I’ll know that for the lie that’s written on its face

[consulting]

CHARACTERS: Neal Caffrey (became) and The Skinnier Sherlock Holmes (consulting)
LOCATION: Neal's Room (
WARNINGS: possible gay. It's Sherlock Holmes and Neal Caffrey in the same room with the intention to dance around each other metaphorically.
SUMMARY: Neal decides to draw Sherlock like one of them french girls. He consents because he's going to leap at any chance to pick at Neal's brain. This is also kind of a date.
NOTES: Follows the events of this thread


Neal Caffrey was an interesting man, and that was exactly what Sherlock needed to tide over the waves of boredom. There was that air of mystery and of drama that he needed, and the fact that he strongly suspected Neal to being in the criminal classes added to his flare. It started as a harmless conversation and by the end of it, it grew to slow fascination. All he wanted to do was pick apart Neal and see how he worked. It was a small thing he consented to. Neal had brought out the sketchpad towards the end of it, and began drawing him. Posing for him was a small exchange for the stimulation that Neal would provide.

He waited outside the door, an hour or so after their conversation. He decided to lift himself of expectations and to take everything as it was. Perhaps Neal wasn't going to be as clever (or as charming) as how he projected himself on the video. Perhaps that after a few meetings he'd get disenchanted and go back to being bored. But for now, he was interesting and shiny and new.

He rehearses wit and quotes in his mind before knocking. Why was he over thinking? He was mildly rusty but Neal didn't appear to be the murderous or the entirely too dangerous sort of criminal.

Sherlock pilfered Austria's violin and brought it along in the events he'd be bored posing. It was clasped in one hand as the other moves to knock at the door. Should be an interesting night, he thinks.

Comments

[became]

If he had anything to fuss with, to leave out and try to trip Sherlock up, he would. But the things he woke up to are either too personal or two generic to do much damage with. So instead he makes coffee; has two mugs steaming and ready on the bureau, the drawings of Sherlock he already finished laying facedown behind them.

Sherlock's punctuality is expected, and he has the door open before he can draw his fist back from the knock. "When you say an hour, you mean an hour." His tone is wry, but good humored, matching the rolled up sleeves and the discarded suit jacket, hanging neatly in the closet. Sherlock can decide for himself whether the charm is directed or simply ingrained at this point.

"...You play?" His eye is drawn down to the violin, and the pleasure that fills his voice isn't exaggerated for flattery's sake. Good food, good wine, good music-- Neal doesn't do the lifestyle he slipped into by halves.

[consulting]

The first thing Sherlock notes is he's half an inch taller then Neal. Which was good, because he rather liked being the taller one. The second thing he notices is that Neal is bulkier. Perhaps accented by the sharp lines drawn out by the suit, but the man had definition. Muscle even. He tries to figure out how each sharp line is formed as each crick and nook and cranny of Neal's body wants to tell Sherlock a story. With a bit of confidence, Sherlock can almost piece together his regiment for working out (swimming?). And then there was Neal's face and it's symmetry. He notices the tones in Neal's voice, and the gait when he approaches Sherlock.

Legs spaced apart. Weight, one leg lagging behind. Anklet. Heavy Anklet. Asbo. Artist. Graffiti? No. Probation. He's mentally cross referencing every crime sentence that could lead to probation on an anklet before he realizes he hasn't said anything at all.

"I like keeping punctual," he says it's supposed to come off as flippant but there are edges of softness in his tone.

The coffee for the most part is a good gesture. A gesture Sherlock is mildly surprised with. He's going to read into it because he's Sherlock, and then his attention drifts around the room. He notices the sketches face down. An invitation to be lead in? Curious.

"I do. I needed something to keep my fingers idle," he says and it may be a reason, but not the only one. He pays attention to Neal's hands briefly, because those were the bits that said them all. To start of conversation, he starts with the obvious. "You made coffee."

[became]

It seems a little de trop to spread his arms and spin in a slow circle, but Neal still has to force down the urge all the same. Instead, he stands still and lets Sherlock look his fill, occupying himself looking back. There's something aristocratic about his bearing; an inborn arrogance and assurance. It could be from intellect, but Neal would take a bet against it just being that, even playing the house. So an important family, then. He's the kind of pale Neal couldn't even manage in jail, and in person that angled harshness isn't dulled at all.

