A/N

Thanks to everyone who's been reading and especially reviewing. I really appreciate you taking the time to check out this story, years after the series concluded. It took me longer than I expected to get back to this story. But I have the second installment. And I'm hoping that the third and fourth will come in a more timely manner.

Happy 2019!

Norah

Summer

16 months later

It was a hot summer in Paris. Ten o'clock at night, but the heat lingered in the sticky air. Neal's shirt stuck to his back, making him wish he'd left his vest and jacket behind. He loosened his tie. The air conditioning in this old building was no match for the summer, or the number of people crammed into the gallery. But he knew that the size of the crowd was a good sign, down to the last sweaty person.

"So, Mr. Moreau, can you tell us about the artist? Who is he?" The fifty-something American woman with silver hair spoke in exaggeratedly hushed tones, as if they alone were in on some fabulous secret. Neal took in her pretentious gestures and her ten thousand dollar dress. It was an ugly, multi-colored mess of a thing. Money was wasted on the rich.

Neal plastered on his most charming smile. "My client is a private man. I can't say much."

"These pink stars," she said, gesturing to the painting that had begun as a Van Gogh forgery. "I've never seen anything like it."

"I'm sure he would be glad to hear it." And Neal was glad. Even if it came from a woman who would wear that ... thing.

"And the name, Daniel Pearl, is a pseudonym. I couldn't find anything about him online. And I looked."

"You like to dot all those i's, do you?" he asked, dialing up the dazzle on his smile as her gossipy voice and her beady eyes began to grate on him.

"I like to know who I'm dealing with. In this case, someone who feels the need to use a pseudonym?"

"That I can neither confirm nor deny," Neal said.

"And the artist isn't here? Surely he'd want to see the reactions to his work?" Another voice, lower, scratchier. Someone he couldn't see, but who must be standing directly behind Neal. A familiar voice. A voice that wasn't supposed to be here. Neal felt his heart stop. It had been long enough. Right? Surely it had been long enough for this contact to be made.

He turned slowly. Seeing this man in the flesh for the first time in two years, it was like seeing a tiny piece of his youth, his home, maybe even his real self. Short, balding, bespectacled, the man grinned. Far too pleased with himself. But alive. Unmaimed. Not even a tortured expression. Mozzie was okay. Neal had been keeping tabs on his friend's safety, but it was good to see it with his own eyes.

Neal couldn't helped himself. Professionalism be damned. He threw his arms around his oldest friend. "Good to see you, Mozz. It's been a while."

"Too long, Vic," Mozzie said, sounding a little choked up.

The horribly dressed woman cleared her throat, causing Neal to break away from the hug, turning towards her. "Mrs. Raddison, you'll have to excuse me," he said, dialing back the charm, letting his smile become more polite, more forced, so that she would take the hint. "You'll make the right decision. Ultimately the choice to buy a piece of art is a personal one. Subjective. We all decide who we let in. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Glancing around for Sara, knowing she was in the crowd but not seeing her readily, Neal took a deep breath, inclined his head toward an unassuming door at the back of the gallery, and led Mozzie through it. Then up two flights of stairs, to the roof. As soon as they were both through the door, he locked it.

Letting the breeze the stir up his hair, Neal exhaled. The view of Paris was spectacular, almost as good as his old view of New York from June's roof. He'd set up a table and chairs up here this afternoon, never expecting he'd have two uses for them. Neal collapsed in one iron-latticed chair, putting his head in his hands. The shock of relief and excitement over, and the feeling of home soaked into his bones-now he felt his whole body trembling. Not visibly. He hoped. But Neal could feel multiple worlds on the verge of colliding. Possibly on the verge of collapsing. This reunion could either solidify his new life, or it could break him apart. Because everyone he loved wanted him to be a different version of himself.

He heard Mozzie scrape a chair along the concrete, pulling it out to sit down across from him. "You okay?"

Neal looked up and flashed a grin at his old friend. "Of course."

"Vic. No, Neal, it's me."

Neal nodded, took a deep breath and let his expression deflate, until his expression showed tiredness, relief, nervous happiness, and probably a million other things he wasn't consciously aware of. Neal almost never allowed anyone to see his true face. "It's amazing to see you, Mozz. It's a little overwhelming because I wasn't sure I would. I thought I might be running forever. Or maybe I would have fooled even you. It was either done too well or not well enough."

"But you're not running," Mozzie said. "You're settled in Paris to a foolhardy degree. You and your girlfriend were mentioned in a society column last week."

Neal shrugged. "A small mention. No photograph."

"How serious is this thing with Sara?"

Neal felt his throat tighten as he thought about the answer to that question, about how he'd envisioned this night ending. "It's extremely serious. And it's non-negotiable."

Mozzie raised his eyebrows. "She knows you faked your death?"

"Obviously."

"And she's okay with that?"

