elrhiarhodan

Title: All the Secrets Revealed (The Secret History of Neal Caffrey, Part Five)
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar, Kingsman: The Secret Service
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Harry Hart (Kingsman) Neal Caffrey (White Collar), Merlin (Kingsman), Mozzie (White Collar); Harry/Neal
Word Count: ~2600
Spoilers: White Collar - None - Pre-Series, Spoilers for Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015) - None - Pre-Movie
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: None
Beta Credit: None
Summary: Neal enjoys spending time with Harry Devere, a man who probably has more secrets that Neal, himself, does.

What he doesn't know is that Harry, with the help of Kingman's resident wizard, has uncovered all of Neal's secrets. All of them.


Author's Notes: A belated birthday present for my dearest friend, buefo.

Unbeta'd and un-Britpicked (but London geography is based on personal experience)


___________________




London, 2003

Neal relaxes against the soft sheets and gives his cock a lazy stroke. It's not that he isn't in the mood for a wank, it's just that the wank feels a little … much.

Last night, Harry had him twisted up so wonderfully that he could barely remember his name, which is a dangerous thing when you've got at least three active aliases going. He'd kept Neal on the edge of orgasm for hours, fucking him, spanking him, using his mouth like a glory hole, never letting him come - or at least not until orgasm had been irrelevant.

And this morning, Harry had been pure sweetness. It hadn't been just aftercare; the work of a good Dom helping his sub through the drop. Harry had done that for Neal after they'd finished. No, this morning had been about being two grown men enjoying each other's company. This morning, after Harry had returned with breakfast, Neal had been the one to pose naked. Harry's surprisingly talented with a pencil and paper - not as good as Neal, but few people are - and Neal's enough of an exhibitionist to enjoy posing.

He'd thought about asking Harry about the missing sketch, but decided against it. Harry DeVere is as much a property management consultant as Nick Halden is an investment banker. That had been obvious from the first time Harry put his hands on Neal. Property management consultants don't have gun calluses - on both hands. Nor do they have knife scars and bullet wounds.

Harry had noticed his curiosity about the scars (not the gun calluses) and mentioned that he'd been in the Gulf in the early 1990s. Even though the scars are not a decade old - some of them are still pink, Neal had accepted Harry's excuse without question. At least without asking Harry any questions because he knows that he won't get real answers, and those questions, if asked, might just chase Harry away.

But Neal knows enough military men (and women) to understand that combat veterans tend to speak with more specificity about their service. Oh, not about battles and engagements, but about the very branches of service their in, using words like "tour" and "deployment". Harry's very vagueness raises questions.

Neal figures that Harry'd been in military intelligence, probably still is. Or maybe even MI6. He chuckles at the thought that he's been fucking and getting fucked by James Bond.

That still doesn't give his cock any more interest in a wank and Neal foregoes masturbation for a check-in with Mozzie.

"The Sisters Karamazov Smoked Fish Emporium, now taking orders for the High Holy Days."

Neal laughs. He doesn't doubt that this is a real business for Moz - likely stocked from a few timely hijacked Russ and Daughter trucks. "It's me, Moz."

"Ah, Neal." Moz doesn't bother to mask his disappointment. "Don't suppose you're calling to order some hand-sliced lox today? Just forty-seven-fifty a pound."

"That's not a bad price, but I'm still in London and the delivery charge will be a killer."

"Fair enough. What's up?"

"Did well in Hong Kong."

"Yeah, I know. Dirty Decurtis stopped by to rub my nose in your success. Little twerp seems to think that I'm incapable of running a gig without you."

"Far from it." Neal does wonder about that sometimes - Mozzie never seems to want to do anything big unless Neal's involved. "You have anything going on?"

"Not at the moment. Still chasing down leads on that solid gold chess set that Zev's been bragging about, but I think that's nothing. Right now, just letting some investments pay dividends. And taking orders for the holidays."

Which is sort of proving the point. But Neal doesn't say anything. He gets to the reason for the call. "Any word?"

"On Kate?"

"Yeah."

"No. Nothing since the Prada sighting. Sorry."

Neal sighs. He doesn't know why he keeps asking. Kate's made it clear that she wants nothing to with him. And maybe she's right. It's not as if he's kept himself pure for her, like some noble Galahad searching for the Holy Grail. "It's okay."

"I did hear from Alex, though."

"Oh?" Neal hasn't spoken to Alex Hunter since that debacle at the Amalienborg Palace. "Does she have a lead on the music box?"

