Conflicted Interest, Part 1

Neal ran. At least—he seemed to. His chest heaved as his legs gobbled up the pavement or floor…or…where was he? He pulled up short as something acrid assaulted his nose, face screwing up against the sharp pain of it, like an ice-cream headache, only…only… He blinked, the light flooding his eyes, and recoiled. There was someone directly in his line of sight, too close, a cloying, sweet smell above the other. He pushed upright, or tried to, trying to get his bearing.

"No. I…have to be getting back."

He felt shaky and off-balance, his usual confident gait disjointed and ungraceful. He pressed the elevator button but the thought of stepping into that small, smothering box made him recoil. He saw the door marked "stairs" and took it. The walk might do him good.

He stumbled once on the stairs, but the adrenaline that shot through him with the fear of falling seemed to help, clearing some of the cobwebs away. He quickened his pace on the stairs, feeling better for physical exertion, and burst into the lobby without remembering much about the trip down. He crossed to the glass doors quickly, feeling as though someone were watching him. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, but he fought the urge to smooth it.

The glass was cool beneath his fingertips as he pushed the door open, and the air that rushed to swirl around him was bracing. He had not worn a coat—had he?—and the air was pleasantly brisk but not too cold. He stopped, taking in big droughts of air, feeling his lungs expand to capacity—and some of the trapped, claustrophobic feeling seemed to leave him. He started walking, heading…where was he going? To Peter, of course. To wherever Peter was, because…because Peter meant safe harbor, meant a place where he could rest. Peter would know what to do. He always knew what to do. All he had to do was tell Peter, tell Peter everything and it would be all…everything? Did he have to tell everything?

Memory, or fragments of it, washed over him, and his heart rate picked up again. He stopped, squeezing his eyes shut, but whether to keep thought out or in he wasn't sure.

He…he had been talking to the doctor, playing word games, sparring. He had enjoyed it—part of it anyway—had liked the clash of wills, the clang of one sharp intellect butting up against another, but it had not—he had not like all of it. With Peter, it was always fun. Yes, always. Yes, fun—even when the stakes were high, the risks stupendous. When Peter had been chasing him, closing in on him as he sprinted across Europe, leaving a trail of art crumbs, heists and forgeries in his wake—that had been wonderful, exhilarating…fleeting. But it was nothing like the thrill of working in close proximity to Peter—with him, against him—it didn't matter. Peter always knew what to do, always knew what he was doing. Except…except now…now Peter didn't know, couldn't guess. Is that what was wrong? Is that why he felt so lost?

Lost? He wasn't lost. He was going to Peter, to the office. He stopped and squinted at the building around him, then the street sign. He couldn't walk from here—he would never make it, and he needed to make it, needed to get to Peter. He hailed a cab on autopilot, tumbling into the back and giving the address in a rush of words. He must have sounded strange, sounded at odds with his appearance, for the cabbie raised his eyebrows at him in the mirror. Neal smiled reflexively, his con-man smile, facile and meaningless and….

He smiled too much. She had said so. She—Dr. Thomas—had said he smiled when he should be…what should he be doing? Finding Peter, his brain supplied. He should be finding Peter. He looked out the window, saw the building flashing by, felt the car lurch to the curb. He fumbled automatically for his wallet, pulled a bill out and shoved it over with a muttered "thanks." Manners always matter, his brain prompted. Who had said that, told him that? Ellen? His mother? He couldn't remember.

He managed the car door, stepped disjointedly onto the curb, then walked to the door, through it, and stopped—panicked—at the usual checkpoint. They waved him through and he sidled toward the elevators. Blake saw him, waved, then did what he must have assumed was a surreptitious double-take. Neal felt sweat break out over his back, felt hot and cold and shaky at the same time. He had only thought about getting to Peter, being seen by Peter. Somehow, he had not quite factored in being seen by others in this state. He tried to put on calm like a jacket.

"Hey," he said, and Blake looked back at him, wide-eyed and uncertain.

