The FBI gave Neal a week following his release in which to adjust back to normal life.
It was a week during which Elizabeth took off as much time as she could to spend with Neal, and made every single one of his favorite dishes that she could think of for dinner, and tried very hard to pretend not to notice the bright, brittle smiles and maddeningly light, casual conversation that punctuated those dinners – dinners which Peter, for once, made a point of being on time for every night.
And maybe that was the problem, she guessed – maybe they were all just trying too hard.
Neal was definitely trying to make them believe that nothing had changed, that he was exactly the same guy that had left them eight months earlier – but Elizabeth knew him too well to believe that. She couldn't put her finger on exactly what was bothering her, because after the nightmare that first night, Neal had seemed just like his old self – charming and positive and gracious, quick to help around the house or to prepare dinner for her and Peter when they both had to work a little late on Tuesday.
Monday morning, he went by and visited June, and Elizabeth was thrilled when he returned to see his arms laden down with his art supplies.
She was just as disappointed, toward the end of the week when she was straightening up the guest room, to find a half dozen barely marked canvases stuffed under the bed. They were works that had hardly been started at all; certainly there wasn't enough there to declare them failures and throw them out – but that seemed to be what Neal had done with them.
She didn't mention them, didn't feel that she could without violating Neal's sense of privacy, but Elizabeth noticed. She noticed all the little things that were missing, cracks in Neal's usually expert façade – the vanished sparkle of mischief in his eyes when he smiled a less-than-genuine smile, the way he seemed to go to bed earlier, and conveniently not get up in the morning until after she and Peter could reasonably be assumed to have gone to work.
She tried her best to abide by her own advice, and simply wait for Neal to come to them, if he wanted to – but by the time the week was over and Neal was going back to work with Peter, Elizabeth had to admit that she felt a certain guilty sense of relief.
Maybe this was all he needed – maybe just to fall into his old routine, and remind himself of his life before prison, and who he'd been before.
Seven days of trying to make ordinary conversation over dinner, while Peter gave him that nerve-wracking look that meant he was analyzing every single word out of Neal's mouth for ulterior meanings. Seven days of pretending not to notice that for some reason, every single meal Elizabeth prepared happened to be centered around one of his favorite foods. Even Satchmo seemed to know that something was wrong; the dog wouldn't leave Neal's side for more than a moment, snuggling up to him when he was sitting on the couch, sitting at his feet at the dinner table, to the point that Peter almost seemed a little jealous.
Okay, that last part wasn't so bad, Neal had to admit. At least Satch had good manners enough to keep quiet about whatever unpleasant emotions he was picking up from Neal, and just offer what quiet comfort he could.
And technically, he supposed that Peter and El hadn't really said that much about it, either. It was just that with those two, a simple look could say so much – and the looks that passed between them, behind his back when they thought he didn't notice, made Neal's stomach churn and a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck.
Of course, that nightmare on his first night back had been rather… unfortunate. In the daylight, Neal could put on his stylish suit and his favorite hat and his patented smile that made it clear that nothing could touch him. He could deflect and misdirect and play every game in his extensive repertoire to keep them from figuring it out.
But in a single, unguarded moment, his own subconscious had betrayed him, and left Peter and El worried and wondering about things Neal would rather stayed forever in the dark.
Peter seemed to have bought his story about Kate – and it wasn't really a lie. The nightmare Neal had described to Peter had filled many of his nights since that terrible day at the airfield. He could almost smell the smoke, could hear her voice crying out to him, but couldn't do anything to save her – and he really had relived that nightmare over and over again during his last stay in prison.
It was just… this was a different nightmare.
Neal had hoped that putting Peter off on a different track would put his and El's minds at ease enough that they'd leave him alone, that they'd stop worrying so much – but they continued watching him too closely, treating him too carefully, as if he was made of glass and one wrong word could shatter him. By the Monday morning following his release, Neal couldn't wait to get to the white collar office and finally have something to distract Peter from his constant focus on Neal's emotional state.
Neal was glad to find that their very first case back was a rather complex, intriguing affair involving gathering evidence against Brendon Banks, a young, wealthy Manhattan socialite who reportedly had a weakness for extravagant antiquities. There were quite a few well-known and expensive pieces in his personal collection, which he liked to display at his frequent, lavish parties – but someone in Banks' social circle had come forward and informed the FBI that there were other pieces in Banks' possession – pieces that couldn't possibly legally be his.
It was rather convenient, then, that Banks also had a weakness for pretty young men – preferably of the naïve, vulnerable variety. According to their informant, a young man named Mark Harris, Banks liked to target young men who were new to the city, who didn't know many people, take them as conquests, and then discard them when he was through.
Harris had been one such young man.
