Chapter 2

The cuff around his wrist is cool. His body is over-heating and the cool metal feels wonderful against his warm skin. He studies it, twisting his wrist around inside the cuff, feeling it trail over his skin. "I could slip you off," he murmurs, still impaired. "That wouldn't be picking, that'd be slipping." The weight of the cuff is starting to get a little heavy, so he lets his wrist fall to the floor, resting his head against the wall and staring at the ceiling. And he thinks about Peter.

That almost pisses him off more than anything. Here he is, cuffed to an office chair, enjoying what he can only describe as easily the most incredible high he's ever felt in his life, and all he can think about is how disappointed Peter will be. That should be an indication to Neal. He should take that as a sign: This will thoroughly fuck up everything he's worked for, he should leave this incident alone. It happened, it was unfortunate, it will not happen again.

Unfortunately, that's not how Neal Caffrey works. If there's a chance this could work for him, if there's even the slightest chance he can pull this off without Peter ever even knowing, he could do it. Every moment of his life is tortured with the decisions he made, and back then, even then... even when things were simple, and he was happy, and all he needed was Kate's company and that empty bottle of Bordeaux, those decisions and the things he's done preyed on him. It wasn't long before the cheap wine on clearance they filled that bottle with just wasn't cutting it anymore, it was too much. On the outside, Caffrey is a man of charisma and charm, but inside, all he wanted was numb, and cheap wine in an old bottle of expensive Bordeaux only goes so far. He needed something stronger.

It started out innocently enough. There was a girl, a long time ago. Earlier than Kate, but not quite as far back is Brittany Nicole, the second-grader who had judged Neal by the gap in his teeth. Her name matched her image. Willow was almost as tall as Neal, and so slender her limbs appeared to sway like branches in a storm. Her eyes and hair were almost identical in color, a deep, honey brown with flecks of red when the sun hit her the right way. It seemed to most who saw her, the sun was always hitting her the right way. She was a natural, she understood the Game and she knew how to manipulate people. Neal knew this, and despite her constant reassurance that she would never manipulate him, Neal found himself using a bit more care than usual. They ran small cons together. She was exceptionally good with fixing money, he was exceptionally good with the art and the face of the Game. She possessed the same need to take everything as far as it can go, and what started out as a string of relatively simple cons for a little extra cash on the side quickly turned into something Neal was not entirely comfortable with. He knew danger. He understood it well enough, but this was completely new territory for him. They had agreed, no drugs, no guns, and no deaths, but after three years of running art and finance-based cons with little to show for it, there they were, drawing out plans to smuggle a veritable potpourri of illegal substances into the country. "For a friend," she said. They were going to be in Russia anyway for the work they were doing with Malevich's Suprematist Composition, and Willow knew someone who needed a favor. Of course, with all things in the con world, there was a catch.

"He's very distrusting."

"Obviously," Neal smirked, shifting the paintbrush in his deft fingers before adding a few more strokes of red to his version of Malevich's geometric 'masterpiece'. "Why am I doing this again?"

Willow shifts in her armchair, before standing and crossing the room to stand behind Neal, studying his work. "You're doing this because the original anonymous buyer of Suprematist Composition has reported it missing."Neal turns his attention to her, eyebrows raised.

"I know. We have it."

She smiles. "Exactly. The buyer has offered an incredible reward, obviously, and we can use this to bring attention to the States, while we pop over to Khabarovsk and return the painting to its original owner for a large sum."

Fraternizing with a group of derelicte drug dealers/users was not Neal's idea of a good time, but worse still was that he was expected to participate in the activity. There's little that can be done for your conscience or beliefs, however, when you really fucking need the money.

Willow quietly reassured Neal, whispering in his ear as she tightened the belt around his bicep. His knuckles were white as they gripped the sides of the chair he had been pushed into by the burly doorman in the corner, and he lifted his head and searched the ceiling. Not that he actually expected to find solace or assistance in the dark and rotted wooden beams that criss-crossed the ceiling, but it was better than watching what was about to happen. The hiss and fizzle of a lighter made him jump, and the acidic vinegar-tainted smell that bubbled from the spoon assaulted his nostrils. A man of good physique and conscious health, Neal Caffrey was not particularly thrilled he was allowing this substance to enter his body, but he felt as though he didn't have a choice. This was something that would haunt Neal years later, as it still does today: he swore to never let himself get into a situation again where he felt he didn't have a choice. The sharp sting and the rush accompanied by Willow pressing her thumb down on the plunger brought Neal out of this thought, and back into the moment. It seemed the drug was just as desperate as the junkies that surrounded him, it sped and darted through his veins, hell-bent on finding its way through every part of his body. His knuckles gained color and his grip relaxed almost immediately, and his head dropped forward, eyes fluttering shut. Warm, calming color oozed across the backs of his eyelids, like a lava lamp, and his entire body felt like he had been pulled from a freezer as a block of ice and tossed into a hot sauna: tingling all over as his body and mind melted into relaxed euphoria. A goofy grin crept over his lips, and he could hear Willow's voice as she lightly laughed in reaction. It sounded slowed down to him. Movement felt suspended, like he was wading through jelly, aware of his every motion, and then he was free-falling, tumbling, flying, soaring through space and time and happiness and history and all of God's most beautiful creations.

Her voice echoed in his mind, and he opened his eyes, attempting to focus on her double-image as he slid from the chair to the cold cement, which felt good against his heated skin. "Neal? How are you, Neal?" He was the most perfect he had ever been, and ever would be. And it wasn't long before he would do anything to feel that way again.

Now, in this moment, as he's feeling this way, or at least close to it, cuffed to the office chair at the clinic, Neal feels slightly sick as he reflects on his past. He knows now that he'll be returning to prison for life for the stunt he's just pulled, and it almost tears him apart to know he's feeling this good, only to be returned to prison where he will never again have the opportunity. When Peter returns clutching a small surveillance tape, a more important realization hits Neal, and his guilt and remorse shake him. Peter Burke, the FBI agent who caught Neal, twice, has stolen property to protect him. This sparks a coherent thought in Neal's drug-addled mind.

"You know, before I go back you should know this. Out of all the people in my life. You know, Mozzie... Kate, even, you're the only one."

It always worries Peter when Neal starts talking like this. He sighs and locks his eyes on the intoxicated young man. "The only one what?"

Neal plants his forefinger square in the middle of Peter's chest, pushing slightly when he speaks. "You're the only one I trust."

In that moment, two things happened. The first thing was that Neal realized his relationship with Peter had shifted completely right then, with those words. The second thing was that Peter was finally starting to come around to reciprocate: he was finally beginning to truly trust Neal.