A/N: When I was posting Caffrey Disclosure I received a request for a warning after one specific chapter. I don't want to spoil what's ahead, but the Disclosure chapter had a brief slashy misunderstanding in honor of the many slash fans who've been following this AU, in addition to a moment of gay-bashing by a villain and a conversation about gay marriage. Some of those elements will be revisited in one scene here. If those are things that make you very uncomfortable, then when Neal goes to the yacht, you may wish to skip to the next scene.
Saturday afternoon. January 1, 2005.
Noelle Caffrey Winslow and Joe Burke were married in a small chapel in Waikiki. Noelle wore what El described as a "creamy white silk sheath," and Joe wore a tux. All the male guests were in tuxedos, too. Peter had to admit he'd done his share of complaining when it came to the dratted bow tie. But while he wasn't sighing over the ceremony like most of the women in attendance, he could acknowledge that Joe and Noelle looked supremely happy. That, in addition to the gleam in El's eyes when she looked at Peter in the tux, made the formalwear worthwhile.
After the wedding they walked to a walled garden. They could hear the surf, but had a measure of privacy from hotel guests. A white, tent-like covering overhead protected them when a shower rolled onshore. As the event planner, El had arranged a light dinner with guava chiffon pie for dessert. And of course there was champagne.
The compromise reached last night was that Julia was named the poker champion, but Henry retained the right to make the toast at the reception. A waiter brought a bottle of champagne and handed it to Neal. There'd been a flat wooden box next to Neal that Peter had assumed was a gift for Joe and Noelle, but Neal now opened it to remove a short sword. He stood and said, "When I mentioned to my fencing team's captain that I was going to a wedding, he suggested I open the champagne for you with a technique called sabrage. I've been practicing for a month, because I wanted to get this right." He faced away from the guests, and with a single sweep of the blade removed the top portion of the bottle. He turned the bottle as the champagne bubbled over, to remove any shards of glass, and then he filled the glasses.
Henry raised his glass and faced the newly married couple. "Mom and Joe first met at the Burke family cabin early last year, and I was there to see Joe beg for Mom's phone number." Guests chuckled. "I was happy for Mom then, and I was happy when I learned they were engaged." Looking at Joe's daughters he said, "Like many kids of divorced parents, I worried that my mom wasn't dating because she thought it would upset me. I felt guilty that she was alone." Rosalind and Viola nodded in understanding. "I was glad she found someone. Knowing Peter already, I figured Joe would be a good guy, but we used FBI and Win-Win resources to be sure." He grinned at Neal, who had found an excuse to link Joe to a case in order to justify an FBI background check. Again, people chuckled.
"I didn't know about that," El murmured to Peter.
"I learned about it after the fact," Peter replied. He hadn't been thrilled about it, but his second-in-command had made an argument for Neal deserving the peace of mind that came from knowing Joe wasn't the mess that Noelle's first husband had been.
"To be perfectly honest, I came here to support my mom, because I knew this would be a big deal for her. But I've already got two big families – the Caffreys and the Winslows. Sure, I wanted to get to know the Burke family better, but I had no intention of being more than casual acquaintances with most of you." He smiled ruefully at Luke and Betty and Joe's daughters. "Then over the last week you all crept under my defenses. I never would have believed there was anything missing in my families, but you've filled a hole I didn't even know was there. And so I stand here to say I'm honored to be related to the Burkes by marriage, and I'll strive to be worthy of the honor." He turned his attention back to Joe and Noelle. "I'm happy for you, and surprisingly happy for me, too. Thanks for bringing the Burkes and Caffreys and even the Winslows together." He raised his glass higher. "To our family! Welcome one and all."
"To family!" everyone else echoed.
Henry sat back down across from Peter and Elizabeth and grinned. "This means I can add Henry Burke to my list of aliases for Win-Win cases. Neal, you can make me an ID, right?"
"Baltimore driver's license?" Neal asked.
Henry considered it a moment. "Let's make it New York."
Not wanting his nieces to start asking Neal for fake IDs, Peter turned the conversation to other topics. "This is certainly different than last New Year's Day," he said to Henry during the meal. "For me 2004 started in a hospital in Connecticut when things went wrong on Neal's first undercover op. I was dealing with loopy Neal in the emergency room."
Henry nodded. "And that got the year off to an interesting start for me, too. I got a message from the hospital as his emergency contact. Neal had texted to say he was all right, but when I called his phone to double check, you answered. That would have been the first time I spoke with you."
"Up till then, I had my doubts whether you really existed. When I first met him, Neal was using Henry Winslow as an alias, and I thought it was just another name he'd made up. He'd told a few stories about you, but he made them sound like a joke. At one point he called you a trickster god, like Coyote."
Henry preened and Neal rolled his eyes while saying, "I did not call you a god. What I said is that you were the type of mischievous person who inspired those myths."
After the meal and about an hour of dancing, the wedding couple left for the airport, where they took a flight to Maui for their honeymoon. The guests went their own way for the remainder of the evening, and it was still rather early when El led Peter up to their room to let him know how much she appreciated his willingness to wear the tuxedo.
Sunday afternoon. January 2, 2005.
Neal followed Mozzie into the condo in downtown Honolulu where Adrian Tulane was staying. The client had arranged the use of the space, which was rented out to a large Chinese conglomerate. The client was probably an executive with the firm, but they still hadn't been able to learn his name.
They sat on a massive purple sectional sofa, and Tulane asked, "Change your mind about taking the job, Mozzie?"
Mozz shook his head gravely. "No. I'm here to warn you. Your client made a misstep, and the FBI knows the pearls are being targeted. The museum is upgrading their security as we speak."
"So much for the plans I made when I scoped the place out last week. Thanks for the warning. I'll tell the client to wait for things to cool down and try again later."
"You need to rethink working for this client," Neal said. "He's keeping his identity a secret from the authorities by killing his accomplices."
Tulane didn't believe him at first, but Mozzie laid out the details he'd discovered. This client made all the travel arrangements. On completion of the job, if he had any worries about being connected to the crime, he would decide to stay on the island while his pilot flew his accomplice home. The pilot would ditch the plane over the ocean and parachute to safety. The plane and accomplice were never seen again. Mozzie named two well-known thieves and an assassin who had disappeared on flights from Honolulu that never made it to their final destination.
"The pilot's a wiry little fella," Tulane objected. "He couldn't overpower me. I'd take the parachute from him if he tried to jump. And Jeffers," he said, naming one of the thieves, "knows how to fly. Even if the pilot jumped ship, he'd've made it to land safely and called for help."
"They'll offer you a drink on the plane," Mozzie said. "In fact, to be safe, they'll offer you something on the drive to the airport. By the time the pilot jumps, you'll be asleep or at least too drugged to put up a fight."
"You know this for a fact?" Tulane asked. "Or is this one of your conspiracy theories?"
"We did the research," said Neal. "Found the planes and pilots he's been using, looked up the flight plans and saw the pattern. The planes took off but there's no record of them landing, and each time it followed a crime where the person most likely to have committed the crime has never been seen since. Rumors say they each made a big score and retired. But what are the odds of all of them making enough that they decide to give up the life, and then none of them being spotted again?"