"Hey, it's better than the alternative." Neal watches Sherlock take everything in the the room in, darting from object to object like pieces in a puzzle. The buzz that trips down his spine hasn't been this strong since Peter, since the times Neal only escaped by foot out the back door five minutes before Agent Burke and his cadre of agents broke down the front. He'd forgotten what a rush it is-- but jail will do that to a good memory.

"I never learned how. Piano, yes, but not violin." He nods, smile lurking around the edges of his mouth. "I did. Enough for two, unless you have some moral objection."

[consulting]

He's been on this space ship around a month and he knows there's just edges of excitement he's trying to mask. The last criminal encounter he had was Moriarty, and that was frightening. The month lead to stagnation. He'd fallen into a rhythm of the occasional puzzle dutifully texted by acquaintances to keep him from going mad. A brief relapse into drug use, that didn't stave off his boredom at all merely managed it. But the over arching mystery of this ship was not something he would have been able to solve alone. There was a substantial lack of evidence too much blanks to fill in. Then Neal had turned up and he remembered what it was like to be on his toes. To play and feel the rush and the want to figure everything out.

Piano was a sign of lithe fingers. The same kind that could nick things out of pockets. He was wondering how long Neal was going to play the Hedge Manager card.

"Fascinating. A hedge manager who paints and plays piano." he answers coyly; taking that as an invitation and stepping into the room. He doesn't take a seat. Giving it a momentary thought to try to recall if coffee had morally offended him recently. "No moral objection on my end, though the thought is appreciated."

[became]

"I wasn't always a hedge fund manager. They like you to get through college first, at least." Neal's face is guilelessly innocent, just slightly puzzled like he can't imagine why Sherlock would doubt him. Never mind the fact that as far as college goes, Neal's only experience is with teaching. Not that any of his doctorates are real, but they hold up nicely even under scrutiny. "I had time to enrich myself in there, too."

Sherlock entering is the perfect time to study him again for a moment, try and decide the best angle to take. He can't decide if he wants to drag out the hedge fund manager cover or admit to some of Sherlock's suspicions; but that's best to play by ear, anyway. Reveals are always the most effective when deployed at the right moment.

"All right, then. Are con artists with my body type prone to drugging people, or is it okay if I hand you a cup?"

ATTRACTION THY NAME IS CAFFREY.

[consulting]

"What else keeps you enriched?" he's curious. It's a set up to see if Neal will enlighten him or a test to see what cards Neal will play. The truth, or the lies - Sherlock just genuinely wants his answers too. He's genuinely interested, the chase just adds the thrill to it. Sherlock's not one to bark up that tree either, he's a Cambridge Chemistry Student who dropped out on their final year due to reasons that began with M and ended in -ycroft and well boredom. But he could have pass off as being a post doctorate.

He takes the warm cup of coffee, cups it around and takes a sip. "Con artists of your body are prone to drugging. I mentioned body type, because most con artists have a few notches of vanity or hints of an ego. Plus, it seems to be a requirement of criminal classes to look astonishing in catsuits."

Sherlock's not entirely particular about his coffee; and Neal's got it more or less just right.

[became]

Neal has a habit of doling out littler truths-- favorite wine, a memory from his years running from Peter, sparing bits of unconnected, banal information-- like they're gifts, a way to be indulgent only he understands. Sherlock is paying attention and he's interesting, and he's brought a violin, and so Neal doesn't lie. "Art-- not making it, viewing it. Poetry. Movies with the Rat Pack."

He picks sips from his own mug, watching Sherlock as he ticks off the evidence. "Depends which class. I have a friend I wouldn't want to see in a catsuit for love or money." Tacitly acknowledging Sherlock is right on the money without ever saying it is all part of the game. "Although I appreciate the implication I'd look astonishing in one myself." He lets that rest for a moment, sipping his coffee and adds mildly, "so hedge fund managers must have a few vanity issues, too."

[consulting]

He's not a huge fan of poetry, but classic movies have a soft spot on him. Considering John's force fed him the old bonds. He appreciates Sinatra for the most part and tries to recall notes he can play on the violin for later. Trying to recall if he can play it by ear. Deciding then, that Fly me to the moon is oddly an ironic statement considering they are in space.

