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Chapter Text

Appearance

Neal's never had someone who could match him before.

When he was a kid, there were kids who were bigger and smarter than him, and the teachers were adults, and so was his mother, but it wasn't the same. The teachers didn't know what to do with Neal Caffrey; his mother knew how to soothe bumps and bruises or tell fairy-tales about his father, but he knew early on, somehow, that she didn't have any instinctive understanding of her child. He didn't blame her. She loved him, cared for him, did what she could, but it was like they spoke two slightly different languages.

The kids who were bigger couldn't run as fast as Neal; the few kids who were smarter weren't as sneaky. And Neal, knowing how casually children betray one another, knowing his mother didn't understand and his teachers were confused, spent his childhood with the painful knowledge that he had no-one to trust but himself. (Justified by girlfriends who dumped him, boys who wouldn't be seen in public with him, teachers who grew frustrated with him, and his mother's single great lie. He'd thought he could trust his father, given he was dead and all, but apparently not.)

Mozzie was close, but it was apples and oranges. Both of them were crazy but in significantly different ways, and Mozzie was a pragmatist where Neal was a romantic. Mozzie didn't understand fundamental things about the way Neal worked. Being fair, Neal didn't understand Mozzie sometimes, either.

Kate...he loved her, but Kate was never going to be as good a grifter as Alex, let alone Neal. Knowing he stole her, Neal can admit he may sometimes have treated her more like a belonging than a person, and Kate left him because she wouldn't stand for that -- nor should she have. He loved Kate, but he had no reason to have faith in her. After all, she'd left a man for him; why wouldn't she leave him for someone else?

But Peter is different. Peter found Neal, caught him, stole him from Kate in a way. Neal offered Peter his hand that day as a rare gesture; Peter might not see it that way, but Neal was giving him status as an equal. And maybe Peter did understand, because when he shook Neal's hand his gaze was steady, grip firm. Unafraid, confident, comfortable as the winner of the game.

Peter is as close to being Neal's equal as he has ever let anyone come. But still Neal can't trust him, and he knows Peter can't trust him.

Why should he, after all?

Chapter Text

Disappearance

Neal has never pointed out to Peter, for fear his radius will shrink, that a two mile radius is a four mile diameter (twelve and a half mile circumference, six and a quarter square miles in area).

It's not the limitation on distance that actually bothers him. Two thirds of Manhattan is enough, for now, with the promise of future freedom. What bothers Neal is the lack of privacy, the fact that he can never go anywhere Peter doesn't know about. Sometimes, when he's off-anklet, he'll go sit in his closet and draw and just think about the fact that nobody knows exactly where he is.

Neal likes to hide, and he's good at it. He feels safe, hiding, even if he's not hiding from anything in particular. There's something at once exciting and serene about being stuck in a safehouse or knowing he's secure from the searchers five, ten, fifteen feet away.

It's not that he cares if Peter sees him going to the drugstore or shopping or for a walk in the park. But he cares that someone always sees him. On days when Kate's death and his own fucked-up life hit a little harder than usual, Neal pretends Peter forgot to check his map. It's the only way to get through the day.

Sometimes, though, more frequently as time passes -- and it confuses him to know it -- he'll feel the rub of the tracker against his ankle and feel safe because Peter always knows where to find him. Someone is watching over him. If he goes and sits in the closet for a while, someday Peter might know and might even ask him if he's okay.

Chapter Text

Escape

Neal's reputation is not as an escape artist, of course, but his other skills lend themselves to a certain degree of proficiency. Squeezing through small spaces, picking locks, thinking sideways about security, all of these make him a natural.

"You know, Peter had a theory when you broke out," Elizabeth says to him. It's just the two of them for dinner; Peter's in Boston on a consult, and won't be back until late, so he sent Neal to take her out somewhere nice. Which is a little weird, but Neal's comfortable with weird. And he loves going out with Elizabeth. She's interesting, and she gets him in ways Peter never will.

"Oh?" Neal asks, picking at the last of his meal, contemplating whether he wants one more glass of wine. Peter's paying, after all.