"It was bumpy at first." Neal laughed, a real laugh. "By at first I mean six months."

"Not now?"

"Pretty smooth. She relocated to Paris two weeks ago. She left Sterling Bosch, ostensibly because she was offered a pay raise and a partnership in a French insurance agency. And that's true. But she also wanted to distance herself from any professional affiliation with the notorious late Neal Caffrey."

Mozzie's eyes widened. "Big step. I saw her, as I was coming in. I don't think she saw me. She looked good. But here's what I want to know. Does Sara know everything?"

Neal nodded.

"Does she know you forged a Renoir and sold it recently?"

Neal grinned, laughing. "How did you know about that?"

"Please. Alex fenced it."

"You're in contact with Alex."

"Occasionally. But in this case, I'm just well informed."

Neal took a deep breath, feeling delighted for some reason. When you keep so many secrets, being seen, truly seen, it's like being a child. And so he felt this pure delight at being found out. "Yeah. Sara knows. I showed her the forgery before I talked to Alex. Originally, it wasn't supposed to be a forgery. It was supposed to be an original piece. But you know. Old habits die hard."

Mozzie laughed. "That they do. But you're saying that Sara Ellis is okay with you forging a painting and getting it fenced for five million?"

"No," Neal said. "She was furious. She said not to do it. I said I was doing it anyway. There was a lot of yelling. But I told her that I'd already turned down several jobs to make her happy, and that if I wanted to play by anybody's rules, I would have kept myself tethered to the FBI."

"Did you think she was going to find out?"

Neal shook his head. "No. It was a private buyer in Germany. It was an alias she was previously unaware of. But she'd made the decision to move here, to leave the company she'd worked for since she was twenty-three. I think that's why I forged the painting in the first place. Because I couldn't let her give up even a fraction of her previous life and come here if I was just going to con her."

Mozzie formed a steeple with his fingers. "A litmus test."

Neal nodded.

"And she passed?"

"I passed. But yeah, I guess she did too. Because she let me do it. I'm not sure why. I think she's still mad about it. But she gets it, somehow, that I have to be myself or I'll shrivel up. And the buyer is somebody who deserves to be screwed over."

Mozzie nodded. "She's a good girl. But she's not going to let you color outside the lines forever, you know that, right?" he asked. "It might not be a tether to the FBI, but you let this go on, and you're going to tether yourself to her. And her moral code. Which may not be so excited about you being yourself on a regular basis."

Neal shrugged. "Maybe that's okay. Maybe I need an anchor. Maybe I need someone who will stop me from getting into a situation that I can only get out of by faking my own death. There's only so many times I can do that."

Mozzie smiled and tilted his head, considering. "And maybe she looks really good in that red dress she's wearing tonight?"

"Doesn't hurt."

Mozzie nodded, staring out at the city's lights. "Whose idea was this show? Obviously I know who the artist is."

Neal felt his heart flutter.

"I'd be an idiot if I didn't recognize your original work."

Neal laughed. "It was my idea, actually. Since I couldn't use my real name, or my current primary alias, I'm representing myself. I've been building up a clientele, so I'm not too obvious about it. I've got a show next week, for an artist who isn't me. But yes, it's my work."

"Is it a con?" Mozzie asked.

Neal shrugged. "Not sure yet. I'll let you know if I figure that one out."

They sat on the roof for a while after that, in easy conversation, watching the city. Mozzie told him about Peter and Elizabeth, about the quiet life they'd settled into since he'd left his partnership with Peter. Mozzie's face lit up when he talked about baby Neal, who was almost two and had just learned how to lie. Mozzie thought the kid had a bright future.

###

It seemed like a lifetime later when they walked down the stairs, through the unassuming door, into the gallery. Neal caught Sara's eye. She looked annoyed, and he realized he'd left her to fend for both of them for longer than he'd intended. When Mozzie appeared behind Neal, Sara's expression turned from annoyance to shock, and then to delight. She hurried to finish a conversation, then crossed the room and gave Mozzie an appraising look. Before Neal or Mozzie could say anything, Sara drew Mozzie into a brief but authentic hug. "This is a surprise," she said. "Is it a surprise to you too, Moreau?"

"Yup," Neal said. He thrust his hands into his pockets, trying to decide if he should go ahead with his original plans for the evening. Glancing from his oldest friend to the only woman who'd ever known every side of him, Neal decided to stay the course. Diverging from his plans now, it would be another con. These were two people he shouldn't have to con.

