Chapter Text
Neal Caffrey had never been murdered. He had never clawed his way through the dirt to escape from his own grave, or been trained by a cult of assassins, or returned to the most dangerous city in the world to seek his revenge. His father had certainly never tried to kill him, since Neal Caffrey would never have asked a vigilante to choose between the lives of his murderer and himself. It was with this in mind that he carefully buttoned his shirt each morning before work, covering the thin scar that ran across his throat—Neal Caffrey, conman extraordinaire, was nonviolent, and the FBI should have believed that for the rest of his sentence, until he could disappear once again. Jason Todd, former vigilante and crime lord, should have known better than to believe a plan as simple as wearing a collared shirt and staying out of Gotham would actually work.
The end of Neal Caffrey began as most days did—overly fancy coffee and a series of immensely boring files of paperwork describing immensely boring crimes. It might have ended that way too, had the auction not come up. Fool that he was, Neal eagerly jumped at the opportunity to do anything but sit in an office slowly developing carpal tunnel.
"Peter," he had complained to his reluctant handler, "Do you really want me to sit in an office and do paperwork all day? Or can I help actually do something, for once?" And, after a not insignificant more whining, Peter had agreed.
Undercover operations, Neal had learned, sometimes involved an amount of boredom similar to that of paperwork. Quite often, though, they involved Neal being let loose in a fancy suit while Peter griped in his ear about the amount of caviar he was eating and the amount of flirting-with-the-target he was doing. All in all, it was usually much more fun than the office. This was not one of those times, as Neal was meant to find the fence of a forgery the FBI was only mostly certain existed. With almost no further information, Neal and Diana needed to scope out as many attendees as possible, which turned out to be, to Neal's chagrin, extremely boring.
"Neal," Peter said sternly, "If you eat another crostini instead of networking, we are going to have a serious issue." Neal groaned, scanning the people nearby to see if anyone looked more suspicious than they had three minutes ago. With the exception of Diana, who was edging around the perimeter of the room somewhat unsubtly, they did not.
"Peter, anything we learn is going to be during or after the auction. Beforehand everyone just brags about how much money they have." Ignoring Peter's response, he stepped away from the banquet table, pressing through the crowd towards the art on display on the far side of the room from the entrance.
The works were beautiful, and almost all real. The one he had painted he conveniently ignored, instead focusing on the van Eyck painting that seemed... not quite right, he might say. Having been missing for over half a century made it questionable at best, although it had, allegedly, been reputably authenticated. The usual rich crowd just paid their usual perfunctory interest to the piece, which Neal happily ignored in favor of speaking to the one man closely examining it.
He was probably a handful of years older than Neal, tall, with red hair and a suit he looked uncomfortable in. Despite his well-tailored suit, Neal would not have been surprised to learn the man wasn't as disgustingly rich as the rest of the attendees. For one thing, he wasn't boasting about his yachts or stock portfolio to the nearest person who would listen, or even a person who wasn't listening. For another, he seemed genuinely interested when Neal approached and asked if he would be bidding.
"Ah," he chuckled, "I wish! I'm mostly here as a favor to a friend," and at Neal's confused expression added, "He has some truly awful social skills, and I came to this thing," and gestured to the room at large, "to pass a message along for him."
"Huh," said Peter from the van, "What a suspicious thing to say."
"That seems like an awful lot of effort for him to avoid a conversation," said Neal, somewhat more tactfully. The man laughed. He looked familiar, thought Neal, although he had no idea where he could know him from.
"Oh, you'd think he's allergic to... well, everyone," he said, and stuck out his hand. "I'm Wally. Easton."
"Nick," said Neal, shaking the proffered hand, "Halden. You must be a very good friend, to come out to this shindig just to pass a message."