"When you asked him to get you out, he thought you'd broken out so that he'd catch you and get you out legally," she says.

Neal laughs. "What?"

"There's no end to his twisty mind," Elizabeth says with a self-satisfied smile (Peter, after all, is hers). "That's why he's so good at keeping you in line."

Neal considers it. "Why are you telling me this?"

Elizabeth cocks an eyebrow. "That's not the question I expected."

"What is?"

"I thought you'd ask why he got you out, after he said he wouldn't."

Neal has wondered, but he hasn't ever wanted to tempt fate by asking.

"He thought it wasn't fair," she adds, answering the question he didn't ask. "It's adorable, isn't it? He thought the system was failing you. So he put it right."

Neal narrows his eyes. "And?"

"And?" she echoes.

"And you're telling me now because...?"

She shrugs. "I thought you'd find it funny."

Chapter Text

Transformation

Kelly Bardon, probably not her real name, has a history with Neal. They go back. But that's sort of the point, isn't it? That's why Neal works for the FBI, because he has contacts, because he knows how the cons work.

Kelly is like him: she's nonviolent, she rips off people who can well afford to be ripped off, she cons for the love of the con. She's also damaged -- he doesn't know the specifics, but it seems like she's damaged in the same general way he is. They're so alike they tried dating for about half an hour before realizing they'd make each other absolutely insane, and called it off.

Tricking her -- this feels so wrong.

The problem is that what feels wrong isn't that he's working against her, helping Peter nail her to the wall for fraud. What feels wrong is how good it feels when they do.

"You motherfucker," she spits at him, when the FBI burst in.

"I'm sorry, Kel," he says, and he is. But not very.

"What'd they pay you to narc?" she asks, while Jones cuffs her. Jones looks up at Neal, gauging the threat in the situation, but Neal spreads his hands.

"It's my job now," he tells her. "It's what I do."

But a little voice inside him says, I don't need to get paid anything. I win. A lot of conning is about winning, and how good winning feels, and he beat Kelly.

When she's gone, Peter holsters his gun and comes up behind Neal, slapping him on the back like Neal just scored a touchdown.

"Great work," he says, and walks on.

It feels so wrong, how much he wants that moment, the lengths to which he'll go to get it. Winning is good; Peter is his trophy.

Chapter Text

Restoration

Neal knows a lot about electronics and machines, but Mozzie really is the fixer. When Neal's television breaks, Mozzie takes it apart and reassembles it, and then it works again. When Cindy accidentally sort of crashes the Jag into the conservatory next to the garage while Neal is teaching her how to drive, Mozzie knows a glass guy and a car guy.

When Neal's favorite shirt gets ripped in a sting gone wrong -- well, cut, really, along with a significant portion of Neal's chest, that knife was sharp -- Mozzie makes off with it from the hospital. Neal (through a haze of drugs) knows that when he gets it back it'll be repaired -- pleated, probably, and maybe dyed a new color to hide the bloodstain.

Peter smiles when Neal informs him of this, and Neal wonders if maybe he's being a little irrelevant.

"Good," he says, sitting next to Neal's bed. "But I'm glad we have actual doctors to stitch you up."

Neal pats the bandage over his own chest gently. "Uh-huh."

"How you feeling?"

"Floaty," Neal says. "How long am I here?"

"Until tomorrow. I'll be back to pick you up. You want me to bring anything?"

"That's nice," Neal says, genuinely touched at the offer. Peter seems a little weirded out by it; maybe he said the wrong thing.

"Do you want me to bring you anything?" Peter repeats. "Anything you want."

"No, I'm good."

Peter shakes his head. "You should get some sleep. We're gonna fix this, Neal."

"What, kiss it better?" Neal asks, laughing. Hurts a little, but he doesn't really care.

Peter laughs too. "No, we're gonna catch the guy. We know where he went to ground. Jones should be there any minute."

"You gotta go run the op," Neal tells him.

"Jones and Diana have it under control. They'll call when they get him."

Neal drifts off after that, and when he wakes Peter is on the other side of the room, on his phone. He watches Peter pace, talking quietly. He looks happy. Then Peter hangs up, walks up to him, bends over, and plants a kiss on his bandage. Neal blinks.