"What's the deal with your friend here?" Tulane asked Mozzie, gesturing toward Neal. "Poster boy for New Year's Eve parties? His face has been plastered on the television the last few days, dancing on the beach and singing in a concert. A little high-profile for your style."
Neal resisted the impulse to glance at the watch he was wearing. They had borrowed it from the local FBI, and it was broadcasting the conversation to Peter, who was listening as he sat in a booth at a restaurant across the street. Peter wasn't going to be happy about this. Neal was supposed to be playing the role of the grieving son of one of the criminals killed by the client, someone following in his father's footsteps and out for revenge. He was going to ask for the client's name in order to find him and rob him blind. But Tulane was right. A professional thief wouldn't go around getting that much publicity when he was about to pull a job. A thief should try to blend into the shadows.
Time for Plan B. The plan he'd made up just now and Peter didn't know about. "I'm a con artist," said Neal. "This client of yours may be a scumbag, but he's an obscenely rich scumbag. From everything I've heard, he may have as much money as Vincent Adler, and he's almost as hard to find. I'm looking for my next target, and I think he's it. I specialize in long cons. The one I'm working now may take a year to wrap up, and it took a year to set up. If I'm going to take on your client next, I know I need a lot of time to do my homework and make connections. I'm in the perfect position to start doing that. All I'm lacking is his name. Tell me who he is and how to find him." He smiled greedily. "C'mon. The guy was planning to kill you. You don't owe him any loyalty."
"True, but I don't want him coming after me if he learns I gave up his identity." Tulane's expression made it clear he needed more convincing. "He's smart. If he catches onto you, he may realize you got his name from me. Convince me you're a good enough con artist to pull this off."
"I don't like to share my secrets," Neal said. "The more people who know, the more risk of getting caught."
"I can vouch for Neal," Mozzie said.
"I need more," Tulane insisted.
Neal had turned down an offer of brandy when they first arrived, but he stood and walked to the bar to pour a glass now. "Want one?" he asked the others. Mozzie declined, but Tulane nodded. Neal carried the glasses back to the sofa. He sat down and put his feet up on an ottoman, the picture of relaxation. "How 'bout a trade? I describe my latest con, and you tell me how you pulled off the Uffizi job."
"It's a deal," said Tulane.
"This is gonna take a while." Neal toed off his shoes. "It's an Anastasia con."
"Posing as a long lost heir?" Tulane asked.
"Mmm. Leading them to believe I'm a long lost heir, while never making any claims. The Caffreys are a wealthy family with lots of connections. He's a retired ambassador, and she's a famous actress. More than 20 years ago, one of their daughters and her three-year-old son disappeared after her husband was discovered to have connections to the mob. Maybe they were killed by the mob, maybe they were whisked away to a witness protection program. No one knows for sure. The ambassador comes from a massive extended family whose life he usually describes as hardscrabble. Doesn't keep in touch with most of them anymore since he clawed his way out of their itinerant lifestyle. And in addition to family in the States, there's another branch of artists and musicians back in Ireland." Neal took on the Irish brogue he'd learned from his grandfather.
"Easy enough to convince them you're a distant cousin," Tulane said. "Dark hair, blue eyes. Classic Irish coloring."
"That was part of the inspiration," Neal said. "I told them my parents died in a horrific car crash in Ireland when I was about nine years old. I was in the car myself. Between the concussion and emotional trauma, I don't remember the crash or any of my life before then."
"Handy."
"Indeed. A fictional aunt in the States took me in and raised me. She wasn't a Caffrey, so I'm unfortunately ignorant of the family's history. But like many Caffreys I had a talent for art and music, and a year ago I arranged to run into the ambassador's grandson, Henry, who wanted to start a band. When I studied the Caffreys, he seemed like my best bet for getting inside." Neal scoffed. "Thinks of himself as a rebel."
Tulane pulled out a cigarette. "Do you mind?"
Neal shrugged. He didn't care for smoke but wasn't going to object when he was closing in on his goal. "Henry had plenty to drink when I met him, and it was easy enough to get details about his privileged past when I kept buying beers for him. Told him my name was Neal, and let him notice my last name was Caffrey when I pulled out a credit card with that name. Henry had an axe to grind with a music company and I had time on my hands, so we created a band and went on tour. With a little con artist magic, we became such a big deal that Masterson Music offered us a contract." Neal was abbreviating the timeline. A fan of Urban Legend would know Neal and Henry had been performing together for years, but he took the chance that Tulane wasn't a pop music fan. He wore cowboy boots and had been playing a Keith Urban CD when they arrived. "That's how I met Mozzie."
"I took the role of their agent," Mozz added.
"Now here's where the first challenge comes in. Henry Winslow isn't just any mark. He's an investigator at a firm called Winston-Winslow. They've got a lot of resources. With Mozzie's help, we planted a background for Henry to unravel as he got curious about me. He was looking into my past, not because he distrusted me, but to help me find my roots. However, my origins remain frustratingly shrouded in mystery. The aunt who raised me passed away, so she can't provide answers, but she'd told me very little about my parents. It's almost as if she were afraid to talk about them, like they were in danger or hiding from someone. We can't say for sure, but there seems to be evidence pointing to my parents being American Caffreys who fled to Ireland when I was about three. I can't confirm any of that, but every so often I have a flashback to my lost memories. A lot of my preparation went into that part. Both Henry and his mother have degrees in psychology. She's a professor, but of course wanted to help me work through my issues, and took me on as a client. Probably thought she'd get a research paper out of it she could publish in an academic journal, but I used our 'sessions' to win her over. Imagine her excitement as she gradually brought some of my memories to the surface. Of course she can't publish her findings due to the risk I might really be that kid who's supposed to be in WITSEC. So no one will ever read it and question her results or objectivity."
"Ballsy," said Tulane. "You really convinced a professional you were traumatized?"
Neal finished his brandy and set the glass down nonchalantly. "I told you: I'm good. They're more than half-convinced I'm the long-lost grandson, even though I've never suggested it. They arranged to get me into Columbia University to study art, and I haven't had to pay a dime. The master's degree will get me access to a lot of high-profile institutions and art collectors in the future. And more than that, I'm not supposed to know it, but Edmund Caffrey updated his will to name me as a beneficiary. I can travel the world pursuing my art – at least that's what they'll think – and in the meantime I can keep running cons until he dies and I hit the jackpot."
"You're a good enough artist to pull off the master's degree?"
"I've had a sideline in 'reproductions' for years – ever since I was a teen – creating them and taking the originals. I'm good enough at both that I was a suspect when a Raphael was stolen from the National Gallery over the summer. I'd been in the museum the day before, and that made an FBI agent suspicious. Naturally I had the perfect alibi. My supposed grandmother's memory is a bit sketchy, but she doesn't want to admit it. When I reminded her how we'd spent the evening in question at her home watching her old movies, she said, 'Yes, of course, we had such fun,' and that's it. The ambassador's wife is above reproach. And the whole family's so invested in wanting me to be that kid they lost all those years ago that I don't have to do anything at this point. They're busy conning themselves into what they want to believe. Letting them fill in the blanks and fool themselves is much more effective than simply lying to them." He stretched and sat up straight. "Of course I couldn't pull it off alone. Mozzie's resources… Well, the less said about that, the better, right? Those aren't my secrets to tell. But we've made a great team."
