Chapter Text
In hindsight, Neal Caffrey should’ve realized nothing good could’ve come from Peter Burke smiling at him with such a mischievous glint in his eyes. But Neal was nothing if not a little too optimistic—a little too romantic—to not croon gleefully when Peter had described the two month vacation to Paris he was taking Elizabeth on.
“I mean, personally, I don’t exactly see the appeal of the Eiffel Tower when we have plenty of our own buildings here in New York, but Elizabeth is entranced by the idea of taking pictures and eating authentic French croissants—”
“Kwa-ssonts,” Neal corrected with a jaunty tip of his hat, donning his signature pretentious French accent, looking up at Peter’s frustrated (but endeared) expression while flipping through their latest case file.
“Yes, those,” Peter chuckled, “and she also said something about a fashion show? I’m a little lost on the details, but as soon as I brought up Paris she already had the whole itinerary planned so I have a feeling she’ll be the one acting as the tour guide and I’ll just be along for the ride.”
Neal grinned, “Send me a postcard, then.”
Peter smiled, but Neal could tell from the soft hesitance in his gaze that there was something unspoken still in the air.
“Neal…” Peter began haltingly, “There’s, uh— been a slight change of plans in terms of where you’ll be for the next two months, though.”
The case file Neal had been holding slipped from his grasp, falling from his hands in a quiet snowfall of paper and laminated sheets. He didn’t move to pick it up.
“Where I’ll be?” Try as he may to keep a cool, unflappable exterior at all times, there were certain things that even Neal Caffrey couldn’t brush off as no big deal. Prison was one of them.
“You’re not… sending me back are you?” Neal stepped back, eyes searching frantically in Peter’s expression for an answer.
“No, no, Neal,” Peter put a hand up, waving away his concern, “That’s not what I meant. Sorry, I could’ve worded that better. You’ll be moving departments.”
“Moving… departments?” Neal asked, eyes narrowing slightly. He bent down to pick up the papers that had scattered across the carpet—a good excuse to keep his face down so Peter wouldn’t be able to scrutinize his expression, “How would that work?” He asked, careful to keep his tone neutral, but judging by the apologetic purse of Peter’s lips, he hadn’t been entirely successful.
“I know, it’s not exactly ideal,” Peter hedged, hands in his pockets, “but Organized Crime has been looking into a case involving a violent turf war between two rival crime families in New York—the Moreno Syndicate and the Castellano Crew. Old-school outfits with new-school money streams. They launder drug and alcohol profits through bars, nightclubs, and high-end art auctions. Bodies have started turning up, and they want to loop in someone from White Collar because both families are funneling profits through forged art, fake charities, and offshore accounts.”
“And that someone from White Collar…” Neal trailed off, halfheartedly shuffling the papers in his case file.
“… is you,” Peter finished.
“But if you’re gone…” Neal started again, and this time he didn’t even try to keep the plaintive note out of his voice.
“… you’re getting a new handler.”
“Seriously, Peter?” Neal sighed, “All the people from Organized Crime hate me.”
“Hey, don’t say that!” Peter attempted to nudge Neal’s shoulder playfully, but the CI wasn’t having it. “Who could resist that infamous Caffrey charm?”
“I can name twelve special agents right now. Included but not limited to,” Neal counts the names on his fingers, “Russo, Alvarez, Desai, Williams, Smith, Kelton— oh my gosh, and don’t even get me started on Rourke. I bumped into him one time in the hall on accident and I swear he gave me a death glare. If looks could kill I’d be dead.” Neal shivered.
Peter looked at him sympathetically, “Well, at least you’ll have ample time to convert him to the Caffrey fan club.”
“Ample time…?” Neal questioned. He watched a slow smile bloom on Peter’s face as the gears turned in his head.
“No…” Neal gasped, “Peter you can’t be serious. Is Rourke my new handler?”
“Yes, he is,” Peter conceded, “but Neal, trust me on this one, I think this is gonna be really good for you.”
“Yeah,” Neal laughed sarcastically, running a hand through his hair, “It’ll be really phenomenal being attached to the hip of a six foot seven brick wall of pure muscle and hatred. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Hey, Rourke might have a reputation for being a little tough, but he has some of the best closure rates for cases. High eighties, just like us. Stick it out on this case and you’ll make some new friends.”
“Or enemies,” Neal muttered under his breath.