"Got him," Peter says. "And now in addition to grand theft, he'll go down for assaulting a federal contractor."

"Yay," Neal tries, going for enthusiastic.

"So I'll come back tomorrow, okay?" Peter continues, petting him on the head and turning to leave.

"Peter," Neal calls, when Peter's at the door. Peter glances back at him. "You said I could have anything I wanted."

"Oh, lord," Peter mumbles.

"Can I come home with you?"

Clearly that wasn't the request Peter was expecting. Neal thinks Peter's been kind of slow since Neal got put on the painkillers.

"Sure," Peter says. "I'll air out the guest room. Um...why?"

Neal struggles with an answer, instinctively aware he shouldn't say because I want you around or I'm lonely sometimes or I love you.

"Your house smells nice," he says finally, with an air of triumph. Peter chuckles and shakes his head.

"See you tomorrow. Don't run off in the meantime."

"No, Peter," Neal answers obediently, and falls asleep again when Peter is gone.

Mozzie fixes things that are broken, but Neal wonders if Peter might fix broken people.

Chapter Text

Teleportation

Some people don't like opiates because it makes them loopy or nauseated or gives them weird dreams, but in Neal's lexicon at least two of those things are desirable outcomes.

He just gets very slow, and lies really still, and enjoys the pleasant feeling of not being in pain. He's never done recreational drugs, partly because of professional pride and also because Mozzie would skin him alive, but he has to admit he understands the appeal.

And the dreams are awesome. Disturbing, evocative, brightly-colored dreams like moving paintings. Sometimes he'll wake up in the night and his skin will buzz. Vivid sex dreams, too.

So he's lying quietly on Peter and Elizabeth's sofa, high as a kite, knees tucked up a little so Elizabeth can sit on the end, and every once in a while he'll just laugh insanely at something on the TV and then forget what he was laughing at ten seconds later. Elizabeth has a coffee (it smells really good) and her free hand is resting on his ankle, the one without the tracker, rubbing the bump of bone there once in a while.

But things are moving, too, which is...not normal. Satchmo seems to jump from place to place, like the light is doing. And for a while everything looks like a painting, a van Gogh. Then it's okay again. Then it's like a Monet. Then it's okay, except the sofa is moving, very slowly, swaying back and forth under him.

"I don't feel okay," he says to Elizabeth, which feels strange too, like admitting a weakness, a failure. Why is she even there? When he's hurt he likes to be alone, so he won't bother people, so they won't have the chance to get annoyed with him.

She leans over his body, warm and nice, and puts a hand on his forehead, studies his eyes. Neal stares back at her, curious. He wonders how often she and Peter have sex.

Definitely not okay.

"You feel normal," she says. "What's wrong?"

"Things keep moving," he says plaintively.

"What things, sweetie?"

"The sofa. And Satchmo. And you looked like a Monet," he tells her.

She smiles. "Sounds like a bad trip. You've been sleeping, some of it was probably a dream. Come on, sit up, we'll give you a reality check."

Sitting up does help, and when he gets up to follow her to the kitchen, nothing moves unexpectedly. A plate of reheated spaghetti goes down easily enough, and the fuzz is wearing off his brain, the pain in his chest gently making itself known as the drugs fade.

"Feel better?" she asks. He nods, mouth full. He's safe, here, and Elizabeth has made the world stop freaking out on him, and Peter knows where he is.

So it's all okay, after all.

Chapter Text

Levitation

The wound healed clean, and Neal's never scarred easily; besides, he was dutiful about putting Vitamin E oil on the scar, so eventually his skin is just his skin again.

It's his head that's a mess.

It struck him between the eyes as he was packing up to go home again after staying with Peter and Elizabeth, the realization that he asked for this. When he was totally unable to control his surface mask, he asked to go somewhere he wouldn't be alone. He asked to be with people while he was at his most vulnerable, physically and mentally.

