A/N: I do not own White Collar. This is a future fic. All mistakes are my own.
Beta credit: Thanks to Mam711 who actually deserves more credit than just that of a beta! The plot details, characterisations, punctuation, and inspiration are just a few of the things she helped me with!
Femme Fatale
Chapter 1: Confusion
Day 1, 4:43pm
Neal woke to silence. He looked up first and stared unseeingly at the ceiling; he was still groggy, recovering from something that kept him confused and sloth-like, but he was wary. The ceiling was white. It took him five minutes of blinking to realize this. Then, when he noted the unfamiliarity of what he was staring at, Neal merged into defensive mode. He rolled stiffly up into a sitting position. A wave of vertigo forced Neal to freeze in place perched on the edge of the queen-size bed.
Neal moved his hand to his stomach as if to stifle the nausea that didn't seem to be going away despite his limited movements. He licked his lips and swallowed lubricating his dry throat.
So far Neal hadn't wanted to do much more than squint towards the floor; it was too bright but as his eyes adjusted to the light he put up a hand to shield his face and took a look around. He was in a large room, white-walled and clean; the floor consisted of wooden floorboards. It looked like any room he'd find in a suburban house.
Grimacing Neal looked up towards the source of the light and slowly dropped his shielding hand while blinking. He was staring at a window. The window was high up, near the roof, designed to let in light but not a view. At the back of his mind Neal guessed the window looked out on something ugly; maybe a neighboring building or alleyway. The window also had bars. That wasn't unusual. Lots of apartments had bars on the windows for security reasons. Nevertheless the bars made Neal uneasy.
He looked away towards the door; it was about fifteen yards away but because Neal felt sick at the thought of walking all that way, it seemed more like a hundred.
Confusion gripped Neal as he scanned the door. It was wooden and normal except for one thing. It had no handle. Must be a swinging door Neal decided.
Where was he though? Neal couldn't remember how he'd found himself there. Something drew his attention away from the door. About two yards from the entrance sitting on the floor over to the side were shopping bags; about six or seven of them.
Neal rubbed his head and was tempted to lie back down; the nausea in his stomach wasn't fading, but he was in an alien place. His instincts told him he needed to move, to find out where he was, and to call Peter. He moved his gaze in a wide circle. The entire right side of the room was bare. The left side was a different story. There was another door. It was ajar. Neal could see tiles in the crack and he concluded that a bathroom lay beyond the door. His stomach lurched and the bathroom seemed like a very good place to be to Neal.
But he didn't jump up and dash over with any sense of urgency. He groaned and shifted, not feeling particularly motivated to do anything that involved moving. Instead he concentrated on finishing his scan of the room. Past the bathroom door in the direction of the entrance and on the left was a kitchenette, bordered by a counter island. Behind the island and against the wall, from where he was sitting, Neal could see cabinets below a smooth wooden counter and a fridge.
He wondered where he was again. Eventually he felt the dizziness fade to a mild presence.
Neal decided to stand. It was a good time for it. His stomach had settled into the background of Neal's tired and sore body almost as if it knew it wouldn't be getting what it wanted just yet which Neal suspected was food.
He stood slowly, expecting the floor come rushing up to meet him but it didn't. Whatever it was that made him feel vertigo earlier seemed to be fading.
He took a step forward and froze almost immediately.
Something metal had rattled and clinked.
Recognizing the sound, Neal dreaded looking down to where it had come from. He stared in shock at the manacle attaching a chain to his ankle.
Neal's mind whirled through all the possible scenarios that would involve being chained and he could only come up with one that made sense. He'd been kidnapped.
He steadied himself and decided to deal with the chain after he figured out where he was. Fortunately he seemed to be getting better by the minute.
His need for answers grew stronger and he looked back to the door.
He started forward intending to look beyond the door and see what was on the other side. He might recognize where he was then.
He was about two yards away when the chain went taut, stopping him from reaching the door.
Neal looked down again; this time his head didn't protest although a headache had remained.
He cursed; he'd have to pick the manacle before he could get to the door. Presently Neal realized something that should have occurred to him already; if he was chained, then he was a prisoner and if he was a prisoner, then that door….
