Author's Note: This is my first foray into writing for Chuck, as I've just started watching the show. After Bryce's second death, my head canon immediately became that Bryce had gone to New York and was living in deep cover as White Collar's Neal Caffrey, since no one on Chuck seems to stay dead. Thus, this fic was born. This takes place toward the end of season 3 for Chuck and before the season 2 finale of White Collar. Story title comes from the Mumford & Sons song of the same name.

Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.

Ghosts That We Knew

It was a week after the Ford case that Neal came home to find Mozzie sitting at his table with a glass of wine in hand and a serious expression on his face. The latter set alarm bells ringing in Neal's head, as neither Mozzie's presence nor his pilfering of Neal's wine was unusual.

"Hey Moz," Neal greeted neutrally as he shut the door and shed his hat and jacket on the arm of the couch. When Mozzie remained silent, Neal poured himself a glass of wine and took a seat across from his friend. "What is it?"

"There are some strange rumors on the street, mon frère." The eccentric conman's tone was subdued.

"Strange how?" Neal asked with a frown. Mozzie usually loved anything strange—was often involved in it, even.

"There are some new players in town."

"New players? How is that strange?" Cons and crooks were constantly in and out of New York's underground. New players were a dime a dozen and Neal had expensive tastes.

"Rumor has it that they're part of a group that calls itself The Ring," Mozzie said.

Neal stiffened, nearly sloshing his wine. His breath caught in his throat. That was a name from a different life. It couldn't possibly be. Criminals were a notoriously uncreative bunch and "ring" was such a common name for a group, he told himself. It couldn't be, not here. Not now, when he was so close to getting answers.

"And what are these 'Ring' people up to that has the underworld talking?" Neal asked quickly, in a vain effort to cover his momentary lapse. Mozzie gave him an odd look, saying he'd noticed the reaction and had filed it away. Neal cursed himself for being sloppy. Even involuntary reflexes needed to suit the alias and he'd just screwed that up.

"Nothing."

Neal blinked at that. "Nothing?"

"Well," Mozzie elaborated, "they're not recruiting. They're not pulling any jobs or even looking for jobs. They seem to be watching almost, waiting. For what or who, no one knows."

Neal swallowed. Over the last week, he'd had started feeling like he was being watched. At first he'd tried writing it off as knowing that he was one of the more familiar faces of the criminal underground lately, considering his connection to the FBI. He was constantly getting looks from fellow cons and other players in the game around the city.

But that hadn't been it; he could feel the difference. Those looks were benign, mostly assessing. These were something else entirely.

Over the course of his varied career, Neal had become accustomed to having eyes on him. Being able to discern the difference between the friendly and not so friendly was a necessary tool for a conman to have. These eyes didn't make Neal feel like he was in immediate danger, but they still made his skin crawl.

He'd decided that his worry must be from realizing that Adler had been behind everything from the jump; Adler, who had been Neal's first undercover job, was responsible for Kate's death and Mozzie's attempted murder. If he'd realized Neal and Peter were dealing with the music box and the fractal, then it would make sense he'd put eyes on his target.

He knew he should take his suspicions to Peter, but first he wanted proof. But the few times he'd tried doubling back on a possible tail or canvasing for unfriendly eyes, he'd come up empty. Either he was being paranoid—likely, especially considering the time he spent with Mozzie—or his shadows were very good, professional even. He felt their eyes on his back going to and from the Bureau, walking down the street with Peter during and after work, and even sitting on the balcony at June's.

Mozzie's news, though, ratcheted up the worry several notches. Could he have been compromised? No one should know he was here or who he was… No one The Ring should have access to, anyway.

"That sounds paranoid, Moz," Neal finally said.

"More than usual?" the con retorted.

Neal let himself smile. "We have new players in town that aren't doing anything and you're sitting there like we're having an intervention? Really?"

For a beat, Mozzie seemed to let that sink in. Then he shook his head. "'Paranoia is just having the right information,'" he quoted.

Neal rolled his eyes. "Well, let me know when you get the right information, Mr. Burroughs," he said. "Because right now we don't have that. If it turns into anything, we'll figure it out."

"You sound like the Suit," Mozzie groused, but he let it drop.

