A/N: And again, I am overwhelmed by the support that I've received for this. Thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, favoriting, alerting, etc. It means the world to me. (:

The second half of this chapter is the scene that I originally wrote that sparked everything. It starts with my summary line, "I worked SO hard to be you!", and goes through til the end.

7/25/12: Updated to be closer to canon, considering what we learned in "Diminishing Returns".

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CHAPTER THREE: My Father's Son

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"I wondered if you would actually show up today."

Neal looked up at the sound of the familiar voice, and picked the shape of a man out from the shadows at the far end of the warehouse. "I had the same questions about you," he admitted. He stopped pacing and spread his hands, showing himself to be unarmed. In return, the man copied his gesture, walking into a square of light spilling through a crack in the corrugated metal ceiling. Neal studied every inch of him, momentarily lost for words as he took in the man he had not seen since he was a child.

James "Caffrey" was shorter than Neal remembered, though still taller than his son. He had the same dark hair and crystal eyes that faced Neal in the mirror every day, but his body was broader. Thicker. He had large hands made rough by years of use. His clothes were clean and new like he'd just walked out of the store with them - which might have been entirely possible - and his shiny black shoes didn't have a single scuff on them. Stubble sprouted from a chin not shaved for several days, making wrinkles stand out. A bulge on his hip, under his jacket suggested that the elder man had not come unarmed. Of course not. He used to make a living shooting at people.

The spell was broken when the older man, finished studying his son, took a step forward with opened arms. "Neal..."

"I agreed to see you," Neal said shortly, stopping his father in his tracks. "I didn't agree to let you come near me."

"Son, what's going on? I thought that you of all people would be a little more...open-minded, shall we say? I'm not the only one in the family with a record. What's your weakness? It must have been something huge to change the stubborn little boy I remember who wanted to be a cop."

Neal shrugged. "Art," he admitted simply.

"Art?" James repeated, a distant look in his eyes. "Yeah, I remember you used to win prizes at school for art shows... Makes sense that the passion matured."

"Yeah, I guess. And yours was shooting, I remember. How did that happen, Dad? How did you go from shooting at paper targets to murdering people?"

"Now, that's not what it was, Neal. I didn't just go around shooting people without a reason."

"That's not what I heard."

A moment's pause. Then, a grim chuckle. "You've been talking to her, haven't you?"

"She worked with you," Neal reminded him. "I think she probably knew you better than anyone else. Better than Mom did."

"Hey!" James snapped. "I was loyal to your mother, alright? Let's keep that straight. I loved her."

"Whatever you say," Neal's voice was flat and unconvinced. "Though I gotta ask, if you were so wholly devoted to my mother, then why did you leave? Did you think that we'd just forget the fact that you abandoned us and go on with our lives like everything was okay?"

"And what was my alternative? A life-sentence in prison? Getting shipped off to die in the electric chair? I wasn't about to let that happen. I put too many guys in prison to sugar-coat my chances."

"You could have at least told me the truth."

James shook his head. "How was I supposed to admit that? And what kind of life would that have been for you, kid? Visiting your father once or twice a year from behind bullet proof glass?" A muscle in his cheek jumped. "At least what I did gave you a hero to remember instead of a felon. I hoped you'd turn out better than me."

Neal felt something in his chest snap. Half-blinded by the sudden tempest inside, he jerked forward until he was only a few feet away from Nicholas. "I worked so hard to be you!" he shouted. He felt hot and choked; standing this close in the same room as his father made it hard for him to breathe. "Do you know what that did to me, finding out that everything I'd been told was a lie?" He spread his hands, stuck out his foot so that the tracking anklet showed. "You made me what I am."

"Neal," he father's voice was so much calmer than his. It made him angry. How could the man be so calm? "I've made mistakes, son, I know that; but the man that you wanted to be - the man that you knew - he was good."

"No," Neal shook his head, hair falling in his eyes. He made an effort to quiet his voice. "No. I didn't know a man; just another con. I guess I got what I wanted after all, Dad. How about that? Like father, like son, huh?"