"Caffrey," Blake returned, although it came out more like a question. Neal kept smiling, not sure what else to do, but every impulse was telling him to run, to bolt, to—

The elevator door opened and Blake ushered him in, probably afraid to have him at his back in the state he was in. They rode up to the 11th floor without talking, Blake trying to look un-curious, him grinning like an idiot. A couple of folks from the accounting department got on, returning his smile, and it helped a little. He concentrated on breathing and not talking. He had no idea what might come out if he attempted small talk. At last, the elevator stopped and Blake reached out and put a hand over the door so the sensor would keep it open. Neal practically sprinted out onto the floor, pushing through the double doors and almost jogging up the steps to the conference room, to Peter.

He didn't remember what he said at first, something about Dr. Summers, about the session, about being drugged. Peter looked at him with alarm, with concern, and immediately Neal felt better, even if he felt very, very out of control. Jones was there, too, and he put a hand on his shoulder—a warm hand, a friendly hand—on his shoulder before disappearing to get something…something necessary. He was surprised when the agent returned with a medic, more surprised still when she started rolling up his sleeve. What had happened to his jacket? Then she was looking into his eyes with a light, feeling behind his ears with soft, cool hands.

"Your hands are cold," said Neal automatically, and she had smiled at him.

"Sorry," she said. "I should have warmed them, I suppose."

"No," Neal said solemnly, looking into her brown eyes. "They're nice. Nice and soft."

Behind him, Peter cleared his throat and Neal saw the medic smile and bite her lip, but when he swung the chair around—overshooting on the swing—he saw only Peter, Peter who was looking at him with exasperation.

Immediately, Neal felt ashamed, a hot blush creeping up his cheeks. He must have done something wrong. Another wave of memories rushed over him—Hagan's sneering face, Siegel's lifeless body, Peter's face as he'd told him about the fate of his handler. He had done something wrong—something terrible, and when Peter found out he wouldn't, he—it wouldn't be all right, wouldn't be—

"Neal. Neal? Hey…." Peter loomed over him and Neal flinched, and though Neal didn't see it, that flinch sent a sharp stab of misery and uncertainty through his former partner. In the very act of bending over him, Peter sat down instead, keeping a distance between them that felt stiff and awkward and unhappy.

"I…I feel kind of sick," Neal said, wondering if it was really true, or if it just seemed like the right thing to say to cover the creeping mortification he was experiencing. He tried to take in air, feeling smothery. "I think I might—"

Peter bridged the gap despite his reservations, one warm hand on the back of Neal's neck. Neal felt that hand in his hair, gentle but demanding, pushing his head down between his knees and the room stopped spinning almost immediately. "Stay that way a second," Peter murmured, and Neal nodded, or tried to, but Peter's grip was firm, insistent, holding him against any sudden movement, against any sudden confessions….

Confessions…?

"Peter!" Neal exclaimed, trying to sit up. "Peter, I think I might have told Dr. Summers—"

"Shhh. I know. You already told us," Peter soothed.

"I—I did?" Neal asked. He didn't remember, didn't remember any of it, but Peter was still here, still listening, so it was okay, it was all right…. No. Neal inhaled sharply as a wave of clarity broke over his bewilderment. No. It wasn't okay. Siegel was dead, and he was—

Peter was speaking again. "Just sit tight for a little while, okay Neal?" he said. "I promise—we're going to get to the bottom of this."

It was official. Neal really did feel sick.

He stuck out the rest of the day, but as the clock rolled on toward quitting time, Neal felt himself fading. After sitting with his head down for a bit—and he did not throw up, a small triumph—he had returned to his work, the work on their case. Around him, the office hummed, but in a subdued way that was actually a relief. People were polite, but not solicitous. He did not know what they thought about his two-week hiatus from work—what they had been told—but he was too spent to do even a little intel. It was enough to be upright at his desk, feeling shaky/weak but covering well enough for show. Things perked up when Griffith came in to talk with them again, and he actually felt better as they walked up the steps together. Movement helped, and he felt more clearheaded in the conference room than he had at his desk.

