Hello readers!
This is a little idea that's been bouncing around in my head for quite a while. I was busy trying to figure out the plotline for another story when this hit me, and since it was another Chuck/White Collar crossover (I have a soft spot for those stories, mainly because of my theory on Neal's real identity), I knew I had to write it.
Like quite a few of my stories, it started out with a 'What if?' scenario. In this case, I wondered, "Hey, what if Peter and Neal's criminal of the week was Sarah's dad?" (After all, he is a con artist) It took me a few tries to write what I was looking for (and think of a good title–this was long known as the "Untitled Jack Burton Story"), but I managed to put everything together in time for the return of Jack Burton on Chuck tomorrow.
As for the timeline, I'd say this is set sometime in late season 2 for White Collar (Neal and Peter are still on good terms, though), and sometime before "Chuck vs. the Wedding Planner" for Chuck.
This story goes out to the awesome marihun, who gave me the idea for a particular scene in this chapter and frequently encouraged me to finish and post this story.
Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own Chuck or White Collar. If I did, there would be crossovers like these all the time (once again, mainly because of my theory), and Jack Burton would show up more often on Chuck. Also, I don't own the song at the beginning of this story–I've just listened to it so many times on my iPod, and I just thought it worked perfectly.
Craquelure: a network of fine cracks in an old painting.
Craquelure
"Private eyes/ they're watching you/ they see your every move…"
Peter Burke buried his head in his hands as his bored consultant crooned along with the song playing on the radio. Ennui-stricken Neal was reclined in his seat with his feet (much to Peter's annoyance) propped up on the dashboard and his black fedora turned down over his eyes. He lifted his hands to clap once, then twice, as the chorus continued.
"Neal," the FBI agent prompted, trying to drag the conman back to reality.
It didn't work. Neal just kept singing along, absently murmuring the next verse of the song. "Why you try to put up a front for me/ I'm a spy, but on your side, you see/ slip on, into any disguise/ I'll still know you look into my…"
Peter finally had enough. Before his partner could inflict any more damage (that all-too-catchy Hall and Oates tune was already stuck in his head), Peter unleashed his secret weapon: he unwrapped his deviled ham sandwich.
As expected, Neal stopped clapping and bolted upright, hat toppling off his head. He wrinkled his nose and grimaced at his edible enemy when the stench became more pungent.
"You know, Peter, deviled ham is considered biohazardous material in 49 states," he said, placing the fedora back on his head before humming a few more notes of the song.
His friend narrowed his eyes. "Neal."
"Okay, 48 states. Either way, New York is still blind to the dangers of deviled ham." Watching as Peter's withering glare intensified, Neal cleared his throat and changed the subject. "So, we're just supposed to sit and wait for this guy to come out of the building?" He motioned to the glass-paned structure on his right, his eyes following it all the way up to the top.
The agent noted the slight disappointment in the younger man's voice. "After the latest break-ins, we determined that this was the next target. We're going to catch him before he can get away again. Is that too simple and boring of a plan for you?" He heaved a deep sigh when Neal's eyebrows creased and a small, uneasy smile formed guiltily on his face.
"He's stealing from some of the wealthiest businessmen in the state, Peter. You don't just waltz into their office buildings and break into their vaults. You approach them at a party of some sort–a charity dinner, an art exhibit opening… anything to get noticed and start conning your way into their lives."
"Speaking from experience, I see," Peter said, remembering Neal's tale of his first encounter with Adler. "But the 'waltzing in' option has its advantages–it makes it much easier for us to catch him." He smiled wryly when the conman's shoulders sagged. "Of course, you'd rather go with the plan involving parties and beautiful women."
"I could have made it work," Neal argued. "I could have approached this guy at one of the parties, convinced him to team up with me for an even bigger con with the same mark, and then we would take him down your way." Another thought came to mind, and he sank down in a pout. "Plus, I'd be able to have a little fun of my own. Being cooped up inside the surveillance van–or, in this case, your car–doesn't help my dancing skills. They need to be put to good use, and I'm sure there are a few women at these parties in need of a dance partner. It would work even better if these potential dance partners were familiar with some of my favorite dances. I am particularly excellent at dancing the lambada–I don't want to lose my touch."
