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When Hughes calls him in the office with that two-fingered gesture that Neal has started referring to as an ‘FBI come hither’ (and damn him if Peter isn’t positive the junior agents have picked up the term themselves), there isn’t any sense of foreboding other than hoping that there’s a new case and that said new case isn’t mind-numbingly boring.
When Hughes introduces him to Special Agent Victor Henriksen and the first words out of the man are “we need to talk about Neal Caffrey”, however, Peter starts worrying.
Henriksen is brisk and efficient, laying out four years worth of work on his fugitive in less than ten minutes, and at the end of it all Peter can say is “good God” and “what does Neal have to do with this”, and after he’s shown the first picture he can only close his eyes and hiss “damn it, Neal”.
He really should stop being surprised by Neal, but there it is.
Peter summons Neal to the meeting, grim and stone-faced, which Neal seems to take as a challenge to be charming enough for the both of them.
Henriksen sizes him up and doesn’t appear to take any of his bullshit. He’s not rude, exactly, but he’s as dismissive of Neal’s capital-C Charisma as only Diana usually is.
(Peter points it out to him sometime later, when Victor is still in the office, eating a sandwich and filling in a ream of paperwork for his New York visit.
“I know the ‘charming criminal’ shtick. It’s what’s kept Dean Winchester in the wind for so long. Psychopathic son of a bitch can be as charming as your Caffrey, only makes him more dangerous.”)
Peter still bristles, mostly because if Henriksen’s information is accurate, then Neal has achieved reason #375 of why he’ll one day give Peter Burke a stroke. Which is also why he takes charge and questions his CI himself.
“Do you know a man called Dean Winchester?”
“Winchester? Sounds like an alias for a cowboy,” Neal replies easily while Henriksen looks on, arms crossed in front of his chest.
“Just answer the question, Caffrey,” Hughes interjects, same time as the other agent says “He might have used an alias, Dean’s rather fond of them; here’s a picture to help jog your memory,” and tosses the first glossy A4 print to slide across the table.
It depicts Neal and another guy, both in shirtsleeves, though one is a crisp white and the other a blue flannel, on the balcony at Neal’s apartment, toasting. Neal is holding a glass of red wine and the guy has a beer, and they’re grinning at each other with an expression that seems of genuine camaderie, not just some stilted business transaction, and it makes Peter’s guts twist just seeing it.
“Ah,” is all Neal replies, smile not dropping, thought he does shoot a look at Peter that’s very clearly annoyed. “So I’m being surveilled in my house as well? Is this not enough anymore?” He jiggles his anklet for emphasis.
“Neal, sit down,” Peter orders, and he’s a little relieved when he’s immediately obeyed.
“When’s the last time you saw this man,” Henriksen presses.
Neal shoots a listless look at the picture again, then settles his gaze in the middle distance, avoiding eye contact with everyone. “About twelve hours after that was taken.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Nope. No idea.”
“Neal, this is important: do you have any idea where he might be right now?”
“No...” he repeats, drawing the syllable out and abandoning his sulk long enough to look at Peter quizzically. “He’s pretty nomadic, I... don’t think he’s left the country, though?”
Peter’s heart is hammering in his chest, and he looks back at Neal, pulling on every last trick he’s ever learned about reading the con’s ‘very earnest’ expressions, one of which he’s wearing right now. “Neal,” he says quietly, “do you have any idea what this guy does?”
Eyebrows slowly climb up. “Well, he allegedly sharks pool,” he shoots a quick look at both Hughes and Henriksen, then snaps his eyes right back to Peter. The level of ‘earnest’ hasn’t diminished, but it’s slowly getting overwhelmed by confusion. “And poker. But he’s not as good at poker as he thinks he is. Though I’m guessing this is not what this is about. What did he do, clean out a casino? It’d be just like Dean...” He shakes his head.
“Why do you say that?” Henriksen immediately inquires, making a note in his file.