So maybe trust isn't as simple as he thought it was when he was eight. (Gee, Caffrey, you think?) Maybe there are...kinds of it. Like the kind that Peter totally destroyed when he accused Neal of stealing the art off the U-boat, or the kind Neal mangled badly when he actually sort of kind of did steal the art off the U-boat, in intent if not in act. But that's just surface stuff, like when Peter and Elizabeth fight.

There's a deeper current underneath, the one that made Neal ask if they'd look after him without even fearing they'd say no. The one that made it okay for Neal to tell Elizabeth he wasn't okay. The one that kicks in when Neal and Peter are on an op and everything goes perfect because they're working together, and Neal knows Peter has his back.

Peter is his match, his equal, and he can trust him. He can trust Elizabeth, and it's not like she's not keeping up at least as well as Peter is, just in a different way.

These two people are alien to his experience: they understand, and he trusts them not to hurt him.

"You've been different, lately," Peter says to him over lunch one day at Neal's place. It's closer than Peter and Elizabeth's place, and Elizabeth is busy anyway. Mostly, it's somewhere quiet and away from the Bureau for a little while. The logic doesn't affect the pleased twist in Neal's stomach, seeing Peter at his table.

"No I haven't," Neal laughs.

"Yes, you have," Peter insists, and Neal looks up from his meal.

"How so?" he asks, reaching for his beer. (Okay, the beer thing is new, but he's acquiring a taste for it, and it's in his fridge anyway for Peter, so...)

"You're -- I dunno. More engaged," Peter says.

"Engaged?"

"Like you're getting ready to con me. But you're not, I know," Peter answers, cutting him off before he can protest, because he's really not. "You're too relaxed for that. More relaxed than usual. It's good," he adds with a smile. "It's okay."

Neal looks down at his food again, examining his recent behavior. He's been trying to figure them out, Peter and Elizabeth, because they're so new in his experience. And he's been trusting Peter, because he can, and that's new too.

"Am I reading this right?" Peter asks quietly, and his tone says he doesn't mean his assessment of Neal's behavior. "If I'm not, that's okay. No harm, no foul."

"Reading what right, exactly?" Neal asks, half to be sure, half from a perverse desire to make Peter say it. Peter gets that scrunched-face look when he has to say something he doesn't want to say.

He doesn't say it, though. He leans across the edge of the table and kisses Neal, just like Peter does everything, deliberate and careful, with an edge to it that says he can stop being careful at any moment. Neal leans into it and -- Peter stops being careful.

When Peter pulls back, Neal opens his eyes and sees that look, the look he aims for all the time, where Peter's proud and pleased because of him.

"Elizabeth?" Neal asks, hesitant. Elizabeth trusts him. He can't hurt her like this.

"That was from her, too," Peter says. "I'm not reading this wrong."

"No," Neal agrees. "You're not."

Peter rests a hand on his face, thumb pressing against his cheekbone.

"We should get back," he says. "Come home for dinner tonight."

"Okay," Neal agrees, and walks on air the rest of the afternoon.

Chapter Text

Penetration

There's a lot of talking that has to be done, which brings Neal down to Earth again; he's holding in his hand the most valuable thing he has ever stolen, and it's very serious. If he had just fallen into bed with Peter, or with both of them, he might not have understood it ever.

There are rules. Truthfulness, for one, and no lies of omission, not in this. Trust -- he could give them a whole lecture on his new understanding of trust, but he just fumbles it through as best he can, while Peter and Elizabeth exchange looks across the table. Jealousy, oddly, never comes up, and when he asks about it both of them look confused. Why would they be jealous? Who exactly would they be jealous of? Which is when the weight of this, what they're asking, becomes evident. This is the deep-current trust, the perfect trust.

"I've never done this before," he says.

"Neither have we," Peter answers.

"No, not -- actually I've done that before," Neal admits. Elizabeth snickers.

"When?" Peter demands.

"Finland, that's not the point," Neal replies. "I mean..." he fidgets his hands, drawing their attention away from his face. "That kind of trust. I haven't. Not even with Kate, it...it's always been just me. Even as a kid. So...I have no practice."

"You're a quick learner," Elizabeth reminds him. "And we're very forgiving."

"Finland?" Peter asks, apparently still stuck on that, and Neal wants to kick him in the shin. "You spent most of Finland on a train."

