Title: Wherever You Happen To Be
Rating: Gen
Genre/Relationship:General Friendship
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 35,648 This section: 2,264
Story Summary: When Peter gives Neal the signal to run, Neal stays to protect Peter instead. Life in DC's Art Crimes Division can't be that bad, right? But living under Kramer's thumb and out of Peter's protection is harder than Neal imagined. Will Peter be able to set things right? And can Neal hang on until he does?
Written forWhite Collar Reverse Big Bang April 2014
Acknowledgements: Fabulous art by Qwertyfaced
Wherever You Happen To Be
Those who do not know the value of loyalty can never appreciate the cost of betrayal. - Anonymous
"What is this?" Peter knew enough to know that this was not a welcome committee.
Peter's former mentor planted himself on the steps, his expression hard. "These Marshalls are here to take Neal into custody when he returns."
Torn between indignation and disbelief, Peter gaped. "For what?"
"If you'd only listened to me." Peter knew that voice, knew it from a hundred lectures, all delivered with a stultifying parochial authority that made Peter chafe.
"For what?" he repeated, hands on hips.
"Public endangerment. I've got a dozen eye-witnesses who saw Caffrey hop that tram. Combine that with evading arrest, obstruction of justice—hell, I may even throw in a jaywalking charge for good measure."
Peter's surprise gave way to outrage. "We're not in the revenge business. Neal pissed you off, and now you want to hurt him." Peter was angry—yes, but he was also hurt. He had modeled himself in part after Kramer, who had been a good mentor in so many ways. This, however—this personal vendetta directed at Neal—was making him see his old mentor in a new light.
"Just control him," Kramer countered mildly. "Neal's got a lot of skeletons. I'll pick one, slap that anklet on him and he'll work for me in DC permanently. You understand this is best for everyone, don't you?"
Not for Neal, Peter thought darkly. "I understand this is not the way we do things—" he began, but the older man cut him off with a chuckle.
"I think we've had quite enough of the way you've been doing things, lately," Kramer said. "You brought me in to solve a problem, and now that I'm here, I'm going to solve it. You're in too deep with your C.I.—you've forgotten what you're supposed to be doing, what you're supposed to stand for—"
"Don't you lecture me on remembering what justice means!" Peter said, taking a step forward. His voice was low and dangerous, his eyes blazing. On top of everything, Kramer's pointed reminder that he was the one responsible for his presence here was like salt in an open wound.
From his vantage point on the sidewalk below, Neal couldn't tell what Peter was saying, but he was getting a pretty good general idea. He saw Peter step forward, saw the way his body hunched in anger.
A key component of being a successful con man was reading people—their expressions their body language, their tells. Even from this distance, Neal knew that Peter was heartbeats away from slugging his former mentor, goons or no goons surrounding them. Neal thought about the risks that Peter had taken on his behalf, the way he had shepherded and sheltered him during his time as a C.I. He'd seen Peter's headshake, knew it for the signal to run… There wasn't time to choose—not really—but it hardly mattered: there was no real choice to make. He did what he did best.
He ran.
He ran up the steps and slipped into the circle of taut and angry men, slipping past Kramer's elbow to stand, half-shielding Peter from the older man. He flashed his trademark con-man smile, blinding in its brilliance.
"Did I…miss a memo?" he said. "I thought we were—hey now!" Two of the Marshalls stepped forward and gripped his arms. Part of the art of conning was knowing when to give way, knowing when to let go. He held himself in check and did not resist. The Marshalls were well-trained, and they held him with only necessary force. Although his demeanor showed surprise, he continued to smile—not at Peter, but at Kramer. Kramer returned the smile, but smugly, and Neal felt Peter rouse behind him.