He chuckles almost. He's not going to acknowledge his win just yet. "Perhaps. You could just be exception to the dull hedge fund managers rule."

The word appreciation is being tossed around loosely tonight. He takes a seat on the nearest chair to the table with the coffee mugs, fingers ghosting over the faced down pieces of parchment. He's however, imploring Neal to sit with him.

[became]

"You only say that because you haven't heard about my stamp collection yet." Neal grabs his sketchpad off the bed before taking the unspoken hint and sitting down as well. "You can look if you want."

He wants to see what Sherlock's face looks like, looking down at himself; everyone has a slightly different and fascinating reaction to it. Capturing Sherlock's seems like a good piece to have on the chessboard for later. "They are of you."

This time he holds the mug in his left hand, right ready to jot down the first lines of expression.

[consulting]

"The stamp collection isn't an exemption to questions of validity," he half jokes.

Oh he was waiting for that. Not to see himself, but because art is a reflection of the artist. He takes a languid sip as to not make it obvious; lets the coffee go down his throat. It's strange feeling to being drawn; and he legitimately has no clue what he's expecting. If Neal dabbled in art forgery, it would be like icing to a cake. Why had Neal started drawing him? Sherlock was just going to slide under the assumption that it's something he did to most people.

He flips the paper over and he has to blink thrice, before he realizes these weren't sketches. They were practically art. Sherlock fixates himself on the paper, the way Neal had captured the shoddy lighting of his room and his sharp angles. He can deduce from the quality of paper that it's something Neal is serious about and what angle his elbows were rested on while they drew. And then the subject itself. Sherlock was expecting one big drawing, but there was more then one. He recognizes it as when he shifted in angle. Neal's attention to detail was remarkable even under that light. He doesn't touch at the worry of smudging but his fingers ghost over the parchment as he analyzes lines and angles. Neal was an artist, and a damn good one.

After a few moments he turns to Neal. Sherlock's rarely one for compliments or being stunned silent, but he'll give him this: "Impressive,"

And then he shifts, "Why did you start drawing me?"

OKAY I AM GOING TO BED NOW. NOW GDI. /forcibly tears myself away

[became]

"Clearly, you've never met anyone with a stamp collection." Neal's charm is just the slightest bit distracted there, anticipatory.

Sherlock's expression is more than he could have hoped for. He's managed to surprise his terribly observant new friend, and Neal luxuriates in the thrill of that as much as the pride that follows as Sherlock traces careful fingers just over the surface of the paper. Reverence, there, of a kind-- the best reaction an artist can hope for. Capturing it in his mind, he sets quickly to sketching, replying without looking up.

"I dabble." The words are modest, but the tone is purely gratified. Shame isn't really a word in his vocabulary; why bother feeling bad about something you're good at, or try and pretend you can't do what you can? The criminal world handles shame much more expediently-- leave it at the door, and use and say whatever it takes.

Neal finishes a few more lines and looks up again, dropping his pencil and stretching his hand a little as he does. "You have an interesting face." It's not a line-- the sun is hot, water wet, and Sherlock's face is fascinating. It's also not the whole truth, but that's par for the course.

|DDD

[consulting]

“Do you intend to set the bar for Stamp Collectors everywhere?”

To say that Neal Caffrey dabbled in art was the same as Sherlock saying he dabbled in chemistry. Neal could dissect techniques and influences as fast as Sherlock could compute for compounds. Neal’s lines were careful, an enigma as much as the man himself. Sherlock couldn’t tell if he had taken proper training or simply learned from practice. Perhaps he learned from forging. If people copied down pages from a novel to feel what it was like to write a good book then maybe the same applied for art. This adds to his list of many suspicions and Sherlock is checking and tying every fact he knows about Neal together.

His brain works like a hard drive that’s whirring at a hundred miles an hour and he’s just made Neal a folder. He won’t ask, Neal won’t tell. It’s a dance, a delicate one and he’s trying to get Neal on the same tune.

“Do I?” he asks leaning forward to get a better glimpse at Neal. Not so much as watching the figure forming on the page, but the artist behind it.

