NOTE: Sorry about the wait, I shall endeavor to update more quickly in future!


Chapter Four

"So...where were you last night?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Neal chuckled.

"Probably not." Peter sighed. "I was just too afraid to ask you what you were doing."

"Nothing I can't rationalize."

"You know it makes me nervous when you talk like that, right?"

"I choose my every word with you very carefully for that exact effect."

"Sit." Peter ordered as he rolled his eyes.

Neal smiled brightly and plunked down in one of the chairs in front of Peter's desk. Looking through a few files on his desk Peter put his signature on the ones that still required it. When Neal had first started working with White Collar he had thought that Peter making him sit and wait while he signed papers in the morning was some sort of power play. However it hadn't take Neal long to realize that tying up loose ends was just part of Peter's morning routine. He like to make sure everything was as organized as possible before the chaos of the day began.

Eventually Peter signed the last page in the stack and after placing them in the 'out' box bin he put the cap back on his pen. This was usually the point when Peter put the pen back in the drawer and they would start talking about their next case, but today he kept the pen in his hands and fidgeted with it. Neal watched Peter play with the pen for a full minute before he reached over the desk and took the pen away.

"What's wrong, Peter?"

"That obvious?"

"Painfully so." Neal confirmed. "What's wrong?"

"I want to talk to you about Rachel."

"We've already talk about it." Neal replied coldly.

"Yes, but I don't think you've ever truly listened to what I have to say."

"I've listened, I've even heard. I just happen to disagree with you."

"I did what I had to." Peter said firmly.

"No." Neal shook his head. "I had everything under control, I was seconds away from talking her into turning herself in."

"You were seconds away from a bullet tearing through your heart."

"She shot me out of a spasmodic reaction to the shot gun blast to the chest she received from you. I know she had me at gun point, but I was perfectly safe until you arrived."

"She was MI5 trained, she was trained like I was: to keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to kill. The second you turned to look at me she slipped her finger down on that trigger."

"Peter..."

"Neal, she was going to kill you, expecting to be next herself. She wasn't about to leave without you."

"Why are we rehashing this?" Neal demanded getting angry. "Who are you even trying to convince? Me or yourself?"

Neal regretted his words even before he had finished them. Peter instantly dropped eye contact, telling Neal that he had hit a nerve.

"Peter, I'm sorry." Neal apologized sincerely. "I know you did what you felt was right at the time. You were just trying to protect me, and I am grateful for that. But no matter what you say I will never believe that I needed protecting from her."

"I know she loved you." Peter admitted.

"She did, but I never loved her, not really." Neal furrowed his brow as a new thought crossed his mind. "That's what you're really worried about, isn't it? I'm off anklet now and you're worried that I'm not in a good place mentally and therefore more prone to doing something stupid."

"Something like that."

"Don't worry about me, Peter. I didn't love Rachel, I admit that I was falling for 'Rebecca', but she didn't exist." Neal opened and closed his hand a few time as the numbness suddenly returned. "She was just a con."

"Neal, I jus..."

"Did it ever occur to you that I may have learned a lesson in that particular cruel twist of irony? That perhaps being conned was for the best? Because trust me when I say that a taste of my own medicine has temper my desire for dishing it out."

"I'm sorry, Neal, you didn't deserve to be hurt like that."

"That's debatable."

Peter fell silent, unsure of how to respond. The phone on Peter's desk rang but he ignored it to show Neal that their conversation was more important even if he didn't know how to best continue it. Neal smiled gratefully at the gesture but ended the conversation himself by reaching over and picking up the phone, handing the receiver to Peter. Peter hesitated but then accepted that there really wasn't anything more to say anyway at this point.

"Burke." Peter answered the phone.

Realizing that he had been leaning forward during their talk Neal relaxed and leaned back. He shoved his hand into his jacket pocket hoping that it would help the pins and needles sensation go away. He had felt just fine when he'd walked into Peter's office, but now his shoulder was starting to ache once more. He thought about the percocet that he'd bought from Camilla the night before, six of which were resting in his breast pocket at the moment. Neal was thinking about excusing himself to head to the restroom to take a few in privacy when Peter hung up the phone with an irritated grumble.

"Peter?"

"That was the art museum. They are still worried about that damn egg, it arrives today."

"They took our recommendations on security didn't they?"

"They only had time to implement a few of them."

"What more do they expect us to do about it?"

"That's basically what I told them."

"And?"

"And apparently they feel that their tax dollars are not being well spent on my salary."

Neal chuckled, earning him a glare from Peter. "I don't understand why they are so concerned, I mean I know it's a valuable object, probably six million fenced. However they have other works there on display right now worth a lot more."

"Two Faberge eggs have been stolen in the last three months. This egg is on loan from Russia so beyond the money it would be a PR nightmare if this one ends up missing."

"Wait, two have been stolen? Why aren't we on that case?"

"They were stolen out of European collections, so they are Interpol's problem."

"If the first two thefts were connected this egg would probably be safer in America. Getting in and out of the US isn't as easy as it used to be."

"It doesn't matter, we have bigger fish to fry."

"New case?"

"One I'm not one hundred percent happy to bring you in on, but one that undoubtedly requires your skills."

"I like what I'm hearing so far." Neal smiled. "What have you got?"

"Are you familiar with Wassily Kandinsky?"

"I'm insulted that you feel you need to ask. Russian born artist, 1866-1942, who is widely credited with creating one of the first purely abstract works. He had a profound influence on modern art. His work has an amazing amount of flow and creativity that invites the viewer to draw their own conclusions. It was also believed that he had synaesthesia."

"Syne-what now?"

"Synaesthesia, it is a phenomenon where stimulation to one sense causes an involuntary experience to a second sense. People with synaesthesia often describe it as an ability to hear color and see music, these people often become musician or artists of extraordinary talent. Kandinsky reported experience color through not just sight, but hearing, touch, and even smell."

"Smell?"

"The scent of a rose often reminds people of the color red, but for Kandinsky the scent of a rose could trigger a whole masterpiece of color in his mind."

"I guess I tend to just think in black and white."

"Now there is the understatement of the century." Neal mocked.

"Watch it, one word from me and you're back in that anklet."

"No need for threats." Neal held his hands up peacefully. "Why are you interested in Kandinsky?"

"One of his stolen works has just surfaced."

"Really?" Neal asked excited. "Which one?"

"'Blue Crest'."

"One of my favorites." Neal said as his excitement grew. "Is it here?"

"It is." Peter confirmed. "In evidence."

"Do you need it authenticated?"

"Yes, and if it is real..." Peter stopped and heaved a sigh. "I can't believe I'm going to say this..."

"You need a forgery of it don't you? To use in another sting. Whoever you caught with it already had a buyer lined up, a buyer he's willing to give up for some leniency. You want the buyer too, but you can't use the real Kandinsky in case something goes wrong and it gets damaged. I bet the buyer someone you've been waiting years to catch with his hand in the cookie jar, and this is the closest you've ever come. Am I right?"

"You know you are."

"I'm on it."

"I knew you would be."