Neither touched on the topic again, but Neal didn't sleep well that night. Dreams from another life, of gunshots and the slow burn of the life bleeding from his body, chased him down in the dark.

The next morning, Neal stopped for his usual coffee and grabbed one for Peter as well. They had no current cases that needed attention so were planning on spending the day going over Alder's files. Anything they could put together might help get the son of a bitch before he found the treasure and disappeared. Neal wasn't going to take that chance, not when the man was the cause of so much pain.

But something was off. Neal had barely made it a block from the coffee shop when dizziness hit. He stumbled and grabbed onto the wall to steady himself. He took a breath and blinked, trying to shake off the vertigo, before realizing what this was and where he knew it from.

Tranq. In the coffee. Not good.

He fumbled through his jacket pocket for his phone, but limbs were getting heavy and the world was graying around the edges. He needed to call… Someone… Someone important…

His legs crumpled beneath him and the coffee spilled from his hands. The world tilted, but hands snaked out from the adjacent alley and grabbed Neal under his arms. They pulled him off the street. The last thing he knew before consciousness left was a black hood going over his head.

The hood was pulled from his head in one swift motion and Neal groaned as consciousness returned. His head was pounding and he tried to shut his eyes against the light invading his senses before realizing they were already shut. He swallowed, the remnants of his coffee mixing unpleasantly with the cottonmouth sensation. He grimaced and cracked open one eye.

There were several dark figures standing around him, but they were blurred and shadowy. Memories of what had happened came back in a jolt and his other eye opened. He took quick stock of his situation: he was sitting in a chair and his hands were cuffed behind his back. His ankles were zip tied to the chair legs. And the man who'd pulled the hood from his head was standing less than five feet away—just out his leg range if he were to get free. Smart man.

"Welcome back to the world of the living, Mr. Caffrey," the man said. The voice sounded familiar. Neal blinked again and the room finally came into focus. They were in some kind of basement with no windows, only a few dull bulbs hanging from the ceiling on strings to give any light.

"That's what you're calling yourself these days, isn't it?" he added. "Neal Caffrey, conman and art thief extraordinaire?"

The man standing in front of Neal smiled and Neal felt like he'd been shot in the gut. Again. He'd been made. But more than that, he'd made the man in front of him as a traitor. This was one man he'd never thought could be turned, but here he was when The Ring was apparently in the city. There was no way this could be a coincidence.

But Neal schooled his features quickly. Even the involuntary reflexes must be those of the alias. You must become that person, not pretend to be them, he could hear his mentor's voice telling him.

"You seem to have me at a disadvantage," Neal said, plastering a sardonic smile on his face. "You know me but I don't know you."

Which wasn't strictly true, since he knew the man standing in front of him, and the man knew very well that Neal knew exactly who he was. It was just a matter of who would crack first. And Neal didn't intend it to be him; not when he'd spent this long on this alias. He was Neal Caffrey. He'd rather come to enjoy this life and didn't want to throw that away, no matter what these guys—these traitors—had in mind.

"Oh, very good," the man said, his lip quirking. "I was hoping you wouldn't be rusty."

"Rusty?" Neal echoed. "Gentlemen, I have a number of skillsets, so if you could be more specific—"

"Cut the crap, Bryce."

Neal shut his mouth. Hearing the name hit him harder than he'd expected. He'd shed that name more than once, though the second time he'd been killed and revived, he'd intended to lose it for good. He'd slid back into Neal Caffrey's skin after four years, and it was like he'd never left; and he meant to keep it that way. Both identities were far safer with the remnants of the demolished splinter group Fulcrum—and everyone else, minus General Beckman—thinking Bryce Larkin dead, this time for good.

But apparently The Ring had gotten some Top Secret Intel. That meant there was a leak in the NSA or CIA—or both—and the man standing in front of him seemed like a pretty good candidate. He was the last person Neal, no Bryce, would have expected to be a turncoat. Son of a bitch.

"Bryce? You must have me mistaken for someone el—" he started, but the man shook his head.

"I'd consider cutting the crap," he said, nodding at his agents.

The men stepped aside and Neal's stomach dropped. Peter was bound to a chair, like Neal, and gagged. There was a small group of Ring agents behind him. He was watching the exchange with a calm exterior, but Neal knew him well enough to see the nerves in his eyes. Peter sought out Neal's gaze. Neal shook his head minutely and Peter's eyes narrowed. One of the men pulled off Peter's gag.

