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doctor_fangeekTitle: Bad Day in Red Bank
Rating: R
Length: ~4400
Spoilers: None
Characters: Peter, Neal, June, OMC; contains some M/M content (and suggestions of M/M/F).
Warnings: Old West AU
Summary: Neal Caffrey, notorious confidence man, safecracker and all-round Renaissance criminal can't quite believe he's gotten himself arrested in the sleepy town of Red Bank.
AN: Some time ago, I wrote an Old West AU for one of the lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan's Promptfests (see end of story for the original prompt). At the time I had two or three variations on that story in my head, and the one I ended up writing can be found on my LJ here: On the Trail. I've often thought about writing a follow-up to that story, or maybe going back to write one of the other versions, but never got around to it...until now. As with the first one, I'm not so sure about the title (though this time it's a bit of an homage to an old favorite show, "Alias Smith and Jones"). Any lack of realism re: the Old West is most certainly not the fault of miri_thompson, who very helpfully tried to give me a GURPS manual with all sorts of useful information, but which I utterly failed to properly investigate. This piece is unbeta'd (I've had so little time to write since the semester started, I'm just glad I got it finished). And so I bring you, for the 2nd Annual Caffrey-Burke Day, doctor_fangeek's 2nd crazy Old West AU.
Neal stopped pacing with a sigh and flopped down on the bunk at the back of his cell, tipping his hat down over his eyes. It was bad enough he’d gotten himself arrested by the sheriff of the sleepy hamlet of Red Bank. And oh how the man had been so pleased with himself at the prospect of capturing the notorious Neal Caffrey, confidence man and safecracker. No need to give him the pleasure of seeing Neal sweat. And really, the sheriff or one of his deputies would slip up soon enough. There was a fair distance between a cell in the local jail and a judge’s chambers, let alone the territorial prison, and Neal surely didn’t plan on sticking around that long. For now, though, he would see if he couldn’t get some sleep. He was still a bit on edge after his unwelcome – and unexpected – encounter with the local law enforcement, and he needed a clear head to plan his escape. Besides, it was late, and it wasn’t as if Neal had anything else to do. The sheriff was awake, but Neal was pretty sure he would be less than amenable to attempts to engage him in conversation. It took a while, but Neal eventually drifted off to sleep.
The next morning brought a sunny day with a bright blue sky which Neal could see through the barred window in the back wall of his cell, a deputy bearing a mug of coffee and a plate of biscuits and bacon for breakfast, and the news that Neal would be a guest of the fair hamlet of Red Bank at least until the circuit judge arrived, which wasn’t for just over a week. Neal made a show of grumbling about it, to which the Sheriff replied by asking him whether there was somewhere else he had to be – in a tone just shy of smug. Neal favored him with a scowl, but he was secretly pleased by the news. The longer he was in Red Bank, the longer he had to execute his escape (and the more time there was for help to arrive, if in fact his message had gotten through). He was tempted to revise his opinion after a couple of bites of his overcooked breakfast, but all in all it was welcome news.
Also welcome, although he didn’t think so at first, was the fact that Neal was apparently big news around town. Okay, so that wasn’t really so surprising, but the steady stream of townspeople who all of a sudden had business at the Sheriff’s Office that just couldn’t wait was a little off-putting. If he were honest with himself, and he liked to think that he was – at least most of the time, Neal would have to admit that notoriety was not something he shied away from. Okay, in all honesty, he liked it. He liked to read about himself in the paper, despite his sometime partners’ not infrequent admonishments about getting caught up in his own press. He liked knowing that he was regarded as one of the best in the business, even if that business was something that could get him locked up. If you were going to do something, you ought to do it right.
But all these residents of Red Bank showing up to get a look at him – often under the flimsiest of pretenses – made him feel more like a circus exhibit. He didn’t let on that this was the case, of course. He wouldn’t give the sheriff the pleasure of seeing his discomfort. And who knew? Maybe one of the many people stopping by to gawk might turn out to be useful. Better to charm them than to show his annoyance. Most of them just approached the sheriff or whatever deputy was on duty with whatever business they claimed to have and tried to be stealthy about sneaking a glance in the direction of Neal’s cell, but if they actually went so far as to make eye contact he’d favor them with a smile or maybe even a touch to the brim of his hat. The bank manager (Horace J. Stewart, he’d announced, and none too quietly) showed up to caution the sheriff and, apparently, make sure he was doing his job and keeping Neal safely under lock and key. He was pompous and annoying and Neal made a point of giving him a smile that was anything but friendly or reassuring. If the sheriff saw, he didn’t comment. Not that Neal had given him anything to really complain about – he’d made no threat, hadn’t even said a word – but given the exasperation on the sheriff’s face it wouldn’t have surprised Neal if he’d ended up on the receiving end of a lecture once the bank officer had left. Then again, maybe the sheriff’s look was for Stewart – Neal wouldn’t have been any more surprised to find out that this was not the first time Horace J. Stewart had taken it upon himself to tell someone else how to do his job.
The next visitor to the sheriff’s office turned out, thankfully, to be much more welcome. It was just past lunchtime when the door to the office opened to admit a distinguished-looking and well-dressed woman whom Neal guessed to be in her mid-60s.
“You gonna finish that?” Deputy Carlson asked, and Neal glanced over to see him gesturing at the plate of half-eaten food sitting on the floor next to his bunk. Lunch had been more biscuits and bacon, along with beans this time. There hadn’t been anything wrong with the food, per se, but neither had it been especially appetizing. Neal had picked at it rather desultorily before setting the plate aside and stretching out on his back on the bed and pulling his hat down over his eyes. He wasn’t overly sleepy, but there wasn’t much else to do at the moment. He did have an escape to plan, of course, but he knew he had some time for that, and he needed to gather more information in order to really get down to business. And that would be more difficult with the sheriff around – Neal strongly suspected that the man would discourage his deputies from even idle chit chat with their prisoner.
“Well?” the deputy prodded, when an answer wasn’t immediately forthcoming.