"No, actually not. Your name didn't even come up. She was looking to move some coinage. I hooked her up, that it. Don't know why I even bothered mentioning it."

Neal sighs. This is typical Mozzie. "No problem." His phone buzzes with another call. It's Harry. "Look, I've got to go. Talk soonish."

"Sure thing. And Neal, if you …"

Neal cuts Mozzie before he can finish. "Harry, didn't expect to hear from you this afternoon."

"I couldn't stop thinking about you, Nick." Harry's practically purring.

"Really?" Neal can't quite keep the skepticism out of his voice.

"I'm laying it on a bit thick?" Harry now sounds a bit more like himself, the ever self-deprecating English gentleman.

"A bit."

"Well, I did have a lovely time last night. And this morning."

"As did I." Neal clenches his ass around the phantom memory of Harry's impressive cock. "I'm still enjoying, to be honest."

"As a gentleman should always be."

Neal can't escape the feeling that there's a whole other conversation going on. "I do try."

"Are you free for dinner this evening, or do you have plans?"

Neal don't bother of making the pretense of checking his calendar. "Just so happens that I am free."

"May I cook for you? At my place?"

Neal blinks. This is completely unexpected. He and Harry aren't like that - not really. And Neal doesn't want anything more that what they already have - casual companionship and some very athletic fucking. Neal doesn't mind entertaining Harry at his flat - it's a temporary place with nothing of his own in it. At least nothing that can tie him back to his life in New York. Harry's never even mentioned where he lives, but Neal figures is somewhere in the W1 postal code. Harry DeVere - or whatever his name really is - wouldn't live anywhere else. And Neal wouldn't mind getting a peak at the other man's interior life - if just to satisfy his curiosity.

Neal does his best to cover his surprise. "Certainly. I would be delighted. What time?"

"How does seven sound?"

"It sounds perfect. Shall I bring the wine?"

"A nice red would be lovely - I'm in the mood for Italian."

Neal slots that information away. "Text me your address?"

"Certainly. See you tonight, darling."

"Can't wait."

Harry disconnects and Neal's left to stare at his phone. Something seems … off.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::


Harry texts an address to Nick. It's not, of course, his real address, but a Kingsman property on Bruton Street in Mayfair, a few minute's walk from the American Embassy.

How fitting.

Because Nick Halden isn't an Englishman. He's an American. He isn't even Nick Halden, but a conman who's been going by the name of Neal Caffrey for the last eight years. And he's wanted by the FBI in connection with a dozen art thefts and forgeries.

Harry isn't particularly surprised by any of this. From their first meeting, he'd known that the man isn't who he says he is and as their association had grown, Harry had begun to suspected that Nick Halden is little more than a very talented chameleon.

Harry is, of course, familiar with the condition, since he's been living that life for nearly twenty years. But he genuinely likes Nick - or Neal - and finds him interesting in ways that he's rarely found any other hook-up interesting. It's not just the physical appeal, or even the prodigious intelligence and education, it's the man's sly wit and anything goes attitude that's so damn appealing.

"Ye seem sad, Harry." Merlin gives him a sharp look over the mug of tea he's been nursing along. "Ye like the boy."

"You would, too."

"He's pretty enough." Merlin flips through the dossier and lands on a small police sketch that that actually sealed Nick's - Neal's - fate. It's attached to an article in the New York Times about a series of bond forgeries believed to have been committed by a young con man who'd been brazen enough to approach the FBI case agent minutes after he'd cashed the bond. The man isn't identified by name, but it's definitely Nick. Neal.

There's another picture of Neal, one far more telling. He's standing at the shoulder of the fugitive financier, Vincent Adler.

Harry shuts the dossier and sighs.

"What are ye going to do with the lad?"

"Don't know yet." Harry drains his own mug and wishes there had been whiskey in it, instead tea.

"He could be a valuable asset, with talents like that. Charm, wit, intelligence. Pity that he's a criminal."

"We're all criminals, Merlin."

"Speak for yourself, I'm not a knight. And you know what I mean. This lad's in it for his own enrichment."

"I'm not so sure about that."

"Ye feel sorry for him?"

"It's not easy having your world ripped apart like that." Harry opens up the dossier and re-reads the section on Neal's childhood. "Father disappears, and then his whole life is up-ended. Do I want to know how you were able to get into the U.S. Witness Protection Program's database?"