"Not bad," said Tulane.
Neal raised a brow.
"Bordering on brilliant," Tulane acknowledged. "I might be able to use your skills on a future job. Care for a refill?" He put out his cigarette and poured more brandy for both of them. "Now, about Uffizi…" He told them how he'd pulled off that job, with enough detail that the FBI was likely to get a conviction. They wouldn't arrest him today. Neal knew that although Peter would complain, he'd let Tulane get away to keep the criminal community from learning that Neal worked on the other side these days. It would be worth it to get the client's name. And Tulane gave it to them: a name and where he was staying.
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
When Neal walked into the restaurant where Peter was waiting, he'd already removed the watch that had broadcast and recorded his conversation. He slipped it into Peter's hands so smoothly that anyone watching them wouldn't have noticed.
Mozzie slid into the booth with them. Peter had already turned off the monitoring equipment disguised as an iPod and held it tightly in case the little guy decided he'd like to take it. As Peter gestured for the check, Mozzie was nearly bubbling with excitement. "Neal, I have to apologize. I worried that you'd lose your touch working for… you know… but instead you're sharper than ever. If I hadn't run that DNA test to see if you were Henry's clone, I would have believed you up there, claiming you weren't related to him at all. Genius, absolute genius."
Peter put down enough cash to cover the bill and a tip and stood up. "We need to change into our suits, Mozzie."
Not wanting to go to the FBI offices with them, Mozzie made a hasty departure. Peter thanked the agent who was waiting for them as they turned in the equipment. He filled out the appropriate forms in record time as he briefed the agent on what they'd learned. A local team would take over apprehending the client, and they agreed that they needed to let Tulane go for now.
Neal answered when asked a direct question, but he avoided talking. At the condo, telling Tulane how he'd fooled the Caffreys, he'd sounded cold and cruel – pretty much the opposite of how open and warm he usually was around his family. Now, an hour later, he still seemed frozen. His expression was closed, and his body language made it clear he wanted to be left alone. He didn't say a word in the cab, or in the elevator on the way to their floor. Peter followed when Neal unlocked the door to his suite. The kid probably expected it to be empty. Everyone was supposed to be outside, attending hula lessons, but Peter had texted Henry from the Bureau's offices.
In the suite Neal acknowledged Henry with a nod, but all he said was, "Tulane's a smoker. I gotta get the smoke off of me. I feel like my throat's swelling shut." He walked into the bedroom to pick up fresh clothes and a minute later they heard the water running in the shower.
"How bad was it?" Henry asked, keeping an eye on the bathroom door.
Peter sat heavily on a chair in the suite, more tired than he'd been since going on vacation. "On his last case, back in New York, he was hurt. A suspect stabbed him with a skewer." Peter was about to apologize for not telling him about it, but Henry beat him to the punch.
"I know. I called Neal when he was recovering. The pain meds probably made him more chatty than he would have been otherwise." Another glance toward the door. "He didn't seem to be injured this time."
"Not physically, but this almost seems worse." Peter rested his head in his hands for a moment. This case had given him a headache. He looked up again. "To get Tulane to talk, Neal had to… He had to claim he's using you and your family. And… he's a brilliant con artist. It was totally convincing. He… he became that person he pretended to be, the guy who only sees you as a mark. I mean, I've seen him undercover and I knew he was good but today… today he was so cold I'm surprised he doesn't have frostbite. If there's an emotional equivalent of frostbite, that's what he's got. I hope you know how to thaw him out."
The sound of running water stopped. A minute later the bathroom door opened and steam rolled out, as if to underscore that Neal had felt the need for warmth. Neal strolled out. "Dinner plans?"
Peter looked at the time. It was later than he realized. "El sent me a text that we're going to a Japanese restaurant tonight, a couple blocks' walk from here."
Neal made an unconvincing attempt to smile. "Sounds good."
"You aren't hungry," Henry said.
"No, but I can fake it. Won't take much to convince everyone I'm all right."
"You still don't get it." Henry pushed Neal toward the sofa, and they both sat down. "You don't have to fake it, not for your family. Peter will tell them you need time to decompress after the op. They'll understand." He grabbed a booklet from the side table. "Here's the room service menu. Order a cheeseburger for me, and anything you want."
Peter considered staying, but Neal insisted that everyone would worry if they thought he needed two babysitters. "Go," Neal said, and Peter went, but not before telling Henry to call or text if they needed anything.
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"Tell me about it," Henry said after Peter left.
"He already told you," Neal said.
Yeah, Peter had told him, but Henry had hoped to hear it in Neal's words to get a clue as to how to help him get past it. "You gonna keep staring at that menu, or call room service?"
"Food'll get cold in here," Neal said, gesturing toward the air conditioning vents. "Let's hit the beach."
Henry followed. They both often found it easier to relax outdoors, especially when they felt trapped, and he thought that was part of the reason Neal was happy living in his loft with the massive terrace – easy to get outside and think stuff through. Neal stopped near the beach to grab one of the hotel's towels. He was almost on the beach when he suddenly turned and ordered a banana shake from one of the beach-side shacks that sold drinks.
For a while they sat on the sand, listening to the crashing waves, while Neal drank his shake.
There was something familiar about this, and Henry kept trying to figure out what it was. He'd never been to Hawaii before. In the years he'd traveled with Neal, they hadn't spent a lot of time on beaches. Last time had been in the Florida Keys, and they'd tried paddle boarding and snorkeling. They'd been busy and active, not chilling on a beach, so why did he feel a sense of déjà vu?
Neal finished the shake and lay back on the towel, staring up at the stars.
"I'm gonna get a burger from that restaurant down the beach," Henry said. "Want anything?"
Neal handed him the empty cup.
"Refill?"
"Yeah."
Henry scrambled to his feet. "Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back." A few minutes later he returned and handed Neal a fresh shake. He'd eaten half his burger on the walk, and sat down to devour the rest. The teriyaki sauce was fantastic. "You sure you don't want to try one of these?" he asked Neal as he crumbled up the wrapper. "I could get you one fast. Line's real short right now." He put the wrapper in the bag and drew out a package of fries. "And these fries, man. C'mon, take one." He looked at Neal, who was sitting up again and savoring the shake.
Neal shook his head.
"More for me then," said Henry. He thought he saw Neal shiver, which was odd. The sun had gone down but it was still in the mid-70s. He almost warned Neal to take it slow and avoid brain freeze, but honestly he was drinking that shake so slowly you'd think he was trying to make it last all night. And then the memory that had been eluding him popped into place. Oh, no. "Peter said you did great work this afternoon. He was impressed at your con. Said he'd never seen anyone act so cold."
"Mozz was worried I'd lose my touch, but I've still got it. I'll always have it."
At last, a response. And he heard it now. It had probably been there all along, but Neal had been suppressing it and Henry hadn't been listening for it. Neal's voice was slightly raspy. It wasn't just overuse from the concert, not two days later. "Maybe it's easier to act cold when you're feeling chilled?"
"What are you…? Hey!" Neal turned away but wasn't quick enough, not now. Henry got a hand on his forehead.