"Oh, yeah, this party is awful," laughed Wally, "Have you had any caviar? Just terrible. And this champagne?" He held up a nearly empty glass, "Nearly undrinkable. I've only been able to stomach a few glasses, myself." Momentarily forgetting to be Nick Halden, Neal snorted. Peter groaned and said,
"Neal, if I have to sit here and listen to you have another conversation about fish eggs, I'm sending you back to prison."
"Well," said Neal, "I hope the auction doesn't bore you," and then lowering his voice, added, "I heard there's going to be some drama—some people here get serious about their art. Word on the street is," he looked around dramatically, "One of the pieces might be stolen." Wally's eyes widened in surprise. Probably not a fence then, thought Neal. There was no word on the street, as the FBI had been contacted by the auction's organizer, who found it unlikely that a long-missing painting would simply turn up.
"Wha- hey," barked Peter, "Don't just tell people that, Neal."
"Wow," breathed Wally. "I'll have to stick around then," he turned around then, sighing at the crowd. "And I need to pass that message along, too. Sorry, Nick, I should probably run."
"Oh, no worries," said Neal, "I should probably go find my fiancee anyway. She doesn't really like these kinds of things." Wally nodded his goodbye and disappeared into the crowd, waving as he went.
"Ugh," said Diana, "Fiancee? Really?"
"Hey," said Neal, craning his neck to try to spot her across the room, "That's rude. Peter, Diana's being rude."
"Good," said Peter, "Now would you please get to work? And no more telling people there's a stolen painting."
"Peter, it's not even stolen. It's a fake," Neal corrected, tutting. "And you call yourself a professional." Across the room, he finally spotted Diana, who rolled her eyes dramatically, though he could see she was smiling. Neal set out to circle the room himself, hoping to reach her before the auction itself started. Unfortunately for him, the constantly moving crowd make it difficult, cutting him off several times. Somehow he found himself shepherded nearly perpendicular to his intended direction, near the doors the staff were using to carry trays laden with food out to the attendees, and trays full of empty glasses back. And as was his luck, just as he spotted a clear path, the organizers announced the auction was beginning. The crowd surged. Neal groaned.
"Diana, there's no way I can get over to you. Would you meet me over there?" Neal eyed the crowd, hoping she might pop out suddenly and he wouldn't have to fight to reserve two seats together.
"Sure," said Diana, smashing his hopes to pieces, "I-"
Neal never heard what she was going to say, as Wally suddenly appeared in front of him. Neal jumped, a surprised half-shout leaving his mouth.
"God," he said, forcing himself to laugh, even as his heart pounded in his chest, "You startled me." Wally did not look amused, or apologetic, or anything else Neal might have expected. He looked scared. What could have happened in the two minutes since Neal spoke to him?
"Nick," he said, voice strained. He looked around him, then stepped forward to grab Neal's shoulders and pull him in closer, "Nick, you have to go. Now."
"What? Wally-"
"Nick, please," he looked around again, then leaned in to whisper to Neal, so quietly he may have just been mouthing it, "The Malones are here." For a long moment, he stood there in silence, searching Neal's face—god, what a face he must have been making—and then turned, moving against the crowd and exiting as the last of the crowd moved to the auction. Across the room, he spotted Diana. He must have still been making a face, since her own expression dropped and she started out across the room towards him.
"No, Diana! No," she stopped, startled. "Diana, you have to go," he said, "Get to the van, I'll meet you there as soon as I can. Don't look for me, don't wait for me."
"Neal, what are you talking about," said Peter, "What did he say to you?"
"Diana, please," he said, and she finally turned to leave. The moment she was out of sight, Neal let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"Neal," said Peter again, but he didn't answer. As subtly as he could, he backed into the staff door, and ran toward where he presumed a back exit was. Beyond his heart pounding in his head, he thought he could hear Peter talking to him, but he couldn't process any of it. He slammed shoulder-first through one last door, his exit finally in sight, and then stopped. From behind a crate, a familiar figure emerged, straightening his cuffs as he did.
"Neal Caffrey," said Robbie Malone. "It's good to finally meet you."