“Neal,” Peter said seriously, placing a heavy hand on the CI’s shoulder. Neal looked up.
“Elizabeth and I are leaving for our vacation this weekend. I know, it’s short notice, but I didn’t want to tell you earlier and have you stressing about it.”
Neal had a half-formulated protest ready about how he would never stress about anything, so much as plot out a few contingency plans with Mozzie, but one look at Peter’s stern expression and the words died on his lips.
“This vacation means a lot to us,” Peter continued, “and I’m most likely not going to be using my phone. El has been stressed lately with work and the last thing I wanna do is bring my work with me. So…” Peter’s tone lightened marginally as he stretched his arm out for a handshake, “just for these two months, can you promise me you’ll stay out of trouble? No contacting me unless it is absolutely necessary and no shenanigans either. You do what Rourke tells you to do and you do it with a smile on your face. Deal?”
“Deal,” Neal agreed, shaking Peter’s hand, albeit begrudgingly. “But only for Elizabeth. God knows she deserves a luxury vacation after all the things you put her through,” Neal tutted jokingly.
Peter laughed. It was genuine and hearty and a sound Neal found himself missing sorely in the days after he left.
In hindsight, Neal wishes he never would’ve shaken Peter’s hand. He wishes he would’ve begged the man to stay, to assign him to someone else—anything. But at the time, the whole conversation had just seemed like an unfortunate blip in an otherwise straightforward four year deal.
Oh, if only Neal had known just how wrong he was.
━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━┅━
The first thing Neal learns about Special Agent Thomas Rourke is that he despises the idea of a lunch break.
And it wasn’t even just the idea of taking an hour off from the case that bothered him, Neal slowly began to learn, it was the mere sight of anyone else eating any sort of food or beverage except water, and on rare occasions, coffee.
Except… that wasn’t quite it either. Neal had come to this realization slowly throughout the week, when he’d seen Agent Dominic Russo munching on a bag of potato chips without a second glance from Rourke. And then Agent Naomi Smith had a whole turkey sandwich at her desk which she ate in its entirety without a single comment. And then it was Desai’s thermos of noodles, and Kelton’s container of lasagna, and even Rourke himself indulged in no less than six hard boiled eggs at lunch and a box of chicken and rice for dessert— but God forbid Neal try to eat a granola bar!
He’d barely gotten done with tearing open the wrapper when he felt Rourke’s gaze burning into him from across the room.
“Caffrey! I thought I gave you an assignment to do. Now is not the time to take a break. Stop being lazy and get your ass back to work. You’re out of prison so you can help us with this damn case, not stuff your face. Get back to work!” Rourke punctuated the command by throwing his stack of papers on his desk with an unceremonious thud.
Neal had opened his mouth to protest, seeing as the other agents were eating and highlighting financial reports simultaneously, but one look at Rourke’s murderous glare had him shutting his mouth and opening his notebook immediately.
It’d gone about the same way day after day. At some point, Neal realizes that even two almonds is a little too luxurious for someone of his position— “good-for-nothing leech” “lazy” “criminally stupid” “worthless" "ridiculous”—and other such insults Rourke continuously murmurs under his breath that makes Neal feel a unique kind of horrible, but he also feels stupid for feeling bad about it. He’s a grown man, for heaven’s sake. He’s not supposed to be offended by a couple insults.
But sometimes Rourke comes up behind him and gets so close to him he can’t breathe, and clamps a meaty hand on his wrist and whispers in his ear about one wrong move and you’ll be back to prison and I’ll make sure your stay will be as miserable as possible and the vitriol in his voice is so strong it physically burns and Neal can feel his eyes water, and his voice trembles as he says something about how yeah, he’ll stay late and have the analysis done by tomorrow morning.
But Rourke doesn’t leave and Neal looks longingly at his phone, mentally drafting a message to Peter. Begging him to come back. To make Rourke stop. But then he hears Peter’s voice… “just for these two months, can you promise me you’ll stay out of trouble? No contacting me unless it is absolutely necessary and no shenanigans either. You do what Rourke tells you to do and you do it with a smile on your face. Deal?”
And Neal picks up his phone and shoves it back into his desk and looks through the papers and tries to ignore the ticking of the clock that reads 8:37 PM and Rourke’s beady eyes from across the room and the violent, nauseous churning of acid in his stomach.