Neal shook his head no. “I’m done,” he said. As the deputy approached the cell, presumably to collect the remains of Neal’s lunch, the sheriff glanced over from where he was talking to the new arrival to see what his subordinate was doing.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, stepping away to take a look at the plate now in the deputy’s hand.
He gave Neal a look. “Something wrong with the food, Caffrey?”
Neal bit back several possible answers. “Just not that hungry right now, Sheriff,” he said, keeping his tone polite and respectful. No point antagonizing the man unnecessarily.
“This isn’t a hotel,” the sheriff grumbled. “So you better not be expecting one of my men to fetch you something to eat if you get hungry halfway to supper time. Understood?”
Before Neal could reply, however, the woman who’d come in a moment ago made her way over to where the deputy and sheriff were standing. She looked at the remains of Neal’s lunch, then over to Neal himself, before turning back to the sheriff.
“Perhaps if you gave the young man something a little more appetizing, he might be more inclined to finish his meal?”
The Deputy looked abashed at the scolding, but while the Sheriff’s tone when he replied was conciliatory, Neal hadn’t missed the not quite stifled sigh or the brief look of annoyance that crossed his face. “I appreciate your concern…,” he began.
It was clear to Neal that the sheriff did no such thing. The woman, meanwhile, seemed undeterred and brushed past the sheriff to stand just on the other side of the cell bars.
“So,” she said, sounding genuinely curious, “You must be the infamous Neal Caffrey.”
A part of Neal’s brain was automatically cataloging the important details…older woman, curious – and willing – enough to do more than sneak sidelong glances in his direction, willing to take the sheriff to task over a prisoner’s well-being. This, he thought to himself, was something he could work with. He pushed to his feet and took off his hat as he crossed the short distance to the other side of the cell. “At your service, Ma’am,” he replied with his most charming smile.
The woman smiled back, not unkindly, but then raised an elegant brow and cast a look around the cell. There was a shrewdness in her gaze that took Neal by surprise. He held that gaze for a long moment then found himself offering up a genuine smile. This woman was no mark.
“For what it’s worth, anyway,” Neal said, accepting defeat with a shrug.
The woman actually chuckled at that, but she didn’t really seem to be laughing at him. Nor did she seem bothered by the fact that he’d been sizing her up just a minute ago. And she knew, Neal was sure of it.
“Quite the Renaissance criminal, aren’t you, young man?” she said, still smiling.
“Alleged,” Neal replied automatically, and the woman laughed again. “But I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but….”
“June,” she said. “June Ellington.”
“Ellington,” Neal thought…and then the penny dropped. He didn’t know June, but knew her late husband, if only by reputation. He remembered when the man had finally been arrested, for what was surely only the tip of an iceberg of confidence schemes. And yes…there’d been a wife. Poor woman had been taken in, like so many others, by Byron Ellington’s considerable charm and skill. Or that was how the story went. Neal couldn’t help but smile. Clearly there was more to the story. And while that only confirmed that he wasn’t going to be able to con this woman, perhaps looking for help from that quarter wasn’t a dead end after all.
“Your husband,” he started to say, but she cut him off.
“That was a long time ago.” There was sadness in her voice, but also a finality to the words.
“And a different life,” Neal thought to himself. Whatever had brought June Ellington to Red Bank, she had a life here, and a reputation, and Neal wouldn’t ask her to risk those things for him, even if he had thought she would.
They shared a look, an understanding passing between them.
And then there was a clearing of a throat. “As I said, Mrs. Ellington, I appreciate your concern, but….”
Neal saw the spark of mischief in June’s eyes just before she rolled right over whatever else the Sheriff was about to say. No, she wasn’t about to help him escape custody, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t help him at all.
“I’m so glad to hear that, Sheriff,” Mrs. Ellington cut in smoothly. “And I’m sure that you and your deputies have more than enough to do as it is. Perhaps you would allow my cook to help you out and send over some dinner for your prisoner?”
“There’s nothing wrong with what we’re feeding him,” the sheriff answered. He sounded like he was trying – and almost succeeding – in keeping the frustration out of his voice.
Mrs. Ellington, on the other hand, just smiled sweetly at the sheriff. “I’m sure there isn’t,” she said just as sweetly. “But you know that Betsy is more than happy to help out.”
“Yes, I know,” the sheriff replied, and Neal had the feeling that this wasn’t the first time he’d had this conversation.
“Ever since my dear Byron passed, and the children moved away….”
“Fine,” the sheriff said with a sigh. “Dinner is at six.” He was frowning. June was beaming.
“Was there something else you wanted, Mrs. Ellington, or did you just come over here to check on the well-being of my prisoner?”
“Oh, no. I’m sure you know how to do your job, Sheriff,” she replied, then launched into an explanation of her visit that Neal almost believed himself, even though he knew it was at least partly pretense. Heck, he might have believed it anyway, if he weren’t a world class confidence man himself. As it was, he just sat back and enjoyed the show. He still couldn’t believe that he’d gotten himself arrested in Red Bank, of all places, but he was good at finding the silver linings where he could, and when June came back that evening with a delicious bowl of beef stew, along with a big chunk of crusty bread, his thanks were genuine and heartfelt.
Neal had enjoyed another hearty breakfast, courtesy of the Widow Ellington, and he was feeling full and sleepy. He was on the verge of nodding off when the front door to the Sheriff’s office and jail opened and he heard the sound of booted feet on the floor. “Sheriff Roberts?” said a strong, authoritative voice…a voice Neal knew all too well.
“That’d be me,” the Sheriff replied, getting up from where he’d been sitting with his feet up on his desk, reading what passed for a newspaper in these parts. “And you are?”
“Peter Mitchell,” the other man said. Neal cracked an eye open, sneaking a look at the man from under the fringe of his hair and the brim of his hat. Mitchell was shaking hands with the sheriff. “United States Marshals,” he said by way of further introduction. “I understand you’ve got a Neal Caffrey in your custody.”
“That’s correct,” the Sheriff said,
“Quite a catch,” Mitchell said, and Neal could see Roberts puff up in response to the praise. “The Marshal’s service is grateful for your good work.”
There was a pause. Neal couldn’t see the Sheriff’s face from where he was still lying on the bunk in his cell, but he could picture the confused expression that had probably taken residence on it.