"You're running a fever. I should have realized. Not hungry, not talking, just wanting to be alone. Classic sick Neal." Henry stood up and walked over to a trash bin to get rid of the remnants of his dinner, and then returned to Neal, both hands extended. "We're not two runaways anymore, Neal. We've both got jobs with health insurance. Time to visit a clinic."
Neal begrudgingly grabbed Henry's hands and accepted the help pulling himself to his feet. "Just need sleep," he suggested, but Henry wasn't going to be satisfied until Neal saw a doctor.
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When they got back to the hotel room 90 minutes later, Edmund and Irene were anxiously waiting for them. So were Peter and Elizabeth.
"I thought you were going to stay here and order room service," Peter said as soon as they walked inside.
Neal rubbed his face.
"Go on," Henry said gently with a pat on his back. "I got this. You should get some sleep."
Neal nodded and yawned. He clutched a bottle of water as he shambled toward his room.
Henry held up a bag from a local pharmacy. "I figured out what was wrong with Neal. Strep throat. It was bothering him a little the last 24 hours, and then suddenly got worse this afternoon. Doctor gave him a shot of antibiotics and said he won't be contagious after 24 hours. Should be fine to fly back home as planned on Thursday. We've got some stuff from the drug store to keep his fever down and reduce the pain and swelling in his throat. Fortunately he's craving banana milkshakes, because he's got a lot of liquids and soft foods on his menu the next couple of days."
Irene walked up to her oldest grandson and hugged him. While she had him in her embrace, she ran a hand along his cheek, checking for a fever.
"I'm fine," he insisted.
"Yes, but get plenty of rest. I'd rather have you healthy and helping me take care of Neal, than needing to take care of you both."
There was an odd knock on the door, and Edmund opened it to Mozzie. "Where's Neal?" he asked. "Tulane's already been in contact. I need him to…" Mozzie trailed off as he noticed Peter.
"Go on," Peter invited.
"Where's Neal?" he repeated, looking around.
"Poor boy's in bed, running a fever," Irene explained. "The doctor said it's strep throat. You may want to be watchful for symptoms. You spent the afternoon with him?"
Mozzie backed away, one hand over his mouth. It wasn't easy to hear what he was muttering, but it seemed to be a list, including: antibacterial soap, saltwater gargle, and then he'd closed the door behind him and could be heard running down the hall.
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
Neal drifted in and out of sleep. He was tired, but too uncomfortable to rest deeply. When the door opened, he rolled over from his back to his side to face Henry.
"Thought you might want more." Henry put a full bottle of water next to the empty one on the nightstand.
"Thanks. Did I hear Mozzie?"
"Yeah. Ran out as soon as he heard you were sick." Henry sat on his bed, across from Neal's. "Need anything?"
Neal shook his head.
"Probably should take the pills the pharmacy gave us." Henry opened the bag and read the instructions on the bottles. "First one says you should take two every four hours until we run out or your throat stops hurting. The one for your fever is every six hours." He popped the lids and poured the prescribed pills into his hand. "Here."
"No, I can't."
"Listen, kiddo, I'm sure swallowing these doesn't sound fun, but they're gonna make you feel better."
"It's not that." Neal sat up. He cleared his throat, which was a painful exercise he hoped he wouldn't need to repeat often. "The doctor asked if I'd been drinking."
"Yeah, you said you hadn't."
"Forgot." Neal drank some water. "At Tulane's. Brandy." He gave up on talking and held up three fingers.
Henry pulled a sheet of paper with very fine print out of the bag. "Drug interactions. Here we go. Alcohol." He read it through. "Well, you can either suffer another few hours before you take these, or you can take them and be very sleepy and loopy and have some vivid dreams. However, it sounds like alcohol or not, those are potential side effects. The alcohol just intensifies it."
"You'll stay?" Neal asked.
"I'll be here. I won't let you do anything too crazy." He grinned. "And I won't let anyone record you either."
Neal held out a hand for the pills. On his last trip to a hospital the pain medication made him think Peter was a dinosaur and El was a bumblebee. It couldn't get worse than that. Swallowing the pills was as awful as he expected. After glugging more water, he settled back into the bed and willed the medicine to take effect. He dozed, occasionally opening his eyes to see Henry across the room, reading a psychology journal.
And he dreamed. In some of the dreams he'd never given up the life of crime. He pictured himself participating in the Uffizi job Tulane had described so vividly. He imagined going to Myanmar to steal rubies. He envisioned forgeries he'd never gotten around to. One dream even featured retiring to an island and building the Manhattan skyline as sand castles. But a component to all of those dreams was the threat of capture. He hadn't made friends in the FBI. Instead he was on their most wanted list. Often he woke panting, as if he was being chased. The last time was so intense he was sweating and tossed the covers off. Henry gave him another set of pills to bring down his fever, and he fell asleep again.
This time he slept longer and dreamed even more vividly. The con he'd spun for Tulane had come true. His life with the Caffreys was a hoax. He didn't really belong, and felt constant pressure to stay a step ahead of them. At first he looked down on them as stupid for believing him. Their happy lives were a silly illusion that he only pretended to believe in. They kept trying to pull him in, but he refused. Being an outsider was part of his allure to them, part of what made the con work. He was cold, inside and out.
"Cold," he said aloud, and then he felt warmer, as if someone had pulled a blanket over him.
And then things changed. It was harder to stay outside their circle. Their warmth seemed to have expanded to include him before he realized it had happened. It was harder to keep his distance, and harder to keep secrets. Henry, in particular, was on the verge of figuring out that Neal had been lying to them. The con was going to fall apart. He'd made a stupid, greedy mistake. Now that he valued this family, now that he truly considered them to be his friends, he was about to lose them.
"Why, Neal?" they asked. "You stole the Raphael. After everything we gave you, why?"
Because he craved the adventure, the challenge. Because it didn't matter how much they gave him or did for him, he'd always want more. Because happy endings weren't for guys like him. Because he was a criminal at heart.
"It's a lie," he admitted to Henry when he knew the truth couldn't be hidden anymore. "It's all a lie. I'm not who you think. You don't know who I am."
"We know you," Henry said, reassuringly. Why wasn't he yelling, or walking away?
Neal blinked. "You're still here."
"Not going anywhere, kiddo. I promised. Sit up now. Time for more pills. And if you're up to it, you really ought to eat something."
He did as instructed, and after he swallowed the pills asked, "I'm really your brother?"
"Yeah. Is that what that last dream was about? Scared of having a big brother to keep you on the straight and narrow?"
"Like you'd recognize the straight and narrow." Neal reached for a water bottle and it was empty.
"Here." Henry handed him a full one.
"What time is it?" Neal wondered.
"About 8am on Tuesday. Think you're up to a shower and then hanging out with Dor and Dressa in the suite? They're worried about you, and you're not contagious anymore."
"Yeah, let's try."
"What do you want for breakfast? We'll call room service."
"Banana shake."
"And?"
"Another banana shake. Keep 'em coming."
"Okay. Maybe we'll add on some scrambled eggs to make things interesting."
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
When Peter got the text that Neal was up and about Tuesday morning, he and El stopped by the suite to check on him. He was seated in the suite's living room with his grandparents, watching TV. They'd found one of Irene's old movies, and she was telling stories about playing practical jokes on the other actors in the film. Neal's smile was particularly loopy.
