Chapter Text
(Banner by TouchoftheWind)
Neal's week started frustrating and painful before it took a turn for the strange. He was standing against the railings, looking out over the East River and contemplating the hypocrisy of the FBI, when an attractive naked man emerged from the water. He continued watching, bemused, as the man picked up a newspaper to cover himself, seeming more resigned than embarrassed.
“Afternoon,” the man said with a faint, chagrined smile and a small wave.
“Afternoon,” Neal replied. The man continued walking past him. Neal wasn't above looking his fill before asking, “Do you need some help?”
The man paused and turned.
“A phone call, perhaps?” Neal offered.
“That would be greatly appreciated,” the man said, British accent evident. Neal handed over his phone and pretended not to listen to the man's quiet conversation. He didn't reveal much, just that this clearly wasn't the first time he'd taken a naked dip in the river and needed a lift.
“Henry Morgan,” the man said once he'd ended his call and returned the phone.
“Neal Caffrey.”
They shook hands and sat on the bench to wait for whomever Henry had called. Ten minutes later, an older man came hurrying up to them, holding a bag that he quickly thrust at Henry. Henry wasted no time in pulling out slacks and a shirt and slipping into them.
“Happen often, does it?” Neal asked.
“Somnambulist,” Henry said in something approaching an answer.
Neal decided not to mention that it was the middle of the afternoon.
...
Two days later, Neal was accosted by a man with a sword. This was proceeded with one of the headaches Neal had been experiencing off and on for almost two years now – he could never predict what brought them on and they faded quickly.
"I’m not sure what this is about, but I’m sure we can come to an arrangement," he told the crazy man while reaching into his pocket for his phone.
The man didn’t answer, just swung at him again. Neal stumbled out of the way.
"Please," a man said from further down the alley where he was leaning casually against the wall, disdain dripping from his voice. "I’m all for taking advantage, but do you really think this kid is worth the effort?"
"Stay out of this, mortal," the crazy man told the other, Neal is almost sure, crazy man. That’s when he gets his first good look at the man and can’t help but recognise Damian Moreau, even though he’s supposed to be in prison or dead. Neal would have been happy with either, since the guy was a psychopath and it was impossible to work in Europe without crossing paths with his network.
"If I was the man I used to be, I might have actually fought you over this for fun, or sport," Moreau said. He shrugged, removed his hands from his pockets, raised a gun and shot. The crazy man with the sword collapsed in a spray of blood that Neal flinched away from.
"Uh, thanks," Neal said, rising to his feet and brushing himself off as casually as possible. "But I really do need to get going."
Moreau ignored him as he picked up the sword lying next to the dead man’s body and raising it. Neal backed away several steps, but Moreau wasn’t brandishing the sword at him. Instead, he swung down, separating the man’s head from his shoulders.
"This should be interesting," Moreau said as light rose from the man’s body and lightning began to spark around them. Moreau raised his hand and Neal could see a small arc of lightning dance across the surface. “Huh.”
Neal backed away even further, turning to run when an arc of lightning struck him in the back and he fell to his knees. Agony blazed through him, ecstasy on its heels, until he couldn’t tell where one sensation ended and the other began and it all became a haze of too much all at once. When he was finally released, he was panting and soaked with sweat but he hadn’t felt so alive in years.
“You're Immortal,” Moreau told him.
“What?”
Moreau gave an impatient roll of his eyes, drew his gun again and shot him. Neal couldn't believe this is what his life had amounted to.
…
"You're Immortal," was the first thing Neal heard when he came to. His hand immediately went to feel his chest, which remained smooth and unblemished. His brain stuttered to a stop for a moment, telling him that this was impossible and that he really should be dead, before he forced himself back on track. There was still the man with the gun to consider.
"Immortal," Neal echoed. He assumed that was a better response given that he wasn’t immediately shot again. Progress.
"I do hate repeating myself."
Nothing Neal had heard lead him to believe that Moreau was a patient man.
"So what does that mean?" Neal asked, rising to him knees and then climbing to his feet.
"There is only one way you can die," Moreau said, gesturing to the body a few feet away. "You won’t age, you won’t get sick, and you will have to defend yourself against your sword wielding fellows until one of them gets lucky."
Neal was sure he detected a faint bitter undertone, but there was nothing of it in Moreau’s expression. He figured it was safer to avoid that all together.
"Right," Neal said faintly, at least mostly just going along with Moreau until he could get away somewhere to think about everything and probably consult Mozzie. "I'm not really a fighter."
"You'll have to learn if you want to survive. Though your immortality does make things easier," Moreau said, a look of contemplation on his face as he looked at Neal that left Neal distinctly uneasy.
"Easier?"
"To fake your death. I've been keeping an eye on you," Moreau said and Neal couldn’t help but shiver at the idea of having Moreau's attention. "I have a position available for a man like you."
"I really don’t think I’m the man you’re looking for," Neal said, trying to sound grateful for the opportunity and regretful at turning it down. He was sure he failed at both.
"Since my incarceration, I’ve decided to shift the direction of the organisation. You are the perfect man,” Moreau assured him.
"I wouldn’t be able to come back here," Neal said, because he had the feeling Moreau was not going to take no for an answer. Moreau simply stared at him, but he’d known the answer before asking the question, anyway.
"The Quickening will have destroyed most of the evidence and there aren’t any cameras at this end of the alley," Moreau said. He shrugged out of his coat and handed it to Neal, who pulled it on gratefully, only too happy to hide the bloodstains. "Think about my offer," he added before walking off. Neal stood staring at him for a moment before he heard sirens in the distance and was forced to move.