New to Banks' social circle, he had only seen the pieces at all, he claimed, when Banks had gotten him alone at one of his parties and made a move on him, showing him a few extravagant pieces in an effort to impress him. That effort had apparently worked – and a few weeks later, Banks had moved on to his next challenge.
Perhaps Harris had come to the authorities as a means of getting payback for being used and cast aside; perhaps not. It didn't really matter, as his information seemed to be good.
It didn't take long to come up with a plan. Neal would show up at the man's next party as Neal Olsen, a naïve, fresh-faced grad student from North Carolina – on Harris's arm. Hopefully, it would not take him long to catch Banks' eye. Once Banks made his move, Neal would try to manipulate Banks into showing him some of the pieces he'd shown Harris, and hopefully bragging about how he'd acquired them. He would be wearing a wire, of course, and once he had seen and heard what they needed, Peter and his team would come in and make the arrest.
As they were leaving the office for the day, with plans to reconvene an hour before the party to set their plan in motion, Peter caught Neal's arm and pulled him back a few paces behind the others. Neal tried not to flinch under his firm grip, turning toward Peter with a questioning smile.
"You sure this is something you're okay doing?" Peter's voice was low and concerned. "I mean… this is the easiest way, but it's not the only way. If you're uncomfortable…"
Neal shook his head slightly, feigning mild confusion. "Why would I be uncomfortable?"
"I don't know." Peter shrugged. "I'm just saying…" He hesitated. "… the whole point of this operation is for this guy to put the moves on you. If it was Diana, or any female agent, I'd be making sure. Why shouldn't you get the same consideration?"
Neal refused to let his gaze drop. "Because I've played this game a hundred times over the years," he pointed out. "Just never for the FBI. Trust me, Peter, I've got this."
"Okay," Peter conceded. "Okay. Just… if you feel… unsafe at all, for any reason, when you're in there… don't hesitate to use the escape phrase. We'll come right in and get you out. Just…"
"I get it, Peter," Neal sighed with frustration, but reached out to affectionately touch Peter's arm in reassurance. "Don't worry. It's going to be fine."
It was fine… right up until the moment when it wasn't.
The plan started without a hitch. Neal hadn't been in the room for five minutes when he noticed Brendon Banks noticing him. Banks was in his late thirties, reasonably attractive, and carried himself with a confidence that bordered on arrogance – and he couldn't seem to take his eyes off Neal. Neal played it up, flirting a little more obviously with Harris, smiling a little brighter, pretending not to notice Banks at all. Harris was actually the one to almost blow it, visibly nervous under Neal's attention, and quietly freaking out when Banks headed toward them.
So, Neal did everything he could to make sure that Banks focused on him, and not his considerably anxious, flustered ex, and when Banks offered to give Neal a tour of his home, Harris was all too happy to walk away and leave Neal to his work.
"This place is just gorgeous," Neal gushed, improvising with a slight hint of a southern accent to add to his air of innocence, as Banks led him away from his supposed date. "I mean, you have so many amazing things here, and such a beautiful home, and I … wow. Just… wow." He gave Banks a rueful little grimace, adding, "I'm sorry, it's just… I knew New York City was a cultural mecca for the arts. That's why I came here, but… I had no idea it would be like this…"
"Where are you from?" Banks asked with a polite, vaguely indulgent smile, as if the answer didn't matter all that much, and the question was just a means of remaining close to Neal.
"Arlington, North Carolina," Neal replied, glancing around again with a slightly self-conscious laugh. "Not a place where you'll find a lot of beautiful things like this."
"And one less now."
Banks' smile was warm, but his eyes were sharp and seeking, and Neal demurred, ducking his head.
"I… should probably get back to my date."
He glanced around as if looking for Mark, who had fortunately made himself invisible somewhere within the crowd. He took a step away, as if to go and look for him, and as he'd hoped, Banks reached out and caught his hand before he could move far.
"I don't see him," Banks observed, his gaze focused on Neal when Neal turned back toward him with an innocently questioning look. "Why don't you let me give you a tour of the rest of the house?"
Neal had to resist the impulse to roll his eyes at Banks' obvious ploy, instead keeping them wide and awestruck as he gazed around at his lavish surroundings, pretending not to notice as Banks steered him toward the stairs.
"Come with me," Banks said with a sly, secretive smile. "If you've a taste for pretty things, Neal… I keep my private collection on the second floor."
"Private collection… meaning… this isn't it?" Neal waved a hand vaguely to indicate the lavish display surrounding them, an eyebrow arched in surprise. "There's more?"
Banks' smile was faintly suggestive, his voice soft and leading. "Darling, you have no idea."