“Um…thank you,” Roberts said, sounding a little lost.
“Didn’t you get my telegram?” Mitchell asked.
“Telegram?” the sheriff replied, sounding, if anything, more confused.
“I sent you a telegram to let you know that I’d be coming to take custody of Caffrey.”
“I didn’t get any telegram,” Roberts said, the confusion giving way to indignation. Probably he didn’t want to hand over his prize catch, Neal thought.
“Perhaps one of your deputies misplaced it,” Mitchell suggested, less than helpfully, Neal thought.
“My deputies? Look, Red Bank may not be, well, wherever it is you’re from, but we run a tight ship around here, and we didn’t get any telegram.”
“Look…I’m sorry,” Mitchell backtracked, his tone placating now. “I didn’t mean to suggest you don’t know your job sheriff, but I definitely sent that telegram.”
The sheriff sighed heavily. “I don’t know what to tell you, Marshal.” There was another pause, then, “How did you know Caffrey was in Red Bank, anyway?”
“You did wire the circuit judge after you arrested him, didn’t you?”
“Of course. He’s should be here in another five or six days.”
Neal could see Mitchell shaking his head, and he sounded faintly exasperated when he spoke next. “His assistant was supposed to wire you. I guess he hasn’t gotten around to it yet.”
“Apparently not,” the sheriff said, clearly becoming fed up with the whole situation.
“I’m sorry for the mix up,” Mitchell replied, and he actually did sound apologetic. “The Marshals service got the word that you’d taken Caffrey into custody – part of a standard report from the judge’s office. We have first dibs on him, so my boss wired the circuit judge, who was supposed to let you know what was going on. I drew the short straw and got sent to pick Caffrey up. I sent you a telegraph, so you’d know when to expect me.”
Neither man spoke for a moment. Neal chanced a look, and was just in time to see the Marshal shaking his head in frustration.
“What a mess!” Mitchell said. “Look, I apologize for the unexpected arrival. I don’t know who didn’t do their job, but you can be sure they’ll hear from me when I find out. But that doesn’t change why I’m here. As I said, the Marshals service is grateful for the work you’ve done, but we’ll take it from here.”
Neal still couldn’t see Sheriff Roberts’ face, but his body language said that wasn’t terribly happy about this turn of events.
Mitchell, meanwhile, seemed to have decided the matter was settled, and strode across the room to stand in front of Neal’s cell. “Neal Caffrey,” he said, looking down at Neal with a smile.
“Marshal Mitchell,” Neal replied, with a touch to the brim of his hat. “I’d say it’s good to see you again, but, well….”
“You’ve led us all quite a chase, haven’t you?”
Neal stood up and faced the other man. “You know you love the chase, Peter,” he said, deliberately familiar.
Mitchell scowled. “That’s ‘Marshal,’ to you, Caffrey. And I love catching you more,” he said, the scowl giving way to a smug smile.
“A shame you didn’t have the pleasure,” Neal replied with a smile of his own, then paused. “Marshal.”
“I have to say, Caffrey, this isn’t a place I’d expected to find you,” Mitchell countered.
“Now, Marshal,” Neal replied, “I’m sure you don’t mean to insult the good Sheriff here, but if I didn’t know better…well…that’s kind of what it sounds like.”
The Sheriff in question, Neal noted, merely looked on, reduced to a spectator in his own office.
Mitchell favored Neal with a dark look, but otherwise didn’t rise to the bait. “If I want your opinion, Caffrey, I’ll let you know,” he said after a moment. “Understood?”
“I was just saying…,” Neal began.
“I said, understood?” Mitchell cut him off.
Neal shot the other man a glare, but nodded his assent. “Understood.”
“Good. You just remember who’s in charge here, and everything will be a whole lot easier.”
“Is this where you start threatening me with what will happen if I get out of line?” Neal knew he was smirking, knew he probably shouldn’t be, but he couldn’t quite help himself.
“I don’t make threats, Mr. Caffrey. I make promises.”
In the end, Sheriff Roberts had no choice but to step aside in the face of the higher authority of the Marshal’s service (especially seeing as Peter Mitchell’s paperwork had apparently all been in order). Neal actually felt just a tiny bit bad for the man. As keen as he’d been to make clear his authority over Neal, and to bask in the glow of arresting a famous criminal (and there was no point being falsely modest about that – Neal Caffrey was famous), it had to be hard to watch some stranger waltz into town and steal his thunder, so to speak, not to mention quite literally steal his prize prisoner right out from under him.
Or at least he would be stealing Roberts’ prisoner…in the morning. Apparently Mitchell had had a bit of a long ride to get to Red Bank, and planned to check into the hotel and put his feet up for a while, enjoy a nice steak dinner, and head in the morning. Neal pictured Mitchell settling into the comfort of his soft hotel bed, while he had another night on a hard cot to look forward to, and found himself frowning with jealousy. Although June (also known as the widow Ellington) had actually promised him steak for dinner tonight, so that was something.
When it arrived, his promised steak was perfectly cooked, and accompanied not only by the expected vegetables and mashed potatoes, but also by a slice of apple pie. The Sheriff grumbled – a familiar refrain having to do with how this was a jail and not a hotel, with a side of, “You may have taken a shine to him, why I can’t imagine, but he’s a criminal.” But Mrs. Ellington, though unfailingly polite, was equally unfailingly immune to the Sheriff’s criticism.
The next morning Neal found himself awake just as the sun was coming up, the light starting to filter in through the small, barred window in the back wall of the cell. The deputy who’d been on guard duty overnight looked to be barely awake. Neal yawned and stretched, then rolled over, in hopes of maybe catching another few minutes of sleep. He was just drifting off again when someone came banging through the door to the Sheriff’s office.
“Rise and shine!” came the disturbingly cheerful voice of one Marshal Peter Mitchell. The man was in far too good a mood for the earliness of the hour, Neal thought, though he took some comfort in the disoriented look on the deputy’s face as he scrambled out of his chair. And in the irritated – and half awake – look on the Sheriff’s face as he trailed into his own office behind the all too chipper Marshal.
