Up All Night (White Collar, M, Secret Santa for MoonDuck)

[Zwee]

So, it's still technically Christmas day where I am, and I figured I couldn't waste the opportunity to post my Secret Santa before Christmas is officially over!

My Secret Santa is MoonDuck!! I've not seen Firefly which I know was your first choice (although I'll have to take your advice and check it out), but I was SO excited to write your second choice, White Collar, because I've harbored a crush on Neal for forever! I really hope you like it, MoonDuck!

This will probably be a few parts (it's still in-progress), but here is the first part, with more to come soon!!

* * * * * * *

The conference room table is littered with open files, spilling their contents untidily over the surface beneath them. Empty coffee cups stud any space left unoccupied by paper, computers, or limbs of the two men inhabiting the room. Wintry sunlight pools in through the eastern windows, making watery patterns on the table top as it reflects off the snow December snow, yet the two men sleep on, undisturbed.

The sound of soft snoring permeates the still morning air, the FBI agent’s head tipped back against his chair. Across from him, his CI—head resting at an uncomfortable-looking angle atop his arm.

The sound of Peter’s cell phone bursts suddenly into the quiet, made louder by the vibrations against the glass table it is perched on. Peter wakes with a grunt of surprise, jolting his chair into an upright position as Neal’s head shoots up from the table with a start. They exchange bleary looks before Peter fumbles with the device until its blaring is mercifully silenced.

“El,” he mutters into the phone. “No, I’m still at the office… Okay… Alright… I’ll see you tonight, I promise… Have a good day, hon. Bye.”

Neal scrubs at his eyes, trying to ignore his pounding headache, and the stiffness of his neck. “Peter…” His voice comes out hoarse from talking all night long. He looks beseechingly at his boss as he massages his neck.

“I know what you’re thinking,” the agent sighs ruefully, “but crime waits for no one. You’re not skipping work just because we pulled an all-nighter. Besides, you have a job to do.”

Neal makes a little sound of despair, blue eyes meeting Peter’s with a tortured look. “But Peter, the coffee…”

“We’ll grab some espresso.”

With this cheery thought in his sleep-laced mind, Neal stumbles his way to the bathroom, sniffling sedately into his wrist.

A tickle teases its way up from the back of his nose, eyes pricking with tears of irritation. He can’t reach his handkerchief in time, and before he can stop himself, he is muffling sneezes into his elbow. “Hh’Chshh! Hehh’TSCHshh! Hih’Chshh!”

Hoping Peter can’t hear him through the walls of glass that separate them, he sniffs mightily and ducks into the privacy of the bathroom.

Once in front of the sinks, he splashes water on his face, rubbing his hands over his eyes to wipe away some of the grittiness of sleep deprivation. He dares a look at his reflection and grimaces at the sight he sees there. His eyes are puffy and red-rimmed, and his hair is a tousled mess. Worst of all, though, is the state of his suit: wrinkled, tie loose, sleeves half-rolled, shirt untucked. He attempts some damage control, combing down his hair and straightening his wardrobe so he looks less like he’s been up all night, but he desperately needs a shower and a change of clothes if he wants to feel remotely human. By the time he has finished in the bathroom some of the heaviness in his head has dissipated, but his throat still stings, and a headache has begun to pound in his skull.

Peter had made a valiant attempt at tidying himself up as well, but nonetheless looks tired and grumpy when Neal returns from the bathroom. He is poring over a photograph of their suspect captured by a security camera, eyebrows drawn in concentration.

He doesn’t look up when Neal stumbles back into the conference room, but seems to register Neal’s presence all the same. “It just doesn’t add up.”

“Haven’t we been over this?” Neal groans, leaning against the wall because he can’t subject himself to that chair again until his muscles have fully recovered from spending the past twelve hours sitting in it. “Kazinsky’s too good. We’re never going to find the proof we need to put him away by following a paper trail.”

They have been arguing this point for the better part of twelve hours. Peter had been reluctant to put Neal undercover without adequate information on their suspect and research into his next projected heist, hence their all-nighter. The plan Neal came up with puts him undercover as an accomplished art thief seeking to win over Kazinsky by matching him up with a potential buyer, in the hopes that he can finagle a confession.

Peter’s frown deepens as his gaze drifts up from the papers scattering the table and into Neal’s bleary blue eyes. “I still don’t like this. We don’t know who the rest of his team is; it’s possible you’ll have your cover blown before you get a chance to get anything out of Kazinsky.”

Neal opens his mouth to argue for the millionth time, but Peter isn’t finished.

“Not to mention you’ll be working on almost no sleep; your instincts will be off, reflexes slow—”

Neal rolls his eyes. “I’ve worked jobs in much worse condition than a couple of all-nighters can do, Peter.”