/quietly doodles hearts and flowers around this log

[became]

"It's one of my many, varied life goals."

Neal's always had an answer for everything, easy excuses and charm and witty banter just there, waiting to be tossed off casually. People are generally easy to manage even when they're messy and unpredictable-- they want the same things, and they never seem to notice that the man agreeing with their every word and keeping them entertained is about to rob them blind. It's why people like Peter-- like Sherlock-- are so irresistibly fascinating; the chance to test himself against someone who won't smile as they hand him whatever he wants are just more fun. Not always as lucrative, but if all Neal wanted was money and not the thrill that comes with pulling a job, he'd actually be the financial advisor he's pretending to be.

For a moment, Neal loses himself in the sheer pleasure of capturing a new face; licking his thumb, he lets Sherlock look his fill as he tries to get the feline tilt on his eyes just right. It's not quite there-- and he'll keep drawing them until they're perfect in free moments-- but he's given Sherlock enough lead time to see something real for now.

"Want me to pretend we both don't know it's true?" Neal sets the pad down, on his lap so Sherlock will have to ask if he wants to see it before he's done. "I'm always happy to indulge fishing for compliments."

/ALL THE NC+SH SCRIBBLES. LMAO

[consulting]

The 'do I' was meant to come out absently, but he's determined to question the fact that Neal has compliments up his sleeve. He absently wonders if Neal rehearses them and questions why Neal has them at all.

"I wasn't fishing. Interesting isn't the word usually in association to my face," he says easily with a shrug. "Unless the word is appended with the statement, 'with a black eye,' or something to that degree,"

He understands however the thrill. This is the rush that pushes his curiosities to the edge. The same rush he feels when the case leaves him on the ends of his seat. It is familiar, fascinating and it feels like an end to stagnation. It's that the thrill the causes him to start doing stupid things to prove he's clever. The thrill that gets him in trouble. He watches as Neal's hands dart across the page. He feels like a cat and Neal is dangling the thread and all he wants to grab.

"And your other life goals?" he asks out of genuine curiosity and the need for Neal to slip.

dear sherlock will you chase me around and stuff circle y or n from neal

[became]

"I'll concede on fishing, but you do know your face is arresting." He takes a long sip of coffee, savoring the heady flavor. He should probably save it-- for days when the press of being alone means he needs something from home-- but he's never been good at storing away his pleasures for a later, rainy day. "And I've heard it suggested a black eye would improve my face a few times, myself." There's a reason Neal stopped pulling jobs with people other than Moz and Kate unless he had to-- too many angry ex partners with stories about Caffrey's habit of screwing up jobs he didn't all the way approve of. It's better to build a reputation as a world class criminal who works alone or with his own crew than build one as the guy who can't play nice with others.

Peter has a file with birthday cards and reports about champagne sent to FBI surveillance fans that prove Neal's addicted to the attention more than anything else. He's a performer at heart, willing to amp up his game to stay in the spotlight.

His mouth curves into a grin. "Oh, you know. Retire wealthy, wife, kids, dog, minivan... the American dream." He doesn't even bother trying to sound sincere. "What about you?"

all the y circles from sherlock

[consulting]

Neal had called him arresting. He decides not to process the reason why Neal had referred to him as such, and instead has spun a debate with his inner monologue on why he's reacting to it. Neal for the most part is magnetic. The kind that draws you in with charm and wit. Oddly, there isn't a hint of hostile intent or sarcasm. Instead he tilts his head, as if to picture Neal with a black eye.

"Your face is fine as it is," he answers calmly. He's not good with compliments especially one's pertaining to physical features. But he does like how Neal's face has the perfect balance between soft and sharp. Intellects he could go for miles picking at, berating and praising. What was he doing?

He picks the violin up, thankful that he brought it. Let's it sits on his lap, and let's the thing lean against him as he plays careful chords in pizzicato.

