Author:
Rating: R
Fandom: White Collar
Characters/Pairings: Jones, Neal Caffrey, Diana Lancing, Peter Burke, Reese Hughes
Spoilers: Hard Sell
Warnings/Triggers: None
Word Count: ~2600
Summary: Eight Clauses That Define Their Relationship – Grace Under Fire
Author’s Notes:
Because I can’t help but link my fics together, just about each one of the segments references something I’ve written in one or more of my previously written stories. I note this just so you don’t think I’m repeating myself accidentally. This part lightly references Profiled – A White Collar/Criminal Minds Crossover – Part I.
Previous Parts:
I – We The People
II – In Order To Form A More Perfect Union
III – Establish Justice
IV – Insure Domestic Tranquility
I’m surprised by how much I like Neal Caffrey. When Peter told me that he was going to bring Caffrey on as a consultant, I worried. The guy had a reputation as a serious charmer, and I wondered if it just might be possible that the boss had been conned by a master -- for about thirty seconds. No one get anything over on Special Agent Peter Burke. He is, hands down, the smartest man I’ve ever met (except when it comes to making a pot of coffee).
But Neal is in a class by himself. Smart doesn’t even begin to describe him, nor does charming. The man has something -- class, charisma, intelligence barely covers it -- je ne sais quoi is probably the best way to put it. And he’s got the strongest (and strangest) sense of honor I’ve ever come across in a civilian. Hell, with few exceptions, maybe in the Bureau.
Watching Peter and Neal is like seeing two sides of the same coin at once. They’re like an old married couple, completing each others' sentences. Even their bickering was easy, familiar, right from the start. I should have resented how smoothly Neal slipped into the office routine, but it’s so hard not to like him. Sometimes, he’s like a damn puppy dog, all he wants to do is please Peter.
Neal does have some interesting quirks, though. The thing with the guns is downright strange. He makes a big deal about how intelligent criminals don’t need to use guns, but I don’t think he even fully buys that line. There’s something else going on. Peter told me about Neal’s expertise with a shotgun at Avery Phillips’ place, how he locked and fired in a single, effortless motion, hitting the target not once, but twice. Trap shooting isn’t a sport you can fake, and for someone who says he “isn’t a gun guy” it sounds like he’s pretty good with them.
There are all sorts of facilities at the FBI offices here in lower Manhattan that most civilians don’t know about. Of course there are several gyms, basketball courts, racquetball and squash courts (relics from the ‘90s), our own Starbucks and a gun range. Yeah, a place to shoot. Who’d have thought a building full of law enforcement professionals would have a gun range? (That’s sarcasm, in case you couldn’t tell).
Neal was a little freaked out the first time he heard about the range. Why? I haven’t the slightest clue – but it seemed to bother him more than being around dozens of agents who carried (sometimes more than one piece). I tried to tell him that in an office building filled with FBI agents who need to frequently recertify their weapons qualifications, the shooting range was an essential, not a luxury. He really didn’t want to hear it.
Truth is that most FBI agents, like most cops, will go their entire career without having to draw their weapons in an offensive situation. And I’ll say that’s particularly true for those of us in the White Collar division. We deal with financial crimes – non-violent stuff, but lately there’s been a string of cases, usually involving our Number One anti-gun guy, that have had almost the entire team clearing leather at least once.
Anyway, I digress.
This afternoon, Diana, Neal and I went to lunch at the new Vietnamese place on Water Street, Peter declined (he's really not an adventurous eater). We got back, and as always, the first place Neal looks when he comes in is Peter’s office. I have to tell you, it’s the strangest thing. If Peter’s not there, Neal doesn’t ask where he is, but inevitably, someone will tell him within five minutes.
Today was no different. Peter was out and the old man, Hughes – of all people, came down out of his office and not-so-casually mentioned that the boss was on the range practicing for his quarterly recert. I think he wanted to see Neal’s reaction, and he wasn’t disappointed. The man’s face got this scrunched-up look, like he just tasted something bad, and Hughes pounced on it. I’m sure he had the whole thing planned. He gave Neal a quiet but intense lecture (in typical Hughes fashion) about the importance of the proper use and training in firearms. Neal sat there, didn’t say a word until Hughes finished.