Merlin reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a bottle of Scotch. It's a ten year old Laphroaig; not the best, but far from undrinkable. He pours a dram in both of their mugs. "You're better off not knowing such things."

"I thought you said you weren't a criminal." Harry smiles at his friend, they've been at this a long time.

"Well, there's crime and there's crime." Merlin winks.

"It doesn't count when it's for the greater good, Hamish?"

"That's what they tell me, Henry."

Harry makes a face; he loathes his birth name as much as Merlin hates his.

Merlin presses him. "So, what's the plan?"

Harry shakes his head. "I really don't know. Let him know that I know who he is, that I might be interested in turning a blind eye to his activities in exchange for a favor to be named later. Standard asset recruitment." Something feels a little off about that, but it's not like he really has anything better to offer. "It's getting late, I need to get back to London. Have to get ready for my date."

"Are you actually going to make the lad dinner?"

"Man's got to eat, doesn't he?"

"That he does. And don't forget to stop and see Arthur, he probably wants to bitch to you about your lack of a Tristan candidate."

Harry grimaces. The last thing he wants to do is propose some earnest and boring young sprig of English nobility, or worse, a Hooray Henry who's only claim to greatness is the size of his father's bank account.

Harry glances down at the dossier on Merlin's desk and grins.

"Oh, I know that look. Don't even - "

"He's perfect, Merlin. His mother's the daughter of the Earl of Wotten."

"The illegitimate daughter - "

Harry warms to the idea. "Doesn't matter - he still can hold a British passport. Citizenship within the Commonwealth is the only requirement for a Kingsman."

"He's wanted by the FBI."

"For bond forgery, not murder and warrants can be quashed. Talent like that should be nurtured." Harry laughs, he hasn't been this excited about a proposal since Lee.

"Arthur will have your head when he finds out."

"Chester can blow it up my ass." Harry reaches for the dossier, but Merlin's quicker.

"Ye know better than that - this doesn't leave the premises."

"All right." Harry leans over and presses a kiss against Merlin's pate. "I adore you, you know."

Merlin swats at Harry with the file. "Go see Chester. If we're both lucky, you just might give the old vulture a heart attack."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal has a small laugh when he gets the text from Harry with his address. He checks in with Google and finds Bruton Street is right in the heart of Mayfair - just as he'd pegged it. It's a lovely evening and Neal decides to walk, stopping at a wine shop on Oxford Street for a bottle of Barolo. It's a little extravagant, but not out of character for Nick Halden, who leads an extravagant life.

The address takes him to a lovely old building on a quiet street, if a bit claustrophobic. It does feel very much like a place that Henry "Call me Harry" DeVere would live.

Nick Halden wouldn't mind living here, either. For a while.

Neal rings the bell and that's lovely too - no harsh mechanical buzzer but a respectable deep chime. Harry doesn't keep him waiting and greets him with a warm smile and a kiss.

Harry fusses a bit over the Barolo, proclaiming that it will be perfect with the osso bucco he's making. There a bit too much ceremony as Harry opens the bottle to let it breathe, and Neal can't help that there's something a bit performative about Harry's behavior tonight.

But the sparkle in Harry's eye is irresistible and Neal eases into the evening as Harry shows him around, a hand gently resting at the small of his back.

"You do have a beautiful home." Neal is honest, because the place is gorgeous and expensive. But it's also soulless, much like a very fine hotel. He sees nothing that makes him believe that Harry actually lives here.

But then, Harry supposedly spends a great deal of time traveling, so it's possible that this residence is simply a resting place and not a home. And after all, Harry is quite likely not who he says he is, and Neal knows better than to throw rocks at glass houses.

He watches Harry as he puts the finishing touches on the meal. There are just enough dirty dishes in the sink to convince Neal that Harry did most of the cooking.

Most, but not all.

"Shall we?" Harry leads him towards the dining room, to a table set with china and silver that wouldn't be out of place in a palace.

The feeling that he's part of a performance increases as Harry makes small talk as he serves the first course. Harry has never made small talk before - the lack of that has been something Neal had found as attractive as Harry's wit.

But Neal plays along and mentions a exhibition opening at the Tate Modern. Harry makes the standard noises that one does when one is less than interested in late twentieth century art; Neal's heard those noises often enough from Moz.

And he's getting a little fed up.

Harry pours them each a glass of wine and Neal can't help himself. He takes a sip and asks, "What's going on?"

Harry leans back in his chair, grinning like he's just gotten the world's best Christmas present. "You tell me, Neal.


To Be Continued