Title: In the name of George

Verse: Neal by any other name

Disclaimer: George Durand is mine, but anything other - well, you know the drill ;)

Timeline: after Withdrawal

Summary: There is a reason why most of Neal's aliases start with the name George.

Many thanks to mam711 for beta-reading.

WCWCWCWC

The Channing Museum annual party was in full swing. It was Neal's first museum visit since leaving the prison again. Peter observed his friend as he sauntered around, enjoying the art and the event itself; clearly he was in his element.

Neal stood by Monet's "The Water-Lily Pond", getting as close as possible without attracting the guards' attention.

Peter kept a close eye on Neal. The con man wasn't his usual exuberant self yet, but seemed to be having a good time, chatting with people and admiring the art.

El's hand on his elbow diverted his attention back to his wife and a friendly pair she was talking with. He smiled proudly, hearing about the prize Elizabeth was getting for the organization, and business cards exchanged hands. When the pair excused themselves to talk to the curator, Peter's eyes darted again to Neal. He was talking to a small man, with white hair and beard, with an older lady on his arm.

"Hon, relax, they surely are talking about art."

"Yes, of course, what else could Neal and someone that looks like a distant cousin to the little guy be talking about," he responded doubtfully.

"Hon, that's M.F. Hussain, he's a very famous artist—they call him the Indian Picasso; his pieces are in the west wing here. Now, honey, why don't you take me dancing and you can interrogate Neal on our way home." She smiled invitingly.

Without answering, he took her arm and gently steered her in the direction of the dance floor.

Half an hour later Peter got this slightly-panicked look in his eye when he couldn't spot Caffrey anywhere. He excused himself from yet another chat and took off in the direction of the men's room. If Neal wasn't there, he would start looking in all the places the con shouldn't be, and probably was anyway. The bathroom was empty, their table too, and Neal wasn't charming any ladies. He was silently cursing when a shadow slipping through the door to the west wing got his attention. Dammit, he knew it couldn't be something as innocent as Neal just talking to a painter; if Caffrey stole anything today there would be hell to pay.

He hurried along to follow, thanking the gods that the curator was on his way; he grabbed his attention and mentioned the door.

"Agent Burke, what's the matter?"

"I was just curious if the west wing is open for guests; I think I heard El saying that only the main hall would be open," he started carefully; no need to attract more attention if nothing was happening. Yeah, like that was an option with Neal Caffrey on the loose in a museum full of priceless pieces.

"No, no, the wing is closed; she is right. But Mr. Hussain asked to take a look at his works so if you saw him sneaking in there it's all right; I'm well aware of his tendencies to do things ... differently, so to speak. That's the reason he is so exceptional an artist, truly amazing; did you know..." Peter stopped listening, smiled in all the appropriate places—at least he hoped so—and excused himself as soon as possible, just after asking if he also could take a look. The curator looked at him strangely but nodded.

When Peter walked into the west wing he directed his steps toward the sound of a muffled voice; finally he spotted his missing friend sitting on a sofa set in the middle of the room; surprisingly, he was alone. He stood behind a column silently; Neal was talking, laughing and smiling, a champagne flute in his hand. Okay, that was strange; he'd actually never seen Caffrey drunk—drugged yes, drunk no. Neal laughed again; it wasn't his normal laugh or smile, the con man's tools of the trade. It had a childlike quality of happiness, something Peter never truly saw with Neal. And if his experience with drugged Caffrey taught him anything, it was that he'd better not leave him alone.

"Caffrey!"

Neal didn't even flinch. "Peter, it's not polite to sneak up on people," he said with a smile and twinkle in his eye. He then raised his glass in the direction of the portrait on the wall.

"Monsieur Durand, let me introduce you to my FBI agent, Peter Burke. Peter, this is George Durand." His words were slurred and his smile a little bit more lopsided than usual.

The agent fixed a determined look at Neal, not really disturbed about introductions to a portrait.

"My agent? Are you drunk?" he asked with disapproval.

"What, I belong to you for the next three years, as you like to emphasize, so I think I have the right to say you're my agent." There it was: the con man's smile, the one Peter knows so well. He frowned at Neal then turned again to the painting, looking at it closely trying to determine if it wasn't one of Neal Caffrey's specials.

The portrait was surely a good representative of contemporary art; the person portrayed was a little bit eccentric—green sneakers peeked out of khakis, a gray shirt, brown tweed jacket and colorful checkered scarf, set in a mild yellow background. It looked strange in a museum full of Picassos, Monets and other great artists.

"So who's Monsieur Durand? Anyone I should know about?" Peter sat on the sofa, resigning himself to keeping company with a drunken Neal, and hoping he could drag him away soon, before the guards noticed the strange pair in a closed wing.

"He was my first painting..."

"Neal!"

"What?" He looked at Peter, surprised, alcohol making him a little bit slow. "Ah! Not like that, my first art teacher, and he allowed me to work a little bit on his portrait, you could say it's ninety-five percent Durand, five percent Caffrey." He drank the rest of the champagne before finishing. "The sneakers and the shawl were my idea. He wasn't so eccentric normally." There was longing in Neal's voice, longing after times lost.

"How old were you when you met him?" Peter's curiosity about Neal's life won over the sensible option of dragging him out of forbidden land.

"Six; the Wicked Witch decided I needed art and calligraphy lessons. Good, because I wouldn't be where I am without him."

"You mean on a work-release program with blinking jewelry?" Peter couldn't stop himself.

"No, I mean with a greater appreciation of art and good penmanship, not to mention fantastic art skills."

"You value your appreciation of art higher than your skills? Who are you and what did you do with Neal Caffrey?"

"If you don't have the appreciation for art then you don't appreciate the skills."

"Hey, I do have appreciation for art, and for the skills; I just wish you wouldn't use them for the dark side."

"What, you're Obi-Wan now?"

"Nope, Yoda." He laughed. "And time to go is now, Young Skywalker." Peter gave his best Yoda impression.

Neal pouted. "But I didn't tell George about his adventures yet!"

"His?"

"Sure! You know how many times I introduced myself as George?" Seeing the glee in Peter's eye he quickly recovered. "You don't have to know. But I did that for him!"

"So let me get it straight: each time you used George Danvary, George Donelly, or George Devore, you did that for him? Did you use George Durand too?"

"Everything in the name of George." Neal served him a drunk smile.

Peter did the only thing he could: he laughed.

The End