Disclaimer: I own nothing of this show.

Summary: "She hasn't been taking my calls." A different reason for ignored calls never crosses Neal's mind...giving a dangerous rival an unknown advantage. AU from "As You Were".

Author's Note: My imagination just kind of ran wild with the promo for "On the Fence" immediately after "As You Were". I paired up that quote from Neal in "As You Were" with what seems to be going on in the next episode. And before I knew it, it was past midnight and I had written the bulk of this story.

It is Sara-centric, focused on her inner thoughts and development. Personally, I hope the show will swing back around to Sara and Neal; I enjoyed them together. But the ending of this fic, I left open. If you don't like Sara, you can imagine them talking and then parting ways (just please—don't leave reviews thanking me for putting her through this; that would be incredibly rude, not to mention you'd be completely missing the point). If you're like me, you can imagine the opposite—a reunion, and a resolution.

That's the joy of ambiguous endings: everyone can "chose" for themselves. That said, I likely will not return to this story to write that reunion between the two of them. The story feels complete.

The title is from the song "Stranger" by Katie Costello.

...

Illusionary Self

...

She felt like a fly.

Tears welled up in her eyes, obscuring her vision just enough that she couldn't distinguish between big dark blurs and big light ones. Her hand gripped the banister too tightly as she tottered, heels ruining her balance, and the box in her arms wobbled dangerously. High-heels while upset were a bad combination. It felt like needles and knives were skewering her feet, even though she had long grown used to wearing those types of shoes. She had a whole collection of them at home, a freaking cornucopia of shoes.

And why was she thinking about shoes right now?

Because it's easier, her mind whispered. Easier than thinking about the laptop, the camera, the treasure, Neal. Easier to feel physical pain.

She wiped under her eyes furiously as she walked out of June's front door, half-relieved and half-infuriated to find that her cheeks were dry. It would be easier to see if they would just come already. But they wouldn't, since she was determined not to let them fall.

Why did she have any right to cry? She knew what she was getting into. Peter told her what he could be like. Elizabeth made her aware that he was who he was, good actions aside. June warned her not an hour ago what was going to be expected of her, if she pursued what was between her and Neal. And still, still it felt like a knife in the chest, what he was willing to do, what he would hide—how he would lie.

She asked him, came to mind as she headed toward the cab she called nearly half an hour ago. She asked him if he knew about the treasure and he deflected. She asked if he was planning to leave and he told her there were other reasons for high-quality aliases. She asked him and he looked her straight in the eyes and danced enough that she thought he was telling the truth.

He had a sugar-honey tongue, and she was just a fly. Such a stupid fly.

In the cab, she realized that she still had another decision to make, and damnit all he was making her cross a line. He said he wouldn't ask anything that she couldn't give! That showed all too clearly how she couldn't trust his words.

Well, she could lie, too. Her only evidence of the treasure was back in that apartment with him, and she knew what he was asking her as she left. That laptop would be moved or destroyed, a just-in-case precaution now that it wasn't solely his secret anymore. June's words were still ringing in her head, tempering the vindictive part of her that wanted to go start an investigation with Peter's help.

"I saved Byron's hide on many occasion. I knew more than he thought I did."

So it came down to whether she would be a fool, or a rat.

Despite her anger, she couldn't find it in herself to betray him. It was why she drew back and tried to hold in her tears, instead of grabbing that champagne bottle and swinging it at him. It was why she knew, scanning the treasure with that camera, that her thing with Neal had to end. It was why she begged him to take care of himself as she left, praying that he would choose to stop instead of run.

She decided she would rather be a jester for now. Because she would find more evidence—something to link him to the treasure and theft even without the laptop. Something that would prove to her how many lies were piled on top of lies, how he never trusted her—how he might have used her. Dinner at Diana's with the two couples and a Wally Burns that he avoided explaining, that conversation after their fledgling tryst was in the initial stages of forming and Peter was suspicious of him… who knew what else?

Was any of it even real? What had she really been to him, a means to an end or a person?

To her frustration, she finally felt droplets trickling down her neck and wiped the tears away. No, too much to think about—she had to go somewhere else. A place that Neal didn't know, where she could just not think. If only for a night. She cleared her throat and spoke to the driver, destination changed even though they were halfway there. She would head for a hotel. Not to the Four Seasons she had stayed in earlier. It didn't really matter what hotel she went to, as long as it held no memories.

She needed space, but had to stay in the city. So she would go somewhere he wouldn't find her—a random hotel outside his radius.

The night saw her tossing and turning without pause, without real rest. In the morning, she sat up with a sore neck and bags under her eyes. Sitting at the vanity in the hotel room she was lucky to get on such short notice, she stared at herself in the mirror and finally stopped trying to block out thoughts of Neal.

His expression when she spoke the previous night was in the forefront of her mind. As good as he was at keeping his masks in place, there was a glimmer in his eyes that betrayed his confusion and hurt. Part of her wanted to deny it, wanted to think that it was all him playing the game, trying to keep the con going.

But the bigger part of her knew there was only so much that any human being could fake. Neal was as human as the rest of them, not an invincible, impermeable wall or the perfect blend of thief, forger and liar. He made mistakes, was caught off-guard, second-guessed his decisions.

Or maybe she was deluding herself.

Whatever happened in his head at his apartment didn't matter now. She told him that she never crossed a line she couldn't come back from because she sensed him leading up to something. That was why her curiosity had gotten the best of her in the end.

"Give Neal time, and he'll let you in."