Still, talking with Peter after Griffith went home seemed to leach all that he had left and he was just happily noting there was less than an hour to go when Clinton poked his head into the conference room and offered to drive him home. It was a testament to how terrible he felt that he didn't even try to argue. Peter had started to walk down with them, which made Neal feel better and worse at the same time, but the phone had rung, and Peter had held up a finger, then a hand, then sighed and waved them on without him. Neal allowed himself to be installed in the elevator and leaned weakly on the wall for support.

"Hell of a thing, Caffrey. Glad you're okay," said Clinton.

Neal started to nod, but became afraid his head might fall off from the motion and grimaced instead.

"Hell of a thing," he echoed weakly.

He had trouble getting in the car to the point where Clinton wondered how the deuce he'd managed to get into a cab to come there earlier. He wondered idly why—disoriented and upset—Caffrey hadn't tried to run, but then, maybe Caffrey was done running from trouble. Could it be? It didn't sound right. Clinton couldn't say why, but—despite the fact that Neal had been stuck like glue to the FBI since Peter had been incarcerated, minus the two-plus weeks of house internment—he couldn't shake the feeling that Caffrey seemed eternally poised for flight, seemed always aware of where the exits were.

He closed the door on Neal and went around to the driver's side, and neither of them had any stomach for small talk on the way.

June was all solicitousness. It took Neal a couple of days to realize Peter must have called her, must have warned her, so when he arrived, walked in by a stubborn Jones who was too big to fight with and too patient to argue with, she was there to meet him. There were plenty of employees she could have called, but she met him herself, and he did not even protest when she put an arm around his waist and started him up the stairs.

"Do you—can I help you with, um…" Clinton trailed off uncomfortably. June was smiling at him, but it was more polite than friendly, and he had seen her look of disapproval when she'd opened the door and seen him standing there with Neal.

"Thank you, Agent—Jones, isn't it?" she said.

"Yes, ma'am," said Clinton differentially. "Clinton Jones. We met at the speakeasy."

"That's right—we did," June said. "I thought you looked familiar." Her words were polite but her manner was cool. She started to turn away.

"Yes ma'am. Are you..are you sure I can't help? I'm happy to be of service."

June had smiled at him a little more genuinely, and the look she shot him was discerning. "I'm sure you are," she said, "but I've got him now." She turned and helped Neal up to his room.

He would have sworn he wasn't hungry, but the soup smelled good, and June took the steaming tray from the maid who brought it and carried it over to the couch. He had refused to lay on the bed—he was beyond embarrassed by June seeing him in this state, the worry plainspoken on her face. He drank the soup because it smelled good and because she wanted him to, and drank the water too—hot, not cold—and it was almost like waking up in a warm shower. His mind cleared, his body relaxed. She smiled her satisfaction, then made him a cup of strong black tea and brought it to him before settling beside him on the couch.

"Better?" she asked.

"Much. Thank you, June." Neal could be convincing even when he was lying, but it was obvious to June—who could tell, either way—that his gratitude was heartfelt. She reached out and brushed the curls back from the side of his face, gently—the way your mother might—and smiled.

"You went to see a psychiatrist?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.

Neal started to nod, then thought better of it and said, "Yes."

"I'm glad," she said. "I've been worried these past two weeks that you—"

Neal reached out and covered her hand with his own. "Not like that," he said gently. "A case. I was undercover."

"Oh," she said, confusion clouding her features, then, "Oh. Then they didn't—"

She stopped and pressed her lips together firmly, then smiled at him, but Neal knew a con-man smile when he saw one. "What?" he demanded. "They didn't what?"

June said nothing, although it was plain she wanted to, and though Neal added his puppy-dog eyes (which had no effect at all on June, as he'd suspected), she had merely chuckled and waved him away. But the chuckle was at odds with the fire that he had seen—however briefly—in her eyes.

"Why don't you tell me what did happen?" she said.

Before he could begin, Mozzie burst through the door. "Don't you answer your phone anymore?" he demanded.

"Don't you knock?" Neal countered, but June shushed them both and waved Mozzie over.