Once they were alone in Banks' bedroom – which, Neal noted, he'd had to use a key card to enter – Banks wasted no time in making his move. He immediately turned back toward the door, pushing Neal up against it, clasping Neal's hands in his own as he leaned in to kiss him. Neal turned his head away, giving Banks his best uncertain, anxious look.
"Wait… I… I came here with Mark…"
"Mark," Banks huffed with quiet disdain. "I've been with Mark, Neal, and trust me… you aren't missing anything. There's nothing he can offer you that I can't. Have you seen that little hovel he calls an apartment?" Banks shifted in closer, hands sliding down Neal's arms to his shoulders and around to his back and neck. "Can Mark give you… all of this?"
It was all that Neal could do not to pull away in revulsion at the man's sheer arrogance. Neal had seen this type many times over the years – no appreciation for the beauty and artistry of the pieces he collected, or the people who surrounded him – granted, often because of said exquisite pieces. To men like Banks, beautiful works of art were nothing more than tools to his ends – a way of drawing attention and flattery onto himself. He put his hands, his mouth, on Neal with total certainty, as if he'd done this a hundred times and had no doubt whatsoever that Neal would want him by sheer virtue of his wealth and prominence. In Banks' mind, there was clearly no question as to whether his advances were wanted.
It was quite a turn-off, really.
Not that Neal could focus on that at the moment – not with Banks' hands roaming up to his wrists again, pinning him in place as he moved in to try again for a kiss. This time, Neal allowed it, well aware that he had to play along, or the mission would be shot.
Have to pretend to like him, just for a little bit… have to play along… give him what… what he wants… do what he wants, or he'll…
No… no, that's not right…
Banks' hands were tight, unyielding, on Neal's wrists, and he felt his heart rate quicken with alarm. He pulled his face away, drawing in a sharp breath and closing his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself.
You're not there… not anymore… this is… just a job… just another con… have to play it through…
"What?" Banks asked, his voice hushed, a frown of vague annoyance on his face. "What is it?"
"I – I just shouldn't be doing this," Neal replied, careful to keep his accent in place. "I mean… I came here with someone else, and… and I'm not used to things… moving this fast, I guess." Neal slid gracefully under the hand Banks had braced against the door, breathing a little easier once there was a bit of distance between them. "Couldn't we just… maybe just talk a little, first? I mean…" He scanned the room for some form of distraction, eyes locking onto a lovely obsidian statue on a small table beside the bed. He moved toward it, reaching out to touch it as he remarked, "This is exquisite. Where did you…?"
His breath caught in his throat as he felt Banks move in close behind him, warm, damp lips falling on his throat as unfamiliar hands roamed up his torso and snaked around him. "Come on, little country mouse," Banks remarked, his words low and knowing, almost taunting, in Neal's ear. "Don't play shy. You wouldn't have come into my bedroom with me if you didn't feel this… attraction…"
"Wait," Neal said softly, hands reaching down to stop Banks' swiftly moving exploration. "Wait a minute, don't…"
But Banks just turned his hands in Neal's grasp, catching his wrist and spinning him around before pushing him down to sit on the bed. Banks moved forward between Neal's legs, leaning down to kiss him again with one forceful hand at the back of his head, and the other still holding Neal's wrist. The kiss kiss was too forceful, too deep, selfish and unskilled. Neal instinctively tried to pull away, his stomach lurching when he found that Banks' grip was too strong to break. He drew in a sharp, shaky breath as he finally managed to get his mouth free, pushing frantically at Banks' chest with his one free hand.
"Wait," he gasped out. "Stop!"
"Hey, hey, easy," Banks soothed him. "Easy…"
As he spoke, Banks removed his hands, backing up a step – but Neal's heart was pounding in his throat as he lurched swiftly to his feet, and he felt dizzy and unbalanced. He couldn't remember what he was supposed to say, or what he was supposed to be doing. Banks was supposed to show him something, but his mind was racing too quickly, too focused on a much darker set of thoughts, to allow him to remember. He tried to remember the safety phrase, but the words wouldn't come to his mind, and all he could picture was Banks sliding that key card when they'd come in here and oh God, Peter couldn't get in, if he did come up here, Peter couldn't get in to help him…
"I-I'm sorry," Neal whispered, his voice shaking dangerously as he hurried past Banks toward the door. Banks followed him swiftly, and Neal spun around, preferring to have his back to the door rather than to Banks, trembling fingers scrabbling blindly for the doorknob. "I – I have to go. I'm sorry."
"Neal, wait," Banks protested. "Wait a minute… you must have got the wrong idea… we can slow things down if you…"
"No, I have to go, I'm sorry," Neal insisted, finally getting the door open and turning, rushing unsteadily toward the stairs, and the front door, and the open safety of the street beyond.