The problem with June's sentiment was that she seemed to ignore entirely what and who Neal was—a conman: a forger and thief and professional liar. That could not change. Or rather, he was a person who could not be what she wanted him to be.

But…that wasn't right.

Absently, she traced patterns on the vanity table with her fingers. It wasn't right to expect a person to be everything to you, or to be exactly what you wanted. Unrealistic expectations were impossible standards. A vague discomfort hit her as she recalled what Elizabeth had told her before about Neal—that he was who he was, and was there when it counted.

It was implied that she had to accept the con with the man if she wanted him entirely. At the time, she had understood that on a level that was later brushed aside. There were things about him, things that changed over time. He was different than the first time she met him, and not just because their relationship had shifted into something else the more they saw each other.

And maybe she was tricking herself again.

The biggest problem, as far as she could see, was that he had her second-guessing everything she knew about him. It wasn't a recent development, but she had pushed aside her distrust for the sake of exploring the seemingly mutually-desired possibilities.

In the back of her mind lingered what she knew about Neal Caffrey, felon and criminal consultant. What she knew about his exploits and talents, what he was capable of, and what he was willing (and not willing) to do. The nonviolent, the talented, the playful (and, never reported in the case files, gorgeous) man, who got away with a crime that she was certain he committed.

And then he had the nerve to taunt her with a print of the very painting she was sure he took, after breaking into her house with a gun! Time and distance had allowed her to cool, and she had to appreciate his charm—the only reason she hadn't chucked out the print as soon as she could. And then their adventures with the music box, how she was drawn deeper into the case and the excitement, how it culminated in a frenzy during a blackout…

Fond memories could only go so far. Their current problem, the one that created this new rift, was one she couldn't see them overcoming. Yes, she couldn't expect him to change, and maybe he never felt deeply for her at all. And no, no: she couldn't allow this to go any further when she wasn't even sure their relationship was real. The longing and sadness dragged at her heart, but she was the one who couldn't take it.

Going in circles would only drive her to the same conclusion. She made her choice, and would live with it now.

She went to her apartment almost immediately after, leaving the hotel in the same dress she had worn the night before. She drove while keeping her mind focused on what to do next. She wanted that day to herself, to think a bit and wallow some—everyone needed some time to be in a funk after something didn't work out. The majority of her wardrobe had remained at her apartment, so she had some time to get herself together and pull up the willpower (courage) to go back to June's and retrieve the rest of her belongings. She'd have to make sure Neal was out when she did.

Her strength could only carry her so far. He was the type of person who wouldn't like leaving things as they were, and on top of that he had to be uncertain of her intentions regarding the secret treasure. No, he would try to talk to her eventually, and she needed a little more time before she would be okay to handle his cautious approach.

Entering her apartment, she put her belongings away as quickly as possible and switched into a pair of old college sweats and a tank top. Comfort clothes.

Then she stood in the middle of her kitchen, hands on her hips as she debated what to do next. She wasn't the type to do nothing, but focusing on a case wouldn't help her frame of mind at all. And besides, there was something nagging her ever since she thought of it earlier.

Determined, she strode over toward the closet she had stashed the print he had given her. It was still in the plastic wrapping, and she laid it on the table as she debated what to do with it. Burn it, maybe, or take her frustration at him out on the inanimate object. It would certainly make her feel better, and she didn't exactly have anything else of his that she could so abuse.

Circling the table with her arms crossed, a faint frown appeared on her face and she leaned in closer to look at the plastic. Under bright lighting, she could see that there was something not quite right about the image under the plastic. She didn't scrutinize the print before, knowing that he was taunting her lack of evidence and determined not to fall into that trap of even looking at the print more than strictly necessary. It had been collecting dust in her closet ever since she brought it into her home without sparing it a second glance.

Now she turned it over, carefully looking at the back to see what was off about the wrapping. The plastic looked more normal there, but the back of the canvas… There were a few staples around the interior edge of the frame, and it looked like a second canvas was covering the back of the painting. It didn't look like the usual gift-shop replicas.

She pulled a pair of scissors out of a drawer and made a slice in the plastic, then tore it from the print. As she flipped it over to take off the plastic entirely, she grasped the painting by the top and her fingers landed on the printed surface.

Except…it wasn't printed.

Her jaw fell slack as she felt brushstrokes beneath her fingers. The plastic fell away, a few flecks of paint sticking to it. Looking at the surface of the canvas, it was clearly a painted-on image—definitely not a print from a museum gift shop. Her heart pounded in her chest as she turned the frame to see the back of it. She tugged at the staples out of the wood, breathing slowly and deeply to keep herself calm. The canvas back fell away.

And something else fell with it, to the table.

It was small, rectangular, a little bigger than a sheet of paper. With shaky fingers, she picked up the cabinet painting she sought for so long.

There was a faint buzzing in her ears as she registered what she held in her hands. Her shock grew as she gently placed the painting on her table and saw that the canvas stapled in held a black-inked message.

Double jeopardy keeps me safe.

But I feel bad about a few things, figured I owe you an apology. The larger copy is for you—feel free to display it or burn it. As far as gestures go, I hope you take this one for what it's worth.

Her eyes flickered to the inside of the larger one, catching on the faintly traced initials "NC" in the corner. It wasn't a taunt, popped into her head. No, it wasn't a joking gesture meant to drive her mad.

He hadn't been taunting her.

It was a peace offering.