Henry had opened the door and as they entered Peter asked in an undertone, "How is he?"
"Veeerrry happy," Henry said. "We had Disney's Fantasia on the TV earlier. He started humming the song from 'The Sorcerer's Apprentice' and wouldn't stop. Said he couldn't find the end. Oh, and apparently he's addicted to banana shakes."
"We can bring him a pineapple one later for variety," El suggested. "And I saw something on the room service kid's menu called a coconut fizz. That's probably easy on the throat."
"Good idea." Henry followed them inside.
"Peter!" Neal's voice was enthusiastic, if hoarse. "It's my favorite movie."
Peter sat down next to El. "Yeah? How long has this been your favorite?"
Neal closed his eyes and scrunched his face in deep thought. "Nineteen years." He opened his eyes. "Yep. Nineteen."
"What happened 19 years ago?" El asked.
"Flu. Bored. Wouldn't stay in my room. Mom put this movie in the VCR. I played it over and over."
It was a family-friendly movie called The Playboy and the Bobby-Soxer, one where Irene had been in her early 20s and played a teenager with a crush on her older sister's love interest. "You must have really liked it," El said.
"Mm-hmm. Mom asked why I kept replaying it. Said I liked her voice." He nodded toward Irene. "Comforting." He sank more deeply into the sofa cushions. "Mom said…" He looked at Irene. "Called you my babysitter."
"Truer words," said his grandmother.
Neal reached for his banana shake, and grumbled when he saw it was nearly empty.
Irene smiled fondly. "Ah now, there's my Baby Bear. We'll get you another one in a bit. Have some water. We want to keep you hydrated."
The grumbling growl lessened slightly, and finally ended as he drank the water. But his frown indicated he did not think water was an acceptable substitute.
"Angela and Rosalind and Viola are stopping by later," Henry said. "They said they'd bring lunch from one of the restaurants nearby, to give us a break from room service. It's going to be like dinner theater. Angela's teaching them lines from some of Dressa's old movies to act out scenes with her."
"Oh, that sounds like fun," El said.
"I've heard you're an actress yourself now," Irene mentioned. "I hope you'll join us."
"It's only community theater," El demurred.
"How do you think I started out? Please say you'll take part. Everyone else is."
"Everyone?" asked Henry.
"Well, you can't expect Edmund to be the leading man all the time. He needs support. You'll be very dashing once we get you in costume."
Costumes? "I should really stop by the Bureau soon and catch up on the case," Peter said before anyone tried to volunteer him.
"You won't stay and play Agent Baker?" Irene asked, referring to a classic character supposedly inspired by Sherlock Holmes. He always wore suits in the movies. That wouldn't be too bad.
"I guess I could postpone the trip until the afternoon," Peter conceded.
Neal grumbled.
Irene smoothed back his hair. "I know you'd like to play Baker, but he has more lines than you could speak today." She named another part, a character infamous for his dramatic flair and over-the-top death scene. "He doesn't say as much, but he's very memorable."
It wasn't long before Neal fell asleep, leaning on his grandfather's shoulder. While Irene described a part she envisioned for El, Peter took the opportunity to ask Henry, "Do you really think Neal's up to this?"
"We'll take it in small increments. The girls already know they're supposed to call for frequent breaks for snacks or costume changes. Anyway, this is what you wanted Sunday evening, remember? You said Neal needed a cure for emotional frostbite."
"I thought you'd decided the virus was making him act out of character."
"It contributed. Now that we've got the physical fever and chills under control, I'm trying to warm up his soul. He's going to be barraged with the caring and love of family. There may be a temporary side effect of being exhausted sometimes, but this is the best cure I know."
Wednesday morning. January 5, 2005.
Neal had been eager to get outside, and Angela was happy to have him back on his feet again. It was their last full day in Hawaii, and he'd insisted on returning from sick mode to vacation mode. He was still tired, and Henry seemed equally worn out from watching over him. Currently they both dozed on beach towels on the sand. Angela, Rosalind and Viola sat on the sand trying to guess Henry's nickname, while Irene, Julia and Betty sat on beach chairs watching their grandchildren with fond indulgence.
"Did Billy Feng mention what was in that tea he brought for Neal yesterday?" Julia asked.
"No. He simply described it as an old family remedy for sore throats, and said it was sweetened with honey," Irene said.
"Honey is soothing," Betty said. "I remember giving my boys a teaspoon of honey for a sore throat."
"Don't tell Henry that. He has such a sweet tooth, he might pretend his throat hurts if he thinks you'll give him honey." Irene winked at Angela and then said, "I remember the way Henry giggled as a baby. At first I thought he was happy, and that was true, but he was also very ticklish. The slightest touch set him off."
"Oh, I remember that too," said Julia Winslow. "Such an infectious laugh. You couldn't pick him up without setting it off. Noelle finally managed it. She was able to pick him up without waking him, but the rest of us learned that leaving a restaurant or church or even a concert hall meant hearing him shriek with laughter."
"Neal had more of a chuckle," Irene added. "And I noticed that if you made either of them laugh, if the other was in hearing distance he'd start to laugh, too. Heaven forgive me but once out of curiosity I tickled Henry while Neal was napping, and Neal started laughing in his sleep."
"I suppose they've both outgrown that now," Betty said. "Or so they would claim."
"These are certainly ideal circumstances for an experiment," Julia added. "If we wanted to find out."
Something in the women's smiles warned Angela and she realized her companions were creeping up on her cousins. Rosalind had a handful of sand and was slowly pouring it on Henry's bare chest. He started to smile, and then was actually giggling.
Beside him, Neal chuckled.
It went on a little too long, and perhaps Angela should have warned Rosalind and Viola when she noticed that their victims weren't asleep anymore. Before she could decide where her loyalties belonged in this situation, Henry surged to his feet, pulling Rosalind with him. He swept her over his shoulder in a fireman's hold and ran into the ocean, dumping her in the water.
Neal and Viola stood up, with Viola laughing until the moment Neal grabbed her hand and followed Henry into the ocean.
Betty smiled. "Tickle bugs can be a tempting target, but they do learn to defend themselves."
Angela ran over to where her four friends were emerging from the surf. She slapped Henry on the arm as if they were playing tag and yelled, "Tickle Bug!"
He froze only an instant before chasing her down and dumping her in the ocean, too. She yelled, "Tickle Bug!" the entire time.
All five of them played tag in the ocean for a while, calling "tickle bug" instead of "you're it" when tagging each other. Eventually they returned to their grandmothers, plopping down on beach towels. Irene gave them her most innocent look and said, "Now that you mention it, we did call little Henry our Tickle Bug. Such a lucky guess."
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
As it sank in that it was their last full day in Hawaii, everyone had one more thing they wanted to fit in – something they wanted to do, a place to visit or revisit. They went their separate ways for lunch and the afternoon, and agreed to meet as a group for dinner.