"Get over here, Mozzie," said June. "Neal's going to tell us what's going on."

"June's not happy," said Mozzie. It was a gross understatement. "June's livid!" would also have been an understatement, but when she had heard the worst, and petted him a little more, she left them to plot or plan or do what they would, muttering under her breath about "thick-headed FBI suits." Mozzie watched after her fondly, glad Neal was under her watchful eyes.

"I'm fine, Moz—the headache's gone." Neal didn't look at Mozzie, and Mozzie made a delicate snort but didn't call him on it.

"Well, here's the deal—I'm going to dig around a little and see if I can tell what she slipped you. Any chance of seeing the tox screen?"

Six months ago, Neal would have said yes, or at least considered it, but he shook his head almost immediately now. "No," he said, and Mozzie managed not to snort again. It was a sore point—for Neal, and between the two of them—how Neal had been increasingly cut out of Bureau life. Mozzie wondered if Neal ever regretted coming back from Cape Verde, but dared not broach the subject—that had been an eternity ago, a world of time ago.

"If I go, are you going to be all right?"

"What? I'm helpless?" Neal snapped. "I made it all the way back to the FBI office by myself, drugged and feeling like I'd just been hit on the back of the head with a two-by-four. I worked the rest of the day, feeling like…crap. I think I can locomote around my own apartment without hurting myself." Almost immediately, he regretted the outburst. There was no reason to be mad at Mozzie, no reason to drive off the friends he still had.

"I'm not worried you're going to hurt yourself," Mozzie said serenely. "I'm worried that, in your current state, you might have an unfortunate attack of honesty."

There was a real dig in there somewhere, and Neal smiled in spite of himself. "Ouch," he said. "I'll stay out of trouble, Moz. Okay?"

"Okay," said Mozzie. "I'll be back when I know something."

Mozzie's excitement about the whole thing was a little unnerving. Neal tried not to think too much about what he was planning to do—there was no point in getting cold feet, after all. Luckily for him, he had a lifetime of pushing unpleasant thoughts away, a lifetime of dealing in the moment because it might be the last free moment you had. He interrupted Mozzie only once, to have him retrieve three eggs, some mushrooms and a couple of hard cheeses from the fridge, because—in his unnerved state—he didn't think he could hold his gorge while there was a decayed skatefish staring up at him blearily from one of his own platters. He made a light, fluffy omelet which he ate with sourdough toast, made a cup of oolong tea and tried not to climb out of his skin with worry that he had told Summers enough to blackmail him for the rest of his life. The thought of three handlers was enough to make the drudgery and monotony of prison look pretty appealing, and only the memory of Mozzie's indignation kept him from reiterating his desire to return. What had Mozzie said when he'd suggested going back to prison? The Suit would never allow it.

Despite his best efforts, a small part of Neal's brain ran over to play with this piece of information—tossing it into the air, looking at it from various angles. That Mozzie would still say that—say that after Peter et al had robbed Mozzie of his fortune and his name and almost his freedom—was…odd. He remembered Peter's reaction when Siegel described Mozzie. In spite of himself, he felt an odd surge of relief that no one but Siegel had seen Mozzie's face, and the thought made him feel horrible and vulture-ish and soulless that he had found a reason—any reason at all—to be glad about Siegel's death. He remembered the look Peter had given him during that conversation, the old look, the look that said, "If you do what you are not supposed to do, I will nail you to the wall. I will put your butt back in a jail cell and you will not see Italian Roast for a long, long time." That look had sent shivers up Neal's spine—not that he was frightened, exactly—but that he had not been expecting it. Not really.

If Peter had become inured to him, he had certainly become accustomed to Peter, and not just to Peter himself, but to Peter's world. It was a world where people actually knew you, at least a little—knew you enough to know how you took your coffee or to ask your advice about ties or art exhibits. That had been weird at first, realizing that he had become an integral part of other people's lives. While he and Mozzie had friends in the business, there was always an element of danger when a friendship (of sorts) formed, broke up when the deal was concluded, and then reformed on another caper. You had to keep track of what you'd told people, what they'd told you, what you'd kept hidden. In truth, Neal guessed it wasn't that different from the life he'd been living at the White Collar division, but it felt different. And that differentness had made him careless, made him reckless.