"Honey, not the time," Elizabeth murmurs.

"This should be easier when the room isn't moving," Neal offers. Peter looks distinctly nervous. "I'll walk you through it, don't worry."

"You hear that honey? Neal's going to walk us through it," Elizabeth says, her voice light and teasing. She gets up and slides into Neal's lap, startling him, then turns to look at Peter, who looks like he's lost the ability to speak.

"He has a type," she says in Neal's ear, then kisses it.

"Blue eyed and smart?" Neal asks, pulling back a little to look at her.

"Pushy brunettes," she answers. "Come on, I'm bored with talking."

She's off Neal's lap again and starting on the stairs by the time Neal looks at Peter and says, "You're the luckiest son of a bitch I've ever met."

"Yeah, I know," Peter replies thoughtfully.

Chapter Text

Prediction

Sometimes, when Neal sleeps naked, just his tracker on, he dreams about it being removed. It's never sensible or logical, not like a daydream. Sometimes he dreams he's woken up and it's gone; sometimes Peter is angry about it and sometimes he can't find Peter, like he vanished with the tracker. Sometimes he dreams everyone else has a tracker and he's the only one without one. Sometimes he dreams about Peter taking it off and ninjas immediately attacking. It makes no sense, it's just a dream.

This one isn't exactly hard to parse. It's not a sex dream, exactly, but it's -- Elizabeth is undressing him and they're kissing. He sits down on the bed to pull her close but she shoves the tracker with her foot and to his surprise it's loose, so loose he can stretch out his leg and it falls right off. He stares down at it just sitting there on the ground, and as he's staring at it Peter says in his ear, There's too much coffee in these files.

Neal opens his eyes in the darkness, because that's a weird thing for Peter to say in a semi-erotic moment, but the dream is over and Peter's still talking.

"Way too much coffee," Peter mumbles, face pressed to Neal's neck. Neal remembers Mozzie mentioning something about Elizabeth saying Peter talks in his sleep.

This bed wasn't really intended to sleep three, and Peter's pressed up against him on one side with Elizabeth half on top of him on the other, and it's kind of uncomfortably warm.

"Use the carafe," Neal whispers to him, just to see what he'll do, and Peter grumbles something unintelligible, but he rolls away enough for Neal to extract himself from under Elizabeth. He slides off the foot of the bed and finds his underwear, then considers the situation.

He ends up sitting on the trunk at the foot of the bed, legs crossed, watching them sleep. Elizabeth at some point got up and put on a nightshirt; Peter's naked still but he's stolen the sheets, and somehow managed to wrap them all around his left leg.

They're perfect.

Neal's planning this like a con, but then that's really all he knows and anyway it works. They'll need a bigger bed or some kind of alternate sleeping arrangement. They've already discussed being careful as long as he's in the tracker. He'll need to bring some clothes over, and toiletries. They should talk about how much to tell Mozzie, because if Mozzie finds out through independent investigation he'll be livid...

Elizabeth stirs, eventually, reaching out. Finding an empty space where he should be, she pushes herself up on one elbow, sleepily looking around.

"Did Peter wake you up?" she asks, when she finds him.

"Apparently there's too much coffee in the files," Neal answers.

"That's a recurring problem with his subconscious FBI," she says, laughing. "Are you going to sit there all night?"

"It's a little warm in the middle," he tells her.

"I'm usually cold," she replies, shifting over, up close to Peter. "Try it."

Neal crawls back up the bed and settles in on his side, face close to hers.

"Better?" she asks.

"Much, thank you," he whispers. Behind Elizabeth, Peter laughs softly in his sleep, which is oddly endearing.

"I think I could get used to this," he adds to her. "And maybe not screw it up."

"I have every faith in you," she tells him gravely. "Besides, every new relationship stumbles a little now and then. I figure in ten or twenty years we'll have you trained."

He should freak out about that, ten or twenty years. Anyone else selling him that number would get a romantic smile and find him gone a few weeks later. But the idea of being able to let his guard down for someone for the rest of his life, that's nice. He can feel tensions fading that he didn't even know he had.