She turned her back on the table and paced: running her hands through her hair, squeezing her eyes shut, still regulating her breathing with conscious effort. She felt her shoulders shaking, but wasn't sure if it was laughter or tears that threatened to break loose. Her feet pattered restlessly on the tile of her kitchen floor.

Sheer audacity, she thought. How dare he? And at the same time: He's right, I can't prosecute him. But it was also never about the money.

It was the game, it was pitting her skills against his and trying to beat him. He made a fool out of her by hiding the real Raphael inside a copy—not a forgery, it wasn't the right size and was signed by him—and wrapping it up and handing it over. He played his last card and she found that she had none left. This move won the game, and she wasn't walking away with the satisfaction.

No, he'd snuck it into her house, under her very nose! If she hadn't been curious, observant, she would never have noticed and never have known.

And he knew she would find it eventually. He took the choice out of his own hands, left it in hers, even before they were involved. She could see that in his own way, he'd offered her a kind of trust. She had in her hands something that could be used as a further measure of distrust. No, they couldn't go back to court for the same case—but neither could it be ignored on-record that he was in possession of it before handing it over. It would discredit him to the Bureau, to Peter—he had to know that she could have done that. What made him take that chance?

Frustrated, she spun and glared at the dissembled items on her table. Why did he have to play games like this? Why did he have to run around like a child in a store, pushing buttons to see what they did and grabbing what he wanted because it was pretty, shiny, just plain appealing?

"You've always known who I am."

And what's more, she had liked who he was when she thought that she was getting to know him. There was more to it than his charisma, more than the easy banter and (admittedly) hot sexual encounters. It was the feeling she got from being around him, even knowing that the man at her side wouldn't think twice about illegal activities. He had a set of morals—dislike of guns and violence speaking for themselves—but an effective conscience was something she always knew he didn't seem to have.

Damnit, she wasn't supposed to feel like this anymore! She walked away—and sure, barely twenty-four hours had passed, but was it too much to ask for her emotions to follow her logic?

Why was this happening to her?

And why was she laughing?

Later that afternoon, she forced herself to get off her couch and don street clothes. Half of her wanted to wear a pantsuit, or one of her nicer dresses, to prove that she was just fine, thank you. But the rest of her felt too heavy to consider it. She pulled on a pair of jeans and a semi-nice blouse, forgoing the heels for boots with only a slight heel. The jeans were more weekend-clothing than running-to-my-ex's-place, but she really couldn't bring herself to care.

She felt slightly squeamish of image up-keep at the moment. It was one of those tools of the trade that before, she appreciated, because it gave her a neatly put-together man on her arm. On this side of the line, she felt like a bauble that completed his con.

Another cab was waiting for her as she left her apartment. It didn't look like one she regularly called, but she brushed the thought from her mind—not all cabs looked alike. She brushed her hair back from her face as she climbed in, rattling off June's address and rooting around in her purse for her wallet. This cab had a bullet-proof glass divider, but there was an intercom so driver and passenger could communicate, and a small tray in the "passenger seat" through which she could pay him. The safety precautions momentarily pleased her, but she had other things on her mind.

"Sure thing, ma'am," the driver said. His rough voice brought to mind images of cigarettes and alcohol, but she didn't smell any of either in the cab. In fact, the car was remarkably clean, and she marked it down to the driver being new to the job.

The cabinet painting had been placed in her wall-safe for the moment. Despite having hunted for it for so long, she couldn't for the life of her figure out what to do next. She had to file some kind of report, and "anonymous gift" was a little too suspicious. Her company would assume that she went a little too illegal in retrieval efforts. Not to mention the owner of the painting would want to know who took it, and since Neal had not been convicted they would assume it was someone else.

Of course, the easiest solution was to just tell them. But then she was back to that damn fool-rat problem, and wasn't this just so Caffrey? His last joke on her, make her the keeper of all sorts of secrets against her will. She pointedly ignored what Neal promised—because look how that turned out. She knew too much, not all of her own volition. Though snooping on his laptop was her fault, and she knew it.

A big part of her wished she hadn't done it, and another was glad she had. There were so many underlying trust issues that it was silly they hadn't been addressed before. When their relationship was newer, it was easier to ignore that and have fun. But she was starting to feel more serious—damnit, she was not going to think about that.

Shaking her head, she glanced out the window…and frowned. This wasn't the right street. She was fairly certain that it was in the opposite direction of where she had asked to go. "Excuse me," she said.

"Finally noticed, huh?" The driver shook his head. "I thought Caffrey would pick a new girl who was more aware of her surroundings."

It felt like she had swallowed wasabi.

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror, dark and laughing eyes meeting hers. "I thought I lost you for a minute when you went to that hotel last night. Lover's spat, eh? Well, it worked in my favor, 'specially when you finally came back to your place. Out of his radius, he'd never pick up on someone watching."

The wasabi became ice, and she discreetly reached into her purse—only to pause, eyes calculating the chances of breaking the bullet-proof glass barrier between her and the stranger who obviously knew Neal. She couldn't mace him or smack him on the back of the head. Her eyes darted back to the rearview mirror, where those eyes glinted back at her. He pressed a button, probably turning off the intercom so she couldn't start shouting at him.

The cab slowed for a stoplight, and she reached toward the handle of the door. Her fingers closed on empty air, and she abandoned her composure and frantically searched for the missing handle. Damnit, why hadn't she noticed that earlier? Next she pulled out her cell phone, punched the first number she could think of (tried to ignore whose it was, she didn't need him, but oh she wanted his reassuring voice even if it was a con) only to find the signal blocked. She shook her head, trying to clear her vision.