Then Mitchell was striding across the room to stand in front of Neal’s cell, smiling broadly.
“C’mon Caffrey,” he said, too loudly if you asked Neal. Not that anyone was asking Neal. “On your feet.”
Neal sighed, but did as he was told, dragging himself to his feet and silently cursing early risers in general, and Peter Mitchell and his chipper early morning attitude, in particular. Mitchell stepped back just enough to give the Sheriff room to unlock the door, then gestured Neal out of the cell. Taking him by the arm, Mitchell more or less manhandled Neal into position and gave him a quick but thorough frisking. Neal almost asked him if he thought the Sheriff hadn’t done his job, but managed to rein himself in just in time. A part of him, though, wasn’t sure why, given Mitchell’s all too obvious (at least to Neal) enjoyment of the whole situation.
After he finished his search, Mitchell pulled Neal’s arms down behind his back, but instead of the cold metal of handcuffs, Neal felt what he was pretty sure was a leather cord being looped around his wrists and knotted tight. He chanced a look over his shoulder, just in time to see Mitchell finish with his knots. Neal flexed his hands and tugged a bit to test the bonds, but while they weren’t uncomfortably tight, there was no give either – he wasn’t getting out of them any time soon. A shift of his gaze upward told him that Mitchell knew this as well, if his smug smile was anything to go on.
A smile of his own crept onto Neal’s face as he allowed himself to be turned back around. He looked at Mitchell, then over to the Roberts, then back.
“Really, Peter,” he said. “You’re going to make the good Sheriff here think the Marshals’ service has hit on hard times.”
Mitchell frowned in confusion.
“Handcuffs not in the budget?” Neal said with a smirk, and if he wasn’t mistaken, the Sheriff was stifling a smile of his own.
Mitchell sighed heavily then turned to the Sheriff. “I’m sure you’ve read the warrants on Caffrey,” he said.
The other man nodded politely.
“As you may know, he’s suspected of quite a few things there aren’t any warrants for yet. He’s not only a con man and a safecracker, but a world-class forger.”
There was brief pause as Mitchell cut his gaze back to Neal.
“That’s not a complement,” he said. “Stop preening, Caffrey.”
“Anyway,” Mitchell continued, turning back to the Sheriff, “On top of all that, Caffrey’s quite the escape artist. And if it’s got a lock, it can be picked.”
“I’m sure the United States Marshals don’t need to explain themselves to me,” the Sheriff said, just a hint of amusement in his tone.
In response, Mitchell glared at Neal, who just shrugged and gave him an innocent look.
“If I were you, Caffrey,” he said, “I wouldn’t be questioning how the Marshals’ service spends their money. They’re paying for your train ticket. Unless you’d like to save us some money and we can ride back?”
Mitchell paused for a moment, as if he were actually expecting a reply. “No? I didn’t think so,” he said, taking hold of Neal’s arm to steer him toward the door. “In that case, we have a train to catch.”
Mitchell’s badge got them on the train before the official boarding. He shepherded Neal to the back of the last passenger car and thanked the conductor for his assistance.
“Happy to help. Just let me know if you need anything,” the man said, then headed back toward the other end of the car.
The door had barely shut behind the man when Peter spun Neal around and pushed him against the back wall of the train car.
“You just had to set me up in a power play between the Marshals and the Sheriff, didn’t you? I’m sure you don’t mean to suggest that the Sheriff here doesn’t know how to do his job? Seriously, Neal!”
“And you decided we just had to leave at the crack of dawn?” Neal replied. “Besides, Peter,” he continued with a grin, “You know you love playing the big, bad US Marshal.”
Peter shook his head, as if in disbelief. “And Mitchell?”
“That’s what you get for not looking at your paperwork until the last minute,” Neal replied, still smiling. “Paperwork which was impeccable, if I don’t say so myself. Besides, you know El doesn’t mind.”
“You are incorrigible, Caffrey,” Peter said, though he did loosen his hold on Neal a fraction.
“Have to keep you on your toes,” Neal replied, still grinning. “Now how about cutting me loose?” he continued, twisting partway around and tugging at the cord around his wrists.
A grin broke out on Peter’s face then, which was a sure sign of trouble. “It’s a little too soon to stop playing our parts, don’t you think?” he said, though clearly he wasn’t expecting an answer.
“Besides,” Peter added, closing in on Neal again, “I think I like you like this.” His words were punctuated by a hand on Neal’s crotch, squeezing just enough to make Neal squirm.
Neal sucked in a breath, but before he could marshal a response he heard the sound of footsteps approaching their car.
Peter’s smile turned positively wicked, then. “Do as you’re told, and just maybe you’ll get a reward for good behavior,” he said giving Neal another quick squeeze before stepping back just as the door at the end of the car opened.
AN #2: The original prompt was "Peter, leather."
Rating: R
Length: ~4400
Spoilers: None
Characters: Peter, Neal, June, OMC; contains some M/M content (and suggestions of M/M/F).
Warnings: Old West AU
Summary: Neal Caffrey, notorious confidence man, safecracker and all-round Renaissance criminal can't quite believe he's gotten himself arrested in the sleepy town of Red Bank.
AN: Some time ago, I wrote an Old West AU for one of the lovely
elrhiarhodan's Promptfests (see end of story for the original prompt). At the time I had two or three variations on that story in my head, and the one I ended up writing can be found on my LJ here: On the Trail. I've often thought about writing a follow-up to that story, or maybe going back to write one of the other versions, but never got around to it...until now. As with the first one, I'm not so sure about the title (though this time it's a bit of an homage to an old favorite show, "Alias Smith and Jones"). Any lack of realism re: the Old West is most certainly not the fault of miri_thompson, who very helpfully tried to give me a GURPS manual with all sorts of useful information, but which I utterly failed to properly investigate. This piece is unbeta'd (I've had so little time to write since the semester started, I'm just glad I got it finished). And so I bring you, for the 2nd Annual Caffrey-Burke Day, doctor_fangeek's 2nd crazy Old West AU.Neal stopped pacing with a sigh and flopped down on the bunk at the back of his cell, tipping his hat down over his eyes. It was bad enough he’d gotten himself arrested by the sheriff of the sleepy hamlet of Red Bank. And oh how the man had been so pleased with himself at the prospect of capturing the notorious Neal Caffrey, confidence man and safecracker. No need to give him the pleasure of seeing Neal sweat. And really, the sheriff or one of his deputies would slip up soon enough. There was a fair distance between a cell in the local jail and a judge’s chambers, let alone the territorial prison, and Neal surely didn’t plan on sticking around that long. For now, though, he would see if he couldn’t get some sleep. He was still a bit on edge after his unwelcome – and unexpected – encounter with the local law enforcement, and he needed a clear head to plan his escape. Besides, it was late, and it wasn’t as if Neal had anything else to do. The sheriff was awake, but Neal was pretty sure he would be less than amenable to attempts to engage him in conversation. It took a while, but Neal eventually drifted off to sleep.