Neal agreed with Hughes, but he couched it in a polite, empty way. It was obvious that he didn’t care what Hughes was saying, but was too tactful to say so. Hughes knew he was being played by a master, but didn’t let it go. Very strange - it wasn’t as if Neal could carry. He’s a convicted felon, he can’t carry or own a handgun – and let’s not even consider that he’s out on parole. Normally, Hughes barely gives Neal the time of day, but he agrees that the guy’s an asset for the department and he doesn’t interfere with Peter’s handling (well, most of the time he doesn’t). Then Hughes mentioned Neal’s little performance during the boiler room case, and you can see it coming from a mile away.
“You once said you know how to use a gun. Were you just talking about shotguns or can you use a handgun too?”
It was amazing how cold the guy’s face got. He knew what Hughes was doing to him, and I held my breath, wondering how Caffrey was going to answer.
“I’m not a gun guy. You know that. But I can use a handgun. When I have to.”
If his face was cold, his voice was like ice. But Hughes kept after him. It wasn’t needling, Hughes was too good an agent to do that, but he was just persistent, relentless. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why the old man was doing this.
“I want to see how good you really are.”
Neal looked at me -- I couldn’t offer him any help with this, and he got no help from Diana either. Hughes was our bosses’ boss, and if he said jump, all we could do was ask is “how high.”
Neal snapped at last. “Fine -- let’s all go down to the range and see what the FBI’s trick pony can do. Whose semi-automatic can I borrow?”
Hughes offered Neal his SIG Sauer P226, which I was surprised he still carried. The Bureau has been phasing out the SIGs for the last few years, but the old man has so much time in that they probably would let him keep it until his retirement. I asked him if he’d prefer my Glock 22, but Neal said he’d use the SIG, and we - Neal, Hughes, Diana and I - all trooped to the elevator and downstairs to the gun range.
Just as we were signing in, Peter came out. I didn’t want to be the one to tell him that Neal was going to go onto the range. I didn’t have to – Hughes was there, and Peter didn’t say anything. I wondered if this whole thing was set up between the two of them, but then I saw Peter’s face, and he was angry – as angry as I’ve ever seen the man.
Neal put on that tight, fake smile and asked me to hold his tie and vest -- saying that he didn’t want them to stink of gunpowder. I was surprised he didn’t strip down to his undershirt, but I kept my mouth shut. The range instructor was surprised by the visit, we weren’t on the roster. Hughes pulled the man aside and they got into a heated discussion. The instructor probably didn’t like the idea of a civilian firing a weapon on his range.
They came back, and the instructor set out some rules for Neal. “I want to see that you know how to handle a gun before I let you shoot on my range.” Hughes handed Neal the pistol, and he quickly and efficiently went through the standard checks, ejecting the cartridge and checking it, replacing it, chambering a round with the slide and turning the safety off. His posture and gun position were perfect, and it looked like he handled a pistol on a daily basis. The instructor nodded his approval.
“How far and how many rounds?”
Hughes asked him for five strings of two rounds each at 25 yards. He obliged, firing with a standard two-handed grip, decocking after each string. Neal was finished in less than a minute, and he ejected the magazine and unchambered the remaining round just as efficiently. I didn’t doubt that Neal had placed most of his shots; he knew what he was doing as much as he hated doing it. The instructor gave a whistle when he pulled down the target - eight of the ten shots were dead center, the ninth was in the head area and the tenth in the lower quadrant. Neal definitely had been trained, and from the looks of it, by a professional.
Neal didn’t even glance at the target. He put the gun down and just walked out. Diana followed him, grabbing his vest and tie from me. I started to leave the range, but the conversation between Peter and Hughes stopped me just as I was walking out the door.
"Damn it, Reese. I told you this wasn’t necessary.”
“Peter, I have to disagree with you. I need to know – for your safety and the safety of your team – that Caffrey isn’t a liability in the field."
“It’s not like he’s ever going to be issued a weapon."
“You and I both know that that’s not the point – you can’t keep putting Neal out there without knowing how he’ll react in a team situation that goes south. I won’t have you risking yourself and your agents if Neal’s going to leave you exposed or vulnerable.”
“You’re wrong, Reese – you’ve seen how he handles himself. Hell, wasn’t his work on the Gless kidnapping enough to prove that?”