Graham and Julia Winslow planned to take the yacht out one last time, and naturally Henry wanted to join them. He loved being on the water; he was more relaxed on a boat than anyplace else. Neal realized that Henry had sacrificed time on the yacht in order to look after him when he was sick. So when Henry asked Neal to spend the afternoon on the boat, it was a no-brainer, especially when he sounded stressed. A tour of Iolani Palace could wait for another vacation.
First Neal had a quiet lunch with his grandparents, and then headed to the dock. When he reached the boat Henry seemed to be meditating, probably part of the mindfulness technique he'd studied that fall in India. Henry and Graham had spent a few months there after Robert – Henry's father and Graham's son – had died in a showdown with the FBI and U.S. Marshals.
For a moment Neal wondered if Henry intended to return to India, perhaps permanently. He'd found peace there, so Neal should support the move if that's what he needed, but it would be hard to sound happy for him when it meant seeing each other much less frequently.
Graham – he'd told Neal months ago to call him Pops – welcomed Neal aboard. "The missus and I are going to be with the captain." He pointed up to a glassed-in area from which the boat was piloted. "You boys will have the deck to yourselves." He ruffled Henry's hair and added, "Let me know if you need help."
"You remember where –" Henry started.
"Yes, the course is set for exactly where you want to go," Graham promised, and then he left them.
Henry grabbed a soft drink from a cooler. "Want anything?"
Neal selected a drink and then joined Henry in a seating area. Soon the yacht was pulling away from the dock. He sensed that there was something Henry was working up to saying, so he patiently waited rather than kicking off a conversation.
"Remember when we were talking about The Wizard of Oz when we first got here, and I said I was the lion?"
Neal nodded. "Closest thing to a tiger, you said. Was there another reason?"
"Yeah. Because I've been a coward."
Neal found that hard to believe. Henry had walked into a warehouse and exchanged places with Robert's hostage, knowing a gun battle was imminent. It didn't get much braver than that. "Afraid to admit I'm the smarter brother?"
Henry's grin only lasted a moment. "Back when you ran away and I found you, in those next few years of traveling and avoiding my dad, there were a couple of things we never talked about."
"My flashbacks," Neal said, remembering how he'd refused to discuss the events he'd been repressing. "And…" He thought he knew now what this was about.
"Yeah."
"You have to say it," Neal said, remembering what Joe had told him. Saying things out loud had a power. It made them real.
"You already know. When we hang out a lot we can almost read each other's minds."
They were often on the same wavelength, but not always. There was one time in particular, Neal wished he'd been quicker on the uptake. It was a few months after they'd started performing as Urban Legend. Neal had been 18, and Henry was 20…
They were at a music festival. It was a perfect summer day and they'd just finished a performance, and a girl had approached them when they left the stage. She said she and her friend were big fans and would really like to get to know the Legend brothers better. Groupies. Neal couldn't believe they actually had groupies now. He had a drink with them at the concession stand and then said he'd see what was taking his brother so long. Henry should have returned by then.
Henry had gone to put their guitars in the car. He'd promised they could hang out and listen to some of the other groups perform, and should have only been in the parking lot for a minute. For some reason he was just standing there by his car, lost in thought. Neal ran up, laughing with sheer joy at a day where everything was going their way. He told Henry the girls were still waiting for them and said, "C'mon," but Henry just stood there. "I'm telling you, they're smoking hot, and they are seriously into us. C'mon."
"No," said Henry.
"What, are you gay or something?" Neal teased.
Henry's hands were clenched. "Maybe."
Neal stared at him in shock. "Huh? You're joking, right?"
Henry walked around the car and opened the driver's door. "I'll pick you up in a few hours."
"Wait!" Neal had yelled, but the motor roared to life and the car sped away. When Henry returned, Neal tried to talk about it. "I'm sorry," he'd said.
"Shut up," Henry said.
"There's nothing wrong with it, I mean, if that's what you –"
"We are not talking about this," Henry insisted. And that had been his stance for the next eight years.
Now they were finally going to have this conversation. "You invited me here so you could say it. You know you have to put it into words," Neal insisted.
"I'm gay! All right?" Henry stood abruptly and paced around the deck, prowling like a tiger. It's as if he were the same 20-year-old picking up the thread of that long ago conversation, uncertain and ready to lash out in pain. "There. Are you happy?"
"Are you?" Neal asked.
Henry came to an abrupt stop. "I don't know." He ran his hands through his hair. "Maybe not yet, but I can see the path to get there. It's a start, anyway."
"A start is good," Neal said, keeping his voice calm. Henry needed calm right now, until that old pain and fear subsided. "You know I always wished I'd handled it differently, back then. It wasn't that it made a difference to me either way. It was just a shock. By the time I was thinking clearly, you wouldn't touch the subject with a ten-foot pole. Why wouldn't you talk about it, after you came back?"
"Are you kidding? You were barely 18. I thought if anyone found out, they might think I was taking advantage of you. People say some ugly things now. There was even less tolerance then. I didn't think I could stand it if someone accused me of…" He shuddered.
"We claimed to be brothers most of the time," Neal pointed out. "It felt real, even before we knew it was real."
"But we didn't have any proof we were brothers, just a couple of fake IDs. It wasn't a risk I was ready to take. And… Hell, I wasn't ready to admit it to myself." He plopped down onto one of the padded bench seats. "I mean, I knew. Deep down I'd known for a while but I still wasn't ready to say it."
"I thought maybe you'd talk to me about it when you finished your master's. Some of those electives you chose focused on gender roles and sexuality. And there was that paper you wrote about the impacts of keeping sexual orientation a secret."
Henry nodded. "By the time I graduated I was getting more comfortable with… everything. I might have come out, but then I went temporarily insane and thought it was a good time to reconnect with Dad."
Yeah, Robert's loathing of homosexuals would have been a setback.
"You know the last thing he said to me?" Henry added. "There in the warehouse holding a gun to my head, after all the times he'd accused me of being gay, for once he finally asked me."
Neal remembered. Robert had said something the rest of them couldn't hear, and Henry had nodded. And then Robert had announced to everyone that he was going to clean up his mistake, meaning that Henry was too flawed to be allowed to live. It was difficult to keep his cool in the face of that memory. Neal realized he was clenching his fists and made an effort to relax. "You remember Agent Travis Miller?"
Henry thought a moment. "Sounds vaguely familiar."
"He tends to stay in the background, but he was there when we found where Robert had stashed you and Angela after kidnapping you. Travis specializes in tech and communications. We'd confiscated the phone of Robert's accomplice, and Travis was trying to pull data from it when Robert called that number. He decided to answer, to see if he could learn anything about where Robert was hiding out, and during the conversation Robert found out that Travis is gay."
Henry winced in sympathy.
"We have another agent – Diana Berrigan – who's upfront about it. Her first day on the team, everyone knew. Travis tends to tell people one-by-one, when he thinks they're ready to hear it, and from what he's told me he put up with a lot of bullying in high school. Between that, and his own experiences talking to Robert, he probably has a good understanding of what you've gone through."
"Listen, I don't need you to set me up –"
"No, that's not where I'm going," Neal interrupted. "Travis is already in a relationship with a good friend of mine at Columbia. But the thing is, if you want to talk to someone… you know, someone other than me…"
"Someone who understands what it's like to be gay and come out. I get it. Thanks. That could be helpful."
"Who else knows?" Neal asked.