Peter doesn’t miss a beat, instantly suspicious. “What do you mean, a couple? What were you doing the night before last?”

Neal adopts an exasperated expression, only slightly fueled by the hurt he feels whenever Peter jumps to the worst conclusion. “You had me casing the gallery, remember?” His voice cracks slightly on the inflection and he tries not to wince.

He thinks he catches a flash of guilt on Peter’s face before it sobers into an expression of carefully professional concern. “That settles it, then. You haven’t had more than a few hours’ sleep in almost two days. No gala tonight, we’ll wait until you’re better rested.”

Congestion is settling heavily into Neal’s sinuses now, and he knows by the bone-deep ache in his limbs that there is no way he will be in a better state of health if they wait. “Kate and I did a job in Austria once when I had full blown appendicitis. Allegedly,” he adds, when he notices the sharp interest Peter has suddenly fixed him with. “I think I can handle a little conversation, Peter.”

Peter gives him an appraising look. “Fine,” he concedes after a moment. “But we’re getting the good espresso before we do anything else.”

An expression of reverence dawns radiantly across Neal’s face as he stares at the FBI agent. “Well, I’m not going to argue with that.”

 

Neal meets Peter outside their favorite coffee shop—the one Peter started frequenting after his foray as an espresso-sipping accountancy expert left him with higher coffee standards than could be met by the sludge they brewed at the Bureau. Sipping his cappuccino with fervor, Neal winces as it stings his throat, raw from overuse, but enjoys the way it keeps his shivers at bay and helps loosen the congestion filling his head with dizzying thickness.

“Thanks, Diana,” Peter is saying into the phone, and he meets Neal’s eyes in a way that means there is new information. “Talk to you soon.” To Neal, he says, “we got Dover to take the bait. He’s pulling out of the operation, so there will be a spot on the team for you.”

Neal nods, but the drastic change in temperature from the cozy coffee shop to the snowy outdoors has made his nose runny and ticklish. He slips his handkerchief from his pocket with practiced ease, pressing it to his nose nonchalantly as Peter struggles to type out a text message with fingers clumsy from the cold.

He turns away to blow softly, but it’s no use. The sneeze comes upon him quickly and he knows instinctively that there’s no hiding it from Peter. He’s helplessly at the mercy of his hitching breaths. “Hihh… hihhh… Hih’Chshhh! Hih? Hih’TSCHhhoo!”

He can feel the agent’s eyes on him as he turns around, wiping his nose delicately on the soft fabric before tucking it out of sight.

“Gesundheit.” Peter’s tone says it all, Neal doesn’t need to look at him to know he’s frowning in suspicious concern.

“Excuse me,” he says breezily, ignoring the congestion that dulls his consonants and giving his best effort at an unconcerned grin. “So we’re set for tonight, then?”

“If you’re sure you’re feeling up to it.” He looks less convinced as Neal begins to sniffle.

“Well, I wouldn’t say no to a shower and a change of clothes,” Neal says hopefully. If he swings it right, maybe he can get the morning off after all. He tries to sniffle pitifully, but instantly regrets it when he feels the need to sneeze begin to tease his sinuses again. “Hhh… hihh… hh-hh? Hihh’tschhoo!”

“Are you doing that on purpose?”

Neal has already whipped out his handkerchief and dabs politely at his tickly nose, giving Peter a hurt look over the top of the white fabric. “It’s cold,” he says defensively. “Besides, why would I fake a sneeze?”

“So I’ll give you the morning off to rest up before the event tonight.”

“You’re so paranoid when you don’t get your beauty rehh… ehhh… EH’tschh! Ugh, excuse me.” Neal can’t disguise the shiver that travels up his spine.

Concern flits across Peter’s face. “Fine. Go home, shower, make yourself look pretty, but I expect you back at the Bureau for the briefing at four.”

“Peter, you are a merciful, benevolent leader,” Neal bows his head in mock-worship.

“Easy, Neal. Save the sucking up for tonight.”

Neal grins, flips his hat onto his head and calls, “See you at four,” over his shoulder as he waltzes away, ignoring the way his head has begun to pound stuffily with each step.

* * * * * * *

TBC!

Edited December 26, 2018 by Zwee

[snowshie]

Such a great start! I can't wait to read the rest! :)

[MoonDuck]

omg omg omg omg Neal  

Thank you so much Zwee! I love all the little details that add to their character, like El calling Peter asking where he's been, the coffee being crap, Peter assuming the worst of Neal, or that Neal would carry a handkerchief. I also like that you put effort into creating a storyline, because actual plot is something I can never seem to figure out.  

12 hours ago, Zwee said:

before he can stop himself, he is muffling sneezes into his elbow. “Hh’Chshh! Hehh’TSCHshh! Hih’Chshh!”