“He’s pretty impulsive,” Neal shrugs. At Peter’s withering look he just opens his hands, disarmingly. “Yeah, we got that in common.”
Peter’s about to start yelling but Henricksen rides right over him, asking Neal what else they have in common. It’s only Hughes motioning to him to calm down and shut up that stops Peter from grabbing Neal and shaking him, Neal who hates guns and can’t really throw a good punch getting mixed up with Dean Winchester and his nightmarish rep sheet.
“Neither of us graduated high school,” Neal ticks off easily, then thinks for a long moment. “Er, we both like fruit pie...”
“Caffrey, be serious,” Hughes warns him.
“I assure you, sir, I’m taking this very seriously,” Neal retorts, dropping the charm and leaning forward, looking unhappy. “I wasn’t aware that being photographed in my own house was part of my release program. As for knowing Dean Winchester,” he forestalls, talking straight to Henricksen, “we were in the same class in school for a couple of months before we both dropped out, a long time ago. He was supposed to meet up with his father for some job in New Jersey and he offered to give me a ride. I was looking for a way out and I took it. Saw him again a couple of years later; his brother had gone off to college and I- it wasn’t a good moment for either of us. Stayed around maybe three days and then he left. Hadn’t seen him since.”
“Until a month ago,” Henricksen prompts, sliding forward another glossy picture, this one with Dean’s arm around Neal’s shoulder while he’s showing him something on his cell phone.
“Until a month ago,” Neal confirms neutrally, “when he came back in town and got word around that he wanted to see me. So I saw him, and the next morning he left again. End of story.”
“What did he want with you, Neal?” Peter interjects, not really mollified at the idea of the two of them getting randomly together over the years when they’re both going through a ‘not good moment’.
“The usual. Reminisce about the past, commiserate over failed romances- he was showing me a picture of his ex-girlfriend there. Neither of us really has a good track record with relationships.”
“Don’t say that,” Peter blurts out, feeling his heart constrict. What happened to Kate, no matter how much Neal blames himself for it, is miles apart from what happened to some of the women who crossed paths with Winchester.
Henricksen is a lot blunter. “Did he kill her?” he asks, tense.
“No!” Neal denies immediately, and with an honesty and sureness that heartens Peter. “For goodness’ sake, no! They were together for a year, and it didn’t work out, so they broke up.”
“How can you be sure?”
Neal’s taken aback, Peter thinks, clutching stubbornly at the thought, Neal’s taken aback and he’s not faking; he doesn’t know, he can’t know.
“Mostly he was worried that he couldn’t know if she was doing fine since he didn’t want to bother her, or get near her, or have anything to do with her ever again. Kinda hard to cut yourself up over someone’s well-being if you’ve already murdered them.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised with Winchester,” Henricksen mutters, “did he give you a name?”
“Caffery.” Hughes prods, when Neal remains silent.
“Lisa. I don’t have any other details, though. I really wouldn’t know where to find either of them.”
“Jealous?” Henricksen insists, taking out a second manila envelope, one that he hasn’t shown to Peter yet and, judging by Hughes’ frown, one that he’s kept to himself up to now.
“Would I prefer that my girlfriend were still alive, even if she didn’t want to be with me? Damn straight I would,” Neal states, flickering a look of betrayal towards Peter’s direction.
“I was thinking more along the lines of this,” Henricksen says calmly, sliding forward another picture, this one much blurrier than the previous ones. It’s still Neal and Dean at Neal’s apartment, but they’re not on the balcony anymore. They’re inside, the glass doors are closed, and the light’s much dimmer. It’s later in the evening, the sun has set, they’re standing near the table and it’s not very clear what they’re doing but Winchester is shirtless and Neal is wearing one of his hats.
Peter is ready this time for Neal to surprise him, in a good way, with a good explanation, because he really doesn’t like where this is going and the situation seems to be slipping out of his control. “Hold on a minute, agent Henricksen, what sort of other evidence have you got against my C.I., and why was I not informed of this beforehand?”