Henry took a deep breath. "I came to terms with who I am and Dad's reaction to it while I was in India. Since I was traveling with Pops, I told him. I'd already been talking to him so fervently about rights and benefits for gay employees at Win-Win, I think that helped ease him into it."
"Did he tell Julia?"
Henry nodded. "Other than that, you're the only person I've told. I didn't want to make a big announcement until after the wedding. That day – this whole vacation really – was about Mom and Joe, and I didn't want to steal the spotlight. But I made a New Year's resolution…" He rolled his eyes at Neal's expression. "Yeah, not really my thing, but this year it seemed appropriate. I'm going to tell everyone in the next few weeks; family, co-workers, they'll all find out." He paused and drank deeply from the soda can. "I think Mom will be the least surprised. She knows me well, she's a psychologist, and she used to run interference when Dad went on a rant about me doing something he thought was gay, like trying out for a school play."
Neal agreed. Even if she hadn't guessed, he trusted that Noelle would be understanding and supportive. He was about to ask who Henry planned to tell next, when he realized the boat had been sitting in the same position for a while now, with the motor off. "Pops said you picked our destination?"
Henry gestured toward the shore. Dominating the view was the Rainbow Tower. "Seemed appropriate."
"I don't think coming out is what people mean when they talk about going over the rainbow," Neal teased, and with that comment Henry finally seemed to relax. If they could joke about it, they were going to be okay. "Are you going to yell at Angela and everyone else when you tell them?"
"Nah, I saved all the pent-up angst for you. I'll be calmer with everyone else."
"You're welcome," said Neal.
"Yeah, whatever."
"I almost thought you were going to tell me over Thanksgiving."
"Uh-huh. You and all your hints about closets. Real subtle, kiddo." Henry leaned back on the bench seat, hands behind his head, and looked up at the sky. "I considered it, but chickened out. Plus we were guests of the Burkes. I realized I needed a place like this, where I could vent and yell and get it all out there without anyone rushing in to ask what's wrong."
"There's nothing wrong with you." Neal put his feet up. "Well, you're kind of ugly…" They bantered for a while, and were both smiling when the yacht returned to the dock.
As they were walking into a Korean-Hawaiian fusion restaurant to meet everyone for dinner, Henry tensed up again. "Listen, I appreciate your support," he said. "But I understand if you're not comfortable, you know, hanging out the way we used to, once people know."
Neal stared at him in shock a moment and then, in full view of their families, pulled him into a hug and muttered, "You idiot. You're still my best friend, even when we're not in Oz anymore."
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
After dinner, Neal told Peter he'd like to talk to him. "I was too sick to talk about it at first," Neal said, "but there's some stuff we should discuss, kind of related to the case."
It didn't take an FBI agent to figure out that the case was an excuse finally to cover what had been bothering Neal since before they left New York. Peter had been ready to remind him of his promise to come clean about whatever the problem was before this vacation ended. "How about I buy you one more banana shake?" Peter offered.
Neal shook his head. "I think I've overdosed on those. I need a break from banana. Maybe pineapple."
With shakes in hand, they found a quiet spot on the beach.
Of course Neal couldn't simply start talking. Even when he requested the conversation, it seemed like you had to drag the words out of him sometimes. After a few minutes of silence, Peter decided it might help to start on a different topic. "Everything okay with Henry?"
Neal looked at him oddly. "Why do you ask?"
"He was quieter than usual." And there'd been that hug when they walked into the restaurant, as if Henry needed emotional support. El had elbowed Peter in the ribs to bring his attention to that.
Whatever it had been about, it didn't seem to have Neal worried. He flashed an enigmatic smile and said, "He's gonna be fine. Pretty soon he'll have a whole new lease on life." Then out of the blue he said, "This afternoon Henry reminded me of something we said when we first got here, about Hawaii being Oz. He was the lion, and I'd said I was the scarecrow."
"Odd choice for a college student who aced his first semester."
Neal waved that away impatiently. "Studying art's different. I wanted extra brain cells to figure out this whole one-year anniversary at the FBI."
"What about it?"
Neal traced drawings in the sand as he spoke. "People keep talking about how much has changed in my life. And they're right, in one regard. All year long I'd kept looking at where I was, at what I was doing, and thinking how I never would have guessed… Even more than that, I wouldn't have believed it would be possible that I'd be working for you at the FBI, living in June's loft, accepted by my family, and going to grad school."
"That is a lot of change in one year," Peter agreed. He'd prepared for this. He was ready to assure Neal that the rate of change would slow now, and it wouldn't always be so overwhelming.
"The thing is, what changed are my circumstances. I haven't changed." He looked at Peter for a reaction.
"You haven't?" This was a curveball that had Peter revising his mental script.
Neal wiped out his doodles in the sand. "Everyone assumes I've changed a lot, too. But I haven't. I still think con instead of sting. I still hear crew and think of a group of criminals and not a construction team. I hear Tulane describe the Uffizi job and wish I could have been there. I visit the museum here and consider how I'd beat their security. I'm not reformed, Peter. I know that's what you hoped for a year ago. That was the deal, right? I joined your team and was supposed to stop being a criminal. I've put up a good act, and put a lot of impressive-sounding stuff in my year-end accomplishments, but the truth is I failed. I thought you should know. You can fire me, or tell me to quit, or whatever minimizes the impact to your career."
Peter stood up and put his hands on his hips. "Tell me, hardened criminal, how many museums have you broken into this last year?"
"Well, there was that time with Klaus –"
"That was an undercover op, to prevent a theft." Peter tossed the last of his shake in the trash. "Walk with me."
"Huh?"
"You've been worrying over this for weeks. I need a few minutes to think it over to make sure I've got my head fully wrapped around it before I give you an answer. If I were home, I'd do my thinking over a crossword puzzle or a hockey game. Or if that failed me, I'd take Satchmo for a walk."
"I'm your substitute for Satchmo?"
"A poor substitute. At least he usually follows orders." Peter strode down the beach and pondered this latest twist in the journey of being Neal's boss, father figure and mentor. Neal called himself the scarecrow, but the refrain "If only I had a brain" kept running through Peter's mind. He wouldn't turn down a mental boost right now.
Neal followed along. "We could –"
"No."
"But what if I –"
"Hush." Peter picked up an abandoned beach ball.
Neal raised a brow. "I'm not playing fetch."
"No, but you'll play catch."
"I don't think that's the right sort of ball for –"
"It's all part of the process. Back up. A little more. Yeah, that's about right." They threw the ball back and forth. At first Peter made it easy, but after a few rounds he upped the challenge, making Neal leap or run to the side to make the catch. He adapted easily, using the speed and grace he usually attributed to being a cat burglar. But those skills applied to sports and other activities, too. The kid had been a decent dancer for that New Year's Eve performance. Keeping in mind that Neal was still recovering from strep, Peter didn't make the game too physically challenging. Soon he caught the ball and held onto it. The answer was taking form, in two parts. "I think you're missing some stuff." He started walking back toward the hotel, and Neal fell in step.
"Like what?"
