Neal slouched even lower on the couch, growing more and more disinterested with the baseball game Peter was so enthralled with. Hanging loosely in one hand was a sketch book and in the other, a pencil. Glancing down at the half-finished drawing of Satchmo sleeping on the rug, he sighed. He didn't have the energy to keep sketching but he didn't want to stop either. Losing the fight with his eyelids, he gave up, letting them fall closed and slipping into dream…
Neal had spent rainy days the same way his entire childhood. He'd sit with his mom in the kitchen and watch her sketch. When he was little, he'd play on the floor, sometimes falling asleep and becoming his mother's subject. Later on, she'd given him colored pencils and his own sketch book. He'd filled it with drawings. First, they had started with scribbled, uncertain drawings. By the last view pages, though, the sketches began to improve.
In the months before Robert had been killed, rainy day traditions moved from the kitchen to the living room, sitting on the couch drawing. Sometimes, his mom would make popcorn and after they finished their drawings they would cuddle on the couch and watch movies.
After his dad died, rainy days had been different. The wooden floor in the living room had been stained with blood. Nothing had been able to remove the stain. The rug that had been in the den was moved to cover it, creating two rooms that reminded young Neal of the sudden loss. Eventually, they moved to a new house, a smaller house, a few blocks away from the old house. Even with the change of scenery, it took almost a year for the nightmares and flashbacks to go away.
Neal's mom had started seeing someone new, a fellow teacher at the school she worked at. He was a nice man. He took Neal and his mom on picnics at the beach and he played in the surf with Neal. He didn't drink vodka shots in the middle of the day, he didn't teach Neal to break into buildings and he didn't pull his belt out of his belt loops when Neal did something wrong. He taught history at the high school and he often imparted this knowledge on the youngster. Neal ate it up, absorbing every word.
Neal's mother also taught him something besides drawing; she taught him how to charm. She was able to talk herself out of –or into –any situation, be it traffic tickets or a new class she wanted to teach. While teaching, she charmed her students into learning, luring them into the subject without them even knowing it. Outside of work, she used her skills for less noble pursuits. Whenever she and Neal went out, it wasn't unusual for them to get a free dessert or two or be seated quickly at busy restaurants.
The thing Neal could picture most clearly about his mother was her eyes. They were the same as his own bright blues. Coupled with her dazzling smile and the way she twirled a curl around her finger, she usually got what she was working towards. Once, when he'd been very young, Neal had asked if what she was doing was wrong, if it was cheating to be so smooth talking and charming. She'd smiled at him and knelt down to be eye-level with her son, brushing a lock of hair out of his face.
"Honey," she said, smiling "It's not cheating or bad. You just have to use everything that's available for you to use. That's all."
"What do I have, Mama?" He'd asked. She smiled and picked him up.
"You have so many things, sweetie. You have this" She pointed to his head. "And you have this" She pointed to his heart. "And these don't hurt either." He giggled when she poked each of his dimples.
Years later, Neal Peterson – and later, Neal Caffrey – still remembered that moment. It was a defining moment, leading him realize that there was more than saying 'please' and 'thank you' in social interactions. There was no reason not to tell people exactly what they wanted to hear, no reason to stop them from making assumptions they wanted to make…
"Yes! There we go! Outta the park!" Neal opened his eyes and looked at Peter groggily, his head throbbing.
"I forgot I fell asleep at a ballpark." He smiled, straightening himself up a little. Peter smiled sheepishly, feeling foolish for exclaiming like that.
"Sorry. Didn't realize you were asleep."
"It's fine. I've been having strange dreams lately. Must be this headache."
"You mean concussion. You're not going back to work for a few days, at least until you're feeling better. I can't take you out in the field like this." He gestured vaguely at Neal.
"Do you mean, in your pajamas? Because that would raise a few eyebrows." Peter rolled his eyes. Neal chuckled at his own joke before introducing a more serious subject.
