Riddle me this brain, why do you taunt me so? With your half formed plots and fragmented sentences, all the words I have to literally wrench out of you? Why can't you just fucking work properly?
Bah.
Enjoy.
.
(for the full effect, listen to "Under the Hood" By specifics. You won't be disappointed)
Neal Caffrey looks like the artwork he so meticulously steals. Of course, Spencer Reid knows nothing about his more unfavorable habits, nor the detailed obsession he has with them. No, all he can see is the light painting the man in gold, better than any two dimensional mastery of oil and water and color, because Neal Caffrey is real and none of the vivacious perfection could ever be emulated in something so prosaic.
He likes New York. Well he thinks so, anyway. This is the first time he's been to the enormous, sprawling steel metropolis on anything but business, and the morning sun hits long strokes of glass, and turns Neal into a portrait of his own, and he thinks, well, if it can look this beautiful, surely it can't be all that bad after all.
And then… then he thinks,
I just slept with someone I don't even know.
Though to that end, it isn't entirely true. No, Spencer Reid's eidetic memory will never let him truly forget that flash of disarming, cheeky white in the sudden spilt of a smile—quirky and truly unforgettable and oh so bewitching—and the subsequent disappearance of his wallet. But there was something there, in that slight second. Something smoldering.
That could have been chemistry. Reid muses ponderously.
Or, it could have just been stealing.
"Coffee?"
Neal surprises him, turning away from the windows and the glorious stratosphere and silhouettes to offer him what could only be artisan coffee in an artisan cup.
"Oh, thanks."
Neal gives him that irresistible smile, and logically, Reid processes that it really doesn't mean much. Illogically, however, his heart beats a little faster.
"So, FBI, huh?"
Reid looks down, to where his badge, gun, and newly registered ID are littered on the polished wood flooring in an unrecognizable heap. Along with the majority of his clothes.
"Err… yes, that's correct."
Reid seriously wants to ask about his old ID, and for that matter, his old wallet, but refrains. No use in recalling an event which the thief in question might not even remember.
Thief.
What a vulgar, beautiful word. Reid shivers at the delicate wrongness, that intangible enchantment to it. Perhaps he's so fascinated with it simply because it's the antithesis to the justice he so greatly believes in.
"You must be very smart." Neal notes, and there's a predatory bemusement to his smile. "The BAU doesn't take just anyone."
Reid frowns. So he quite obviously knows a lot about the BAU. If there's one thing he doesn't like, it's not knowing things. And it looks like Neal has quite a few secrets of his own. "In some ways." The genius admits. "Not particularly on the… street smarts."
"No?" Neal leans on the side of his couch, another one of the various works of art—which take all forms and precepts among the apartment, which is a work of art in and of itself—looking decidedly enraptured.
"Invariably, you could be good at either, and get just as far." Reid shrugs, takes a sip of his coffee and wonders how insulted the man may be if he asks for more sugar.
"I suppose you're right." His host agrees, magnanimously. And fortunately, he doesn't have to ask. "Creamer and sugar are in the fridge." Says Neal, as he moves to the balcony. "Breakfast is out already."
How charming. Reid blinks at the assorted food already laid out at the quaint little table nestled into the stonework of the balcony. He hastily trudges out of bed, wondering if it'd be polite to slip back into his old clothes, or into the really comfy, plush robe Neal has so kindly laid out for him. In the end, the fuzzy plaid wins out, and he snuggles into the enormous robe and trudges over to the fridge after grabbing a pair of pajama bottoms that clearly weren't his.
When he comes out, Neal gives him what could only be the infamous 'once-over' that Morgan is incredibly famous for, and Reid flushes from the bottom of his feet all the way up to his ears. Neal only grins, gesturing to the open seat across from him.
"You never told me what brings you to New York, Dr. Reid." Neal begins smoothly as Reid sits down, already looking amused behind his coffee cup.
Reid shrugs. "You never asked, Mr. Caffrey." And catching the curious quirk of the other man's brow, "But it's business."
As if he'd spoken the words to break the enchantment that seemed to have slowly drafted over them during the night, the tender, amorous mood seemed to plummet back to reality. The brilliant blue of Neal's eyes narrowed, before just as quickly, his gentle, laconic façade seemed to take its place once more. If Reid hadn't been specifically trained as a profile, he certainly would have missed it. Neal seemed… strangely adept at masking his emotions.