"What the hell is going on?" he demanded. "What do you people want? Kidnapping a federal agent is—"

But the Ring operatives all laughed. Peter looked like someone had turned the radio off in the bottom of the ninth of the World Series.

"Now, Bryce, you don't want your FBI handler to get hurt, do you?"

Neal swallowed and silently begged for Peter's forgiveness. "I really think you've got the wrong guy."

The man sighed with fake regret. "Okay then. Boys?"

One of the agents pulled his gun from his holster and clicked off the safety. Neal's eyes widened. He'd assumed they'd torture Peter to get him to talk; as hard as that would be to endure, it would have given Neal time to think of a way out. He'd been trained to endure torture, both his own and that of his partner. He hadn't planned on them going for the kill from the get-go. He couldn't let that happen.

Not to Peter.

Peter met Neal's gaze and there was so much in that look—I'm sorry, tell El I'm sorry and I love her, I don't blame you, I love you even if you're a pain in the ass…

Neal couldn't take it. Not Peter.

"Dammit Shaw! Stop!"

Shaw smirked and nodded to the other agent, who clicked his safety back on and holstered the gun. Peter sighed in relief before looking back at Neal. But Neal couldn't meet the agent's gaze as he felt
Caffrey's skin slough off and instead turned to the formerly heroic agent standing in front of him.

"Now that's more like it," Shaw said, crossing his arms. He studied his captive a moment. "It's good to see the real you again, Bryce. It's been far too long."

Bryce slumped in his bonds and sighed. "Not long enough, apparently. What do you want?"

"Neal, what's going on?" Peter demanded, looking between Shaw and Bryce.

"Do you want to tell him, Agent Larkin, or should I?" Shaw asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Agent Larkin?" Peter echoed, looking around the room. "Who are you talking about?"

"Me, Peter. He's talking about me," Bryce said finally. He turned back to Shaw before he could see Peter's reaction to that. "You bastard. What could The Ring have possibly offered you, of all people, to turn against your country?" he hissed.

"Revenge," Shaw replied. His eyes had darkened.

Bryce's eyes widened. That could only mean one thing. "They found the person that killed your wife."

"You always were a quick one."

"But you had to betray the CIA to find out?"

"CIA?" Peter demanded in the background, but Bryce and Shaw ignored him. If they got out of this alive, Bryce—Neal—would make it up to him. Somehow.

Shaw shook his head. "To find out? No. To get my revenge? Yes."

Bryce frowned. "I don't understand."

"The person that killed my wife is CIA. She was the target of an agent's Red Test." His smile was grim. "Your old partner's, in fact."

Bryce stiffened. "Sarah?" he breathed. Even just thinking about her made his heart ache. He'd loved her the way only spies could love one another. But she'd made her choice and he could do nothing but respect it. She'd chosen a pretty great guy, after all. But that didn't make it hurt any less. "Sarah killed your wife?" And then realization slammed into him. "You're going to kill her."

Shaw nodded. "You got it. But first I'm going to make her suffer."

Bryce clenched his jaw as images of Sarah flashed across his mind's eye. Leaving her for what he thought was a legit assignment with Fulcrum had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done. And, in hindsight, was what had lost her to him forever, since it had brought her to Burbank. And to Chuck.

But he'd seen her with his ex-best friend. She was shining in a way he'd never seen before. And he couldn't selfishly begrudge her that. He'd tried and she'd chosen.

"Is that why you're here?" Bryce shook his head. "As far as Sarah's concerned, I'm dead." As far as everyone's concerned.

"Oh, I know. She told me after one of our first missions together that she'd gone off grid for a week to spread your ashes in Lisbon." Shaw rolled his eyes. "But since your first mission together was actually in Morocco, I knew something was up."

"So then why are you here?" Bryce demanded, trying not to think about what it meant that Sarah had lied about what she must have thought were his remains.

"The Sarah bit? That was to make you suffer, Agent Larkin. For the trouble that you caused Fulcrum and, as a result, The Ring." Shaw narrowed his eyes. "This visit is really about Vincent Adler."