"Peter, about finding my mom…"
"Don't worry about it Neal. It'll be a piece of cake."
"Wouldn't it be easier if you knew her name though?" Neal smirked when Peter swallowed back his embarrassment.
"I could find her without it, but if you want to tell me, go ahead."
"Her name is Charlotte Madison. Her friends' call her Charley…or at least, they did. She's married to Paul Madison. Both of them were teachers. He teaches history and she teaches art."
"Alright. We'll find her, Neal." Neal nodded. He couldn't shake the feeling of nervousness associated with that statement, though. What would she think of him? How would she feel about her son being one of the best thieves in modern times? That's not something most mothers would be proud of. Peter was more perceptive than Neal gave him credit for. "But you're not worried about us finding her, are you? You're worried about what she'll think." Neal's face flushed. Was he really that easy to read? He was getting soft.
"No, I'm not." Peter sighed.
"You want to hear a story, Neal?"
"No, but I have this sinking feeling that was rhetorical." Peter smiled at him this time.
"Good job. When I was a kid, my parents wanted me to be a journalist. That's all they ever talked about. But when I told them that that wasn't what I wanted to do, that I wanted to be a cop, they were still proud of me. More importantly, they still loved me. She's not going to disown you, Neal. She's your mom. She loves you." Neal looked down at his hands.
"At least your job was still a respectable job. No one is ever proud that their kid is a great forger, one of the best conmen. That's not something you put on a bumper sticker and slap on the back of the family car." Peter chuckled despite himself.
"She'll understand, Neal. She's your mom. That's what they do." Peter had never imagined he would ever see Neal so insecure about something. Deciding a change of subject would do them both good, he continued speaking. "Is that a picture of Satch? Let me see." Neal handed over the sketchbook, watching as Peter scrutinized his work. "You know, if you finish this, El would love it. She might even hang it on the fridge." Peter was partially joking, but Neal's eyes seemed to light up. Taking the sketchbook back, he worked to finish the drawing. When the consultant finished, he gently tossed the book onto the agents lap.
"Does that look fridge-worthy?" He joked. Peter laughed, studying the picture.
"Yeah, I guess it does. Where'd you sign it? Don't you always sign this stuff?" Neal smirked and leaned back in his seat, relishing the way the soft cushions held his aching body.
"Well, I have to keep my skills sharp and so do you. Let me know when you find it." Peter scowled and grabbed the small magnifier off the coffee table, searching the drawing for the telltale 'NC' that was on most of Neal's works. After ten minutes, he finally found the initials, hidden in the fur around one paw.
"Found it. Good job…for a sketch." Neal laughed.
"Well, good job finding it…for a Fed." They shared a laugh before going back into companionable silence for a few minutes. Peter watched the game, sneaking the occasional glance over at his partner. Neal looked tense, as if the painkillers had lost all effect. His head was bowed, shoulders tensed as he tapped his pencil against the sketchbook. Finally, he turned to a clean page and began to draw. Peter smiled at the sight. At least now he could watch his game in peace.
When the game was over, Peter moved from chair to couch, looking over Neal's shoulder as he drew. What he saw surprised him. On the paper, Neal had sketched a woman. She was beautiful, really. Her hair fell past her shoulders in auburn ringlets, her face sprayed with freckles. Her smile was bright and not unlike that of a certain thief he knew. He could see the crow's feet around her eyes and the laugh lines on her face, but she didn't look old. Peter didn't know how much like his father Neal looked, but he suspected the conman might have made that up. His mother and he shared the same smile and, judging by the blue pencil Neal was using, the same eyes.
"She's beautiful." Peter whispered. Neal looked up sharply, as though he hadn't noticed Peter so close until just then.
"She was. Is, I guess."