The next morning brought a sunny day with a bright blue sky which Neal could see through the barred window in the back wall of his cell, a deputy bearing a mug of coffee and a plate of biscuits and bacon for breakfast, and the news that Neal would be a guest of the fair hamlet of Red Bank at least until the circuit judge arrived, which wasn’t for just over a week. Neal made a show of grumbling about it, to which the Sheriff replied by asking him whether there was somewhere else he had to be – in a tone just shy of smug. Neal favored him with a scowl, but he was secretly pleased by the news. The longer he was in Red Bank, the longer he had to execute his escape (and the more time there was for help to arrive, if in fact his message had gotten through). He was tempted to revise his opinion after a couple of bites of his overcooked breakfast, but all in all it was welcome news.
Also welcome, although he didn’t think so at first, was the fact that Neal was apparently big news around town. Okay, so that wasn’t really so surprising, but the steady stream of townspeople who all of a sudden had business at the Sheriff’s Office that just couldn’t wait was a little off-putting. If he were honest with himself, and he liked to think that he was – at least most of the time, Neal would have to admit that notoriety was not something he shied away from. Okay, in all honesty, he liked it. He liked to read about himself in the paper, despite his sometime partners’ not infrequent admonishments about getting caught up in his own press. He liked knowing that he was regarded as one of the best in the business, even if that business was something that could get him locked up. If you were going to do something, you ought to do it right.
But all these residents of Red Bank showing up to get a look at him – often under the flimsiest of pretenses – made him feel more like a circus exhibit. He didn’t let on that this was the case, of course. He wouldn’t give the sheriff the pleasure of seeing his discomfort. And who knew? Maybe one of the many people stopping by to gawk might turn out to be useful. Better to charm them than to show his annoyance. Most of them just approached the sheriff or whatever deputy was on duty with whatever business they claimed to have and tried to be stealthy about sneaking a glance in the direction of Neal’s cell, but if they actually went so far as to make eye contact he’d favor them with a smile or maybe even a touch to the brim of his hat. The bank manager (Horace J. Stewart, he’d announced, and none too quietly) showed up to caution the sheriff and, apparently, make sure he was doing his job and keeping Neal safely under lock and key. He was pompous and annoying and Neal made a point of giving him a smile that was anything but friendly or reassuring. If the sheriff saw, he didn’t comment. Not that Neal had given him anything to really complain about – he’d made no threat, hadn’t even said a word – but given the exasperation on the sheriff’s face it wouldn’t have surprised Neal if he’d ended up on the receiving end of a lecture once the bank officer had left. Then again, maybe the sheriff’s look was for Stewart – Neal wouldn’t have been any more surprised to find out that this was not the first time Horace J. Stewart had taken it upon himself to tell someone else how to do his job.
The next visitor to the sheriff’s office turned out, thankfully, to be much more welcome. It was just past lunchtime when the door to the office opened to admit a distinguished-looking and well-dressed woman whom Neal guessed to be in her mid-60s.
“You gonna finish that?” Deputy Carlson asked, and Neal glanced over to see him gesturing at the plate of half-eaten food sitting on the floor next to his bunk. Lunch had been more biscuits and bacon, along with beans this time. There hadn’t been anything wrong with the food, per se, but neither had it been especially appetizing. Neal had picked at it rather desultorily before setting the plate aside and stretching out on his back on the bed and pulling his hat down over his eyes. He wasn’t overly sleepy, but there wasn’t much else to do at the moment. He did have an escape to plan, of course, but he knew he had some time for that, and he needed to gather more information in order to really get down to business. And that would be more difficult with the sheriff around – Neal strongly suspected that the man would discourage his deputies from even idle chit chat with their prisoner.
“Well?” the deputy prodded, when an answer wasn’t immediately forthcoming.
Neal shook his head no. “I’m done,” he said. As the deputy approached the cell, presumably to collect the remains of Neal’s lunch, the sheriff glanced over from where he was talking to the new arrival to see what his subordinate was doing.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, stepping away to take a look at the plate now in the deputy’s hand.
He gave Neal a look. “Something wrong with the food, Caffrey?”
Neal bit back several possible answers. “Just not that hungry right now, Sheriff,” he said, keeping his tone polite and respectful. No point antagonizing the man unnecessarily.
“This isn’t a hotel,” the sheriff grumbled. “So you better not be expecting one of my men to fetch you something to eat if you get hungry halfway to supper time. Understood?”
Before Neal could reply, however, the woman who’d come in a moment ago made her way over to where the deputy and sheriff were standing. She looked at the remains of Neal’s lunch, then over to Neal himself, before turning back to the sheriff.
“Perhaps if you gave the young man something a little more appetizing, he might be more inclined to finish his meal?”
The Deputy looked abashed at the scolding, but while the Sheriff’s tone when he replied was conciliatory, Neal hadn’t missed the not quite stifled sigh or the brief look of annoyance that crossed his face. “I appreciate your concern…,” he began.
It was clear to Neal that the sheriff did no such thing. The woman, meanwhile, seemed undeterred and brushed past the sheriff to stand just on the other side of the cell bars.
“So,” she said, sounding genuinely curious, “You must be the infamous Neal Caffrey.”