It didn't matter, did it? He scanned the door warily; it didn't look very strong. Just plain wood, Neal resolved to break through it if it was locked. But before he could, the manacle was in his way.
No problem, he could pick anything, except for that damned anklet. Neal blinked; the anklet, the one that was no longer there—Peter had taken it off barely hours ago ... how had he forgotten that?
Drugged; he had to have been. It would explain his nausea, dizziness, lapsed memory and empty stomach. He'd probably been asleep for hours!
Okay, Neal scratched his head; his thoughts were still jumbled, wait, he'd just finished his four year sentence, hadn't he? Yes and there was a big party at the office, he'd been there, of course he had, the party had been for him; free at last ... free?
Neal gritted his teeth, honestly! Was he never going to be free?
He looked at the ankle chain; whoever had kidnapped him obviously didn't know who they dealing with. His jaw set, he promised himself that they would know very soon!
Neal did however have one grateful thought: he still wore his own clothes; they were rumpled from having been slept in but no worse for the wear and it meant no-one had attempted to change him in his sleep; small mercy.
He went back to the bed having nowhere else to sit, and sat. The room was large and could fit any number of furniture in it, but it was completely bare, save for the bed. It didn't matter, Neal wasn't hanging around anyway. He lifted his ankle onto the bed and pulled off his tie pick (more evidence that whoever was behind this wasn't very smart), then he brought the pick down and twisted the manacle a full revolution around his ankle and ... stared.
Neal's mouth hung open; there was no lock! Neal breathed heavily, knowing he had severely underestimated his kidnappers; clearly they did know about his lock-picking skills; the manacle had been welded on! Neal followed the chain with his eyes; there had to be a weakness he could exploit, but no, the thick chain wound on the floor like a snake until it passed through a circular hole in the middle of a slab of metal that had been concreted into the brick wall. Neal stared in dismay and stood again. He edged to the hole and tried to look through to see if there was something on the other side but the chain disappeared into the darkness. He yanked on the chain a few times but it didn't give. He stood and turned.
This time he took great care in scanning his surroundings. He looked back towards the bathroom. Clearly the chain would allow Neal to reach it. Neal headed over there, now fully conscious of the weight on his ankle, and looked through the doorway; in the smaller room were a toilet, shower and sink. Neal ran his hands through his hair. Okay, there was nothing in here that he could use, absolutely nothing.
As his eyes passed over the toilet again his bladder made itself known. He sighed.
After Neal had relieved himself and drunk some water out of the tap (he'd been terribly thirsty) he moved back to the doorway and stood stiffly, staring now back at the large room. He couldn't help it as frustration bubbled to the surface; he'd been free of the FBI for mere hours before having that freedom snatched away again. What was going on here?
He didn't have to wonder for much longer. He was edging back towards the bed, trying to stay positive; telling himself that once the kidnappers made themselves known, he would be able to con them into making some mistake that would allow him to escape. He also knew that Moz, Peter and El and maybe the rest of the FBI would be looking for him; he may not be working for them anymore but Neal remembered this much: he had promised El he would meet her to say goodbye back at Peter and El's, so they would at least know something was wrong; Neal never reneged on his promises!
Neal looked up sharply. He could hear the sound of locks, locks that sat only on one side of the door, but who cared; the manacle chain stopped Neal from even being able to reach it. Neal instead concentrated on schooling his expression as he pocketed his hands and took on a casual demeanor; he couldn't let these people, whoever they were, know that Neal Caffrey, the elusive con, infamous forger, and talented thief, felt like a rat in a trap. He felt prepared to face down whoever it was; whether they be old friends getting revenge for his consultancy, or a 'client' he'd screwed over, or some criminal he'd helped Peter put away.
Neal had many enemies so he was expecting the kidnappers to be any number of people but he would never have guessed who it really was; it was the last person on the planet that Neal expected to see...
The door swung open and a silhouette moved forward cautiously, "Neal, are you okay?"
Neal felt his eyes widen in shock and he took an involuntary step back, then he stopped himself; there had to be a rational explanation for why she was here.
"Elizabeth?"