Neal falls asleep listening to Elizabeth's even breathing, and Peter mumbling about arresting the barista.

Chapter Text

All magic tricks rely, to a greater or lesser degree, on the first thing a con learns:

Misdirection

Neal isn't good at asking for what he wants or saying what he feels. He's still wary, for all his talk of trust, that this will hurt him, that he'll learn how to put his faith in them only to be betrayed. Neal has been lonely essentially all his life, accustomed to it -- he hasn't said much about this, either, but Peter is good at assembling clues.

It would be much worse to learn another way to live, only to be forced out again. Loneliness is easier to bear if you've never known anything else.

Elizabeth is working on him, which helps, and in the meantime Peter is learning to read the signs. When Neal's tired and wants touch and doesn't know if it's okay, he'll just hover in Peter's personal space until Peter notices. If he's angry or upset, even if it's not with them, he's pleasant but very quiet, or he makes himself scarce. He wants to be asked what's wrong; he won't just say it. He wants proof he's not imposing before he'll talk about it.

Lately Peter keeps asking Neal, with what he will admit is some desperation, what he wants for his birthday. He's terrible at gifts, but Neal just keeps saying "don't make a fuss" or "whatever, buy me dinner" which is stupid because Peter buys Neal dinner all the time anyway and Elizabeth is already buying Neal dinner on his birthday.

"Come on," he says finally one evening, stopping Neal with a hand against his chest and gently pressing him against the wall near the staircase. "Tell me what you want. There has to be something, Neal."

Neal looks down and grins, a con-grin, and says, "How about a night out of my anklet?"

Peter doesn't betray his surprise, though the request is a little shocking, a little hurtful even -- if he shows that, Neal will play it off as a joke, and it's not a joke. He can tell.

"Going somewhere?" he asks instead.

"No," Neal says. "We're having dinner, aren't we?"

Peter relaxes slightly. "Well, El made reservations. Why would you...I mean, you get out of it often enough. Why for your birthday?"

"I just do," Neal tells him, almost defiant. "Worried I'll run?"

"No," Peter answers, and takes his hand off Neal's chest. "Confused."

Neal glances away. "Do you like knowing where I am?"

"I'm not sure how to answer that without sounding weird," Peter admits.

"No wrong answer. I just want to know."

"Yeah, I guess I do. When the tracker comes off for good it's going to be hard," Peter says. "But it'll be better for both of us. Don't you think? I mean, it'd be creepy if I wanted to put one on Elizabeth. On the other hand, she doesn't get in as much life-threatening trouble as you do, so..."

Neal is staring at him, and Peter trails off uncertainly, aware he might have been blithering.

"I just want to know," Neal says finally. "When the tracker isn't on, when there's no reason for it to be on, when there's no case so you're obliged to worry about me -- "

" -- that I'll still give a damn?" Peter finishes for him. "Neal, I've never been obliged to worry about you. Yes, I have a duty to make sure you're safe and reasonably well-behaved, but I chose that when I got you out of prison. And when we started this. I chose you. Twice. That's not going to change."

Neal nods. Peter clears his throat.

"I'll clear it with Hughes. Shouldn't be a problem if I tell him I'll have eyes on you all evening," he finishes.

Neal's birthday, tracker-less, with a nice dinner and maybe a little too much wine and some gifts anyway, ends with them in bed in their usual configuration: Peter's leaning up against Elizabeth's back and her and Neal are curled together, foreheads almost touching, talking softly. Peter likes that; he likes that his wife is his partner's confidante, loves to see them together.

Neal's ankle, clean and bare, brushes against Peter's foot. He hears Elizabeth giggle, sleepily, and Neal say something about dinner.

At some point, some undeniably distant future point, Neal will be able to say what he means when he talks to them. It'll be a long time coming, but Peter can wait, because it'll be worth it. That'll be a pretty great day. That'll be magic.

Peter laughs at himself internally -- Neal's romanticism is rubbing off on him, no doubt. And anyway it's not that important. Neal's here, right where he's supposed to be, and as long as Peter knows where Neal is, that's enough.