This is beautiful 

12 hours ago, Zwee said:

“You’re so paranoid when you don’t get your beauty rehh… ehhh… EH’tschh! Ugh, excuse me.” Neal can’t disguise the shiver that travels up his spine.

And this sounds exactly like something Neal would say. 

I'm so excited about this story, I love it so much! I really hope you continue writing it!

[AngelEyes]

This is fantastic!

On 12/26/2018 at 2:11 AM, Zwee said:

Worst of all, though, is the state of his suit: wrinkled, tie loose, sleeves half-rolled, shirt untucked.

I love this image. I can imagine he is not pleased by it! 

 

On 12/26/2018 at 2:11 AM, Zwee said:

“You’re so paranoid when you don’t get your beauty rehh… ehhh… EH’tschh! Ugh, excuse me.”

LOL

 

On 12/26/2018 at 2:11 AM, Zwee said:

“Peter, you are a merciful, benevolent leader,” Neal bows his head in mock-worship.

Perfect!

[tma]

OMG... **loving** this.  Set up perfectly!  ❤❤

[Zwee]

Thanks everyone so much for your kind words! I'm so happy everybody's liking it so far.

This next little bit is on the shorter side, but there will be longer parts to come! I imagine Neal is the type of guy who can be dying and will still tough it out with a charming smile if he's on the job. (Don't worry though, he'll have to let down and take care of himself eventually...)

* * * * * * * *

At four o’clock sharp, the elevator dings, and Neal shuffles out, a garment bag slung over his shoulder, cashmere scarf still tied around his neck despite the heat of the building.

Although Neal has showered, changed, and even napped for a few hours, his health is deteriorating at an alarming rate. When he had woken at two thirty to his alarm, he had felt infinitely worse, as though the few hours’ sleep had done more harm than good. He knuckles beneath his nose with a free hand to stave off the sneezing fit that will not leave him alone. His whole head feels stuffy and confused, and he can’t seem to stop shivering despite the layers of warm clothing he selected before heading out.

Never one to give any less than his full effort, however, Neal fixes his usual confident grin to his face (though perhaps a shade less peppy than usual) and attempts a powerful stride to his desk where he can hopefully collapse into a chair until Peter summons them upstairs.

He barely has time to hang that night’s suit on a filing cabinet, however, when Peter suddenly appears at the top of the stairs, giving him the “it’s time” look and gesturing with the patented two finger point to come upstairs.

His head is buzzing all through the meeting, and it’s all he can do not to begin sneezing uncontrollably when his runny nose starts tickling insistently ten minutes in. Peter has passed around files to everyone at the table, and is in the middle of giving a history of Kazinsky’s alleged thefts so the team is well-versed in his M.O.

Having spent all the previous night memorizing this M.O., Neal allows himself a moment of distraction, fighting off a building sneeze that buzzes ticklishly through his sinuses. He pinches the bridge of his nose and rubs, trying to dispel the itch without drawing attention to himself. This proves to be a difficult task in a room full of FBI agents, however.

Diana leans in. “You okay, Caffrey?” She murmurs, eyeing him with concern.

He nods, grins a little in an attempt to reassure her. This momentary break in concentration is all the tickle needs to take over, however. He is helpless to stop it, and can only stifle silently into a hastily thrown-up wrist.

“Bless you,” Diana whispers, looking impressed. “How do you do that?”

He gives a half shrug and a subdued sniffle. “You get pretty good at making everything you do silent in my line of work,” he mutters back, attempting self-confidence, though he still desperately needs to sneeze. Stifles never work.

His breath catches dizzyingly in another sharp inhale, and he manages to stifle the next sneeze silently as well. Diana murmurs another blessing and Neal knows he won’t be able to get away with another stifle without her noticing. Not to mention stifling two sneezes has only seemed to exacerbate the problem.

A memory pops unbidden into his mind, one involving Mozzie, Kate, a forged Rembrandt, and a stifled sneezing fit as he made his way near-silently through the dustiest air duct he’d ever crawled through. He’d ruined his favorite suit in all the dust and sneezed so much in the getaway car from stifling that Kate had forced Mozzie to take a detour for allergy medicine on their way out of town.

Shuddering slightly at the idea of stifling the fit he can feel building, he waits desperately for a lull so he can excuse himself.

Finally, Peter moves on to discussing movements of the agents stationed outside the gala, something they have already been over privately and which does not apply to Neal directly. He makes a hasty escape, trying to avoid drawing attention to himself, and flees to the restroom.

He scarcely makes it through the door before the sneezing starts. “Hehh’CHshhh! Hih’ISHhhh! Hehh! Heh’KSHhoo! Hihh… Ihh… Hihh! Ih’KSCHhoo!” He groans and blows his nose when he is finished, dismayed to realize his nose has taken on an irritated pink shade. This does not bode well for the rest of the evening.

