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This wasn’t how white-collar unit investigations typically went. Not by a mile and a half.
They were not typically held hostage by a villain whose mutant ability was dragging people's specific wants to the surface. They were quite methodical about it, too, going around the room one at a time and dragging everyone’s “mosts” out. It wasn’t the best description of what was occurring, but it was the best Peter had at the moment.
The mostler, called such because he hadn’t introduced himself, and Peter defiantly had a concussion from being thrown to the floor earlier, would stand in front of each agent and ask a question about what they (blank) most of all. The (blank) changed each time, so the agender of this green suit wearing monstrosity could really be anything, including black mail, which by his next statement seemed even more accurate to Peter's sinking heart.
“And what does Neal Caffrey, art thief extraordinaire, want the most, I wonder? What could possibly peak your heart, little thief? A lover perhaps… Or maybe some fabulous art piece. What do you want most in the world?”
The mostler grinned, it looked like it was trying to be made of knives but got confused somewhere and ended up being made of forks. Peter pulled at zip ties binding his already bruising wrists.
That was definitely black mail then. The question was a little more serious than anything any of the rest of them had been asked. For God’s sake, Jones had been asked what ice cream flavour he most desired. He had answered Strawberry, which was wrong, it was clearly vanilla. But he could argue with Jones about the clearly better ice cream flavour was later, when there wasn’t an egotistical green suit wearing monstrosity terrorising them.
‘Oh Neal…’ Peter thought, ‘What have you gotten yourself into this time?’
He couldn’t exactly blame Neal for everything; the conman was a trouble magnet. Still, it did relieve some stress to watch Neal try to bluster his way out of an unfounded accusation that had tried to seem founded like a foundation made of sand.
“Let’s find out, shall we?”
The mostler then did his signature move, which was squatting and tilting his head to the right then left repeatedly. ‘Maybe it was hypnosis.’ Said the little part of Peter's brain that wasn’t preoccupied with being held captive and had spotted a puzzle.
Peter felt slightly guilty, on one hand it would really be helpful to know who, or what, Neal had his eye on right now, on the other, this was such an invasion of privacy that not even OR would attempt such a method of information gathering. But there was nothing he could do, his hands were bound, and rescue was god only knows how far off. He would just have to at least pretend to forget the name of Neal's latest fling/artwork to steal, at least, until it inevitably became an issue.
Neal’s entire body was tense, his lips tightly sealed against whatever it was he wanted. He was fighting this, and hard, Peter noted. That wasn’t a good sign.
“Come on, don’t fight it!” Gleed the mostler. “That’ll only hurt.”
‘Come on Neal. Don’t fight this, no one’s going to hold it against you. Please stop hurting yourself and just tell say it-‘
“My brother.”
Suddenly, Peter was made of ice.
“I want my brother back.”
‘A brother.’ Peter couldn’t breathe. On one hand, Neal was an only child. On the other hand, Neal was a conman and a liar to boot. But Peter was still surprised. The thief was notoriously closed off about his life pre-crime, and indeed his personal life at all. Him having a brother had never really crossed Peter’s mind for a moment after clearing all the Caffrey’s, and every other one of Neal's aliases, in the country, and expanded. (Yes, Peter knew that maybe, just maybe, Caffrey wasn’t Neal's actual name, nor probably was Neal. But Neal was doing better these days, even starting to slip away from a con and into a more law-based mind set sometimes. And maybe, Peter thought, maybe he should be given the benefit of the doubt. Even if everyone else thought him a fool.)
The rest of the hostage situation seemed to fly by in both the metaphorical and literal sense, as the mostler seemed to be also able to hover roughly half a foot off the ground. Peter wasn’t really paying attention, between the probable concussion, the zip ties digging into his skin, and the reeling information that his only child CI had a brother. The next thing he knew, truly knew, was the soft-sanded wood of Neal's kitchen table and the cold touch of a bottle. He shouldn’t be drinking with a concussion, but he couldn’t really care right now. ‘A brother,’ his mind whispered to him, ‘Neal has a brother.'
He didn’t quiet believed it.
“So…” He started; it wasn’t subtle. “Your brother, huh?”
Neal didn’t reply, he was focused down on the paper in front of him, an incident report that needn’t be handed in for several weeks yet, but for some reason Neal had nearly completed. For a master thief and conman, Neal really knew how to bull his way through useless forms in record time.
Peter cleared his throat. Neal ignored him.
He tried again;
“You have a brother?”
Neal was quiet, gaze lifting from the papers to the window and the faded early morning city lights beyond, sipping on his glass of ‘costs more than I get paid in a year’ wine, before speaking.
“Not anymore.”
Peter frowned and his shoulders straightened. He knew what Neal meant, had heard it too many times to not, but he still had to ask, to be sure.
“What?”
“I don’t have a brother anymore.”
Neal’s eyes watched the city outside; he hadn’t looked at Peter since he’d passed Peter his own cheap beer. They traced a skyline that wasn’t seen, watching for something that wasn’t there.
“He died a few months back. When I was in prison.”
A pause and then;
“I didn’t know until the night I got out; no one told me.”
A crack;
“I didn’t get to go to funeral.”
There was only really one word to reply to that.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Neal laughed, as smooth as sandpaper, a hand dragging through his hair, “fuck.”