Her fingers closed around a tube of lipstick and she tried to think of what she could write and where—what window, how to keep him from seeing it… Would anyone stop to help? Or, wait, stop the cab and let her out, that was what she wanted…. Panic was probably setting in, she had to keep it together, she had to…

Her head felt like cotton.

"Neal."

She didn't realize she had spoken out loud until the driver laughed again. "Patience, sweetheart, your rusty-armored knight will find you eventually. But 'til then, I'm afraid you have to sleep for a while. Don't want to show you where we're going, after all…"

The words were wavering, insubstantial—much like the seat behind her. She felt floaty. And the sky outside, so bright…

She was under a bare bulb, the light too bright. It prevented her eyes from adjusting enough to see into the dark room around her. She wanted to know what was out there, but her head was still pounding enough that she couldn't think of an escape attempt quite yet.

It was dead quiet. She couldn't tell if the room was large or small, where it might be, or what she was even doing there. But she had taken stock of her condition.

Her clothes were still in place, a good sign. Her arms weren't bound behind her, but they were in handcuffs. Those were attached by a chain to ones around her ankles—and that chain trailed away from her to the side, possibly attached to something else that was out of her line of sight. She couldn't see her ankles, but hopefully they were just cuffs like those on her wrists. If the "cab driver" hadn't checked her clothes, she might be able to free herself. But she would save that attempt for later, just in case he was watching or present in the room and out of sight. Or if he had a guard. Any number of possibilities.

She needed him to come see her and drop more hints about what was happening before she could successfully attempt an escape.

A thin piece of metal rested between her teeth and cut into the sides of her mouth. The contraption felt heavy and was buckled around the back of her head; she couldn't see it, but it didn't feel like it was tied. It felt like a bit, as unpleasant and inhumane on people as it was on horses. And it was enough to enrage her all on its own—how dare she be treated like an animal, like someone's property!

Hostage situations were rare in her line of business, unless one counted the theft of inanimate objects as a kind of kidnapping. The closest she had ever come was when she was bringing back a stolen car and the suspect was cuffed in the back with a black eye, having refused to give up his illegally-obtained property. On this side of the situation and for reasons she had nothing to do with, she found it terrifying.

When she got out of this, she was going to kick Neal's ass for getting her involved.

Her hips shifted on the hard seat. And here was another embarrassment, coming to ruin her mood. The need for the toilet was distracting her from anything else, even the faint gnawing in her stomach that was some anxiety and mostly hunger. Her hands clenched into fists—and she heard something screech behind her. A door.

She stilled, tensing as footsteps approached from behind. They rounded her chair and came into the line of light. She recognized the cab driver and pulled her lips back in as close to a distasteful sneer as she could manage.

That scratchy laugh again. "Another one with claws—except I have a feeling you won't be easy like Kate." He reached toward her, eyes glinting in a way that made her distinctly uncomfortable. She stiffened, trying to keep him from grasping her shoulder, but there was nowhere for her to go. He yanked her up and she realized—contrary to earlier thought—that the chains weren't keeping her locked to the chair. "You'll be here a while, so make use of the basic amenities provided," he said.

She paused for a long moment before swinging her hands with all her strength.

As if expecting the blow, he dodged and ducked as she pursued, attempting to land a hit somewhere. She only made it a few steps before her legs jolted under her and she wildly swung her arms to catch her balance. The chain on the floor stretched taught and kept her in the ring of light, away from the now-dim figure of the man. She was breathing hard, fighting to keep her vision clear and not to betray how much all her movement had made her head ache.

He clicked his tongue. "We're gonna have to coexist for a little bit, sweetheart. My plans aren't fully set yet, but when they are our boy Caffrey is going to be a lot of trouble. You wouldn't want me to forget about bringing you food and water when I'm all stressed…"

She glared in his direction, stubbornly refusing to budge an inch. If he came near her again...

He was circling the edge now, just out of reach. The light reflected onto him, making his shape a little less shadow and a little more substance. "I don't have much time to stick around, but I want to leave you with a little something to think about over the next couple days. As Caffrey's girl, you know a lot about him and his less-than-legal activities. I want to know what you know about a rumored treasure that should have blown up when Vincent Adler died. You're going to tell me what you know about it."

Heart in her throat, she tried her hardest to keep herself put together. The anger helped a lot—she glared with all her might, fingers just itching to grab him by the throat.

The figure shrugged, melting into the darkness back the way he came. "Knew you were a fighter. Not like Kate, she gave up his secrets after he was in super-max a couple of years. Tell you what, you stay here for a bit and decide what to tell me 'bout his little Nazi treasure. Think about something else while you're in here, too—that he's a con-man. Anything he's told you is 'cause he's using you."

The screeching of the door was, this time, accompanied by the faint light of pre-dawn.

A bitter churning started in her stomach. At least one night had passed, goodness knew how many more would before she was free. And all this for that damn treasure that she wished she had never seen, that she was glad she had stumbled upon, that—damn it, Caffrey!

Not now, just take stock and see what the current situation is, get a feel for it. She stomped along the chain, following it into the darkness. Her eyes adjusted slowly, enough that she could see that she was near the corner of whatever building she was in. There was a toilet in the corner—just the porcelain, lidless. Fumbling with her jeans, she quickly relieved herself and was grateful to find that the thing flushed. Her wrist cuffs clinked together as she redid her jeans.