"Right. Of course that would be your specialty. However, we aren't focused on your amusement or retaining your lambada skills." Peter smirked once more before turning his attention back to the office building. A group of people trickled out–most likely employees going for a lunch/coffee break–but the suspect wasn't among them. With a sigh, the agent leaned back in his seat again.
Neal looked out at the now-crowded sidewalk before turning back to Peter and holding out his hand. The older man understood the gesture and handed his friend the picture of their suspect.
"It's likely that he got in by pretending to be a repairman or something along those lines," Peter offered. "We're looking for a plumber, window washer, electrician, exterminator…"
He trailed off as he watched Neal's back stiffen. The consultant stared out his window for a few moments, then quickly glanced at the photo before turning back to the sidewalk. Peter couldn't help but frown in curiosity at Neal's shaky and nervous tone when he announced, "Nerd Herder."
Sure enough, the man they sought slipped out the glass doors at the front of the building, wearing tinted sunglasses and dressed in the white shirt and gray tie combination of the Buy More computer specialists. Peter recognized the outfit from the one trip he'd made to the electronics store a few years earlier to get Elizabeth's laptop fixed. The computer returned from the Nerd Herd desk two weeks later with two keys missing (which caused Elizabeth to become very frustrated every time she needed to type the letters B or L and couldn't press the buttons) and an overpriced repair fee. After that experience, Peter just went to the guys in the Cyber Crimes unit for repairs–they were the Bureau's personal IT guys, after all.
"So, Peter, are we going to go catch him before he disappears into New York traffic?" Neal asked, breaking the FBI agent out of his reverie.
Peter fumbled with his sandwich and threw open the driver's side door. "Right. Let's go get him."
They shoved their way through the mass of bustling businesspeople to reach the fake computer repairman. He clutched a steel briefcase in his right hand, and grinned smugly to himself as he continued walking along the sidewalk. However, the smirk slid off his face when Neal and Peter surrounded him.
"You're not exactly in the Nerd Herd's average age range," Neal said rather matter-of-factly as he observed the gray-haired man before him. "I'd peg you as more of a Green Shirt." Peter looked up in curiosity at his partner. Since when was the reformed conman an expert on the Buy More's employee positions?
"It's a matter of doing what you're good at," the faux Herder replied, coolly slipping his shades down his nose. "I'm only in the city for a little while, but I still have to make a living."
"Right," Peter muttered, flashing the badge o' doom in the man's face. "You mind opening your briefcase, Mr…" (he squinted at the Nerd Herd employee badge, which read "Jack Charles") "Charles."
"I suggest you do what he asks," Neal chimed in, eying the Buy More badge. He shook his head as if to clear it, but still looked a bit freaked out for some reason.
Reluctantly, the man popped the latches and lifted the lid of the case. Bundles of bills lay inside, neatly organized into little stacks. Peter sifted through them nonchalantly as Neal kept a wary eye on "Mr. Charles."
Finally, the agent looked back up at the former conman and his still-in-the-game counterpart. He kept his gaze on the older man (who slid the sunglasses back over his eyes and bowed his head) as he removed his cuffs with a smile and announced, "I sure hope your nonexistent Buy More salary can cover your legal fees. Jack Burton, you're under arrest."
. . .
"So, Mr. Burton," Peter started as he took a seat in a chair across from the older man. He set a folder down on the table and flipped it open before adding, "That's the name you've been going by, right? Jack Burton? It was the one you were using when you were arrested in '98."
Burton shrugged, the white Nerd Herd shirt wrinkling as he did so. "You can just call me Jack, Suit."
Peter narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together in a frown. He shot a glance at Neal, who was standing on his right, and tossed a hand in the air in annoyance. The consultant understood the gesture and shrugged, murmuring, "Mozzie isn't the only one who uses that term."
The FBI agent heaved another frustrated sigh and turned back to the file. "Stealing from businessmen by pretending to be tech support doesn't seem like your style. Says here you're more of an armored car robber."