Most of the agents are packing up their things when Neal returns, and Peter gives him a searching look. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Neal says, noticing as he does that the congestion he’s been battling all day is winning, creeping noticeably into his speech now and muddling his consonants. Peter notices, Neal is sure of it.

“You’re sure you’re up for this?”

“When have I ever let you down?” Neal grins, though the muscles of his face protest at the excessive movement, and his throat twinges painfully with the inflection.

Peter doesn’t answer, instead stares down at the same surveillance camera photo that has been bothering him for days. “I swear there’s something I recognize about this guy,” he gestures toward the second, faceless silhouette in the photograph. “You really don’t know who it is?”

“Well, it’s a little difficult to identify someone without a face, Peter.” Nevertheless, Neal leans forward to examine the picture for what feels like the thousandth time. “Maybe there’s something there… In the slope of the shoulders?”

Peter nods vaguely, then his eyes draw Neal’s. His gaze is intense, penetrating, and it takes Neal by surprise. “If this guy is at the gala tonight, if he recognizes you, it could blow the whole operation and put you in danger.”

“It’ll be fine, Peter,” Neal says, his tone serious. He knows instinctively it is not the time to be blasé. “If I see anyone I know, I’ll disappear. Promise.”

Peter nods again, firmly. “Alright then. Suit up, we leave for the gallery in twenty.”

Neal turns around too quickly and his vision lurches. Blinking rapidly, he makes his way to the door, trying to maintain balance.

He will be fine. All he needs to do is win over Kazinsky’s trust, set him up with a fake buyer, and get him to admit his next heist on the wire. All in all, it’s nothing outlandish, and when he’s finished, he can finally sleep.

Thinking wistfully of his thick duvet, not to mention June’s endless supply of tissues, he steels himself to remain functional for the next several hours and steps out the door.

* * * * * * * *

[CeruleanBlue]

Oh, my God, this is amazing.  I love Neal.

[AngelEyes]

Beautiful. Poor Neal!

[MyOwnPrivateSFC]

Neal...*sighs* Baby. I love you. But you are just a disaster of your own making sometimes.

Zwee, I’m case you couldn’t tell, I’m loving this. It’s very true to the characters, while also being very hot.

[MoonDuck]

I second myown's comment!!

I love how you describe the progression of his symptoms, like the "muddled consonants." His explanation of how he learned to stifle so well is wonderful, as is the little memory that follows. Looking forward to seeing how far he makes it into the operation before he's forced to concede. 

[ayslin]

This is fantastic!  The writing is excellent and the characterization is perfect.  

And I LOVE the details you're putting in - Neil being a little hurt by Peter's immediate suspicion, the Kate flashback, the two-fingered point.  

I can't wait to see where you take this!

[Zwee]

I'm completely blown away by all the love this story is getting! Thanks so much for all your replies! I'm happy everyone's enjoying it and really flattered by all your comments!! I'm having a lot of fun writing this story in case everyone couldn't tell.

The next few chapters are plot-heavy and are a little on the theatrical side, but so is the show, right? I'm expecting there to be 2-3 chapters after this one (most of which are already written), so I should have regular updates from here out! Hope you all continue to enjoy!

* * * * * * * *

Neal examines his reflection in the windows of the gallery before entering, adjusting a dark curl by his ear so it sits more securely over his earpiece. Peter has allowed him to remove his tracking anklet for the occasion. Kazinsky is more than likely to notice it what with Neal’s perfectly tailored suit, and it would be a dead giveaway if George Price, art thief and forger extraordinaire were to be discovered wearing an FBI tracking device.

He frowns slightly at the rosy shade of his nose, irritated by the cold wind that whips harder through the building-lined city streets that act as a tunnel for its fury. He shivers, adjusts the wire in his lapel so it lays flatter against his chest.

“You look fine,” Peter’s voice comes through the earpiece, tinny but clear. “Hurry up and get inside.”

Neal glances around and sees the security camera up and to his right that the FBI must be tapped into. So that’s how they can see him. He gives the camera a cheeky wink, then moves toward the door of the gallery, scanning the crowd immediately for any familiar faces.

He checks his coat and scarf at the door, instantly missing them as goosebumps ripple over him. The gallery is drafty with its high ceilings, and the enormous windows do much less to keep the December chill from the air than Neal would have desired.

Still, he tenses to keep shivers at bay and walks purposefully into the main showroom, surreptitiously glancing from face to face as he pretends to examine the art all around him.

He slips smoothly between clusters of the well-dressed elite, chatting to one another about brush technique and color theory. He has to stop himself from scoffing more than once as he catches snobbish snippets of conversation. Really, people needed to educate themselves before they began rattling off meaningless buzz words.