“We were playing poker,” Neal says at the same time, getting up and starting to pace. “I told you he’s not as good at it as he thinks he is.”
“So you won? That your prize?” Henricksen asks, this time letting sarcasm bleed through. There’s a final picture, and though it’s quite blurry as well, it’s quite clear that there’s Neal and Dean, both shirtless now, and they’re kissing. Neal (still wearing the hat, and that’s an image that will haunt Peter for years to come) is grabbing Winchester by the shoulders and pushing him back against the table.
“And that,” he points to the picture, “would be the last thing we have in common: we like each other. As in like like. What is it that you want, agent? Details? Disappointed that we spent the rest of the night on the floor, where you couldn’t take pictures? I’m sorry the angle wasn’t optimal, would you like me to give you a show now, take you through it step by step?” Neal explodes, and Peter can’t really blame him. They’re both lucky Hughes calls an end to it then and there, confiscating the evidence and getting into a pissing match of his own with Henricksen.
Neal storms out, and Peter goes to find Diana.
One thing about working in a place where all the offices have glass walls is that privacy isn’t really available. On the other hand, if you act casual enough, you can get away with setting your best agent to snoop on some iffy internal affair right under everybody else’s nose, and no one’s the wiser.
The trail to Neal’s paparazzi is short and goes straight to a project that appears to be defunct, although Peter thought it had been dismantled right after the fiasco with Fowler’s disgrace and Kate Moreau’s death, not a mere two weeks ago: Mentor.
Catching Winchester on camera was incidental to surveying Neal, and the agents who did it didn’t even realize it. The warning bell had sounded only because the evidence had been digitalized and filed away, and the system goes through everything that’s filed looking for clues to specific, on-going searches; the FBI’s top ten most wanted being one that is never interrupted. And that had lead Victor Henricksen to New York.
Henricksen’s little mind game though has earned Peter the right to finish questioning Neal himself, on his own turf and at his own terms. Which is how Peter finds himself buying imported micro-brewed Belgian beer and knocking on Neal’s door that same evening.
He hasn’t seen Neal since the morning. The apartment looks like it’s been tossed, but there’s a meticulousness that speaks of affection and respect for the objects and their owner, and Peter asks Neal if Mozzie would be willing to strip the Burke house again.
“It was Fowler’s fault. Again,” Neal says bitterly, holding his beer in a white-knuckled grip.
Peter can only nod. “That’s what I came to tell you. Diana’s checked Henricksen’s source and he told the truth. ‘Mentor’ was still up and running, until it ran out of funding two weeks ago and they simply shut down. Nobody’s been examining that evidence except for an algorithm, Neal, and it wasn’t looking for you, it was looking for Winchester.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Neal, swear to me that you only know that man personally, that you’ve never been involved professionally. That would make me feel better.”
Neal gives a short bark of laugh, shaking his head and looking out of the balcony. “You’re less freaked out than Mozzie, you know that? When we checked Dean’s rep sheet he nearly hyperventilated. Don’t worry,” he adds, seeing as he’s not being very reassuring yet, “us working together extends to me teaching him poker and a few card tricks when we were seventeen, and him teaching me to pick handcuffs in return.”
“I thought you said he’s not very good at poker.”
“He’s a better teacher than I am, I guess.” He gives a sort of fond little smile, which Peter can’t really reconcile with the serial killer he’s seen on paper. He’s seen the mug shots, and the surveillance pictures; Henrickesn’s told him Winchester is even more handsome in person, and charming as a devil, but he can’t believe that Neal, of all people, would get taken in so easily by looks and winning smiles. There must be something else there.
“Tell me,” Peter prompts gently, bumping Neal’s shoulder and getting a sip of his own beer.
“You really want to know?”
Peter takes off his badge and lays it on the table. “If you’re not involved in any of the things he did, I don’t need this. Full immunity, you know the drill. Now start talking, the beer’s getting warm.”