"Adler?" Peter demanded, perking up at a strain of the conversation he could follow. "What?"

"Gag him. The grownups are talking," Shaw called to one of his agents. The man put the gag back in Peter's mouth, and the elder agent seethed silently.

"It has come to the attention of The Ring that you and your pet FBI handler have been poking around Adler's work," Shaw continued. "We can't have anyone interfering."

The pieces came together at that. "Adler's working for The Ring?" Bryce shook his head. "I should have known. If he finds the treasure, he can bankroll the entire coup d'état." He huffed a laugh. "Let me guess; the new regime gives him immunity for his past crimes and protects him in all his future scams."

"Something like that."

"I'll to hand it to you, Shaw, it's brilliant." Bryce looked around at the various agents around the room. "So, is this the part where you kill us?" He grinned wolfishly, trying to sound braver than he actually felt. He'd always been a good actor. "Because, I have to warn you, death doesn't seem to stick with me." No one needed to know that the he still had nightmares about being shot and bleeding out until the world vanished in a haze of pain and darkness.

Shaw crossed his arms. "No one needs to get hurt here, Larkin. You and Burke back off, let Adler get the treasure and pass it on to the Elders, and you never have to see me or the CIA or the NSA ever again. You can continue on with this façade and no one needs to know you're alive. You can continue on as Neal Caffrey, ex-con and CI for the FBI."

There was something to that, Bryce had to admit. He'd made a lot of enemies over his years with the CIA, and none of them would hesitate to come to New York to put another bullet through him. And he had something very precious to lose here—a life that he'd come to love in a way he'd never expected to. He'd been running from one mission to the next, from one enemy or another, since he'd been recruited by the CIA at Stanford. He'd loved the adventure, thrived on the adrenaline, and basked in the intoxicating sights—and people, like Sarah.

But as Neal Caffrey, then and now, he'd made connections that he'd come to consider more precious than the perks of the spy life.

"You, of all people, should understand why I can't do that, Shaw," he said.

Shaw frowned before understanding crossed his face. "This is about Kate Moreau, isn't it?"

Bryce insides clenched. "Don't you dare say her name. Adler killed her. He might not have pushed the button that blew up that plane, but he killed her."

Shaw shook his head. "You and Walker, getting so connected to your assets…"

"Shut up," Bryce growled.

Kate might have started out as an asset to get in close to Adler, as per his assignment, but she'd become more than that. She'd been innocent in the way Sarah wasn't, but no less intelligent. She'd fallen into the conning lifestyle quickly, and Bryce had loved her little wild streak, too. He'd regretted having to leave her when he'd been extracted from the mission under the guise of going to prison. Burke had legitimately arrested him, but the CIA had gotten him out immediately after. He'd gone to his trial as a means of keeping the alias alive in case it was needed again, and the jury had been rigged to convict him for an appropriate amount of time.

Shaw snorted. "Let's put it this way, I can't kill you here. You die and the others that you've involved in the treasure hunt will realize something's wrong and that it's related to the U-Boat. We can't kill all of them, either, or it will bring too much attention."

"So it seems to me, you have no leverage," Bryce retorted. "Bad move, Shaw. I would have expected better of you."

But Shaw just smiled. "How do you think I found you, Bryce?"

Bryce fell silent at that.

"The Ring has access to all of Fulcrum's old materials. We know very well that infiltrating Vincent Adler's organization was your first undercover mission for the CIA. That's also how we knew it must be you poking around his business now. You didn't even bother changing aliases this time." Shaw's smile widened, but it didn't touch his eyes. "Bad move, Larkin. I would have expected better of you.

"So what happens if Washington is made aware that you're alive and in deep cover in New York? What happens if certain people in Burbank find out?" he added.

"Shaw—"

"So if the leverage of your own life isn't enough, consider that none of your enemies will hesitate to hurt Neal Caffrey's friends to get to you."

Bryce swallowed and hazarded a glance at Peter. The agent looked lost, though Bryce could just about hear the gears of thought turning as he digested what he was hearing. Not all of it would stick, but he already knew more than enough to get the gist.

Shaw leaned forward into Bryce's personal space. "I'm also the team leader working out of Castle, Bryce."

"You've already threatened Sarah," Bryce whispered, unable to get much more volume past the lump in his throat.