Following the wall, she went as far as she could until the chain stopped her. Then she walked to the side, mapping out her radius. Maneuvering around the chair, in and out of the light, she walked until her chain caught on something. Tracing it back, she found a box. It was heavy, and she ended up shoving it along the floor into the light to see what it held.

A lot of water bottles greeted her. She promptly tried to down half a bottle. It took some maneuvering with the cuffs and the bit-gag in her mouth, but she managed to drink. It was clear that she wasn't expected to survive on anything else, which meant that if this contemporary of Neal's wanted her alive, he had about three weeks to complete his plans. If her water ran out without him coming back, her time limit was a week after that point. She'd have to be careful to ration the water, just in case.

Sitting in the chair, she turned her wrists over and examined the cuffs around her hands. She could pick them—thanks to Neal—but the manacles around her ankles were going to be a problem. There were no keyholes; they had been melted. Following the chain back to the wall again, she confirmed that she would need bolt cutters to get out of them.

Once she had covered all the ground she could, she sat with her back to the wall and stared at the cylinder of light that illuminated that plain, hard chair. The image fogged in front of her eyes.

She lost track of time, falling into fitful sleep whenever she was tired. And she was tired a lot—whatever drugs he had used gave her a headache that seemed to last for days. He hadn't left her a blanket, but it wasn't too chilly. After a time, she got used to the temperature.

There was nothing to do in her imprisonment. Sometimes she walked her radius, trying to get some exercise in. Movement clanked the chains, which hopefully someone would hear and come investigate—although the chances of that were waning the longer time passed. She tried to keep her mind entertained and sane by going over old case files or thinking about current ones that she was working on before this happened to her.

At times, she started singing every song she knew the lyrics to, just to keep from going mad.

She'd searched her clothes and found that the safety pin was still tucked safely away in the hem of her shirt, but it was useless when it could only free her hands. Mindlessly picking and re-locking the handcuffs was another way to spend her time. She didn't want to get caught with the cuffs off, just in case the kidnapper reacted unstably. As much as they galled her, she kept them on at least one wrist, switching off to keep them from bruising.

Picking the locks reminded her of Neal.

She was thrown back to June's, out on the balcony with the skyline in front of her and his solid warmth at her back. His arms over hers as he guided her hands with the pick, showing her how to magic them open. Then his lips on her neck, trying to distract her as she did it herself. And another test, her hands behind her back. His skilful, confident fingers showing her by touch how to undo handcuffs that she couldn't see, only to pause halfway through and caress her hips, curve around her stomach. She'd turned, still desperately trying to concentrate while he playfully distracted her, both of them practically glowing with her success when she managed to free one hand and promptly slapped the cuff around his wrist.

That encounter had made her more of an exhibitionist than she was used to, but Neal hardly seemed to mind. Even teased her about it the next morning—when Peter interrupted their breakfast. They were always being interrupted, someone always walking in. Someone finding something they shouldn't have.

A bitter scowl stretched her face and she winced. The bit—muzzle, as she'd started to think of it—had been impossible to figure out. She wanted that off more than anything else, but for the life of her she couldn't figure out how it was buckled. She thought that a part of it had been melted, same as her ankle cuffs, and that just pissed her off even more.

Whoever he was, this guy was so dead.

And not the least reason of which was because he had forced her to sit and think about nothing but Neal for days. It was uncomfortable and infuriating and draining.

She was unfairly furious that he got her into this, but a much more rational part of her had to admit that he couldn't control what his criminal counterparts did. Whoever this guy was, he seemed to have something against Neal. The taunts about Kate indicated how long they had been at odds with each other. More than likely, taking her was an off-limits effort to rattle Neal.

It was concerning that he seemed to care so little about keeping her healthy. She had some very basic necessities, but these conditions were hardly hospitable. And he threatened to leave her with no resources to survive, an indication that he would do worse things if he so felt the need. At least Neal had morals—this guy was using people as chess pieces.

She had a sneaking suspicion that it was Keller, Neal's kind-of rival who had kidnapped Peter just to escape prison. Neal told her a little of the encounter, and she knew Keller had escaped from that encounter.

Neal had also told her, in his usual story-telling 'it's just hearsay not personal experience' way, that Keller had no qualms killing a man in cold blood. If this was the same man, she really didn't want to antagonize him. She just counted herself lucky that he seemed more amused than infuriated by her attempt to hit him.

More than her current situation kept swimming around in her mind. Attempting to take her mind off the current predicament led her to thoughts of the last time she saw Neal, and that in itself was a bid for insanity. She was driving herself up the wall second-guessing her decision. Then reaffirming it. Then recalling all the ways she had already started slipping, from Scott and the Vulture incident back to knowingly not telling Peter how suspicious Neal's conversation with her after the U-boat explosion had been.

In little ways and bigger ways, she had been protecting him for a long time. She never realized that she was doing it until now. The gray areas had been expanding before she had the sense to stop them, but even now she found herself finding more and more of the gray.

The biggest issue between them was trust. How could she trust him when he smiled for a living? How could she believe him when he would evade and let her assume, look her straight in the eye and hide things? How could any relationship progress when one side wasn't willing to open up?

It was an unhealthy balance. It was one-sided. It was a stupid fly and a honey-coated tongue.

But the Raphael.

When he gave it to her, he said that it was a gift. She dismissed it as an attempt to get under her skin. They may have forged an understanding over the course of that case, but it had lingered in the back of her mind as a ploy. And now, she found that what he said was true. It was a gift—a sly, playful, infuriating gift. His copy of the painting as a larger, burnable piece was a gesture to show her that he would understand her anger. And in the end, he was at her mercy even if prosecution for the theft was no longer possible.