Urgently, Neal extended the fingers of his left hand in the subtlest of gestures, but he knew Peter would pick up on it. He knew Peter was tuned to him now, watching him for clues as to what Neal was up to, and Neal walked the fine edge of wanting to tell Peter what he should do without entirely revealing what he was up to himself. Peter stood down, but grudgingly. His eyes were on Kramer's face, but his whole body tensed for sudden action and Neal put all of his energy toward one purpose, into one outcome: whatever happened, he could not let Peter do this, could not let Peter be compromised any more because of him.
Neal looked at Kramer—polite, confused—and smiled as charmingly and as meekly as he could.
"I… I heard you testified at my commutation hearing," Neal said, looking pleased and almost bashful. "That's…wow. That's very…gracious of you, Agent Kramer." Beside him, Peter scowled, and would have made a black retort, but bit it back as the smugness on Kramer's face turned to puzzlement.
"Don't be so sure," Kramer said, frowning. "I testified, although it hardly—" He broke off, his frown deepening into a glower, but there was something cagey in his expression now, something secretive that did not sit well with Peter or bode well for Neal.
"That was kind of you," said Neal, selling his earnestness. "I know your opinion carries a lot of weight." He felt Peter buck beside him, less of a move than a shift in stance, and Neal dug in and planted himself, telegraphing to Peter that if he planned to take on Kramer, he would have to do it by going through Neal. Neal turned and flicked a look in Peter's direction, not quite meeting his eyes, then looked back to Kramer. "Peter was just going in to testify," he said. He smiled quickly but let his nervousness show and chase the smile away. "The Board's still taking testimony."
Kramer started to speak but stopped himself, still looking secretive and defiant. Peter turned and looked toward Neal but not at him, then spoke. "That's right—the Board members haven't made up their mind." He turned and looked at Kramer, eyes narrowed. "We're still waiting to see what they'll say about commuting Neal's sentence." The gantlet had been thrown down, and Peter stared at Kramer, daring him to say the Board's decision was irrelevant, daring him to pit his authority against the panel that was still in session. Internal dogfights could be vicious, and often both parties left limping or maimed.
But Kramer was an old dog, survivor of a dozen internal skirmishes, and he did not take the bait. His face smoothed over into blandness, and he spoke to Neal but looked at Peter.
"I don't know what the Board's decision will be," he said smoothly. "That, of course, is up to them, but I don't know that my testimony will have the effect you hope, Neal."
"Sir?" Neal said, and again, felt Peter tense, practically heard him grinding his teeth. Neal shifted uncomfortably, eyeing the Marshalls and swallowing, looking nervous and scared. Peter knew that Neal was more than capable of hiding his true reaction—whatever it might be—so this was obviously for Kramer's sake. "I don't understand."
Kramer's face showed disbelief, then annoyance, then the mask slipped back into place. His voice took on a parochial tone and his eyes crinkled in a parody of warmth. "Neal, I've been looking into some of your…past activities. I'm not going to lie—"
Peter tightened behind him, seething.
"Past activities?" Neal said, sounding surprised. "I was hoping you'd be looking at my recent activities—the time since I started working with the White Collar Division." He smiled and flashed a quick look at Peter. It was a calculated look, full of respect and admiration and deference that bordered on hero-worship. Neal knew enough of what that felt like to do a pretty convincing imitation.
"Oh, I've been looking at those, too," Kramer said, affable and smooth. "In fact, it was some of your recent activities that caused me to…um…backtrack." He looked at Neal, looking to see if his words had hit home. They appeared to have done so, for Neal swallowed again, distinctly unhappy now. Kramer pulled some papers out of his jacket pocket, tapped them lightly against his palm. "Would you like to try to explain what happened yesterday on that tram?"
"I…I got nervous," Neal said. "The Board, the responsibility of authenticating the Raphael." He darted another look at Peter, doe-eyed and contrite. "When I get nervous, I…well, I run, but Peter talked me through it." He smiled at Peter, and while his posture was submissive, his eyes boring into Peter's were hard. I am doing this, the look said plainly. Get on board and deal with it.