"You have the same eyes." Neal nodded. "And the same smile." Neal smiled a little. He'd always loved his mother's smile. There was another similarity that Peter couldn't put his finger on. Something that wasn't drawn outright, but still managed to make its way into the sketch. He looked from Neal to the sketch again, wondering what it was. It wasn't something physical, but something in those eyes made him think about it. He just didn't know what it was… Neal's voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
"I thought... it might be useful to know what she looked like." Peter nodded. "Peter?"
"Yeah?"
"When are you going to look for her?"
"Well, if we don't catch another case, tomorrow." Neal turned to face Peter.
"I want to be there when you do." Peter sighed.
"No. You need to rest. You're concussed."
"I won't be doing anything. If you catch a case, I'll go home. But I want to be there."
"Why?" Peter gave an exasperated sigh.
"Just want to see how long it takes you to find her. It took you three years to find me." Peter rolled his eyes.
"If you come in, everyone's going to see that nice bruise on your face." Neal's hand gently touched his face, feeling the swelling. Still, he knew Peter was trying to play to his vanity.
"It'll be fine. I'll just tell them you hit me." Peter laughed. It wouldn't hurt to be able to keep an eye on Neal. At least he could keep him from doing something stupid.
"Alright. As long as we don't catch a case, you can go. Maybe I'll put you to work on some cold cases too." Neal smiled. He would never tell Peter, but he actually didn't mind cold cases. All he had to do was look over all the evidence collected. It wasn't like they had to go running around the city for it. Cold cases were great on those cold, rainy New York days. And they could be enjoyed in a warm room, with hot coffee. There was nothing wrong with that.
"Sounds like a deal." Neal leaned back into the couch, feeling himself relax. He wanted to sleep, but he didn't want to dream about his mother again. He missed her too much for that. Her absence in his life had been an ever-present ache. When he was running a con or running from the police, he didn't notice it. But now that he'd been still for years, it was growing. There were no reasons not to try to find her again. Peter's hand on his shoulder snapped him back to reality.
"You ok, Neal?" Neal looked up, feeling his chest tighten at the worry in Peter's eyes. Did he look that bad? Was that why Peter was so worried?
"I'm fine." He mumbled. He was so sore and acting like he was fine was taking its toll. But if he told Peter how he really felt, he'd make him take those damn pills and might not let him go to the office tomorrow. He couldn't let that happen. He tried to remind himself of cons he'd run in worse shape; if he'd done it then, he could do it now.
"Are you sure?" Peter was getting too good at reading him, though. "Neal, you ok?" Peter sighed. Neal had been fine a minute ago, but now he looked miserable. He wished Neal would just be honest with him. They'd been partners for years now. It wouldn't hurt to keep things clear between the two of them. "Neal?" He asked again, shaking the consultant's shoulder. Neal's eyes opened slowly.
"Peter, I'm fine. I think I'm going to go take a nap." He stood slowly, swaying dangerously on his feet. The older man rose also, grabbing Neal's arm and steadying him.
"Neal. Just level with me."
"I'm fine. Just tired." He tried to pull away from the agent's grasp, but he couldn't.
"Neal! Don't you trust me?" Peter was sorry he'd said it before the words had even left his lips. Trust was always a hot-button issue when it came to him and Neal. Neal always thought Peter didn't trust him as much as he trusted Peter. And, Peter regretted, Neal was right. He couldn't bring himself to trust the consultant completely. Neal hated when Peter called his trust into question. The look on Neal's face told him that he'd stepped over some invisible line into territory they had yet to work out. Neal tried to pull away again but Peter didn't let go. "Neal…I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."
"Then what did you mean?" Neal had stopped struggling, standing now in front of Peter, head hung.
"I just wish you'd tell me what's going on in that head of yours." He gently tapped the side of Neal's head with his fingers, getting the con to look up. For an instant Neal's eyes were completely unmasked before he closed them. Peter bit his lip. Neal was hurting and there was nothing he could do about it. He hated feeling so useless.
"I'm just tired." Neal murmured, his voice nothing more than a whisper. He must be getting worse at lying. Peter had never been able to read him so well before. The thought that his skills were slipping worried him.