A part of Neal’s brain was automatically cataloging the important details…older woman, curious – and willing – enough to do more than sneak sidelong glances in his direction, willing to take the sheriff to task over a prisoner’s well-being. This, he thought to himself, was something he could work with. He pushed to his feet and took off his hat as he crossed the short distance to the other side of the cell. “At your service, Ma’am,” he replied with his most charming smile.
The woman smiled back, not unkindly, but then raised an elegant brow and cast a look around the cell. There was a shrewdness in her gaze that took Neal by surprise. He held that gaze for a long moment then found himself offering up a genuine smile. This woman was no mark.
“For what it’s worth, anyway,” Neal said, accepting defeat with a shrug.
The woman actually chuckled at that, but she didn’t really seem to be laughing at him. Nor did she seem bothered by the fact that he’d been sizing her up just a minute ago. And she knew, Neal was sure of it.
“Quite the Renaissance criminal, aren’t you, young man?” she said, still smiling.
“Alleged,” Neal replied automatically, and the woman laughed again. “But I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but….”
“June,” she said. “June Ellington.”
“Ellington,” Neal thought…and then the penny dropped. He didn’t know June, but knew her late husband, if only by reputation. He remembered when the man had finally been arrested, for what was surely only the tip of an iceberg of confidence schemes. And yes…there’d been a wife. Poor woman had been taken in, like so many others, by Byron Ellington’s considerable charm and skill. Or that was how the story went. Neal couldn’t help but smile. Clearly there was more to the story. And while that only confirmed that he wasn’t going to be able to con this woman, perhaps looking for help from that quarter wasn’t a dead end after all.
“Your husband,” he started to say, but she cut him off.
“That was a long time ago.” There was sadness in her voice, but also a finality to the words.
“And a different life,” Neal thought to himself. Whatever had brought June Ellington to Red Bank, she had a life here, and a reputation, and Neal wouldn’t ask her to risk those things for him, even if he had thought she would.
They shared a look, an understanding passing between them.
And then there was a clearing of a throat. “As I said, Mrs. Ellington, I appreciate your concern, but….”
Neal saw the spark of mischief in June’s eyes just before she rolled right over whatever else the Sheriff was about to say. No, she wasn’t about to help him escape custody, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t help him at all.
“I’m so glad to hear that, Sheriff,” Mrs. Ellington cut in smoothly. “And I’m sure that you and your deputies have more than enough to do as it is. Perhaps you would allow my cook to help you out and send over some dinner for your prisoner?”
“There’s nothing wrong with what we’re feeding him,” the sheriff answered. He sounded like he was trying – and almost succeeding – in keeping the frustration out of his voice.
Mrs. Ellington, on the other hand, just smiled sweetly at the sheriff. “I’m sure there isn’t,” she said just as sweetly. “But you know that Betsy is more than happy to help out.”
“Yes, I know,” the sheriff replied, and Neal had the feeling that this wasn’t the first time he’d had this conversation.
“Ever since my dear Byron passed, and the children moved away….”
“Fine,” the sheriff said with a sigh. “Dinner is at six.” He was frowning. June was beaming.
“Was there something else you wanted, Mrs. Ellington, or did you just come over here to check on the well-being of my prisoner?”
“Oh, no. I’m sure you know how to do your job, Sheriff,” she replied, then launched into an explanation of her visit that Neal almost believed himself, even though he knew it was at least partly pretense. Heck, he might have believed it anyway, if he weren’t a world class confidence man himself. As it was, he just sat back and enjoyed the show. He still couldn’t believe that he’d gotten himself arrested in Red Bank, of all places, but he was good at finding the silver linings where he could, and when June came back that evening with a delicious bowl of beef stew, along with a big chunk of crusty bread, his thanks were genuine and heartfelt.
Neal had enjoyed another hearty breakfast, courtesy of the Widow Ellington, and he was feeling full and sleepy. He was on the verge of nodding off when the front door to the Sheriff’s office and jail opened and he heard the sound of booted feet on the floor. “Sheriff Roberts?” said a strong, authoritative voice…a voice Neal knew all too well.
“That’d be me,” the Sheriff replied, getting up from where he’d been sitting with his feet up on his desk, reading what passed for a newspaper in these parts. “And you are?”
“Peter Mitchell,” the other man said. Neal cracked an eye open, sneaking a look at the man from under the fringe of his hair and the brim of his hat. Mitchell was shaking hands with the sheriff. “United States Marshals,” he said by way of further introduction. “I understand you’ve got a Neal Caffrey in your custody.”
“That’s correct,” the Sheriff said,
“Quite a catch,” Mitchell said, and Neal could see Roberts puff up in response to the praise. “The Marshal’s service is grateful for your good work.”
There was a pause. Neal couldn’t see the Sheriff’s face from where he was still lying on the bunk in his cell, but he could picture the confused expression that had probably taken residence on it.
“Um…thank you,” Roberts said, sounding a little lost.
“Didn’t you get my telegram?” Mitchell asked.
“Telegram?” the sheriff replied, sounding, if anything, more confused.
“I sent you a telegram to let you know that I’d be coming to take custody of Caffrey.”
“I didn’t get any telegram,” Roberts said, the confusion giving way to indignation. Probably he didn’t want to hand over his prize catch, Neal thought.
“Perhaps one of your deputies misplaced it,” Mitchell suggested, less than helpfully, Neal thought.
“My deputies? Look, Red Bank may not be, well, wherever it is you’re from, but we run a tight ship around here, and we didn’t get any telegram.”
“Look…I’m sorry,” Mitchell backtracked, his tone placating now. “I didn’t mean to suggest you don’t know your job sheriff, but I definitely sent that telegram.”
The sheriff sighed heavily. “I don’t know what to tell you, Marshal.” There was another pause, then, “How did you know Caffrey was in Red Bank, anyway?”
“You did wire the circuit judge after you arrested him, didn’t you?”
“Of course. He’s should be here in another five or six days.”
Neal could see Mitchell shaking his head, and he sounded faintly exasperated when he spoke next. “His assistant was supposed to wire you. I guess he hasn’t gotten around to it yet.”