He felt reckless now, the vial in his hand, and Mozzie's nonchalance, strangely enough, wasn't helping. Of course, if Mozzie had been worried, that wouldn't have reassured him, either. All of this second-guessing was making him irritable, and anything had to be better than this smothering uncertainty. He opened the vial, poured it into his water, and drank it down before he could change his mind.

It rolled over him like a wave, disorienting but familiar and he gripped the arms of the chair with the effort of not panicking. His fingers dug into his palms, the pain grounding him while he sank deeper, deeper, further…. Neal landed, or at least, plateaued, stuck on a level where he could tread water and not sink further. This was…this was bad, but not as bad as before. Some part of his brain recognized that he could still make comparisons, and that gave him a little comfort.

Mozzie was talking, the sound of his voice reassuring. Neal wondered how many times he had come to to the sound of Mozzie's voice, or Peter's, and thought in a fuzzy almost-panic if all of those times he'd been knocked out were finally catching up to him.

Mozzie was talking, and he fought to pay attention to what he was saying. "Did she ask you anything?"

He heard himself answer. "What does the FBI know?"

He supplied his own answer, grateful to realize he could string a question-and-answer sequence together. Moz was right—this stimulant was helping clarify things.

"What can the FBI prove?" His silence was answer enough.

Mozzie was nodding, the motion looking sort of bobble-headed to Neal, and he had to look away.

"Did you ask anything?"

"Yes," Neal managed. "Why did you take the money?"

He heard her voice in his head, and spoke along with it. "For the same reason you steal—because it was there."

"—because it was there." He had said it with her, there in the office, and it had been eerie, surreal almost, to see the same understanding on Dr. Summers' face. It was eerie, an intimate moment with someone who meant him harm, and he felt that icy touch of fear and loathing on his spine but didn't say it out loud.

Mozzie's face—if Neal could have noticed—registered satisfaction. The Doctor suit was corrupt, but so what? They were all corrupt, even…well. The sooner Neal recognized that, the sooner he admitted it, the better. If Mozzie could have seen his own face then, he might have been surprised to see disappointment written there. But Neal was talking, blurting things out without prompting.

"I'm not reformed," Neal burst out. "I mean, I like doing the things I do. I like working with Peter. I like working with the FBI."

"That's the drugs talking," Mozzie murmured, uncertain if Neal heard him.

"But I also like working against them. I like doing the things I shouldn't and I don't feel guilty, I don't feel remorse. I don't feel anything except—"

"Okay. Too much stimulant," Mozzie said. Later, he would think about this part of their conversation and wonder what Neal had been going to say if he hadn't interrupted.

"Yeah. Maybe you should take some of the stimulant, too. It might help you remember!" Neal exclaimed.

As long as they had worked together, Mozzie had been impressed with the workings of that beautiful mind underneath all that beautiful hair. Usually, he could keep up—but not today. "Remember what?" he asked, not sure where they were in the conversation.

"Remember who you are! What are you doing here, Moz? You should be out on the streets rebuilding yourself! You are smart, you are resourceful! You can do anything without a height requirement!" Neal's incredulity and scorn were plain, and Mozzie reeled from the unexpected attack.

"It isn't so easy," he half-whispered, stung by Neal's vehemence.

"Has Big Brother finally just cornered you into defeat?" Neal sneered.

"I'm going to get a pen and write some of this down for research," Mozzie managed. He stood up and walked to the hallway purposefully, then sagged against the wall, shaken by what Neal had said. He gave himself a moment, then dug a pencil out of his pocket. He took a deep breath, put on his con face—his bland face—and started back.

"Okay," he said, forestalling another piercing comment from his best friend. "We should take it from….

But the room was empty.

Damn. Damn and drat and a few other words. Mozzie ran out the door after his truant friend.