"Oh, and let's not forget the 'Lichtenstein'," Neal chimed in with a grin. "I was surprised you didn't opt for that. Seems like you're losing your touch."
Jack leaned back casually. "Some cons work better with a team rather than with just one man. I'm sure you know exactly what I mean, Mr. Caffrey."
Peter shuffled around with the papers in the file for a moment before finding the one he sought. "Let's go back to the 'Lichtenstein' for a moment. Los Angeles PD reported that you pulled a version of that con on, ah, Sheik Ahmad back in 2008. They also said that you escaped arrest. They claim one of your crew members covered for you, but for reasons not stated, she was not arrested."
"She always was a smart girl. Did your little police report mention that she's some sort of cop?"
Peter raised an eyebrow at this. "No, it didn't. But I am I correct in assuming your team member is, in fact, your daughter?" He produced a photo of a young girl with frizzy blonde hair and braces and set it on the table. "We lost track of her after she graduated high school, so this is the most recent picture we have of 'Jenny Burton.' Still, I'm pretty sure that with the help of an age-progression software, we could get a match with the California DMV and find out what alias your daughter's been using lately."
Jack opened his mouth to speak, but paused when a choking noise squeaked out across the table. Peter turned to see Neal staring at the 'Jenny Burton' photo, eyes bugged out and neck pulled taut. He looked as though he recognized the girl, and was having trouble processing the idea. Peter simply thought he looked like a strangled ostrich.
"Hey, Neal, you okay?" he asked, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder.
Neal's head snapped up, and he plastered an exaggerated grin on his face. "Yeah. Fine. Never better. She just looked a little familiar, that's all."
"Well, I don't know how you'd know my daughter, Mr. Caffrey," Jack interrupted, drumming his fingers on the table. "She told me she's been out of the con game for years. Then again, she helped me out the last time I saw her. I suppose our lifestyle isn't as easy to escape as you may think." He eyed Neal curiously, then his gaze briefly flitted over to the seated FBI agent to emphasize.
Peter frowned at this, but addressed Jack's previous comment. "So, your daughter was indeed part of your latest 'Lichtenstein' scheme. There were four of you, according to the report. Who were the other two?"
The interrogated conman leaned in. "Oh, Cop Face and Schnook? My daughter introduced them as her crew, but, like I said earlier, she's 'no longer conning'. And yet, she has two partners at the ready–strange, isn't it? Anyways, I'm not exactly sure who they are. Cop Face didn't really say much–he mainly just grunted and looked menacing. As for Schnook, ah, Charlie… he worked in the Nerd Herd. Yes, that's where I got this idea." He motioned to his outfit with this last comment, and then a thoughtful look passed over his eyes. "Charlie was in love with my daughter. He never specifically told me, but I just knew. And Angel Hair… well, she loved him, too. Don't know if those two kids told each other yet, but next time I see them, I'm making sure they do."
By now, Peter expected some sort of reaction from Neal. The consultant had been acting strangely for most of the day as they delved into the Jack Burton saga, almost as if he was some sort of forgotten character in the story. The look that crossed his face now was melancholic, like he was stuck on the outside looking in on a life he'd been torn away from. However, the unexpected cracks in the young man's façade quickly sealed up when Neal felt his friend's eyes on him. The sad, longing expression may have dissolved effortlessly, but the ghost of it still lingered.
More curious than ever about his partner's strange behavior, Peter slowly turned back to the gray-haired conman before him. "All right, Mr. Burton," he started, his gaze drifting back down to the folder. "I think we're settled on your previous 'Lichtenstein' scheme. Now, let's talk about your more recent crimes. How about we start with today's events?"
Jack blinked his eyes closed for a moment as he released a breath, and soon shot a glance up at Neal. The younger man stared off into the distance, blue eyes blind to his surroundings. His reactions to certain things–the Nerd Herd uniform, the photo, the mention of Schnook/Charlie–threw Jack for a loop, and he began to wonder if a thread in the tangled web that made up Neal Caffrey somehow led all the way back to Burbank, California. However, he tucked the thought away for later and slowly turned back the waiting FBI agent.