Because Neal's caught him off guard with the last statement and his thoughts are muddled, he answers Neal's second question honestly. He slips, "Perhaps keep bees,"

[became]

"It gets the job done." It's not a request for more effusive praise; if anything, it's even more matter of fact than his assessment of Sherlock's looks. It's true that in some ways, Neal's as vain and fussy as a cat about his looks. In others, he's ruthlessly practical. Men like Mozzie get by looking like anybody on the street and therefore nobody-- Neal's face isn't forgettable, so he has to go the opposite way. Knowing how to use what he was born with to its greatest advantage and being aware of exactly what he looks like isn't vanity, it's simple pragmatism.

Sherlock's playing is obviously a sign of nerves, but Neal doesn't press the advantage and just listens, internally thrilling in having set him off-balance. The trick is to know when to stop pushing and let things sit before moving in again. It's a delicate line between off-balance and simply uncomfortable, one that needs to be carefully straddled.

"I might cook." A truth for a truth. "Art's... something else. Important. But if I had to pick a new career, it wouldn't be working as an artist." Because the attention isn't guaranteed, because Neal would like to keep something for himself, because the gratification of feeding people is simply more immediate and easier to sustain himself on-- the reasons aren't on the table, but he's sure even distracted Sherlock will draw his own conclusions.

[consulting]

He tries to examine the fault in the previous statement. The way Neal chose his words were careful. Precise even. He lays down a map of Neal’s pathologies. He genuinely suspects Neal can lie through his teeth as easily as his teeth were capable of charming. A thousand other verbs cross and subsequently get marked off until he makes a neat list in his mind; placing the word flirt at bottom most.

The statement, his last one wasn’t a lie and Sherlock who rarely eats wants to bring it up. Perhaps not pertaining to the food, but the honesty of the statements. Neal’s lies in the span of the conversation were sparser then what he was initially picturing. The honesty engrossed him even further. He resigns to the need to put himself under careful examination. He’s going to brush it off and file Neal under ‘mental stimulation’. Nothing more, nothing less and whatever was going on in his head was a side effect of the thrill of the chase.

If Sherlock were anyone else he’d simply egg Neal on by asking him to cook. But he isn’t, so he moves the violin so it rests neatly under his chin in a fluid motion. Fingers’ placing themselves on strings and a hand uses the bow to glide back and forth against it. The notes serving as an extension of Sherlock’s thoughts; the beginnings of a melody.

“You enjoy attention,” he says as if the sky is blue. You have mine; more than what I divide into most people. “Requests?”

[became]

To a fault, Neal prizes elegance above everything else. He has zero compunctions about baldly lying-- except to Peter and Moz, but they own their own complicated rules and guidelines, unique to his normal moral code-- but there's no real lasting flash in a flat out lie. When they're necessary, they're necessary, but the real skill comes in manipulating the truth in ways that might as well make it a lie, bending it and stretching it until you've enforced the cover you want and never really said much of anything to be caught in.

(And it's entirely possible he wants to keep Sherlock guessing. As to why he's being honest, whether it's all a mask-- whatever bothers him most and keeps Neal interesting.)

He watches Sherlock begin to play with unconcealed pleasure, greed lurking around the corners; half-decent string quartets playing at the occasional FBI-crashed party aside, it's been a long, long time since Neal was able to attend anything resembling the symphony. Mozzie's opera records are a nice reminder of the culture available outside his radius, but nothing compares to the real thing, live.

"Doesn't everyone, at heart?" Neal's own tone is contemplative, and he starts drawing again-- just the eyes, this time. "Play me something of your own."

It's a stab in the dark, whether Sherlock's written his own music, but the odds are high enough that it's worth it. And if he's wrong, he can always spin it out in another direction.

[consulting]

He plays a quick scale. He hasn't played in months, and the violin was pilfered recently; in the span of an hour. And in between the ascending notes, he begins a baritone of deductions.

"Yes, but you revel in it. Even with your selected repertoire of career choices, your love for attention screams out," the words are dry. A moment where he shuts his eyes and plays with the instrument. The beginning notes of a piece. An old one, an original written during an earlier investigation. The piece is melodious, fast but soft on the ears. He looses himself for a few seconds as his brain attempts to piece the puzzle that is Neal Caffrey together. It's a little known fact that Sherlock only plays when he needs to think the most; and he succumbs to playing because Neal demands all his attention and focus and he's more than happy to oblige.

He lets the violin come to a sudden halt mid-song. Entering an almost unpleasant speech, but there is no moment of silence as Sherlock has decided to begin talking.

