I have been rewatching White Collar, but I never watched beyond the end of season two until this time through, and am still only partway through season three. Thus (in part) my choosing to set this at that point in the series.
Clinton tucked his file together with a satisfied huff. He still had the final paperwork from yesterday's arrest to file, but that was it for the rest of the evening. He looked up, stretching, considering getting a refill on his coffee to last him through the rest of his work, and saw his boss already heading out. He nodded, and Peter nodded back, a blip in his focus on his conversation.
Peter laughed, shaking his head, and opened one of the glass doors out into the hallway, ushering Neal out with a hand just behind his waist. He needed the shooing as he lingered, flipping his hat over his arm and giving one of his most charming, wheedling smiles.
Clinton shook his head and reached for his mug, rising from his desk. Peter nudged Neal towards the elevators and clearly told him 'no', probably repeating himself from the looks of things.
As Clinton lost sight of them, walking around one of the shelving units hosting their recent files, Neal looked undeterred - unsurprisingly - trailing Peter into the elevator with an exaggeratedly innocent expression. The one that always made Clinton watch him with more suspicion, because it seemed less like 'giving in' and more like 'trying a new angle'.
Peter, he knew - had heard it again only yesterday - would only laugh and say that Neal always had a new angle - that was why he watched Neal so closely.
Diana gave her thanks and a small smile to the EMT who had checked that she had nothing beyond bruises from her own involvement in the takedown. She had a few scrapes, but, as she'd assessed for herself, she was mostly unhurt.
Peter was a little more battered, but he was on his feet and no one had dragged him into an ambulance yet, so she gathered he was all right as well. Diana let out a sigh of relief, but didn't go to him yet, moving to check on the cuffed criminals being loaded into the SUVs. Two of them were now cuffed to stretchers in ambulances instead.
Peter laughed as he shrugged on the new shirt one of the probies had handed him, but it looked like it was more in acknowledgement of the jest than true amusement. Diana had missed what had been said, but one of the younger agents near Peter was blushing as he hurried away. She arched a brow curiously.
Peter lifted a hand as Neal approached, waving him off, but Neal didn't stop - long, confident strides threading through the bustle at a quick pace, though he was probably a little bruised and banged up as well.
Peter turned towards him as Neal caught up to him, lightly touching his face where blood had dried along his temple and cheek. Peter ducked away, rubbing at the streaks himself.
Jones came up to Diana just as she was leaning against a concrete barrier, offering her a bottle of water. She nodded and gratefully accepted, taking a drink and resettling herself on the barrier, glancing over at Peter again.
Diana froze, one hand half-raised to her hair to push it back.
"You all right?" Jones asked, but Diana only half heard him, her attention suddenly fixed on Peter. His new shirt was still unfastened, and as Neal had moved around him Diana got a good look at him.
There was the ornate frame Diana had seen before - rarely, but on occasion - on Peter's chest, over his heart, but it was no longer empty. Inside, where you'd expect to see a portrait, there was an artist's palette with a wide array of colours blending smoothly from one into the next, three brushes tucked through the hole. It rested against one side as though leaning inside the empty frame.
Soulmate Marks didn't change, though - there was no way. . .
Neal smoothed his hands over Peter's shirt, tugging it into place before he even started to button it up himself. Peter didn't push his hands away, but Diana wouldn't have expected him to - Neal was always pretty free with Peter's space, and concern did nothing to make him more likely to hold back.
. . .surely not. Diana's lips pursed. "I'm fine." she told Jones as he lightly brushed her arm with one hand. "It's been a long day." she added with a tired smile.
Neal finished buttoning Peter's shirt up to his collar, and Diana shook her head, frowning slightly. She reminded herself to reserve judgement. And it had truly been a long day, for all of them.
She pushed off the barrier and headed towards Peter.
June tapped on the door and then let herself in, smiling fondly as she saw the easel set up near the windows, Neal's favoured palette resting on the table beside an empty wine bottle and pair of glasses.
"Neal?" June called, putting down the photographs he had asked to see.
As expected, he was out on the balcony. "June! Good morning." He smiled and bowed slightly - so charming, that boy - as he came through the door, pulling his shirt closed and holding it closed over his chest.
He hadn't done so fast enough to keep June's sharp eyes from seeing the colourful image over his heart where there had been none before. She didn't mention it, though she found it curious - a painting, worthy of Neal's own talents; the scales of justice in an ornate frame.
"Ah, hello June. Just . . . came to get Neal." Peter said as he came in from the balcony as well, which wasn't unusual - but he was slightly rumpled, and Maria had said nothing about him coming in this morning.
"Of course." June said with a smile. "Good morning, Peter."
June said nothing, but watched the two of them closely as she spoke with them, before she left them to prepare for their case. Despite their relationship prior to her meeting Neal - Peter had caught Neal and sent him to prison, twice, one would assume an antagonistic relationship - they had always seemed close to her. Friendly. Even when they quarrelled, which was more often affectionate than bitter.
She wanted to be happy for Neal - he so needed someone to ground him, to care for him, and even had Kate not been gone, she feared the girl hadn't been good for Neal - but she couldn't help but think of Peter's charming wife.