As he grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing server, he realized that he shouldn't have to con himself either. If he wanted something, he'd say it. Neal looked around for a fork, realized that all the trays of appetizers were finger food, and felt silly for expecting anything different. He pulled a pen from his jacket pocket. Holding up the glass, he clinked it with the pen, several times until he had the crowd's attention. "Thank you all so much for coming. I've spoken with Mr. Pearl, telling him how well the evening's gone. And he's thrilled. Humbled. He wanted me to pass on his sincere thanks because he didn't think this moment would come. You don't always expect that you can lay your whole self bare and have it work, you know? So he's grateful. And I'm grateful. It's been a pleasure to get to talk to all of you about my client." Neal glanced around at some of the people he'd actually enjoyed speaking with, strangers who'd discussed his work like it meant something to them.

"But before we all go home, I have one more thing. I wanted to thank Sara Ellis, the beautiful lady in red standing right here," he said, turning to Sara, whose face lit up. She laughed in that charming display of authentic surprise, a strange innocence that was unique to Sara. When Sara was happy, she actually looked happy, like it radiated out of her every pore.

He took a deep breath, looking directly into her eyes, as he said, "I first met Sara about a decade ago. We didn't get along right away. She didn't like me. I didn't like her. We belonged to different worlds. But then there was this series of moments." He moved closer to her, letting all of the artistry fall from his face, so that he didn't even know what his expression looked like. He might be smiling. He might look terrified. He might even be crying and not realize it. There was not one ounce of the conman in him, not in this moment at least. His voice broke just a tiny bit as he said, "And with each moment, I felt myself becoming more solid. Like I was real, one person, only myself, more and more, until here I am standing in front of the woman I love, not sure if I will ever belong to any world, but sure that I want to try to belong to hers." He reached into the pocket of his trousers, sighing as his fingers closed around the black velvet box.

Sara's eyes filled with tears before he pulled out the box, showing it to her, to everyone, but now they threatened to overflow. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mozzie standing very still behind Sara. Mozzie was not crying. He shook his head, subtly but forcefully, as if issuing a warning. Neal could almost hear Mozzie's voice in his head, telling him that this was too big of a step, too big of a tether, and that asking the question in public was just plain stupid. Neal nodded, acknowledging his friend's warning, maybe even acknowledging that Mozzie was right, before giving Mozz a little shrug. Neal turned his attention back to Sara.

As he opened the box, revealing the very expensive, very legally purchased diamond and sapphire ring, Sara made this weird little sound, something between crying and laughing. "Vic," she breathed. "What the hell are you doing?"

Neal smiled. Not his con man smile. His real smile, less brazen, less confident, slightly crooked. But sweeter. Kinder. "I'm doing what I should have done properly all those years ago on the Empire State building. I'm asking you to marry me. For real this time."

There was a long silence. As if everyone in the gallery was holding their breath. Sara just stared at him. Finally she said, "No angle?"

"Just me."

"No secrets?"

He laughed. "You know them all." And he meant it. He'd revealed his last two aliases to her just the night before, along with the fact that an old associate had contacted him about a potential diamond heist. He'd explained to Sara, truthfully, that he'd considered taking the offer but had turned it down. He didn't have any plans to break the law, not for a while at least. He couldn't tempt fate too much and hope to stay in the same city, under the same name, for any length of time. He would have taken the job if it wasn't for her. But she was more important than diamonds. "If you'll have me, I'm here. No angle. No secrets," he said. "I want to build a life with you, Sara. A real life. I want to grow old with you."

She was actually crying now as she reached out to touch the ring, her hand trembling.

"I want everything with you." He was babbling now. "Even a mortgage. And kids, if you want them. Or not, if you don't." Sara's eyes widened. Behind her, Mozzie looked like he was about to throw up. Neal realized he and Sara had never discussed what their future could really be, in the long term. There'd been the joke about raising con artist children, Connie and Conrad, but there'd never been a real conversation about children. He wasn't even sure why he was still talking. Except that he felt like he had to keep talking, to keep saying the things in his head, to force himself to not con her in any way. "Whatever future you want, I'll—"

Tears spilling from her eyes, she finally nodded. "Shut up, Vic. I'll marry you."

"Really?"

"Yes," she said, grabbing the ring from him and sliding it onto her finger. It fit perfectly. "But stop talking before you say something that's really embarrassing." Pulling him toward her, she kissed him. She whispered, so only he could hear, "Caffrey, you're insane. But I love you. So yes."

Neal handed off the champagne glass to someone, not knowing who exactly, so he could wrap both his arms around Sara and really kiss her. Tears came to his eyes as he felt his whole body melt with relief. He allowed himself to relax, into her, into the kiss. Around them, strangers were clapping. In the back of his mind, he wondered why he'd felt the need to put on a show. But Neal Caffrey felt warmer, less guarded, and more himself than he had since he was eighteen, regardless of the fact that all but two people here knew him only by an alias.

Sara laughed, and it sounded like magical. "I can't believe you really did that," she murmured, pulling away from him for a moment.

He laughed. And his laugh sounded strange, like there was no artistry to it, like he was allowing himself to truly laugh for the first time in a very long time. Then he kissed her again.