“Apparently not,” the sheriff said, clearly becoming fed up with the whole situation.
“I’m sorry for the mix up,” Mitchell replied, and he actually did sound apologetic. “The Marshals service got the word that you’d taken Caffrey into custody – part of a standard report from the judge’s office. We have first dibs on him, so my boss wired the circuit judge, who was supposed to let you know what was going on. I drew the short straw and got sent to pick Caffrey up. I sent you a telegraph, so you’d know when to expect me.”
Neither man spoke for a moment. Neal chanced a look, and was just in time to see the Marshal shaking his head in frustration.
“What a mess!” Mitchell said. “Look, I apologize for the unexpected arrival. I don’t know who didn’t do their job, but you can be sure they’ll hear from me when I find out. But that doesn’t change why I’m here. As I said, the Marshals service is grateful for the work you’ve done, but we’ll take it from here.”
Neal still couldn’t see Sheriff Roberts’ face, but his body language said that wasn’t terribly happy about this turn of events.
Mitchell, meanwhile, seemed to have decided the matter was settled, and strode across the room to stand in front of Neal’s cell. “Neal Caffrey,” he said, looking down at Neal with a smile.
“Marshal Mitchell,” Neal replied, with a touch to the brim of his hat. “I’d say it’s good to see you again, but, well….”
“You’ve led us all quite a chase, haven’t you?”
Neal stood up and faced the other man. “You know you love the chase, Peter,” he said, deliberately familiar.
Mitchell scowled. “That’s ‘Marshal,’ to you, Caffrey. And I love catching you more,” he said, the scowl giving way to a smug smile.
“A shame you didn’t have the pleasure,” Neal replied with a smile of his own, then paused. “Marshal.”
“I have to say, Caffrey, this isn’t a place I’d expected to find you,” Mitchell countered.
“Now, Marshal,” Neal replied, “I’m sure you don’t mean to insult the good Sheriff here, but if I didn’t know better…well…that’s kind of what it sounds like.”
The Sheriff in question, Neal noted, merely looked on, reduced to a spectator in his own office.
Mitchell favored Neal with a dark look, but otherwise didn’t rise to the bait. “If I want your opinion, Caffrey, I’ll let you know,” he said after a moment. “Understood?”
“I was just saying…,” Neal began.
“I said, understood?” Mitchell cut him off.
Neal shot the other man a glare, but nodded his assent. “Understood.”
“Good. You just remember who’s in charge here, and everything will be a whole lot easier.”
“Is this where you start threatening me with what will happen if I get out of line?” Neal knew he was smirking, knew he probably shouldn’t be, but he couldn’t quite help himself.
“I don’t make threats, Mr. Caffrey. I make promises.”
In the end, Sheriff Roberts had no choice but to step aside in the face of the higher authority of the Marshal’s service (especially seeing as Peter Mitchell’s paperwork had apparently all been in order). Neal actually felt just a tiny bit bad for the man. As keen as he’d been to make clear his authority over Neal, and to bask in the glow of arresting a famous criminal (and there was no point being falsely modest about that – Neal Caffrey was famous), it had to be hard to watch some stranger waltz into town and steal his thunder, so to speak, not to mention quite literally steal his prize prisoner right out from under him.
Or at least he would be stealing Roberts’ prisoner…in the morning. Apparently Mitchell had had a bit of a long ride to get to Red Bank, and planned to check into the hotel and put his feet up for a while, enjoy a nice steak dinner, and head in the morning. Neal pictured Mitchell settling into the comfort of his soft hotel bed, while he had another night on a hard cot to look forward to, and found himself frowning with jealousy. Although June (also known as the widow Ellington) had actually promised him steak for dinner tonight, so that was something.
When it arrived, his promised steak was perfectly cooked, and accompanied not only by the expected vegetables and mashed potatoes, but also by a slice of apple pie. The Sheriff grumbled – a familiar refrain having to do with how this was a jail and not a hotel, with a side of, “You may have taken a shine to him, why I can’t imagine, but he’s a criminal.” But Mrs. Ellington, though unfailingly polite, was equally unfailingly immune to the Sheriff’s criticism.
The next morning Neal found himself awake just as the sun was coming up, the light starting to filter in through the small, barred window in the back wall of the cell. The deputy who’d been on guard duty overnight looked to be barely awake. Neal yawned and stretched, then rolled over, in hopes of maybe catching another few minutes of sleep. He was just drifting off again when someone came banging through the door to the Sheriff’s office.
“Rise and shine!” came the disturbingly cheerful voice of one Marshal Peter Mitchell. The man was in far too good a mood for the earliness of the hour, Neal thought, though he took some comfort in the disoriented look on the deputy’s face as he scrambled out of his chair. And in the irritated – and half awake – look on the Sheriff’s face as he trailed into his own office behind the all too chipper Marshal.
Then Mitchell was striding across the room to stand in front of Neal’s cell, smiling broadly.
“C’mon Caffrey,” he said, too loudly if you asked Neal. Not that anyone was asking Neal. “On your feet.”
Neal sighed, but did as he was told, dragging himself to his feet and silently cursing early risers in general, and Peter Mitchell and his chipper early morning attitude, in particular. Mitchell stepped back just enough to give the Sheriff room to unlock the door, then gestured Neal out of the cell. Taking him by the arm, Mitchell more or less manhandled Neal into position and gave him a quick but thorough frisking. Neal almost asked him if he thought the Sheriff hadn’t done his job, but managed to rein himself in just in time. A part of him, though, wasn’t sure why, given Mitchell’s all too obvious (at least to Neal) enjoyment of the whole situation.
After he finished his search, Mitchell pulled Neal’s arms down behind his back, but instead of the cold metal of handcuffs, Neal felt what he was pretty sure was a leather cord being looped around his wrists and knotted tight. He chanced a look over his shoulder, just in time to see Mitchell finish with his knots. Neal flexed his hands and tugged a bit to test the bonds, but while they weren’t uncomfortably tight, there was no give either – he wasn’t getting out of them any time soon. A shift of his gaze upward told him that Mitchell knew this as well, if his smug smile was anything to go on.