"Neal…" Peter still sounded worried. "Just stop acting for me." Neal leaned forwards, Peter's hands on his shoulders stopping him. "C'mon, Neal."
"I'm alright." Neal leaned forwards more, Peter letting the conman's head coming to rest on his shoulder.
"Neal, just tell me the truth."
"My head hurts." He whispered. "I don't want to take the painkillers, but everything hurts. If I tell you everything, you won't let me go tomorrow."
"We'll see about that tomorrow." He rubbed Neal's back, wondering if he should be doing something else.
"Your turn."
"What?" Peter blinked in confusion.
"I told you the truth. Now it's your turn." Peter smiled. Same ol' Neal.
"Alright. Fine. You're worrying me. And you know I'm no good at taking care of people." Neal chuckled lightly, Peter feeling the vibrations in his hand more than really hearing the sound. They stood like that for a moment, Neal's head heavy on Peter's shoulder, like he couldn't hold it up himself. "Let's get you to bed." He led the consultant upstairs, taking them slowly. The last thing he needed was to have to explain to El that he let her favorite conman fall down the stairs.
Finally getting Neal situated on the bed, he sat on the edge, not sure if he should leave him alone. Something seemed off. Neal was quiet for a moment but didn't let Peter's presence go unrecognized.
"I'm obviously not going to run off."
"Obviously?" Peter asked.
"I think we both know I wouldn't be getting very far." Neal admitted carefully. Peter smiled at the admission.
"But I'm sure Moz would bust you out if you asked." Neal grinned.
"Yeah. Moz is good for that."
"So…You met Moz in Chicago?" Neal groaned.
"Are you going to keep asking stuff like this? You couldn't figure it out on your own, could you?" Neal sat up a little more against the pillows. Now that he was lying down, covered with a blanket, he felt a little better. Better enough to annoy Peter, anyway.
"To be fair, it's hard to find out things about Neal Peterson when you're looking for Neal Caffrey." Neal shrugged.
"That was kinda the point."
"What's it going to hurt if you tell me now? I'm sure you're dying to point out all the ways you evaded me." Peter was playing to Neal's vanities again and this time it was working. He'd signed his works. He couldn't sign the years he'd had the best in the FBI stumped.
"I was a waiter in Chicago when I met Moz. I would have probably died in that alley if he hadn't found me. Would of saved the Bureau a bit of trouble though." He chuckled. Peter moved, sitting on the other side of the bed, leaning against the headboard. He had a feeling this would be a long story.
"Yeah, but I would've had to work boring cases all those years." Neal smiled. Peter didn't think he was boring. Not that he'd ever doubt that, but it was nice to hear.
"Anyway, eventually, we left Chicago. Spent the next winter in…Florida, I think."
"What'd you do in Florida?" Neal shrugged.
"Passing counterfeit tens."
"Tens?"
"Yeah. Who looks at a ten?" Clearly, not the right people because Peter had never been aware of Neal being connected to counterfeiting that early on.
"Did you draw it?" Neal smiled.
"Of course I did. It was a work of art, really. I think I might still have one somewhere." Peter pretended he hadn't heard that. It seemed like an odd twist on store-owners displaying the first dollar they earned. He wondered if other counterfeiters kept the first bill they made.
"More about Chicago. What did you do there?"
"Besides almost die? That's about it. I re-injured my wrist and couldn't draw. I could hardly wait tables. Moz didn't let me in on whatever he was working on. I got pretty sick for a while but after that I was fine. The first thing I did ever forged was my birth certificate, which you have on-file somewhere. The next was a driver's license. Moz helped with both. That's…about it, really." Neal yawned, covering his mouth as he did.
"Why don't you get some sleep? I'll wake you up later and see if you want dinner." Neal nodded sleepily.
"I will." Peter grinned as he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He wasn't sure about letting Neal come to work tomorrow, but that would have to wait. No telling how he'd be feeling in the morning.