Neal smiles, and talks.
There’s several things Neal tells Peter: how Dean idolized his own father and how Neal understood that impulse. How they both stood out in their high school, and how not fitting in meant they were thrown together more often than not, on projects where no one wanted to partner with them.
In the cafeteria.
“You weren’t popular in school?” Peter queries incredulously, because he cannot reconcile Neal as being unable to charm someone.
“My peers were intimidated by me. And I moved around a lot. Like Dean and his brother… we were the new guys.” He shrugs.
Peter nods. He can imagine, but he doesn’t really understand. Star baseball player, lived all his life in one place… he has studied the effects of an unstable childhood in his psychology classes in Quantico, but he has never experienced anything of the sort.
“We’d get older girls interested in us. Fake IDs, bars… then one night Dean had to stay home- they lived in a motel, actually- because his little brother was sick. He fell asleep after an extra dose of cough syrup, and we, well, we kissed.” Neal shoots him a look, waiting to see if Peter is judging him, but Peter already surmised something similar had happened. That’s not what concerns him.
“Was he ever violent with you?”
“No! God, no. Dean’s very nice, actually. I mean, as a, you know, as a lover. He’s very giving, very generous. Huh, attentive. I really can’t imagine him doing one third of the things he’s accused of. I read people, Peter, and maybe I don’t know him much after all these years, but I do know this about him. He’s not a psychopath. I just can’t believe that.”
“Neal,” Peter says very seriously, because if he can obtain one thing from this conversation, this is it. “Please take those charges very seriously. I’ve seen the casework, and I’ve talked with Agent Henriksen. Dean Winchester is dangerous. If he calls you again-“
“He’s seen the tracker. I’ve told him about consulting for the FBI. If what you say is true, he’s not going to risk it.”
There’s a lot he doesn’t tell Peter. He doesn’t tell him that Dean taught Neal how to shoot, besides picking handcuffs. That his near perfect aim is due to the Winchester method of training.
He doesn’t tell him that when Dean didn’t hear back from his father for five weeks, he and Neal went out and sharked pool together to make some money to feed the brothers, or that Neal practically moved in with them when he was getting ready to cut loose from his alcoholic mother. That their motel room wasn’t any worse than the two-room apartment he was living in at the time.
Peter knows Neal and Dean hooked up again shortly after his first breakup with Kate, but not that Neal is the one who reached out to Dean, then.
Peter doesn’t push, so Neal doesn’t tell him that Dean’s not the only man he’s been with, and he most certainly doesn’t tell him that Dean’s the only one he wasn’t trying to con when they were together.
He doesn’t tell Peter or the FBI anything about Dean’s little brother Sam. Doesn’t even mention him, pretends like it isn’t Dean’s main conversation topic, even after all these years.
He knows Peter would like him to swear that he’ll never see Dean again, that if he ever shows up Neal will deliver him to the FBI, but the truth is he can’t. He won’t. He doesn’t.
What he does tell Peter is the time and date to clear out so Mozzie can work his magic at the brownstone. A little after six that day he gets a call from an unknown number. He grins when he recognizes the voice on the other end.
“The Suit and Mrs. Suit are clean. There was nothing in their house except for a truly atrocious home improvement project in the bathroom that got knocked loose when the dog startled me.”
“Oh. Is it repairable?”
“Not after Mrs. Suit threw it out so enthusiastically. She has a rather satisfactory taste for white wines, I must say.”
“Elizabeth was there?”
“She came back earlier than I expected, but it’s fine. For a Mrs Suit she’s… not all bad.”
“Mmmh. And that message I asked you to pass along?”
“Done. No response.”
“I wasn’t expecting one. You can get rid of the phone, thanks.”
“Good, ‘cause I already did. And, Neal? If that friend of yours drops by again-“
“You make sure you knock, Moz, and I’ll make sure you never meet, you have my word.”