Reading into Neal's actions seemed like too much, but knowing him was key to knowing that she had to think that way. There were little hidden meanings in everything he did. And she couldn't help wondering if she was wrong—had he cared? Really and truly, even if she was doubtful now because one too many evasions had exposed a rather big secret?

She just didn't know. Poor stupid fly.

"I guess you figured out everything I have to offer."

Yes, she had looked at the laptop and found too much, found what he wanted to offer her in a stilted conversation that she shut down before. Yes, she thought she had known him rather well, despite acknowledging that he was a con artist. But no, she didn't figure out everything.

When she left him, the old insecurities had shut out every other thought or feeling that might have persuaded her to think about it more. But sitting alone in his room, staring at the treasure through his laptop, she couldn't stop circling back to possible lies and what this knowledge meant for their relationship. All she could think then was that he must have lied to her so many times.

But here, in solitude and with more than enough time on her hands to think, she couldn't figure out what kind of con needed their relationship. What's more, she didn't think it was possible to keep that façade up all the time—their more intimate moments played vibrantly in her mind. That kind of affection wouldn't have been necessary to keep her unaware. Neal seemed like a very physical person, but a lot of what they were had been based off activity and action, rather than words.

He was a master of spoken and body language, but the more she thought, the more she was sure that he gave away more than he realized. Or perhaps it was simpler—it was that he was slowly letting down the barriers. Letting her in, letting her see. Was that what June had meant? Was that where she and Byron had ended up? She stayed and supported, and he let her in more and more? Secrets were obviously still rampant in their household, but June had told her that Byron needed protection sometimes, and that she had willingly played the part.

Was that what June thought she, Sara, would end up being for Neal? A partner who stayed on the right side of the law most of the time, but who recognized that gray areas existed in her life? The woman who would protect him—even from himself—and know more than she let on? Another June, for the man that so resembled her Byron?

If that was the case, she was a disappointment. She'd run, rather than stick around and try to work her way through flypaper to figure out what was happening.

"I never promised you anything else."

There were still so many questions. She wanted answers. She just had to make sure that she would get them.

She was weak with hunger when he came again. The door opened and closed soundlessly, the faint light from the afternoon shining through and dazzling her for a moment. Carefully and quietly, she re-closed the loose handcuff and stayed where she was, waiting. She was intent on fighting, but he moved faster than she was prepared for. And this time, there was no joking manner.

She stumbled over her own feet as he yanked the chain harshly and dragged her to the chair under the light. She grabbed the armrests without thinking, cringing back into her seat. Startled, she was unable to control her expression as he leaned in with a large knife loosely dangling in hand. "I think you've had plenty of time to think about what I've asked." Without further ado, he reached up and grabbed the harness that held the bit in place.

Her jaw screamed in pain as it finally fell away, and she desperately fought back tears at the pain. He didn't wait for her to get her bearings, instead stepping back a few paces and tossing the contraption aside. The knife twirled in his hand as he studied her. His eyes were dark and cold, and her eyes darted down to the coil of rope held to his belt, to the knife, to his steel-toed boots. Then she returned her gaze to his face, determined to show no fear. "So what do you know about the U-boat?" he asked.

She glared at him.

He spun the knife in his fingers and twitched an eyebrow up.

Still hesitant, she debated whether it was better to say anything or not. The chance that this was Keller—cold-blooded killer who wasn't afraid to do anything to get what he wanted—ultimately helped her decide to fight the pain and speak. "I don't know anything about it. He wouldn't tell me."

"But he knows something about it?" he pressed, body completely motionless except for the fingers on the knife.

"Maybe, I'm not sure. I kept out of his business, he stayed out of mine."

The man hummed. "You know," he said, starting to pace toward her left. "People often say more than they think they do." He was behind her. "Past tense?"

She swallowed hard. "We're not together anymore."

"I'm not sure I believe that," he said, smirking as he came back into her line of vision. She glared, nostrils flaring. It was a gamble, but she tried her hardest to project sincerity and hurt in her expression. The man seemed to believe her, because he shook his head in an almost sympathetic way. "Don't fret too much about that. Caffrey doesn't move on easily, and even if he did it would take a hell of a lot to keep him from acting on those silly morals."

Without warning, he grabbed a length of rope and rushed her, looping it around her arms and moving behind her in one swift move. She yelped, startled, and the rope bit tightly into her arms as he tied it. It took a lot of effort for her not to let loose with curses, but she successfully held them in. He pulled out two bandanas and swiftly grabbed her by the hair, pulling her head back and cramming a ball of fabric into her mouth. The second cloth was wrapped around the back of her head and tied painfully tight. Her tender mouth was on fire at the abuse.

He leaned in, speaking directly in her ear. "Besides, he's called your phone daily. He definitely wants to talk to you. Guess that lover's spat isn't going to end the way either of you thought, huh?"

She blinked at that slip of information—it wasn't a shock that he called, but it was startling that this man kept her phone and purse. A faint hope rose in her, but just as quickly it fell. Neal would think she was avoiding his calls, not be concerned that she refused to answer.

As if sensing her train of thought, the man laughed before patting her shoulder—she tried to twist away from the touch—and saying, "Sit tight and I'll be back before you know it."