"Like how much you have changed. Back before your birthday, you didn't think you'd be comfortable around the Caffreys, especially all of them as a group. Now they don't intimidate you at all. And over the summer you had doubts you could handle grad school. Now you're Sherkov's favorite student, and you've got a bunch of college friends." Peter realized he was still carrying the beach ball and tossed it back over his shoulder, in the direction he'd found it. "And how about the way you've made a place for yourself in the team? You've got them playing hide-and-seek with you every Tuesday and calling it a training exercise in tailing suspects."
"That's more about them changing than me," Neal objected.
"I'm not so sure about that. I think you're slowly coming around to being a team player. Still got a lot of lone wolf tendencies, though. That's a sneak preview of your annual review, by the way." It was getting dark, and Peter stopped in the pool of light under a lamppost. Neal stayed on the fringes of that light, as if undecided whether he was more comfortable in the light or the dark. Peter took a deep breath and hoped he got the second part of the answer right. It was the trickiest, and the most important. "But honestly, I think you're right. The essence of who you are hasn't changed. You're still the same person I recruited a year ago."
Neal swallowed. His eyes darted toward the darkness.
Peter resisted the urge to lunge forward to grab Neal. Triggering his flight instinct wasn't going to help. "A year ago I saw a brilliant young man with a genius for undercover work. I saw someone who was mischievous, not evil. A criminal by circumstance, because other avenues appeared closed to him. An artist, a strategist, a loyal friend, someone who abhors violence. What I saw, when I got to know Neal Caffrey, was someone who is basically good, who needed a chance to see that he could make a difference for good in the world. Someone who needed an invitation back into the light." He stepped forward slowly, and placed a hand on Neal's shoulder. "I'm not going to rescind that invitation because you still have all your old skills and vocabulary. You bring those to the table every day at work to help us catch bad guys. Why would I complain about that?"
Friday evening. January 7, 2005.
Neal was yawning as he walked inside the mansion. He'd managed to sleep on the 12-hour flight home yesterday, but the seven-hour time difference meant it was nearly dawn when he got home this morning. He'd simply taken a shower, put on a suit, and gone to work. The only question now was whether he had enough energy to eat dinner before falling into bed.
"Happy New Year, Neal."
He hadn't even noticed June in the foyer. This was the first time he'd seen her since leaving for Hawaii, and he stepped forward to hug her. "Happy New Year." It had been her first Christmas and New Year's without Byron, and he studied her closely. No signs of crying recently. "Did Emil get the gift I left for him in the kitchen?
"See for yourself," June said. "Follow me."
Neal followed her to the kitchen, where he was surprised to see her chef. Usually Emil was gone by the time Neal got home from work, unless June was entertaining. "You remembered!" Emil said when he saw Neal.
"You told me Kona coffee was one of your favorites," Neal responded with a smile.
"And here's one of yours. Sit, sit." Emil started preparing sole almondine as Neal sat at the kitchen table. That in itself was a rare treat. Emil generally didn't approve of people eating their meals in his kitchen. Diners belong in the dining room seemed to be his motto. But tonight Neal ate in the kitchen, sitting with Emil and June, and shared stories about his time Hawaii. Emil's primary interest was in the food, and while he had a flair for gourmet cuisine, he didn't turn his nose up at casual fare. Neal had no qualms about admitting his newfound love of banana milkshakes.
Once the meal was over, Neal was yawning again. "I won't keep you," June said. "I know you're jet-lagged, but I have to thank you for the Christmas gift. Where did you manage to find a recording of Byron playing his trumpet? 'Old Devil Moon' was always a favorite of ours."
"Remember Cassie Blanca and Samantha Weston? They were so grateful for your help getting their musical careers back on track last summer that they wanted to do something for you. I sent them to the clubs where the two of you used to hang out, and they asked around to find out who would have recordings from those days. Eventually they hit the jackpot."
Monday morning. January 10, 2005.
Hughes had joined the morning briefing. He shared news of the arrest of a Chinese magnate who had been commissioning crimes from Honolulu. "Apparently Caffrey and Agent Burke forgot they were on vacation, because they're mentioned prominently in the report. Peter, will you fill the team in on what happened?"
Peter summarized the case, leaving out the references to Viagra. This was the FBI, after all, not a bachelor party – although Neal seemed to be signaling Diana and Jones that there was more to the story. As Peter wrapped up his report, Hughes added that since both Peter and Neal had been working a case, he'd revised their timesheets for last week to show they had been working two days, which meant they got back two vacation days for use later in the year.
"A couple of more announcements," Peter said. "These are in the interest of full disclosure, to make sure I don't repeat some mistakes I made last year. First, many of you know that in 2004 we worked several cases with a private investigation and security firm called Winston-Winslow. It's a partnership that was encouraged by the upper ranks of the Bureau, and they want to see it continue. Some of you also know that over the holidays my brother married Noelle Winslow, who's on the board of directors of Win-Win. We don't want any appearance of a conflict of interest, and for that reason I'm turning over to Agent Jones the role of primary liaison with Win-Win."
Peter paused as Jones accepted congratulations from several team members. It was a high profile role and would be good for his career.
"Related to that announcement, last summer a few of you were concerned that I might be biased in my dealings with Neal. I hope I've alleviated those concerns. The wedding I mentioned may raise some new concerns, however, and I want to address those head-on. Noelle Winslow is related to Neal. Some of you have met her son, Henry Winslow, and know that he's one of Neal's best friends. They often say they're like brothers. The wedding means Henry is now my nephew, and you might say by extension that Neal is like a nephew, too. I'm sure you Harvard grads in the room are familiar with the term nepotism." He sighed. "No, don't raise your hands. My point is, if you have any reason to believe that I'm showing favoritism, or that I'm being too hard on Neal, I want you to let me know. I don't expect it to be an issue, but I do want you to know that you're allowed, and even encouraged, to speak up if you think there's a problem. Got it?" There were nods around the room, and Peter ended the meeting.
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
Neal, Diana and Jones went to a nearby café for lunch, where he filled in the more risqué aspects of the case he'd helped solve in Hawaii, not to mention the way the entire wedding party had gotten involved. They were still laughing as they left the café to walk back to the office.
"Oh, look," Diana said. "It's snowing."
Normally Neal wasn't a fan of snow, but he was in a mellow mood. There was a beauty to the rapidly accumulating blanket of white covering the city.
"Big change from Hawaii," Jones said.
"I miss the beach," Neal admitted, "but there's no place like home."
A/N: Silbrith suggested the title of Neal's favorite movie, which is a variation on an actual movie: The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer.
Thanks for reading Caffrey Aloha. This is the final chapter, and the next story in this AU is Silbrith's The Dreamer.
When I chose this story's title, Silbrith commented on the fact that Aloha also means goodbye. I'm not exactly saying goodbye, but I am taking a break. In 2016 my primary writing focus is an original, futuristic mystery novel. Silbrith is taking the lead on the Caffrey Conversation AU, with a breathtaking set of stories in the works. I'll post short vignettes in the AU between her stories, so you'll still see updates from me occasionally.
Creating this AU and sharing it with White Collar fans has been amazing, and the collaboration with Silbrith made the experience even better than I would have believed possible. Thanks very much for your comments and reviews. If you have questions or comments about this story, the AU in general, or what I'm working on next, feel free to post a note or PM me. Aloha!