Chapter 10

"Mr. Caffery."

Neal stepped out of the shadows, sheet of painting rolled under his arm. Wary, he nodded acknowledgement to the dark figures standing opposite him.

"It's been a long time."

"You don't write, you don't call," said the man in a long coat. "I was beginning to think that saving the life of a world-renowned criminal meant nothing in our books."

"Oh, it meant something alright," said Neal breathily. "I never thanked you properly for your hospitality in Dublin."

"I'm glad you remember, Mr. Caffery."

"Though, I have to say," Neal continued as if he hadn't heard the other man, "I should thank you more for your hospitality in London."

The other man stilled.

"That's right," said Neal, his voice soft, mesmerising, yet intense. "I know it was you who tipped Scotland Yard, and drove me to the docks. Imagine my surprise when you turned up to rescue me, knight in shiny armour and all."

The other man let out a harsh laugh. "I underestimate you, Mr. Caffery."

"Take your painting," Neal said, extending out his hand, expressionless, his voice stone cold. "And send my regards to Moriarty."

The man in a long coat nodded for his underlings to take the painting, and turned away.

"Make the call."

Suddenly Neal found himself staring at five, six, seven gunpoints and, to the mobster's surprise, he smiled and relaxed.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"There's a man two alleys down from the museum... he seems to have tripped, and is unconscious."

"Can you see any injuries on the patient?"

Pause.

"He's bleeding from his legs. Someone took out his kneecap."

Click.

"I must say, if I didn't know better, Mr. Reese, I'd think your iconic approach is gaining international renown."

Finch ended the rerouted call and glanced at Reese, whose lips quirked into a tiny smile.

"I think I'll leave Mr. Caffery's rescue to his agent," said Reese lazily, cocking his gun. "There are of plenty kneecaps to go around."

"So I'm guessing we are not even yet," Neal quipped, pointedly not looking at the guns.

"Sorry, Caffery." The man tossed a roll of painting back at him, his tone anything but apologetic. "Here's how it's really gonna work: I leave the painting here with you, shoot your legs, and you better hope that American emergency service is as good and fast as they claim. They will come and find you with the painting, a botched heist, no doubt, and you will spend a long vacation in prison."

"Not a very elegant plan."

"Doesn't have to be." The man flashed him a toothy smile briefly, though the smile never reached his eyes. "Just long enough to let us out of the country."

One of the men pulled the safety back on his gun, and despite his best intentions, Neal tensed a little.

"Wait." The man held up a hand, as if he had forgotten something. "Where are my manners, eh? I nearly forgot about Agent Burke."

He pulled out his phone and punched a few buttons. Neal looked up as a loud noise, sounding uncannily like gunshots, went off in the direction of the museum.

"And you have just killed him when you tried to take the painting," said the man, sweetly. "Now where were we."

Watching the men as they lowered their gun to his knee, Neal suddenly jerked to the side.

"Now!"

Finch had to watch the surveillance tape at half-speed to make out what had happened after Neal's exclaim. First, Peter pounced from the corner, taking down the closest gunman to Neal with a single shot. Then Reese promptly took out the mob leader's kneecap, sending him to flail and fall back, knocking out one of his own. Jones and Diana fired two shots each, into the shoulder blades of the remaining gunmen, causing their weapons to drop as they howled in pain. To Finch's amusement, he saw Reese give an almost imperceptible nod of approval to the two agents - (though the agents were not aware) - before turning away to stamp a feet onto the mob leader, who was struggling to get up.

"Shouldn't be doing that any time soon," Reese purred. "Where is the painting?"

The man writhed in pain, but to his credit, still managed to grit out an answer. "Caffery has it."

"What, this thing?" Peter came over and flattened the painting in front of him. It was a drawing of a short, bald man with glasses, in a night janitor's outfit, sweeping the floor. "Hmm. Not exactly Francis Bacon."

"What? How? But -"

"Boss, we found it." Jones and Diana finished patting down the minions for weapons, and produced a carefully folded sheet. "I'd say we are looking at a very long vacation in prison indeed."

Barely keeping his head above water in the pain, the man threw Neal a cold, hateful look, before allowing himself to be cuffed.

"Moriarty will hear of this, you know."

"I have no doubt he will," said Neal darkly. Then, glancing at Peter, who was staring at him with an frown on his face, he said, in a lighter tone, "But that will be a story for another day."

"Anti-climatic. Does it seem anti-climatic to you?" Fusco asked as he watched the paramedics carry the body and the guy with no kneecaps off. "I think I heard more gunshots somewhere down there. I guess our friends didn't invite us for the after party."

Carter gave him a dirty look. "Escorting dead bodies and filing police reports not exciting enough for you, Fusco?"

Fusco sighed. "You are right. Far be it for me to expect our friends to actually include us on some real action."

"You can always go sit in that bar again."

"Oh, shut up."

Finch always thought they were a secret helper of sorts, not one to hang around a crime scene after the deed was taken care of. Looking away from the busy FBI agents making arrests, He shut his laptop with an audible clack, and glanced at Reese.