"But not Chuck. I know there's no love lost for Casey, but Chuck? I know how much you sacrificed for your best friend. No matter how little he appreciated what you'd done." The look on Shaw's face was nothing short of frigid. "Wouldn't want unfriendly eyes realizing what he's got in that big brain of his."

Bryce's eyes widened. It felt like, with those few words, Shaw had managed to hollow him out totally. "No."

In his last moments before his latest death, he'd told Chuck to destroy the Intersect 2.0 to keep Fulcrum from getting it. He'd never imagined that Chuck might actually download the new one, especially after getting the last one removed, thanks to Orion. He'd never wanted that life for his friend. He'd intended to do it himself before he'd been betrayed; everyone had already thought he was the Intersect, after all. He'd been trying to protect Chuck from all of this.

Shaw was right; he had the leverage. He'd won.

Shaw opened his mouth again, but the door to the basement slammed open, rattling the building's very foundation.

"FBI, freeze!" a familiar voice yelled.

Shaw cursed and reached for his gun.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Diana said, her gun trained on him.

Shaw bit down on another curse and looked around the room to see Jones and the other agents with their weapons trained on the other Ring agents, preventing them from drawing their own pieces. The FBI descended the steps two at a time and surrounded the rogue agents.

"Peter, Neal, you guys all right?" Jones called.

"We are now," Bryce called back. Jones snorted and made his way to Peter's side to remove the gag.

"Thanks, Jones," he said as the agent pulled set to work on Peter's bonds.

Shaw stepped back even with Bryce and raised his hands in surrender as Diana closed in. "You even think about telling her or anyone in the FBI about The Ring, and Chuck is the first one to go. Peter the second," he hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

"Fine," Bryce gritted out in return before pulling the guise of Neal Caffrey back on like a second skin. "Took you long enough, Diana."

She rolled her eyes. "Your friends here were smart enough to cut your anklet but not to shut your phone off. When Peter wasn't answering any calls, we knew you weren't running and checked the GPS on your phone."

Neal raised an eyebrow. "You tracked us by my phone? Maybe Mozzie was onto something, Big Sister." He pouted. "Though I'm wounded that you think I'd run at this point."

"Caffrey—" Diana started.

"I think we've got some kind of misunderstanding here," Shaw cut in. "I'm Agent Daniel Shaw. CIA. My badge is in my pocket."

Peter opened his mouth but Neal caught his eye and shook his head. Peter frowned but shut his mouth again. You owe me one hell of an explanation, the look said.

I know.

The rest of the day was a haze of being cut loose, taken first to the hospital to check for any injuries, and then back to the FBI for debriefing. The agents had sent Neal home before he could talk to Peter, but he knew his friend was going to demand answers.

It was close to midnight when the knock Neal had been waiting for came at his door. Neal put down the glass of wine he'd been nursing for the last hour and opened the door. Peter stood on the other side, looking haggard and holding a six pack of beer.

"I didn't tell them anything incriminating, but you're going to give me some answers," Peter said, stepping inside. "Why was I lying to my boss about being kidnapped?"

Neal nodded, shutting the door behind him. "I know. I'll answer all your questions." He flashed Peter a wicked grin. "Or at least the ones you have clearance to hear about."

Peter raised an eyebrow at him as he took a seat at the table and cracked open a beer. "Cute. So talk."

Neal sank into the seat next to Peter. "This is a bit of déjà vu, isn't it?" They'd had a similar discussion about their pasts with Adler not long before.

"You told me then there were no lies in your story, Neal. Or should I say Bryce?"

Neal shook his head and took a sip of water. "I didn't lie to you, Peter. I did everything I told you about. I… just didn't tell you why."

"So tell me why."

"I'm not sure where to start."

Peter took a long gulp of beer before shrugging. "Start at the beginning."

Neal couldn't help but smile at that. Leave it to Peter to make things simple. "Fine. Neal Caffrey, as you have heard, is an alias. I was born Bryce Larkin—of the Connecticut Larkins."

Peter huffed a tired laugh at that but nodded for him to continue.

Neal braced himself and settled in for a long story, much of which Peter was probably not going to believe. But no lies.

"When I was at college at Stanford, I was recruited into the CIA…"

- fin -