Serial killer? The psychoanalyst mused, or maybe just a con-artist?
Neal smiled again, and it was as if nothing was amiss. "That's terribly unfortunate." He said, drily, buttering his toast. "New York is best seen with a set of insouciant eyes."
"Unfortunately, I haven't seen any place like that in some time."
"Yes, that would be part of the job, wouldn't it?" Neal muses aloud, looking off into the burning, claret red sunrise.
For a moment, the older man says nothing, seeming content in basking in the heady silence, considering the stratosphere with a critical eye. Reid managed to get half way through his eggs—which were cooked to perfection, which once again had him curious as to the whereabouts, and ownership of this expansive house—before Neal spoke again.
"Are you psychoanalyzing me?"
And Reid had the unfavorable instance of meeting Neal's eyes as he quickly drew his up, suddenly and quite tangibly sucked through the vivid blue of those skies, logically understanding that eye color and the physical genetic makeup of one's face was a completely random gene-coding, yet still unlucky enough to fall for them anyway.
Not just any con-artist. The genius thought belatedly, quite obviously smart enough to rationalize that physical appearance did not a good character make, yet too dazzled to work his heart into agreement. A very, very good one.
"Of course not!" Reid sputtered, looking back down at his plate, a little bit thrown off by the echoed words of what seemed to be a lifetime ago. Lila had said the same thing—what a paradoxical parallel. The only two romantic relations he'd ever had, and yet the complete opposites of each other.
"It's not a bad thing." Neal replies, looking entirely too amused. "Is it any consolation I'm doing the same?"
Reid looks up, taken aback. "You don't know anything about me!"
"I thought the whole point was that you didn't need to?" Neal tilts his head, looking all too pleased.
"But most profiles have statistics to back them up!" Reid protests. "But not only that, human behavior is altogether so complex that without at least any background knowledge it's almost impossible to—
"I know you're FBI." Neal points out, interrupting him. "That you're part of the BAU—no easy unit to get into. Obviously you're very smart—intelligently, anyway. You already told me you're not to good with social normalcy…"
Well that's all invariably true, however, most of it Reid had voluntarily told the other man, and none of it was the analytical reasoning that profilers generally use to draw conclusions—
"And you almost seem… captivated by my looks." Neal smirks at Reid's affronted face. "And I don't mean that arrogantly—though I'm well aware it's true—it's you who has an innate fascination with the beauty in other's physical appearance. But why? Because you don't see it in yourself?"
Ah, the profiler, profiled.
They're just probing questions, but Reid feels a jolt shoot up his spine as Neal intuitively hit the mark. Perhaps that was the largest reason that Reid felt such an attraction to someone he indubitably knew was not only a deviant but also questionable in character. He'd never seen anyone as close to perfect as Neal, no one who flaunted it with that alluring confidence chiseled from years of classic swindling. He was significantly stunning, aware of it, and constantly using his breathtaking, almost unnaturally lovely countenance for his own gain, and even though he knew it, Reid had ended up here regardless.
"I…"
"You should." Neal says, veraciously, leaning against the back of his chair, one leg tucked over the other and looking as if Monet himself had taken the time to work through each and every loving brush stroke against this New York canvas.
Reid blinks, blindsided, and not quite processing. "Excuse me?"
"Come now, Dr. Reid." The con artist smirks, suave hair catching the light in caramel. "You can't possibly act like you don't remember me."
Not quite following, Reid tilts his head owlishly. "Well, no. I do have an eidetic memory and remember you quite clearly—
"So you must know I'm no ordinary man. No ordinary thief, even." Neal, surprisingly, looks pleased. Satisfied, even.
The good doctor nods slowly.
"Then it really shouldn't come to a surprise that you ended up here." He says, charmingly. So charmingly, in fact, that for a moment Reid doesn't even think of what he says, just the way his mouth moves so fluently, the flash of his teeth and the heat rising to his cheeks as he thinks of where that mouth was last night. And then he registers the words with a certain indignation, enough to raise his narrowed eyes to see Neal's rich smile.
"After all, I've never let a perfect piece of artwork just walk away."
Thinking about a two shot? Let me know what you think.