If there was anything in this world Neal Caffrey hated, it was pity. It was something he'd grown up with, with his father dying before he could remember and his mother unable to break her bad-boy habits. Maybe that's how he'd developed his million-dollar smile: because really, who could pity a bright-eyed kid with a positive attitude and an irresistible grin? When he'd hit ten, he'd learned to combine his natural charm and his mother's boyfriends' varying levels of knowledge in misdemeanor behaviors to put together a better life for himself, outside of what people saw when they looked at his family. He managed to manipulate and lift the right clothes, the right stuff- everything he needed to keep people from thinking he lacked for anything. His charisma kept people wanting to be around him and admiring him. And when he was sixteen and his then-girlfriend convinced him the life they wanted couldn't wait any longer, they made their way toward bigger and better things: Houston and New Orleans together, and eventually New York City on his own.
That was one of the upsides of being a white-collar criminal: when he was on top people envied him; and when he'd gotten caught, people judged and hated him (except Peter, who somehow grew to respect him, even care about him). But no one pitied him at any point.
So when things started to fall apart in Neal's world—when Kate disappeared (both times), when she died, when Mozzie was shot or Peter was kidnapped or Sara left—Neal didn't let people see enough of him to pity. Misdirection had become second nature. He just started planning until the problem was fixed or people didn't think about it anymore.
Which was why, when Sara established she was here because she'd heard about Elizabeth, and managed to keep the feds sitting in their car so she and Neal could be alone, Neal ignored every urge except the one to put on his game face developed by years of training.
He walked over to the table and grabbed a pad of paper, writing down key notes from the meeting and babbling ideas in order to keep Sara from talking.
"Where it all started—the anklet really is the first thing…although he's going to expect something at the meet, I wonder if I could put together something believable…of course if we had the crates this would be so much easier…maybe if I could bargain out a proof of life…but Keller doesn't know we know about Brooke…"
He'd gotten up and begun scurrying around the room haphazardly. Usually, he had Mozzie or Alex or Peter to lean back on, but his subconscious was pressing down hard on him the complete seclusion of his state, and it was causing him to lose his usual Caffrey-cool exterior.
His ice-blue eyes glanced up at Sara. She hadn't moved, hadn't even opened her mouth; she just was looking at him, eyes reflecting his own feeling of loss in the situation.
"I can fix this," he told her, trying to will her to believe in him the way a good con should. He didn't want her soft eyes, so full of concern, to transfer over to that emotion that he couldn't stand to think of.
"Neal—" she began, reaching out her hand toward him, but he turned away, back toward the balcony, working to center himself and glue back together the pieces of his flawless character. He focused on the feeling of the sun dancing around the room and on his skin. It felt wrong, strangely; like it should be dark and rainy for times like this.
"I'm going to fix this Sara," he told her stubbornly, though he didn't pull away when she took his hand.
"Okay," Sara told him. "Where do we start?"
Neal looked back at her, surprised. She should hate him, should be on the other side telling him how stupid he was and reckless and thoughtless of the consequences-if she was going to talk to him at all. Yet instead here she was, standing next to him, backing his move.
He shook himself out of his thoughts. He didn't have time to hope for anything, he had to problem-solve. That had to be why Sara was here—because she cared about Peter, and Elizabeth, and knew Neal would get the job done.
"Keller wants to meet me, alone, in a lot near The New Museum on Bowery," Neal told her. "I can't have Peter or my anklet when I go, or he'll kill Elizabeth."
"And you think he'll want a piece of the treasure up front as a show of good faith?" she asked. He nodded. "Neal, you have to give it to him."
Neal's heart broke—again. "I can't," he told her in a small voice.
"Neal, if this can save Elizabeth—"
"I can't," he said again, dragging his hand over his face and hating himself that his voice was cracking, defeated. "Because the treasure's gone, Sara."
He couldn't look at her, couldn't look at anything. He just felt her drop his hand and the intensity of her stare. And he found himself wishing, not for the first time in the last twenty-four hours that he'd just followed Mozzie—that he hadn't been here for any of this.
"I ruined everything, and for the first time in my life I can't think of any way to make it right. Moz is gone; Peter hates me; I've got nothing to offer Keller, and if I run, I'm killing Elizabeth." Neal slid to the ground as the weight of everything he'd been holding in came tumbling out of him. In the back of his mind he knew he had no right to bring Sara into this, to dump his burden on her. They weren't even together anymore—he'd burned that bridge too. But he was so tired, and so alone…
He felt the soft brush of auburn hair across his neck, and couldn't help but lean in as Sara pulled him toward her.
"Neal, you'll get through this," she told him, bringing his face up so his ice-blues could meet her green. He loved being close enough to watch the tiny hazel flecks dance while she talked. "Yes, things are messed up, and it'll take time to get there, but things will get better. But not if you don't pull yourself together right now and get Elizabeth out of there." She took his arms and brought them both to their feet. "So—what do we do?"
Neal took a deep breath, walking back to the table with Sara's hand still firmly clasped in his. "We need a piece of the treasure, and I need to get this damn anklet off," he murmured.
"How are you going to forge a piece of the treasure in an hour?" Sara asked.
"I have no idea," Neal replied, rummaging through his supply drawers. "It's not enough time for a decent piece—" he froze in front of the open hidden drawer, then looked back to Sara. "The Degas," he said, grinning wide as he pulled out the piece Mozzie had apparently left behind. Neal's eyes lit up in excitement. "We had to steal it back after Moz sold it a couple days ago- he must've decided it was too hot to travel with…"
Sara moved next to him as he unrolled the painting. "Neal…" she said, taking in the beauty of the piece before grounding herself. "If the FBI catches anyone with this—"
"They'll trace it back to me," he finished. "But if I don't put this in Keller's hands in an hour, El doesn't have a chance."