His nose gives an insistent tickle and Neal finds his willpower to fight off his symptoms is weakening as he can do nothing to stop a shaky inhale. He stifles silently once, twice, but the third sneeze is too powerful to remain noiseless. “NGxt!” He lets out a short sigh and hopes Peter can’t see his head bobbing on a surveillance camera.

He can do this.

He begins his scan of the crowd again and feels his heart give a sudden lurch of recognition. There. Neal spots him by an enormous white Christmas tree glittering merrily by the bar. Kazinsky. He’s deep in conversation with a tall woman with a mane of black curls that Neal does not recognize. She nods slowly as he speaks, apparently discussing the painting in front of them, but Neal notices an air of urgency in his communication, as though relaying important news. The woman clenches and unclenches her hands as though stressed. Interesting.

“Peter, I’ve got eyes on Kazinsky,” he murmurs, moving his lips as little as possible. “By the bar. He’s talking to someone, a woman. He looks agitated. I think he found out Dover has dropped out of their next job.”

“Can you get close enough to hear what they’re saying?”

Neal considers. “I’ll try.”

“Don’t draw attention to yourself,” Peter cautions. Easier said than done, Neal thinks, as stuffiness in his head shifts and a fresh wave of tickles needle their way into his nasal passages.

He sniffles quietly, turning his head away from the lapel microphone so the team won’t have to hear it.

He weaves through passing groups, keeping his eye on the couple he needs to reach. His sight is blocked momentarily by a passing tray of canapes, however, and when he locks eyes on his goal again, Kazinsky has disappeared. His companion stands alone, fidgeting nervously with her cocktail napkin.

She’s very pretty, he realizes, her large catlike eyes accented with gold to match her dress, which in turn sets off the golden glow of her smooth dark skin beneath the lights.

Kazinsky is nowhere in sight, but Neal thinks this woman must know where he has gone.

Neal approaches the bar, gratified when the woman glances his way and returns his smile with interest. “Need a refill?” He asks, nodding at her empty glass.

“Thank you,” she nods, tossing her curls back over her shoulder and accepting a fresh drink. She takes a very large sip, and then another, disregarding the cocktail straws.

Neal arranges his face into a flirtatious, teasing sort of look. “Long night ahead of you?”

“Oh,” she laughs, a little surprised. He smiles to put her at ease. “I suppose I’m steeling myself for a night on the job.”

“You work for the gallery?” Neal asks, though he knows she does not. They have a record of the gallery employees and he is certain her picture did not appear on the list.

“No. Actually, my employer is something of a collector. He has his eye on a few pieces here tonight, so he may need me to… draw up the paperwork.” Neal recognizes the euphemism and smiles knowingly.

“Ah yes, I think I saw you talking to him earlier. I have to confess, he’s a bit of a legend in my circles.” He times the purposeful glance into her dark eyes perfectly, sees them widen slightly.

“Careful, Neal,” comes Peter’s voice from the earpiece, but Neal knows what he is doing.

“What did you say your name was?”

“George Price,” he grins confidently, sticks out a hand to shake hers.

“Price,” she repeats thoughtfully, then recognition dawns across her features. Her polite smile is quickly being replaced by a look of devilish interest. “George Price, your reputation precedes you.”

Perfect. He has used this alias a few times in the art world, and the FBI had helped circulate rumors of his skill a few months back when working a case for a museum. Her familiarity with Price (and hopefully, by extension, Kazinsky’s) would make his job much easier.

“I have to confess I’m not familiar with yours,” he responds, and is chagrined to hear the stuffiness has returned to his voice with vengeance. He sniffles surreptitiously, presses a finger beneath his nose when he knows she isn’t looking.

“Officially, Camilla Prescott,” she glances around, lowers her voice to a quiet purr. “But you might recognize the name Davenport?”

“Neal, we found her,” Peter’s voice is urgent. “She’s suspected to be involved with a couple of smaller jobs, but her brother is a well-known fence. He’s the guy from the picture!”

“Miss Davenport,” Neal says, impressed. “Then, I’m assuming you’re related to a certain b-business man by the same-hih-name?

If she notices the way his breath hitches, she doesn’t let on, merely nods conspiratorially. The slight tension at the corner of her mouth is not lost on him. Perhaps she and her brother are not on the best of terms.

“I’m sorry, the two of you aren’t close?” His nose is running now. He manages to swipe his cocktail napkin beneath it, but it is only a temporary fix. He is torn by the need to keep up the appearance of health and the need to keep getting information from Camilla.

“I prefer our circles to remain exclusive. My employer, however, has different ideas.” She is unsuccessful at keeping a note of bitterness from her tone.

Neal’s heart sinks. He hears Peter swear in his ear. So, they already have a fence, and a good one at that. There is no way Neal will be able to win Kazinsky over with his offer to match him up with a stranger. From Kazinsky’s perspective it is risky to invite one outsider to the team, let alone two potentially unnecessary outsiders.