A smile of his own crept onto Neal’s face as he allowed himself to be turned back around. He looked at Mitchell, then over to the Roberts, then back.
“Really, Peter,” he said. “You’re going to make the good Sheriff here think the Marshals’ service has hit on hard times.”
Mitchell frowned in confusion.
“Handcuffs not in the budget?” Neal said with a smirk, and if he wasn’t mistaken, the Sheriff was stifling a smile of his own.
Mitchell sighed heavily then turned to the Sheriff. “I’m sure you’ve read the warrants on Caffrey,” he said.
The other man nodded politely.
“As you may know, he’s suspected of quite a few things there aren’t any warrants for yet. He’s not only a con man and a safecracker, but a world-class forger.”
There was brief pause as Mitchell cut his gaze back to Neal.
“That’s not a complement,” he said. “Stop preening, Caffrey.”
“Anyway,” Mitchell continued, turning back to the Sheriff, “On top of all that, Caffrey’s quite the escape artist. And if it’s got a lock, it can be picked.”
“I’m sure the United States Marshals don’t need to explain themselves to me,” the Sheriff said, just a hint of amusement in his tone.
In response, Mitchell glared at Neal, who just shrugged and gave him an innocent look.
“If I were you, Caffrey,” he said, “I wouldn’t be questioning how the Marshals’ service spends their money. They’re paying for your train ticket. Unless you’d like to save us some money and we can ride back?”
Mitchell paused for a moment, as if he were actually expecting a reply. “No? I didn’t think so,” he said, taking hold of Neal’s arm to steer him toward the door. “In that case, we have a train to catch.”
Mitchell’s badge got them on the train before the official boarding. He shepherded Neal to the back of the last passenger car and thanked the conductor for his assistance.
“Happy to help. Just let me know if you need anything,” the man said, then headed back toward the other end of the car.
The door had barely shut behind the man when Peter spun Neal around and pushed him against the back wall of the train car.
“You just had to set me up in a power play between the Marshals and the Sheriff, didn’t you? I’m sure you don’t mean to suggest that the Sheriff here doesn’t know how to do his job? Seriously, Neal!”
“And you decided we just had to leave at the crack of dawn?” Neal replied. “Besides, Peter,” he continued with a grin, “You know you love playing the big, bad US Marshal.”
Peter shook his head, as if in disbelief. “And Mitchell?”
“That’s what you get for not looking at your paperwork until the last minute,” Neal replied, still smiling. “Paperwork which was impeccable, if I don’t say so myself. Besides, you know El doesn’t mind.”
“You are incorrigible, Caffrey,” Peter said, though he did loosen his hold on Neal a fraction.
“Have to keep you on your toes,” Neal replied, still grinning. “Now how about cutting me loose?” he continued, twisting partway around and tugging at the cord around his wrists.
A grin broke out on Peter’s face then, which was a sure sign of trouble. “It’s a little too soon to stop playing our parts, don’t you think?” he said, though clearly he wasn’t expecting an answer.
“Besides,” Peter added, closing in on Neal again, “I think I like you like this.” His words were punctuated by a hand on Neal’s crotch, squeezing just enough to make Neal squirm.
Neal sucked in a breath, but before he could marshal a response he heard the sound of footsteps approaching their car.
Peter’s smile turned positively wicked, then. “Do as you’re told, and just maybe you’ll get a reward for good behavior,” he said giving Neal another quick squeeze before stepping back just as the door at the end of the car opened.
AN #2: The original prompt was "Peter, leather."
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Date: 2013-10-23 04:27 pm (UTC)Squeeee \o/ I remember you talking about this and yay, here it is :D Heeeee, oh, boys. There is something so sexy about Peter pulling cons with Neal... and El's with them, too... *hearts them*
Neal is so wondefully Neal in this story, the grin, the charm, the cockiness ♥ And the way Peter enjoys having him tied and at his mercy... heeee, oh, wicked, wicked boys :P
Love this! Happy Caffrey-Burke Day :D
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Date: 2015-05-23 11:12 pm (UTC)Here's what I wrote:
Thanks so much for the wonderful feedback. I'm very glad that Neal was "wonderfully Neal."
Thanks also for indulging me and coming over here to my own LJ to squee.
You're the best! Also, I totally love your wonderful enthusiasm for WC fanfic. It is absolutely appreciated.
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Date: 2013-10-23 04:29 pm (UTC)Thanks also for indulging me and coming over here to my own LJ to squee.
You're the best! Also, I totally love your wonderful enthusiasm for WC fanfic. It is absolutely appreciated.
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Date: 2013-10-23 10:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-24 05:01 pm (UTC)You're right...Neal can't help but tweak Peter, can he?
Glad you liked the fic.
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Date: 2013-10-23 11:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-24 05:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-24 12:29 pm (UTC)LOVE the end and the Peter/Neal dynamic - Neal's always going to be a pain in the ass, but a pain that Peter loves and will do anything for.
The snark and the dialogue and OH JUNE!!!!!!!!!!!!
So delighted that I was part of the inspiration here.
Please write more when you can?
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Date: 2013-10-24 05:05 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you appreciated the plot & the misdirection & that it worked for you.
And thanks for bringing up June. I actually felt a little bad posting this for Caffrey-Burke day, b/c I gave as much attention to Neal & June as I did to Neal & Peter. And the story went through a couple of iterations of the June scene before I was really happy with it. Glad you liked.
I think this is a universe that is open to being explored some more - time and muse cooperation permitting (I think my next fic may be something in my kid!Neal 'verse).
Thanks again for the wonderful comments.
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Date: 2013-10-25 12:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-25 04:12 pm (UTC)I was actually torn with regard to giving info on pairings for this fic, to try to keep the twist more under wraps, but I'm glad you enjoyed the story even though you knew what was coming. :-)
Thanks for commenting.
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Date: 2013-10-25 11:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-10-26 06:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-02 09:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-10 01:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-09 03:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-10 01:58 am (UTC)Anyway, I'm glad to got around to reading, and I'm glad you had so much fun when you did. I had fun writing it. :-)
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Date: 2014-10-29 11:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-23 12:01 am (UTC)