"Running wasn't very smart when you're so…close," Kramer said carefully, watching Neal. He seemed to be looking for something in Neal's reaction, something specific.
"That's what Peter said," Neal admitted sheepishly. "He brought me back around. He usually knows when I'm up to something in time to head it off." He looked away, looking embarrassed at being so well-read.
Kramer was quiet for a moment—thoughtful and shrewd, then he appeared to make up his mind. He shot Peter a look and stepped forward. The step took him right into Neal's space, and Neal was currently backing up to Peter's space with little to spare. The Marshalls hemmed him in on either side, but they were stoic, taking no part in melodrama. Kramer looked at Peter for a moment, then away, marking him as irrelevant. He pitched his voice low, intimate, and looked directly at Neal.
"I know when you're up to something, Neal," Kramer murmured. "And I know what you're doing now."
There was a moment—a moment that crackled with electricity—then all of Neal's meekness fell away. He squared his shoulders and looked at Kramer, his blue eyes hard.
"So what happens now?" Neal asked.
"If you come quietly, I won't cuff you in front of your friend," Kramer said. The way he said it, the way he dismissed Peter's authority—made Neal want to slug him, but he shoved the impulse down. Right now, it was about surviving the moment, making things easier for Peter. He could deal with fallout later, when it was just him and Kramer.
"Fine," said Neal. Get it over with, get Peter out of harm's way, get on with it already. The die was cast—there was nothing for it but to ride it out.
Kramer smiled, then looked toward Peter. "Smart boy," he said softly. Peter's expression was fierce, his neck tense with fury, and he met Kramer's insouciant expression with venom.
"This isn't right," Peter said, practically growling.
"A judge determines what's right," Kramer countered. "It's not too much to let a judge decide now, is it?" Peter heard the patronizing wheedle in his tone, found himself thrown back to his rookie days when he had been mentored and shaped by this man. The thought was all but intolerable to him now, and he felt his gorge and his anger rise in equal measure.
"Damn it, Phil," he cried, trying to reach the man who had once been his friend. "This isn't some game, where you just—"
"I assure you, Peter—I'm taking this very seriously. Very seriously indeed." He cocked his head and studied Peter, a look that Peter knew well. That look preceded a lecture on the faults with your deductions, the faults with your understanding of the evidence. Peter did not think he could stand here and let the man lecture him while— "Aren't you supposed to be testifying, Peter?" Kramer said. He nodded his head toward the building looming behind them.
"What difference does it make now?" Peter said bitterly. He had a hard time getting the words over his teeth.
"Oh, I'd say it makes a lot of difference. After all, you are Neal's handler—at least, right now you are—and I'm sure we'd all like to know what you think about his performance as a C.I.—for the record, you know."
The threat was obvious, and Neal and Peter were both aware that the Marshalls shifted and stiffened. They were stalwart men, obedient and dutiful, but they were also men who were not strangers to conflict or violence. Whatever this was, whatever they had assumed their duties to be, this sounded like something else, something low and foul.
"What about Neal?" Peter asked, but could not meet his C.I.'s eyes.
"Oh, Neal will be just fine here with me. We have a few things to sort out." He nodded toward the building. "Go on—go ahead and testify. It will be…interesting to see what the panel does."
Peter looked toward Neal, meeting his eyes at last. He was loathe to leave not knowing what might happen once he was out of sight, but Neal's expression, while grim, was resigned.
"Go," Neal said. "Go and testify. That's the best thing you can do now, Peter."
"But—"
"Peter." He held Peter's gaze, staring him down, standing him down.
"I can't just—"
"You can."
Peter frowned and shook his head, then shot Kramer a look that should have given the man pause, but if it had any effect it did not show. Peter turned on heel and stopped, obviously trying to calm himself before walking up the steps and entering the building. Neal did what he could.
"It will be fine," Neal called after him, thinking this was as close to telling Peter a lie as he had ever come.
,