He thinks furiously. He regrets having sipped his own drink to put Camilla at ease—the alcohol has gone straight to his head and is clashing dizzyingly with his blossoming fever.

“I think we should pull out, Neal. We’re not going to get a confession out of him tonight.”

Neal isn’t listening. The need to sneeze has become urgent, and he doubts he can stifle unnoticed in such an intimate conversation.

“Excuse me, Camilla,” he says breathlessly, breath hitching. He twists away, folding his handkerchief over his nose. “Hihh… Hh’Tschh!”

“Bless you!” Camilla has just flagged down a passing waiter, placing her empty glass on his tray. They share a significant look, but Neal is forced to look away again as another sneeze threatens.

“Hhh… Hihh’KSCHhh! I’m so sorry.” He rubs furiously at his nose, hoping desperately it will be the last sneeze.

“Damn it, Neal.” Well, he had always known he wouldn’t be able to hide his cold from Peter for long.

“Bless you, George!” She puts strange emphasis on the name, then turns to the waiter. “Could you get some napkins for Mr. Price here, please?”

Understanding dawns on Neal as the waiter nods and moves purposefully through the crowd, not toward the back room but instead towards a door that must lead to a separate showroom. He is with them.

Peter comes to the same conclusion. “She’s signaling him for some reason. Neal, I think you should get out of there, now. Our plans are compromised, and you’re not fit to keep going.”

But Neal can’t leave. He has spotted Kazinsky once more. And this time, Kazinsky has spotted him too.

* * * * * * * *

TBC...

[AngelEyes]

Oooh! Cliffhanger! This is so exciting! And I love Neal's growing symptoms and him trying to keep concealing them.

[queenie]

What a WONDERFUL premise. I am delighted. 

[Zwee]

Thanks everybody!! Obligatory apology for low level of sneezing in this part--I promise Neal only gets sneezier from here!

Here's part 4/6!

* * * * * * * *

Kazinsky is headed straight for him.

Peter swears again. “Kazinsky’s headed your way, Neal. We think the guy with him is armed. Give us the code word and we’ll send our people in.”

There is a distinct note of fear and urgency in Peter’s tone, but Neal is not willing to blow their cover. Despite the tenuousness of the situation, he does not feel threatened. Kazinsky’s face is rather genial, and Neal does not recognize the man beside him, nor has he recognized anyone at the gallery thus far. Now that he knows that Davenport is the man from the picture, his fears about the integrity of his cover have been assuaged.

Choosing to ignore Peter’s warnings, Neal clears his throat painfully and fixes a charming smile to his face.

“Mr. Price,” Kazinsky holds out a hand for Neal to shake. “What a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I have been following your work for a while now. It’s very impressive.”

“Likewise,” Neal replies smoothly. “I’ve been a fan of yours for years.” He suppresses the sudden need to cough.

“What a pity it has taken us so long to meet.”

“Why is he suddenly so keen on being friends?” Peter murmurs, but the reality of the situation comes crashing suddenly down on Neal, and he feels like an idiot for not seeing it sooner.

Kazinsky has at least three team members with him tonight—relatively unnecessary for simply scoping out the most valuable painting to steal, or the security that’s in place. They have already set their sights on their target, perhaps months ago. Tonight, they are going to use the distraction the gala affords to carry out a party heist. And, unless Neal is mistaken, they want him to fill in for Dover, the man the FBI convinced to drop out.

His head spinning, Neal wonders if there is a way to relay this message to Peter without giving himself away. He is not in the best shape for a heist tonight, nor is he in a headspace to cleverly get a confession out of Kazinsky.

Plus, he realizes with a sudden jolt, if they find the earpiece or the lapel mic, his cover will be blown and he will be in serious danger. Not to mention he will waste a good alias.

“I would be lying if I said you didn’t intrigue me, Mr. Price.” Kazinsky says. “As I said, your work is very impressive.”

Pretending to rub the back of his head modestly, Neal deftly dislodges the earpiece and slips it into his trousers pocket with his handkerchief.

“It just so happens I have a need for someone impressive. I recently suffered a disappointment from someone I considered a friend. I will be putting my confidences in stronger stock from now on.”

Neal smiles easily. “I’d love to give you my card,” he bluffs, making a show of patting his chest pocket so he can slip the lapel mic out and safely down to sit beside the handkerchief-wrapped earpiece. Breathing a sigh of relief that no squeal of feedback occurs to give him away, Neal pretends to search his other pocket for business cards.

“Actually,” Kazinsky says quietly, “I was hoping to utilize your talents sooner rather than later. You see, we have a rather time-sensitive situation on our hands, and we’re one person short. I’m not a man who usually takes risks, Mr. Price, but I am willing to make an exception for someone with a reputation as good as yours…” he lets the sentence trail away suggestively.