"Let's start with the easiest, cooking. The satisfaction of the compliments when given a good meal. If it was for other people an alternate career path would have been suggested, perhaps something akin to being a doctor or something as subtle as working for the post. The way you bait the conversation, you enjoy it when people pay you compliment. So yes, - there's chef. Then there's the cover of hedge fund manager. There's a notion of power, pleasure in money, intelligence and the hints of privilege in the career title alone. It's something renowned enough to repute, but not anything anyone questions. Let's skim to hobbies. You're a talented artist; the experience shines from the weight of the lines and the steadiness of your hands. The strokes are repetitive but secure; something you do - but perhaps, considerably less so for a live model. The style is reminiscent of older art influences; but there's no indication of a degree. Work that good, a love for attention and yet painter isn't a career choice? Perhaps it may lack the promise of wealth of a hedge fund manager, or may be there simply had to be a reason why your work isn't regularly displayed."

"Is that enough for something of my own?" the grin is cattish.

[became]

Neal laughs at that, moves to sketching a jawline tilted slyly in playful challenge, and nods. "All right, you got me. I like to be the center of attention, always have." Nature or nurture is lost on that one; a childhood lacking in it, an inborn need-- either is possible. But Neal's always known what people want to hear, with a little practice found he knew what to say to use that ability to work people around to his way of seeing things.

The observation about cooking-- a chef, Sherlock stresses, and Neal's smile goes lazy with satisfaction-- is good. As good as Peter, even, and that isn't something often applied to much of anyone in the world. The sentences after build on each other, the precise words seeming to fill the entire room, pressing into each empty space. There's the faint uncomfortable itch of being exposed, but the excitement of being seen overrides.

"No one really knows what a hedge fund manager does, did you know that?" He swallows, wetting his suddenly dry throat. "Most jobs, there's bound to be someone who knows enough to see through a lie. But nobody knows what hedge fund managers do." He slips on Steve Tabernacle's skin for a moment, just to see if Sherlock can see what he's doing. His graceful slouch in the chair turns more arrogant; spine straighter, chin tilted just slightly up. "I can brush it off, explain that I make rich people much richer." Steve's tone is a little more nasal than Neal's own-- summers in Hynannis. Not enough to register as an accent, but enough to bring to mind old money. "Then I can imply it's too complicated to explain fully. Nobody wants to question the rich, smart guy about things like that."

He lets Steve drop away, posture Neal's again, and smirks lazily. "Returned the favor. Twice, if you count the sketches, so we're even." Sherlock's insight and his music for Neal's art and the confirmation Sherlock's entirely right about him. Not a bad trade.

[consulting]

"Which is in a due process of," bullshit, "selection for covers, that makes - hedge-fund manager ideal,"

He notices the shifts in Neal's demeanor, because for the most part. He observes far too much than what is healthy and Neal just needs to be put under constant observation. The arrogance, the sudden movements of poise and the elaborateness of the front are all indications of something more elusive. When he meets people he usually dives down and brings forth conclusion after conclusion. With Neal he feels he's barely breached the surface.

The notion that they were up to par. His smirk is almost cocky. "I hadn't realize you were keeping score,"

Competitive. Forger. Criminal. Arrogant. Charming. He's starting to make list after list; and with every trait trying to expound on everything that is Neal. He may not figure out Neal in one sitting; but he'll try too. He sets the bow down on the table, violin moved to rest on his lap as he takes a sip of coffee.

[became]

"If someone was going to stick to one cover, it would be ideal." Neal rolls his shoulders a little, looking at Sherlock from over the rim of his mug as he sips again. "Just hypothetically speaking, of course."

People are easy to fool, in general. They want to be told certain things, and once you slip through their barriers and be the one to say those things they'll ignore what should be obvious and leave themselves vulnerable so they can keep the reinforcement. It never takes serious effort to con them-- Neal does good work even when he doesn't need to, but the challenges are fleeting and a little too easy to be truly satisfying. The people who aren't easy, though-- those are the ones he likes best. He did some of his best work running from Peter, spurred on by the breathless, electric excitement of matching his wits against someone who could see the machinery working beneath the flashing lights everyone else is blinded by. It makes Neal wish for a gallery, a museum, anything-- he'd swap out something prominent with a forgery, maybe set off an alarm on the way out just to make sure his game isn't skipped over.

