Title: The Rules 3/3 (Conclusion and epilogue)
Author: Ima Pseudonym
Rating: PG13 for naughty thoughts, and underhanded scheming.
Summary: Keller meets Neal, who may or may not be an exception to the rules.
Warnings: For this chapter, Keller's a little pervy. And an original character is a little pervy, in retrospect form. I know it adheres to the cliché, but… C'mon. Caffrey's too pretty not to perve over. More on this, after the story.
I reiterate: Slashy themes will be dealt with. If that's not your cup of tea, I totally understand. Well, in a third-party observer kind of way… I can't really empathize, but I think I know where you're coming from.
Notes: I hope this doesn't seem too abrupt. Rest assured, this is precisely what I'd intended from inception to finish. Also, I apologize for how long it took to get this chapter up. Vacations, school, and work had me running ragged for a while. Enjoy!
-o-O-o-O-o-
And so everything worked out.
Matthew found the willpower to push aside his more wanton urges, for the sake of productivity. Neal did the same, a mask of 'nothing happened' attached crookedly, but firmly.
Only, every once in a while, it slipped long enough for Matthew to catch the tail end of a considering glance in his direction.
'Business' did, in fact, go smoothly. Or, rather, as smoothly as their line of business ever went. Matthew's mark, the elderly Welsh woman, paid him the sum of their ten thousand dollar wager with nary a flicker of unease. It might have been that her wealth exceeded concerns for that sort of monetary loss (which he knew was possible)… But the wry grin lurking at the corners of her mouth said that she'd received satisfactory services for the money. As far as 'prostitution' went, he felt he'd got off rather easy. All he'd done was give an old lady a little attention, in the form of a sympathetic ear.
Neal's side deal was the inevitable hiccup from any multi-point scam. Lawrence Faulkner was not a gracious loser, and he'd dragged his heels in paying Neal the sum of their bet. That had less to do with Neal correctly choosing the person who'd won the tournament, and more to do with the stakes of their wager. If Neal's champion won, Lawrence would pay him ten grand, less than a drop in the cup of the man's fortune. Neal had been upfront about his lack of money, but had sealed the deal, and sweetened the pot, in one, by offering one off-the-record, no holds barred… 'boys' night'. And he'd pay up if 'any' person other than the one he was backing should win the tournament.
Needless to say, no one was happier than Neal when Matthew won the fifteen grand prize; out-rolling, checkering, and strategizing the competition. For days, Lawrence had been referring to his expected win as 'A night without safe words', and for years to come, the implications would send shivers up Neal's spine.
The Detroit-bred billionaire had been suspicious, and surly following the competition. And then he'd smiled, and wheedled, offering twice the wager to 'win', anyway. And while twenty thousand dollars was nothing a criminal scoffed at, Neal had seen enough questionable 'toys' in Lawrence's room, that he was willing to lose ten thousand and not risk one night of unspeakable sacrifices.
So he'd continued flirting, always a breath away from saying what the mark wanted to hear. He misled, and feinted until Lawrence reluctantly offered up the initial bet, and then he fled the indulgent city with Matthew; first class.
Altogether, the job had been successful.
The tournament was won, and that purse split between them. Their individual marks had paid up to the private wagers, although in Neal's case, that had likely burned a bridge for future relations with Lawrence Falkner. And then, high on the con and their newfound semi-wealth, they had gone north.
Together.
They found themselves in Paris, sharing espressos on the balcony of Neal's suite which, for an unmentionable price, afforded a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower.
Neal explained how a critic had said the top afforded the best view of Paris, because it was the only place in Paris where you couldn't see the tower.
Matthew nodded, and sipped, remarking that time and history disagreed and that critics were often overly critical.
In short, it was awkward. With the con behind them, it was harder to ignore what had happened that night in Matthew's room.
He was finding that he still wanted what might have been his, and Neal was the human incarnation of indecisiveness.
Matthew thought he might be leaning towards a hesitant 'yes'. And then the only remaining issue would be how fast Matthew could undress the younger man, and whether he should drag him to the bed, or bend him over the balcony railing and let all of the City of Lights see what they didn't have.
He could bide his time, a little longer. He may not have had Neal's instant charm, but he did possess an irresistible persistence.
Like making a diamond. Time and pressure.
Neal would be his jewel, and he no longer cared what the younger man called himself. It was Matthew's name he'd be shouting, after all.
"I'm going back to New York, tomorrow." Neal said into the silence, and Matthew choked on his ridiculously small cup of caffeine.