Neal hopes against hope that Peter can still hear through the layers of fabric that now muffles the wire. “I’d be honored to join your team, Mr. Kazinsky. Of course, we’ll need to discuss compensation. Is there someplace more private we can go?”

Kazinsky smiles. “Of course. Follow me.”

Neal keeps his distance, pretending to be concerned with discretion, which allows him an unsupervised moment to succumb to a coughing fit. His head pounds with the exertion and a flash of heat comes over him. The fever he felt coming on earlier is in full force.

He steps through a side door after Kazinsky and finds himself in a small room that looks as though it is being used as a storage room for the catering staff.

“I hope you won’t take offense if I have Gunther here check you for weapons?”

Neal inclines his head casually, makes a move to hold his arms out while simultaneously taking a careful, measured breath through his nose as best he can. The effect is instantaneous. His breath hitches desperately and he holds a finger up to stall the enormous man coming toward him.

“Ehh-excuse me for a mo-ohh-ment—hih’KSCHhew! Hihh’KSCHhh!” He pulls the handkerchief containing the wire and earpiece from his pocket and dabs at his nose, then holds his arms out obediently.

Gunther appears unconcerned with checking the square of fabric Neal has just wiped his nose on (or perhaps just unwilling to touch it) which was Neal’s hope. He slips the devices deftly into his pocket once the man is finished patting him down and turns expectantly to Kazinsky.

Kazinsky gives him a satisfied smile. “Very well, Mr. Price. Shall we begin?”

Kazinsky introduces Neal to the other members of his team and their roles for the heist. Neal is tasked with gaining access to the security room, creating a diversion and wiping all the camera footage as soon as he gets the signal from Camilla.

“You must maintain uninhibited access to the camera room until everyone is clear of the showroom in question and back to their stations. Then, you will take the east stairwell to collect the tube containing the painting from Stinson and hand it off to Camilla. She and I will take the painting the loading dock where we may safely get it to Mr. Davenport.”

Neal’s heart pounds as he realizes he has just gotten Kazinsky to admit he is guilty of planning to steal a painting worth tens of millions of dollars. He knows if Peter can still hear him, he has mobilized agents to arrest them, but he can get the rest of the confession if he chooses his next words carefully.

He adopts a serious tone, pretending to be deeply focused on ensuring he can play his part. “I’ve been following your work, Mr. Kazinsky. Why aren’t you going about this the same way you did with the Powell gallery? It seems as though a simpler approach—”

“The security system at the Powell was completely different. If you are so familiar with my work, Mr. Price, you will do what I did at the Clozerman gallery and not question my methods. We are on a tight schedule now.”

“Understood,” Neal answers soberly, while his head spins with triumph. “Let’s go.”

He slips out of the door just as uniformed agents begin to close in around them.

* * * * * * * *

2 chapters to go! Hope y'all are still liking it!

[MyOwnPrivateSFC]

Neal, if you survive this, Peter is going to kill you! (If you don’t, he’ll probably bring you back to life just so he can kill you again.) But good work on getting that confession.

Zwee, I love how you got the guy not to look at the handkerchief. Of course Neal would know that a fake sneeze would be detected, but a real one accepted!

Looking forward to more!

[AngelEyes]

Brilliant! I love how this is unfolding. I agree with @MyOwnPrivateSFC that Peter is going to kill him. And the handkerchief thing was slick!

[MoonDuck]

Thank you thank you thank you for all the updates, Zwee! This is an incredible secret santa… I appreciate how much thought you've put into the plot! Neal's so clever, too, hiding his wire with a handkerchief, or baiting Kazinsky with seemingly unintelligent questions. Seems like things are turning out all right for him, for now.

[Prongs]

Where has this been all my life?!?! I looove White Collar and I love this fic! The way you write Neal’s sneezes is SO HOT! Can’t wait for more!

[Zwee]

Yay, I'm happy everybody is enjoying it!! This is the most fun I've had writing something to be shared on here in a long time.

Here is the penultimate chapter! It's on the shorter side, but I swear the last chapter will make up for length :)

* * * * * * * *

The cry of “FBI! Drop your weapons and put your hands in the air!” echoes around Neal as the agents surround Kazinsky and his team members.

An uproar from the gala guests and the FBI agents explodes around him as team members scatter, attempting to flee. They are outnumbered, however, and the agents quickly overtake them. Peter steps forward into the fray. His triumphant, determined look falters a little when his eyes meet Neal’s, and the meaning is implicit: they will talk about this later. Peter turns his eyes back to the team leader.

Neal catches sight of Peter’s expression again moments later as he handcuffs Kazinsky; he appears victorious as a nearby officer begins to read Kazinsky his rights. Neal allows himself an exhausted grin. He did it.