"It's a hazard of the job." Criminals aren't the most giving group of people. Exceptions can be made, but favors are just as much a currency as anything else they need fences for. A nebulous tally sheet exists between them all-- who owes someone a good word for a job, who's still angry about a job that ended badly. Even with Moz, something doesn't come for nothing. It's Peter's world-- a world with with no expectations or score sheets, where people do things without the implicit understanding that someday they'll want the return in payment-- that baffles Neal. "You mean you aren't?"

He's building his own list about Sherlock, less words and more filling in each detail like filling out the blank spaces on a canvas, until he can capture it all just right. (He can tell the capturing might take a while, and the pleasant heat of a long con begins to settle in, the giddy anticipation of a real challenge. Sherlock's all closed doors and lines, and Neal's never been good at resisting the urge to find out what's behind doors closed against him, and run his hands over everything contained inside.)

[consulting]

"Ideal, perhaps. But I'm assuming you like variety," he scoffs at the notion of hypotheticals. He's gotten Neal to admit he's dodgy but he cannot bring out just yet further than what he's exposed. He's going to need concretized proof before saying anything further. He wonders if there's anything in the room he can set on fire. When something was on fire, it was commonplace to grab the first thing that was most important. An insight like that would have been wonderful to his thinking process. He did have his lighter in his pocket.

"It's a hazardous occupation," he compliments. He understands the allure of a life of crime and the thrill of the chase exists on both ends. Neal doesn't make an active effort to hide his enthusiasm; regardless of weather or not that speaks volumes of his character.

He was keeping score by the decimal point. "Point for point, we're at deuce and if my earlier presumption is correct then perhaps you wouldn't mind adding a bit of variety in play."

Full attention Caffrey.

[became]

"Right again." He grins at that scoff, wide and shameless. If his fedora was on his head instead of laying on the foot of his bed, he'd tip it in acknowledgment. And if Sherlock sets any of his shit on fire, Neal is returning the favor. (It's a poor sample size, anyway. All Neal's things are still clustered together; neatly stacked, but easy to grab at once and run with. Old habits die hard, especially the ones that keep you alive and out of prison.

"Anything to do with that much money always is. People don't like feeling like they've been robbed." He can't resist the sly comments-- it's not part of the game to give everything away the first round, but Sherlock makes him feel playful in a way he's been short on, lately. Too many balls in the air, juggling Mozzie's demands and Peter's expectations and finding himself slowly but surely losing his grasp on control of both. For the first time, the Tranquility seems a little more like a respite and less like a prison-- at least for the moment.

Decimals are precise things; Neal likes his unit of measurement messier, more fluid. There's a beauty in numbers, but it's not for him. "Variety, huh? Well, I did just admit to being a fan. What kind of variety are we talking about, here?"

Hook well baited: this fish will most definitely bite.

[consulting]

"Yes, this is why Law enforcement exists, people don't enjoy being robbed period," the redirection hinted at thievery.

"I'm a consulting detective and you're an alleged criminal. Surely, you're in some possession of an imagination," he eggs it on; but for specificity he doesn't hint at anything in particular yet. He's going through a list of things to do; things he hasn't done cross examining a list of expertise against his own.

Neal is a thief, an art forger that's been sent to jail. He can imagine the con in his head. Neal in a catsuit; replacing a painting at museum fencing the original. The conclusions were not difficult; and with a need for attention that strong he was almost certain he would agree.

"Perhaps - a wager?"

[became]

"And who else will keep us all from jaywalking?" There's a tiny bit of mocking there, but it's good natured. A lot of people in his line of work-- alright, nearly everyone in his line of work-- carry a lot of antagonism towards law enforcement. Neal never has. They can be just as annoying as anyone else getting in his way when they find each other at cross purposes, but he understands the need for them. Laws are important--- as long as they're not the ones he doesn't feel like following.