She struggled in vain, mumbling curses through the new gag. It was much more painful than the last one, obviously as a result of the first gag. Her heart stuttered at the thought that he did that on purpose, to cause her more pain. Oh f-ck, he was psychotic. Well, she already knew that, but the additional evidence pushed her into 'terrified'.

The longer this went on, the more she wanted Neal to figure out that this crazy man was in town. Then she'd be free.

Hours later, as her body officially went numb, he returned on a phone.

"…not over yet, Caffrey," he said, tone all too smug for her liking. It seemed that he had started his plan, which could only be a positive thing. The sooner he started taunting Neal, the sooner the FBI would search for her.

He was just entering the circle of light by the time he replied to the phone again. "Everything in its time. Now, you have me on speaker at the FBI and are trying to run a trace. So sit tight and I'll call you back—but in the meantime, why don't you check your e-mail, Agent Burke?" He hung up.

The man crossed over to the far edge of the circle, where her chain prevented her from going, and she listened and waited, unsure what the clicking and shuffling sounds of plastic-on-plastic meant. Then a small red light came to life. It moved until it was right in front of her, still hidden in the dark. But the faint glow she recognized as a computer screen came to life behind it, illuminating his face. Or what she assumed was his face—there was a ski mask covering his features.

She had a funny feeling about that red light.

The man laughed from behind the red dot. "You should see your face, sweetheart. Relax; I'm not the only one who'll see it in three…two…" There was a clicking noise, the tap of keys. "Smile, you're in the Bureau."

Her nostrils flared and she glared at the man who now stood in the faint glow of the computer. He moved to stand beside the camera. As she watched and waited, he leisurely tapped keys on his phone. He waited for the longest minute before tapping another button. In the dead silence of the room, and due to his proximity, she faintly heard ringing on the other end of the phone line. The volume must have been turned up so he could hear through the ski mask.

Neal was loud enough for her ears to catch his voice. "Keller!"

"Good enough video quality, Caffrey?" The man in the room with her sounded ridiculously smug.

"Let her go!"

"I don't think you're in any position to make demands. See, I've had her for days now—you really shouldn't have let her leave your place in that state of mind, she was so unobservant." His eyes sparkled with humor: a twisted pleasure that he got out of taunting Neal. "Goes to show just how much you care, that you didn't even know she was missing."

There was a faint crash on the other end of the line, a brief silence, and then Peter's voice, strained and bubbling with fury. "What do you want, Keller?"

"Caffrey knows what I want. I already laid out the terms. He's the one dragging his heels." Keller stepped forward, facing the camera alongside her. "You'd best advise him to get a move on. Wouldn't want anything to happen to her." He reached out and cupped her chin with his hand.

Pent up fury already had her on edge, but listening to him taunt Neal—using her as a pawn—made the whole world go red.

She yanked her head out of his grasp while simultaneously kicking her legs up, trying to get him where the sun didn't shine. She landed a hit—not where she wanted, but it did get him in the gut. Her lips twisted up in triumph as he crumpled over, dropping the phone and staggering back. She tried to lash out again, but the damn ropes held her to the chain and she was forced back, struggling uselessly against the bonds.

She didn't dare look away from him as he caught his breath and straightened. Her strength wasn't what it should have been, and she glared at him in frustration, curling her lips back in an animalistic snarl.

The glint in Keller's eyes was her only warning before pain ricocheted through her cheek. Her head spun at the force of the punch—not even a slap, a full-out punch—and she squeezed her eyes shut against the dizziness. Her ears rang as she straightened her head, listening to him.

Keller had the phone back, panting just slightly as he snapped, "Better hurry, Caffrey, or I might decide she's no longer worth the effort." Then he closed the phone with more force than necessary.

She opened her eyes and glared at him. He glared back, stuffing the cell phone in his pocket as he stepped in front of the camera. He turned it off and continued back into the darkness beyond the light's reach, slamming the case of the laptop shut. His movements were angry as he moved everything back to where it was, and she tried to watch even though her eyes wouldn't focus because of the light.

When he was done, he stomped around her and yanked the ropes that held her in place. She gasped, and held herself as still as she could while feeling a blade against her throat. Terror swamped her every thought—and then he hissed, "You're lucky you're still useful." Then the rope fell away and she could hear him stomping away.

For the longest moment, she was frozen in place. Then the adrenaline began draining away and she crumpled, head in her hands.

To her credit, she didn't cry.

She did have to struggle to breathe properly again, warding off a panic attack as best she could while completely alone. When she finally caught her breath again, she ran her fingers over her cheek and winced at the heated flesh. It would bruise spectacularly, and with her body so drained she wouldn't be in her best health for an escape attempt.

Not knowing how long she had been there, she judged the length of time by her body's emaciation. So far, she felt like she'd cut down on half her body weight. She could count her own ribs, and felt disgustingly dirty after not having a shower for so long.

And after her shock cleared away, she grinned viciously as she held the forgotten coil of rope in her hands.

"You found your way out."

Yes, she did—a way out, not an escape. She couldn't always run from things, but she'd always come back and fight.

The next time the door opened, it felt like a day had passed. She had retreated to her spot in the corner, the rope waiting for her to use as a makeshift garrote whenever he returned. If her luck prevailed, his cell phone would still be in his pocket and she could call for help. And if that failed, she was pretty sure she could dislocate joints to get her feet through the manacles on her angles. They were loose enough that the only problem was that knobby bone on the side.