 He has a feeling Peter wants him to remain at the gallery until Kazinsky and his team have been hauled away, but his head really hurts and he is definitely getting feverish now. He doesn’t feel up to a stern reprimand despite their clear victory from Neal’s good work. And he definitely doesn’t feel up to attempting to holding back the sneezes that have been teasing him all evening. Feeling dizzy in all the excitement, Neal manages to fade into the shadows without being noticed. He grabs his coat from coat check and sneaks out the back door. He can get admonished (and perhaps congratulated) by Peter tomorrow, after a proper night’s sleep.

 

The cab driver charges Neal far too much for the relatively short ride back to June’s, but Neal barely has the brainpower to count out money, let alone barter for the price he deserves. He stumbles out of the car and up to the front door, shivering uncontrollably and trying to keep his nose from running while he fumbles with his keys.

“Neal? Is that you?” June’s voice echoes from down the hall as he steps inside and begins stamping snow from his shoes. Neal’s heart sinks. June is one of his favorite people in the world, but he would give anything for privacy at this moment, especially if it means she doesn’t have to see him in such a dreadful state. He knows there is no avoiding it, however, as her footsteps approach. “I haven’t seen you home in a while! Been busy?”

“Hh-Hello June,” he manages through hitching breaths as she appears in the doorway to the sitting room. “Hh-hh! Hih’KSCHhoo! Ehh… EhTSCHhoo! Excuse me, sorry!”

“Bless you!” She stops in front of him as he reaches the stairs and surveys him. “Are you under the weather?”

“I’m alright,” he waves his hand, fighting back another sneeze. “This last case ran me a little ragged. It’s nothing I can’t manage.” He tries to give her an easygoing shrug, a charming smile, but a shiver rattles through him, bringing with it a wave of dizziness. He clutches the banister slightly tighter.

“You don’t look well at all,” June frowns. “Do you need anything? Tea?”

“Thank you, but I’m fine really. I just need to go to bed.”

“Point taken.” June smiles softly, gives his shoulder a squeeze, and retreats to the sitting room. “Goodnight, Neal! Feel better soon!”

Once upstairs, Neal breathes a sigh of relief at the idea of being able to let down at last. His head feels fuzzy with pressure, and he can feel a fit of sneezes buzzing in his sinuses, but most pressing is the bone-deep cold that has sunk its claws into him.

Though his bed looks incredibly inviting, he knows bundling in blankets will not be enough to stop the shivering. He undresses, leaving a most un-Neal-like mess in his wake, and heads for the shower.

The hot water eases some of his achiness, and he lets it cascade over his body, trying to immerse himself in the warmth. Soon, the steam begins to loosen some of his congestion, and the need to sneeze is suddenly urgent.

“Hehhihh… Hehh’KTSCHhhuh! Eh-ETSCHhhh! Hhh… Huh’KTSCHhhh! Huhh’KTSCHHhoo!”

He muffles sneeze after tickly sneeze into his cupped hands until he begins to feel dizzy. He supposes this is his body’s way of punishing him for holding back for so long.

When the sneezing finally subsides, Neal woozily washes his hands beneath the hot water and steels himself to get out.

As soon as he shuts the water off, goosebumps erupt over his skin and he begins to shiver once more. He makes quick work of drying himself off and dresses in his warmest set of pajamas and a pair of thick socks.

It’s all he can do not to pass out on his feet as he fills a cup of water. Being awake feels physically painful now.

He manages only to pull a sweater on over his pajamas before collapsing onto his bed and cocooning himself beneath the covers. He falls asleep within seconds.

* * * * * * * *

Bonus points to anyone who can think of a reason Neal probably should have stayed at the gallery... 😉

[fickle_tickle]

Should have stayed?? Poor thing's a mess! You have my attention...can't wait to find out!

[AngelEyes]

Wow. This is great. Maybe he should have stayed to identify some of the other members of the gang, they could have gotten them in the arrests but not know who they really are and need Neal to identify them?

[phoenix]

This is brilliant! Sick Neal is one of my favorite things ever and you write him wonderfully. This fic also has pretty much everything I love: hiding/working through an illness for the good of the mission; trying to hold back the sneezes and progressively failing; Neal with a handkerchief (so fitting, especially the sleight of hand); shivery feverishness; steam-induced shower sneezes... *gestures happily at all of the above.* Can't wait to read the rest!  

[snowshie]

Looks like somebody forgot to have their ankle monitor replaced. Whooops. I bet Peter is losing his mind somewhere right now.

Poor Neal! I love every bit of this fic. I love the plot and premise - they're very true to the show, and I can't hate anything with June in it. Thanks again for sharing! Can't wait to read the rest. :)

[Prongs]

Poor Neal! This is making me desperately want to rewatch the whole show. Can’t wait for the last chapter!