Clever and sweet, with blue eyes as bright as Neal's, if perhaps a little clearer. And Peter loved her dearly, it was obvious.
However he acted around Neal - and anyone around them with any sense could see that he cared for Neal, however suspicious he might claim to be - and even with the Mark Neal now clearly bore . . . June feared this would end in tears.
Mozzie dug into the access he had cut off from their latest target. There wasn't such a rush - the Suit had put the man behind bars, and after trying to firebomb Suit and Mrs Suit even the FBI wasn't going to let him out any time soon - but he would need to identify what spyware to clean up, and he was curious what the man had found important.
He scowled as he found several camera feeds of June's house, from the front step to the parlour and the kitchen. None of Neal's apartment, of course - he was more cautious than June, aware as she was of the need to be alert.
After checking into them, Mozzie cut off everything except a ping from each location - he wouldn't need it, but backups!
He frowned when he found a live feed of the back porch the Suit's home, powering it down as well. The next several were of other places outside their home, and the street outside - and then there was a view of the kitchen Mozzie often sat in for tea with Elizabeth, showing dishes scattered on the table, a frying pan on the stove, and a steaming coffeepot on the counter.
Mozzie shut it down as well, shaking his head, upset. It, and the ones following, a few more in their home. He froze, fingers poised on the keys, when he came to a view of what could only be the Suit's bedroom. Neal was there.
Neal was lying on his side, shirtless and wearing pants he would never have left his apartment in, in the centre of the Suit's bed. He tilted his head lazily, his hair - it looked artfully tousled, but knowing Neal had taught Mozzie that his hair just did that - falling across his brow and into his eyes.
The Suit sat beside him, mostly dressed, but with no tie or jacket and his cuffs and collar still unbuttoned. He leaned down, and Neal smiled, tipping his head back and accepting a kiss. Mozzie's eyes widened.
The Suit laughed at something Neal must have half-whispered against his mouth - he looked so much more relaxed than Mozzie usually saw him, and happy - and Neal stretched, rolling onto his back. The Suit slid one hand up Neal's stomach, but Mozzie wasn't paying attention, his eyes fixed on the previously pristine stretch of Neal's chest that now bore a . . . a painting?
Mozzie frowned, even more confused. He replayed the past weeks of visits to Neal, talks with Neal, seeing the Suit. . . He remembered coming to see Neal late at night - he'd been unexpected - and Neal answering the door with a hastily-thrown-on robe that he held closed around himself determinedly. Strange, but Mozzie had dismissed it.
This must have been why - Mozzie hadn't seen Neal in a state of undress for weeks, at whatever odd hour he appeared, despite Neal's lack of shyness. But-
The Suit? And what about-
Elizabeth walked into frame, and Mozzie watched uncertainly. There was no audio, and her back was to the camera for now, but she didn't seem to be reacting badly - not really reacting at all.
She crossed to the bed, passing a tray to Neal and then folding herself onto the bed on his other side, legs tucking up and her robe sliding open a little more across her shoulders with what looked like an artful tug. Mozzie wanted to look away, but a bit of bright colour high on her chest retained his attention.
He quashed the guilty feeling and mentally apologised to Elizabeth as he zoomed in and looked at the Mark on her breast. There was a Scales of Justice - of course, Mozzie thought with a scoff, glancing at the Suit, though . . . the same Scales that were pictured in the painting that now marred Neal's chest.
And at its base, as her robe slid away even more - Mozzie blushed and tried not to look, though he saw Neal's hand encouraging the movement of the fabric downwards - there leaned a large palette, with a veritable rainbow of disparate and blended colours, and several brushes.
The Suit and . . . Neal?
Elizabeth leaned down to kiss Neal, and the three of them settled into bed, Neal tucked between them and looking. . .
Looking happier than Mozzie had seen him in a very long time. Not just happy - content.
As he stroked clever fingers over Mrs Suit's collarbone, as he laughed and coaxed the Suit into accepting a bite of pastry directly from those very same fingers, even as Mrs Suit scolded and then kissed her husband, leaning over Neal - and as Elizabeth and Peter lay on either side of him and held his hands, cradled his body between theirs, welcomed him into that space with them.
Neal wasn't leaving, Mozzie realised. Neal was never leaving. New York, maybe - but not unless they did. He might not have realised he was lying to Mozzie - he might not have realised he was lying to himself - but no matter the payday, or the art they had stashed away waiting for it to be safe to sell, no matter the risks he faced here . . . Neal wasn't leaving this.
And how could Mozzie even ask him to, now that he knew?
Mozzie shut down the video feed even as he saw Neal beginning to run his fingers through Elizabeth's hair, twisting it up into an elaborate knot. He marked the location and moved to the next, almost finished with shutting down the network of bugged surveillance the last entanglement in one of the Suit's cases had brought down on them.
This story was written as part of my Valentine's Day multi-fandom soulmate AU challenge - the prompt for this one (#5) was 'Devotion'.
I considered adding a final part to this from the POV of one of the OT3 - or a small part from each of them, in similar structure to the outside POVs I used here - but decided it wouldn't fit the feel of this story. I'm open to the idea of working that up as a connected story at some point, but not as part of this one.