Scrabbling sounds at the door alerted her to imminent entry, and she sprang to her feet. The handcuffs had been picked and she carried the chains now, moving as far as she dared as fast as she could, making as little noise as possible. The faint clinking was softened by strategic use of the cloth gag, removed at the first opportunity. The sound stopped as she dropped the cuffs to the ground. Hastily wrapping the rope around both fists, she bent her knees slightly and stared intently toward the door.

There was light from either sunrise or sunset silhouetting the figures that came through, but all she got was a brief flash before flashlights suddenly burnt her eyes.

She shrieked and covered her face, gripping the rope tighter in pain.

"FBI!"

"Drop your weapon!"

"On the ground!"

She was so surprised that it took her a second to comprehend what was shouted at her all in one breath. The second breath let loose a shout that was familiar and authoritative. "Guns down! That's the hostage!"

And, much more comforting, "Sara!"

She dropped her hands, squinting into the light. The flashlights had been lowered from eye level, though still too bright when she was so used to the dim cavern and a single bare bulb. But she still caught the glimmered of a rat-pack suit and wide, frantic blue eyes coming toward her.

Her hands felt slack, the rope hanging in front of her like a useless thread. "Neal?" A faint flush came to her cheeks at the sound of her own voice, so shaky and timid.

His hands were warm on her skin, tilting her chin up, and she choked back a sob as his hands trembled. "Are you all right?"

What a silly question. She laughed, a strangled hysterical sound that didn't ease the tight clench of his jaw. For some reason, she couldn't bring up the words, couldn't find the will to speak. Instead, she flexed her fingers and the rope caught on her elbows, as she lifted her hands to either side of his face. His neck. His shoulders. She collapsed against him, clutching his jacket as she tried to stifle her laughter against his chest.

Knight in rusty armor, indeed.

The EMTs wouldn't let her stand up.

At least they couldn't remove her on that stretcher yet. They were waiting for someone with bolt-cutters to show up. The EMTs backed off—after giving her an icepack for her cheek and hooking her up to a portable IV unit—at her rather vicious request to stop being the fly in the petri dish until the chains were gone.

Peter told her what had been going on while she was locked up—she was told it had been about six days. Some messiness with Keller wanting a treasure Neal had, and using her to poke and prod Neal into the right place. In the end, his escape was foiled by a rather lucky shot that hit his leg. He hadn't given up her location, but the little guy came through on the grapevine. Great, now she owed Mozzie for helping to find her.

Of course, that meant the treasure was now in the hands of the FBI. The surge of relief she felt at that one had her weak at the knees; thankfully, she was already sitting.

But from the tension between Peter and Neal, it was clear how the FBI became aware of the treasure's survival.

She wanted to say something to mediate the broken trust that had just started healing. There was little she could do—except, perhaps…

"Can I talk to Peter alone for a moment?" she asked. It was just her, Neal and Peter—the conman having refused to let more than a few feet come between them since she had stepped back and recovered her composure.

Neal hesitated, obviously torn, but in the end nodded stiffly and wandered away. She turned to Peter, taking in his interest and confusion. "I knew about the treasure. Before Keller." She didn't mention how long she had known. "Neal didn't know."

The agent blinked at her, obviously not expecting her statement. There was a glimmer of frustration in his eyes. "Neal already told us he did it. You can't take the blame for it to protect him."

"Peter," she reached out to grasp his arm. "I meant that he thought I didn't know." He relaxed, and she voiced something that had occurred to her while she had nothing but time to think. "I didn't lie to you when you asked me about Neal's whereabouts that night. He was with me, and he didn't get any calls from Moz. I think it was…a gift."

Peter raised an eyebrow. There was a glimmer of something in his eyes. "I already know he wouldn't have the opportunity or time. That the little guy was involved somehow."

"He wouldn't give him up, then or now."

"No."

The wary expression in his eyes made hers roll. "I know I'm an accomplice, but hear me out before slapping on the cuffs."

He shook his head almost immediately. "I'm not going to arrest you." It went unsaid that he just may be arresting Neal any time now.

She shifted her weight forward. "Just think about it from Neal's perspective. The very first reaction he experienced after the explosion was distrust. Then he has this huge temptation right in front of him." She raised an eyebrow when Peter's expression turned grudgingly pouty. "I know you want to think he's changing, but it takes time. And old habits…"

A faint smile quirked his lips up. "You're arguing that conmen will be conmen?"

She shook her head. "I'm saying that I understand the transformation you want—but it's not a solid shift from con to man." Without her permission, her eyes shifted to the person in question. He stood watching the two of them with his hands shoved in his pockets. "It's going to be gradual. He's always going to be who he is, it's just a matter of supporting him enough so that he makes choices that won't hurt so many people."

When she looked back at Peter, the soft shine in his eyes was a bit startling. Peter shook his head. "Either the solitude has gotten to you, or he's corrupted you," he said, less serious and more of a tease.

She smiled and refrained from answering, as the EMTs had returned along with a man carrying a rather intimidating piece of equipment. Her eyes darted to the side. Peter had stopped Neal from coming back to her with a hand on the shoulder. Whatever they were saying didn't look like it was about to end in an arrest.

She wasn't too surprised when Neal continued towards her, and Peter met her eyes behind the con's back. There was a tacit forgiveness in the expression, and her lips twitched up again.

The people working around her didn't deter her decision to grab Neal by the hand and pull him close. He raised an eyebrow at her affection, the other at her whispered, "We need to talk."

His eyes scanned her face. Whatever he saw there made his lips form a gentle smile, and he nodded.