James gave a humorless chuckle. "And just how long have you been waiting to say all that to me?" he asked softly. "Does it feel good? Did you miss rebelling against your father as a kid?"

"I don't know, I never tried it. Maybe if I had had one..."

James sighed. "This isn't how I met this to go, Neal. I wanted to talk to you -"

Neal narrowed his eyes, saw the expression mirrored in the older face across the room. "Next time don't bother," he bit out. "I don't want you in my life." He took a deliberate step forward, and had the satisfaction of watching his father flinch. "And I know that there are some things that I just can't erase - lawlessness is in our blood, right? - but I sure don't need to stand here and take your apology for anything more than it is." Another step. "I know your kind. You're not here to say you're sorry for my sake, you're here for yourself. You feel guilty, maybe responsible somehow for the way my life has turned out, and you want to assuage whatever it is that's been making you uncomfortable thinking about me.

"You're right about one thing; it is your fault. All of it. And if you think that I'm going to make this easy on you, that you can come in and say your piece and everything goes away, you're wrong. God knows that I've suffered enough because of the path your lies set me on; you deserve to have some regrets for what you did." A third step, dark and menacing. "Normally, I don't like hurting people; but I'm oddly okay with you being in pain."

"Neal," his father's hand slid under his jacket, and Neal froze as that bulge at his side shifted. "Listen, I'm not here to make amends; I don't expect you to forgive me. But I want you to understand that I'm not the monster that you think I am."

Neal gave a small shrug. "And I'm not your son," he said simply.

He'd barely gotten the words out when the door to the warehouse burst opened, and FBI agents poured in. His father whirled, drawing his gun, then froze. Neal took four steps back, hands held up. He breathed a sigh of relief when Peter charged in with the rest. "Reaction time is a bit slow," he noted in his normal voice as the agent holstered his gun and crossed the warehouse. Neal tipped his head towards his father, who was currently being relieved of his weapon. "Much longer and you would have missed him completely."

"We were wondering why you decided to stand so blatantly just out of bounds," Peter answered, shaking his head. "You do realize that I could arrest you again for doing this? Or I could have you locked up in an insane asylum for taking such a stupid risk!"

"...You're not going to do that though, right?"

"No," Peter grumbled. "But the paperwork here is all on you; don't pretend that you can't forge a report for me. So who is this guy?"

Neal hesitated, just a split second. "His name is Nicholas Staton," he lied, picking out the only alias of his father's that he could remember. It was easier than it should have been. "He's been on the run since before my time."

"Uh-huh." Peter's tone told him that he'd caught the pause. "And why not just call me to pick him up?"

"If he'd seen you coming, he would have run," Neal shrugged. "I knew he was in the business, so I got him alone for you. Got him to pull a gun on the FBI, too; that won't look good for him."

"Nope," Peter shook his head. Neal did his best to keep his tells in check as the agent scrutinized him. "And you expect me to believe that he's just some guy 'in the business', that you don't have any prior connection to him at all? How did you convince him to come alone to meet you?"

"Peter, he's just another criminal," Neal insisted. "Beyond that, he means absolutely nothing to me."

He could tell that Peter wasn't buying his story, but one of the other agents called his name, and with a "this conversation isn't over" point of his finger, his friend left to do his job. Neal had a short-lived moment of relief, until his father caught his eye over the heads of the FBI agents patting him down. There was anger in his gaze, and disappointment, and also something akin to pride, which Neal wasn't sure how to process. Very deliberately, he turned away, walked further back into the warehouse to retrieve his hat.

If one tear happened to escape and hit the felt when he bent to pick it up, Neal would never admit it.

FIN.

A/N: Okay, so here's where you all have a choice. I have an optional epilogue sort of thing that I wrote for this; but it's a bit dry and has a different feel to it than I was going for, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. But if you all want me to, I'm alright with posting it to make you happy. What do you think? Interested?(: