condensation. “I wasn't the one with the gun.” His throat goes tight. “I didn't stop those kids...” he can't say it, though the words are there – stop those kids from almost getting killed.

Peter looks at him kindly. “No one could have stopped that, Neal.”

“If I hadn't been there--”

“Neal.”

Neal looks at Peter, who is stern and shaking his head. “Don't.”

“But--”

“No. Don't even beat yourself up about that. Don't focus on what you couldn't do and I emphasize, again, couldn't. Focus on what you did do. You don't need weapons or muscles or... what the hell ever to fight back. You have everything you need, right here.” Peter taps the side of his skull. “It's how you operate, and I take that any day over guns and idiots who think almost getting themselves killed is saving the day – and, no, I'm not talking about how you escaped from Meyers.”

Neal relaxes because, yes, for a moment, he thought that's what Peter was talking, and was gearing up to defend his actions.

But Peter shrugs. “Although, maybe I am. You really couldn't think of a better way to escape?”

Neal narrows his eyes. “Tell me you wouldn't have done the same, knowing what I knew.”

Peter raises his beer in a silent touché. They settle into momentary silence.

“You're a good guy, Neal,” Peter says, breaking that silence. “Granted, you make poor life choices--”

“Hey!”

“But deep down inside, you are a good guy, or what happened wouldn't have bothered you this bad.”

Neal smiles. “Thank you, Peter.”

“Don't mention it.”

Neal clinks his glass against Peter's bottle, and El calls them in for cake.

The End