'Alleged criminal'. Hearing Sherlock use his own word-- 'alleged, Peter, it's alleged. No jury ever convicted me of that one.'-- gives Neal a fizzy, reckless feeling. Connections are dangerous things, but he's always let them happen anyway. He ignores the jibe about imagination-- someday, he'll tell Sherlock about the job with the carrier pigeons and see if he can put it together before Neal tells him; even Peter needed a hand on that one-- and nods, smile delighted. "An alleged criminal, huh? I like the sound of that one. It sounds like a role Clooney would play."

Watching Sherlock think is an experience in and of itself; Neal's not sure which needs capturing more, that slightly removed, austere thoughtfulness or the smug tilt to his smile after.

A smug tilt that's out in force now, at his suggestion of a wager. Oh, this should be good. "...I'm in. What are the stakes?"

/SHITTY TAG IS SHIT.

[consulting]

“What do you value?” Sherlock asks to be polite. He’s weighing in what he holds value in the ship. What would be the first thing he would grab in the events of a fire; it pings him to think about this systematically. There were cigarettes, John and perhaps that pink iPhone; but save from that; he needed little. He wasn’t a material man for the most part; he wondered if Neal was. What had he gathered of Neal’s possessions? There was the sketchbook, the coffee, the suit, the anklet he guesses from the way Neal’s feet are positioned.

Sherlock absently marvels at the careful movements from Neal’s hands and the way they etch across the paper. The drawings of him are precise and fluid; yet defined with light and shadow. He notices the way that Neal is paying ample attention to his mouth; but refuses to delve deeper into that thought. Bringing it to a halt. Shifting that thought onto the other. Neal probably wouldn’t be able to get a sketchpad of that quality for a while; why was he wasting it on him. He reads Neal, a man victim of impulses prone to falling to temptation by the way he starts another drawing.

“It’s useless making stakes if we both don’t value them,” his eyes transfix at Neal as he says this word. He’s going to play it simple. See what direction Neal’s going to look first at the mention of value. Elicit reaction after reaction; until he can piece Neal together.

LATEST TAG IS LATEST i was rereading and found this fffffffffff also okay bed, self. jesus.

[became]

"Morally, spiritually, or materialistically?" Now Neal's just playing to play, the thrill of matching steel--so to speak-- with someone who can keep up with him making him drag this out, talk all the way around each and every question before giving Sherlock more honesty than anyone else on-board can lay claim to.

Capturing beauty is never a waste-- and while Sherlock clearly prefers economy over the wanton hedonism he prefers, that doesn't mean Neal's own sense of aesthetics need be compromised. Sherlock's face would be interesting with a vapid, petty mind behind it-- with the one he has, it adds a spark of vitality to what would be still worth attention slack and placid.

He doesn't look towards where the anklet's hidden, but he imagines he can feel it, a pulse of connection to Peter. "A double wager, then." The words are out before he knows what they mean. "Whoever wins gets to know what matters and whatever that stake is-- loser stays doubly unfulfilled." He tells himself that if he loses, he can simply lie; but then there's the impulsive, reckless urge to hand that piece of himself over to Sherlock and see what someone else makes of it, someone who stands a chance of understanding what it is exactly Neal lost in the transition to the Tranquility.

Re: LATEST TAG IS LATEST i was rereading and found this fffffffffff also okay bed, self. jesus.

[consulting]

"It's your possessions, you take the pick," a subtle hint of arrogance in his tone.

Sherlock gives a moment to charter what he can illustrate about his character in that answer and then notices that Neal employed the use of a redirect. It was giving away information so that Neal could shape his reply to suit. There are cogs in Sherlock’s brain that haven’t been put to use in a long time and Neal grants them life. There is a rush almost forgotten that Neal brings back and Sherlock needs that rush like a drowning fish. There is a smile granted when Neal mentions double wager.

“Hmm,” Sherlock settles to a hum as he reclines to think. One hand under his chin, the other firmly placed on the table. He decides not quite to raise the stakes but add to the gamble a bit. He’ll decide on something simple, something classic. It is a subtle tap of fingers against the table. The pattern is easy enough, presumably meaningless and repeated thrice before Sherlock finally speaks again.

(.-- .- --. . .-. )

It’s really more of a test if Neal pays as much attention as he does.

“Are you aware of the children’s game cops and robbers?” he’ll childe. It seems fitting enough.