"Going home, Mr. Reese?"

Reese quirked the corners of his lips, without looking at him. "A fine idea, Finch."

Noticing their early departure, the FBI agent let go of what he was dealing with and jogged over. Catching up with Reese, Peter holstered his gun, and extended a hand. He was a lot less awkward and more confident this time.

"Thanks."

They shook hands. Reese seemed to be bemused, as it had been very long since he last shook hands with an FBI agent.

"Hey -" Peter started, trying to sound un-accusatory. "I don't suppose I'll be getting any answers, any time soon?"

"I'm afraid not, Agent Burke." Finch spoke up. "In any case, what we do is not usually White Collar's concern."

Peter looked as if he could not decide whether he should be relieved or worried. "Will I likely see either of you again?"

"I hope not," said Finch, earnest.

Peter watched them turn and walk toward the museum, where Reese's car was still parked.

"John!" He called out. Reese glanced back in surprise.

Peter waited, and made it unmistakably clear that he wanted Reese to come back so he could have a separate word. Perplexed, Reese took a step closer.

"Now I may know a fellow agent when I see one," said Peter, referring back to the first conversation he'd ever had with Reese, just a couple of nights ago. "But I also know a troubled agent when I see one."

Reese said nothing, his face unreadable. For a moment he thought he was going to get a speech from the agent who clearly held pride in his moral high road, and he almost had a witty remark at the ready, but no such speech was forthcoming. Peter simply searched his face for a long time, and, in an act of once-familiar now-forlorn affinity, patted his back.

"Try to stay alive. For his sake."

Leaving one last appreciative glance at the two men standing on the sidewalk, Peter turned and strode back to the crime scene, where his White Collar friends stood, waiting.

"What was that about?" asked Neal, when the backup task force joined them, and they finally got a moment to themselves.

"Nothing." Peter watched absently as Jones and Diana grabbed the last of the mobsters and shoved them into the car. "It's been a long day."

"Yeah, it is." Neal was eyeing him closely, with a curious expression on his face, that slowly turned smug. "Are you still naked underneath?"

"Oh god." Peter snapped back into attention, a slight panic on the edge of his voice. "I can't go back to the bureau like this. I'll never hear the end of it!"

"We could always make a shopping stop near one of the hotels. They are bound to be open, even at this time of the night." said Neal, hopeful. "That shirt was ready to retire, anyway."

"Ergh." Peter gave him an annoyed look. "If I didn't know better, I'd thought you did that on purpose."

"Do you?" said Neal, a laugh evident in his voice. "Know better?"

Peter peered at him. "Next time, just ask."

Away from the sirens and the police commotion, two men strode down the street in companionable silence. The taller man in a suit glanced at his partner.

"Don't ever do that again."

"Do what, Mr. Reese?"

"Pair me up with a stranger. I'm very particular about my partners, Finch."

A brief, bemused pause.

"I hope you understand why I did it, Mr. Reese."

"I'm sure I do. Don't do it again."

If Finch laughed inwardly, he didn't show. A few minutes of comfortable silence passed before Reese spoke up again.

"Is it true, Finch?"

"What is it this time, Mr. Reese?"

Reese spared him a glance. "That keeping me deliberately in danger took more courage than keeping me out of it."

Finch's gaze dropped to the ground.

"I'm not sure about courage, Mr. Reese. But it definitely takes more faith."

"Faith that I can take care of myself?"

"Faith that we can take care of ourselves," said Finch, oddly firm.

Something warm unfolded in his chest. Reese smiled. Finch regarded him curiously.

"- Which reminds me. About that contingency plan, Mr. Reese."

"Yes, Finch?"

"What exactly is it? To turn up on time, every time?"

"A good plan as any, Finch."

"And if you don't?" Finch looked up, eyes beseeching.

"Well." Reese's lips quirked to a smile again. They went around a corner, and the forsaken city library stood in front of them, silent, all-knowing, inviting. Reese turned and met the other man's gaze, his eyes intense, almost ablaze under the warm glow of the streetlight.

"Seeing how I don't have the ability to turn over the world byte by byte like you, Harold, I'll just have to slash and burn."

THE END

A/N:

Phew! That's it for the case. Let me know if you didn't understand anything - I wrote the second half of the story in one breathless go, and I really do hope there were no major plot holes. Please be so kind and overlook things like why the mobsters were quite stupid, cos, I needed them to, darn it. XD

To WC lovers: sorry I couldn't fit Elizabeth in there. Or our lovely Satchmo. Though the idea of Satchmo getting along with Bear is an interesting one...

I know this isn't very slashy, and could be considerd pre-slash, but I'm a banter kind of person, not pour-your-heart-out kind of person. As you will probably have noticed, I leave a lot to the imagining. Conversations and looks and smiles, and that's pretty much it. There will probably be more slashy epilogues and sequels... if people so feel inclined. I really enjoyed writing it!

Oh, Moriarty, you say? Well, yes, that will be a story for another day. (I may even make it into a series).

Hope you enjoyed the ride, and please do let me know what you think! :D