A few more questions followed the interruption in the interrogation, and by early evening, Jack Burton was sent to one of the Bureau's holding cells. He was scheduled to be transported to prison the following morning.
Scheduled was the key word. The transfer never occurred.
. . .
He'd been resting, not yet fully asleep, when his cell door creaked open. The metallic sound was muffled somehow, and he didn't register the presence of his savior until he rolled over.
Something landed with a soft thump on his makeshift bed, and Jack found a stack of neatly folded clothes on his left.
"Thought you might want something to change into," the figure in the doorway finally said. He kept his voice low and remained in the shadows, but there was a sense of familiarity about him. A hand motioned to the clothes again. "I figured these would be better than the orange jumpsuit. They should probably fit."
Jack took the charcoal gray suit jacket and white dress shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles with a smile as he admired the material. "The guards?" he asked, relieved yet wary of the situation. "Security cameras?"
"Already taken care of," the voice replied, shifting in the dark. As if he felt the other man's uneasy stare, he added, "Cameras are on prerecorded footage. The guards are just knocked out with tranq darts, and not very strong ones at that. I suggest you get changed quickly if we want to get you out of here before they wake up."
Jack still found the circumstance suspicious, but did as he was told. A few moments later, he pulled on the jacket and tossed the jumpsuit to his companion.
The mysterious man beckoned to him. "There's an exit out here. Alarm's been disabled." He moved out of the doorway, and Jack soon followed.
Sure enough, there was a door to the parking lot outside. The duo stepped out, letting the door swing shut behind them with a thud. Jack brushed his graying hair back with his fingers and released a puff of air before turning to his rescuer.
Under the light of the streetlamp, he could finally see the younger man's features. He was dressed in dark clothes–black pants, black leather jacket, gray shirt–that matched his dark hair. Intense, steely blue eyes stared out into the night before meeting the fleeing conman's own eyes.
"Here," the enigmatic man said, ignoring the shock and confusion on Jack's face as he handed him a wallet and keys. He pressed a button on the keys, causing the lights of a petite gray car parked a few spots over to flash. "Take these and go. Go see Chuck and Sarah. Make sure they know they're in love." There was slight hesitation as he stared off into the distance pensively, but he admitted quietly, "It took me a while to see it, and even longer to accept it. I'd hate to see them evade the inevitable like I tried to."
Jack accepted the items from his new acquaintance, somewhat surprised by his revelation. It only proved that things definitely weren't as they seemed in his world. He held out his hand, and the younger man shook it firmly. "So you do know my daughter," the real conman mused, dropping his arm. "You some sort of cop, too?"
A wry smile was the response. "Something like that."
"Does your friend, the Suit, know?"
The grin fell as the deceptive man's eyes turned downwards, and he remained silent.
Jack nodded, gaining a minimal understanding of the situation. He'd been somewhat correct with his earlier assumption, except it was a fissure in a façade rather than a thread in a design that led back to Charlie and Angel Hair. With this realization, he fixed his collar once more and pocketed the wallet. Once he reached the car, he took a final glance back at the younger man. "So long, 'Mr. Caffrey'," he called out quietly, and started the engine.
By the morning, the FBI discovered the escape of their latest criminal. They started a frantic search for evidence, but everything came up fruitless. There was no security footage to coincide with the timeframe of the escape, and all of the guards were suffering memory lapses. Forensics didn't find the tiny tranquilizer darts the drowsy guards had absently removed from their necks until lunchtime.
At 8:32 that same morning, Jack Burton (now under a new alias) bought a train ticket to Los Angeles. The gray Focus that went missing from the FBI parking lot between 10 PM and 4 AM was found abandoned a few miles outside New York City two hours after the train departed.
And shortly after midnight that morning, Bryce Larkin watched as the recently discovered connection to his past disappeared into the night, headlights illuminating the road ahead. He continued to look on long after the car vanished out of sight, savoring the rare moment where he could be himself again. But full morning was coming soon, and he was forced to abandon his silent vigil.
It was Neal Caffrey who returned to his apartment at sunrise.
. . .
There you have it–a fun little oneshot to add to the growing Chuck/White Collar crossover archive. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I had fun writing this!
AQotL