“I agree with you that Caffrey handled himself exceptionally well in a difficult situation, but that’s not what I wanted to see. He could have missed the target completely, and I’d have been satisfied. The Gless case, the boiler room sting, he was working solo, not a part of the unit operation.”
“So you goaded him into doing something he detests?”
“Yes, I did. You keep integrating him into field ops, there’s going to come a point where he’s going to have to do what needs to be done to protect the lives of his team members, his own personal likes and dislikes aside. And that may just mean picking up a weapon and firing it. You’ve also got to consider what’s hanging over both your heads…”
My luck ran out at that point. Peter saw me standing in the doorway (thank god, Hughes had his back to me) and he gestured sharply with his head for me to leave.
When I got back up to the department, I saw Diana standing outside the men’s room, holding Neal’s vest and tie.
“You have to go in there; I think he’s being sick.” Times like this, I am doubly grateful that Cruz was reassigned and Diana was back. I couldn’t see Lauren caring enough to hang around to check if Neal needed help.
Sure enough, Neal was retching over a bowl. I didn’t say anything, but just held his head until he stopped. He got up and went over to the sinks. The poor guy looked like death warmed over. He pulled off his shirt and his undershirt and started bathing from the faucet, scrubbing up his hands and forearms like a doctor going into surgery. In my own experience, I didn’t find that ten pistol shots left that much of a noticeable smell of gunpowder – but probably it does if you have a serious dislike of firearms.
I caught Neal’s eye in the mirror. “I’ve got a spare shirt if you want.”
He nodded and I left him in the bathroom. Diana was still standing watch, her eyes full of questions. “I’ll tell you later” I mouthed at her.
I got Neal the shirt, a tube of toothpaste, a fresh toothbrush, a bottle of water, and a clean towel from my gym bag. As I headed back to the men's room, Peter and Hughes were coming out of the elevator. Peter was still blisteringly angry and Hughes looked like he always does, slightly dyspeptic. From the expression on Peter’s face when he saw me, I knew he was going to order me to forget what I overheard.
I took Neal’s tie and vest from Diana and went back into the men’s room and found Neal still at the sink, face, arms and torso dripping wet. I handed him the towel and after he dried off, the water bottle, toothbrush and toothpaste. Of course, my shirt was too big, but once he tucked it in, put on his vest and tie, you couldn’t tell. It was odd, watching him dress – it was like he was rebuilding himself, piece by piece. By the time he ran his hands through his slightly damp hair, it was as if nothing ever happened.
“Jones … thank you.”
All I could say was “You’re welcome.”
We went back into the office, Diana and I flanking Neal like some sort of honor guard. Hughes was waiting at the top of the steps, and in his typical fashion, he pointed and gestured for Neal to come to his office. Diana and I made no pretense of working; we just stood there and watched – one of the few benefits of working in a fishbowl. Peter hovered inches from Neal’s shoulder (that’s something Diana and I do have to discuss), Neal stood with his hands behind his back, like a soldier on parade (that, too) and Hughes sat at his desk, presumably talking to Neal. After a few minutes, the old man got up and held out his hand to Neal.
It seemed like an eternity, but Neal accepted the handshake and then left Hughes’ office. I figured he’d make a beeline for Peter’s but he came back downstairs and settled at his usual desk. I watched him work – and he was working, not pretending – for a half-hour or so, until Diana grabbed me. I guess she couldn’t wait any longer to find out what I knew. We went over to the archive section for privacy and all I would tell her was that the old man had a reason for doing what he did to Neal (not that I agreed with it – but it’s not like it’s my call, one way or the other). By time we got back to the bullpen, Neal was in the conference room, and Peter was looking for us.
“Rosencrantz and Guildenstern – nice of you to join us.”
In the conference room, Neal had diagrammed something on the whiteboard that looked like a multi-layered Ponzi scheme had mated with the mathematical equations for a geosynchronous orbit. Turned out it was the solution to a case that had been sitting cold for nearly a year. Everyone in the office had taken a crack at it, including Hughes. We all knew that something was wrong, but there was seemingly no way to prove it.
Listening to Neal explain the complex scam, I couldn’t help but think that this was the definition of grace under fire.
GO TO PART VI: Promote The General Welfare
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