Shit...
Matthew dredged up a smile, hoping it didn't look as forced as it was.
"And here I thought you 'loved' Paris?" I thought I had time!
"I do, but- only really when living expensively. And every good con knows that no take is inexhaustible. I should be saving some of my winnings. Thinking on how to put back more."
Matthew bit back the instantaneous offer for Neal to stay in his own suite. It was logical, after all, to move on... But he would probably have let all his illicit gains drain away for the ability to stay here with Neal. Just for a while. This was supposed to be another part of the payout: The pleasure that had been put on the backburner.
"There's always the next scheme to plan." Matthew agreed, easily, but his mind was throwing together a scheme for 'now'.
"Right..." Neal said, frowning, trying to decipher Matthew's agenda before it was even finalized.
"But, I might be able to save you the trouble. If the Big Apple could wait, of course?"
Think! Matthew ordered his mind. He could see that the younger man was skeptical, but he wasn't entirely disinterested. He searched back through his memories to every potential take he'd ever passed up. The trouble was he hadn't passed many up, unless the job was too difficult. Or required…
"Ever been to Spain?" Keller threw out. It was a possibility. It hadn't been an option when he worked solo, but then he'd never willingly had an accomplice.
"Once or twice." Neal's eyes went distant, maybe seeing blue waters. Maybe remembering a dark-haired girl who was too stupid to know what she had. Matthew frowned, unseen. "What's in Spain?"
"About fifty thousand." Matthew was upfront. That was the real question, anyway. And it served to bring Neal's thoughts back, firmly, to him.
Matthew set his espresso down, to mask the subtle tremor in his fingers, as Neal considered.
He'll see me, the next time he remembers blue waters, and sunny climes.
"I haven't bought a ticket to New York, yet, or anything..." Neal said, at last. His grin answered Matthew's sudden smile.
Gotcha.
Neal went into a diatribe about his commercial experiences in Madrid or Gibraltar: Where he found the best wine, where to eat, or purchase fake IDs.
Matthew half-listened, adjusting his seduction plans. But soon, images of Neal spread lavishly across his bed, all pale sharp lines, and lidded eyes, gave way to the structural considerations of breaking into a very well-secured Spanish museum. He began considering all angles of the job, and possible methods for success, and came up short just as Neal was remembering to ask what their con was, and how they'd pull it off.
"We're going to need a third man." Matthew admitted when he could think of no alternative.
That would require a bit more planning; particularly in the romantic aspects of his scheming.
Subtly, as he latched onto the idea of fifty thousand dollars, he began pushing his more pleasant thoughts away: Setting them aside, really… For a time when they would be more acceptable.
Pleasure didn't mix with business. Rule number one.
"It's not like this will be my first three man job..." Neal jabbered on, but Matthew wasn't paying attention. Didn't think to smirk for the sake of watching Neal blush.
His mind was back on business.
-o-O-o- END -o-O-o-
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A/N: So, I'll ask again. Who wanted 'business' to take a backseat to 'pleasure' and who was happy that things turned out like they did?
Personally, I think Keller was an idiot… in my story… (Which, ironically enough, was not my intention.)
I think his own set of rules have kept him from enjoying many things, but on the flip side… Neal got caught because of Kate, and Keller managed to stay in the clear for a long while… Actually, Keller was finally caught because of Neal. You may argue that Neal was involved but not the real reason Keller goes to prison… But I'll only stick my fingers in my ear, and hum the soldier's kazoo tune from Robin Hood: Men in Tights, until you stop talking.
Keller's like the school yard bully who never grew out of pulling pigtails. I have to admit, despite all his many transgressions, I'm so stoked that the show keeps bringing him back. There has GOT to be some untold history between him and Neal. And I sincerely doubt it involves the harpy formally known as Kate.
I hope you enjoyed this fic. (And I'd love to know if I achieved the impossible of changing someone's mind about Keller!)
One more thing: I apologize if any 'slash' elements of my story were off-putting to ya'll. I think I keep writing it because (in this instance) the lack of male flirtation on the show is not only a fine example of network television's habits of censorship, prudishness, and ass-hattery, but it's just damned implausible. White Collar takes place in New York-bloody-City! Hell, there're probably a massive number of completely straight men who would be hitting on Neal. So- um… Yeah. Take 'that', mainstream media providers! *cough* I'll shut up now.
Please, please, please comment. It makes me smile. :)