FIC: Behind The Shield (STXI, Big Bang, Gen, PG-13) Act 3 (1/2)

[mrwubbles]

Title:Behind The Shield
Author:Yuma aka mrwubbles
Betas:myfieldnotes and penfold_x
Artist:squarededdie
Fanmixer:epershand
Series: ST XI
Character(s):Jim Kirk, Leonard McCoy
Rating:PG-13
Word Count:38,000+
Warnings: (if applicable) strong language
Summary: GEN - F.B.I. Special Agent Leonard McCoy of the White Collar Division wants to catch the Dutchman. But can the infamous James Kirk, a reformed young con artist, really help him? Or is this one big con, too? A revisit of White Collar's pilot episode, Star Trek Reboot style.

Previous Parts: Master Post| Teaser| Act 1 (1/2)| Act 1 (2/2)| Act 2 (1/4)| Act 2 (2/4)| Act 2 (3/4)| Act 2 (4/4)

Act 3 (1/2)
National Archives, Midtown, New York

"I do remember him," Vincent Lombardi confirmed after Leonard showed him a photo of Tony Field. He led the way into the environmentally controlled vaults. Their shoes echoed against the marble in the empty hallways as they followed. Leonard nudged Kirk along; he kept pausing at displays. Probably casing the place for future reference. Kirk raised an eyebrow at him, rolled his eyes as if he knew Leonard's suspicions and followed Lombardi. He made a show of putting his hands in his pockets.

"He came by several months ago and then again last week." Carefully, Lombardi opened a box and balanced a piece of parchment with both hands. "This is what he came to see." Gingerly, he set it on the table.

"The Spanish Victory Bond," the curator sighed as he gazed at it. "He took several photographs of it, said he was going to write a book." Lombardi shook his head sadly. "It's a shame he's dead. This bond does have a fascinating history."

Leonard watched as Kirk touched it with one careful finger. Kirk absently shook his hand in the air before reaching for the artifact. Damn fool insisted he didn't need the bandages; he protested he wouldn't be able to pull gloves over them.

After a close study, Kirk looked up with wonder. "It's a Goya."

"Yes. Beautiful, isn't it?" Lombardi clasped his hands together and gave it an indulgent smile.

Leonard took out the blank parchment from one of the books and laid it over the bond. They overlapped completely.

"A perfect fit." Leonard grinned at Kirk. "You're starting to earn your seven hundred a month."

Kirk smirked. He thought of something and looked back at the curator. "You said it had a fascinating history."

Lombardi nodded. "Quite. It was issued during the war."

"1944."

The curator looked pleased at the answer. "Yes, the U.S. issued the bonds to support the Spanish underground in their battle against the Axis." Lombardi gave the parchment a wistful look. "Very few have ever been redeemed."

Kirk pressed closer to the document. Leonard could have sworn he saw Kirk take a sniff.

Lombardi took a deep breath, his voice smoother as he slipped into the tour guide vernacular. "There's speculation that entire boxes were captured and many are still hidden away in the caves of Altamira."

Leonard's eyebrows rose. "Whole boxes of these?"

Lombardi stared into nothing with a dreamy expression on his ruddy face. "Yes. Boy, that would be something, wouldn't it? This is the only surviving copy."

"Except it's a forgery," Kirk said all of the sudden.

Leonard could almost see the pop above Lombardi's head as he started. "W-what?" He shook his head. "No, that's not possible."

Leonard frowned at Kirk. He felt sorry for the stuttering curator. "What are you talking about?"

Kirk looked wide-eyed and puzzled enough at their disbelief that Leonard knew it wasn't a scam. "It's the ink." Kirk carefully brushed a gloved finger down the elaborate border, lifting it up to show the greenish smudge. "This is an iron-gal dye mixed to match the period colors. But it hasn't dried yet." He lifted the parchment by a corner to show them. "You can still smell the gum arabic."

Leonard only detected a sweet, metallic tang but apparently it was enough that Lombardi blanched. Leonard took a step closer and shot Kirk a warning look which the kid missed completely.

"No, no, no," Lombardi almost whimpered. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "T-this has been here since 1952."

Kirk's voice dropped to a patient tone one would use with a child. "It's been here less than a week."

Leonard barely caught Lombardi when he fainted. Kirk gave him a blank "What?" at Leonard's glower.

--

F.B.I., Lower Manhattan

The roast pork Lo Mein tasted like chicken.

Leonard stuck his chopsticks back into the container and forked a piece of the scallion pancake out of the foam takeout container instead. He crammed a piece in his mouth, offered the rest to the others. Kirk made a face and shook his head. Fine, more cholesterol saturated goodness for him. It was too late at night to worry about his arteries.

"Okay, so Field makes two trips." Leonard held up two fingers. "First time he takes a picture of the bond. The second time he steals the original and replaces it with this copy. Can we confirm that?"

Sulu took a bite of his egg roll before using it to point at his laptop screen. "The timed ink identification test puts the age of the bond at approximately six days."

"That coincides with Field's visit." Chekov wiped his fingers clean of his Sweet and Sour pork before he typed into his laptop. "He must have made the switch last week."

"I already told you that," Kirk pointed out. At Leonard's glare, he scooped up more plain fried rice expertly with his chopsticks.

"We're pulling surveillance video to back it up," Uhura said while she finished sipping her soup.

"Good." Leonard considered everyone before he stared out the broad window of the conference room, surprised it was dark already. "So, the question is why go through the trouble of making a really nice forgery, on the right kind of paper just to stick it back in the archives?"

The blank looks he got in return made him lose his appetite. Leonard sighed and pushed his food away.

Kirk spoke up. "Is the bond still negotiable?"

"It's a zero option, so it never expires." Leonard paused. "What's it worth?"

Sulu pressed his lips together. "Thousand dollar face value, drawing nine percent interest…"

"Compounded for sixty-four years," Uhura added. She bent over a calculator with Sulu.

"Two hundred forty-eight thousand dollars," Kirk and Chekov chimed together. They both started and grinned at each other.

Sulu tossed his calculator down as he rolled his gaze towards the ceiling. "What they said."

Leonard grunted. "Quarter of a million, not chump change."

"And there are six hundred sheets out there," Chekov reminded.

Kirk beamed when everyone turned to him expectantly. "One hundred fifty million." Kirk shrugged. "Give or take."

"He'd be a rich man if he could pass them off, but that still doesn't tell us why he would take out the real bond and put in a forgery," Leonard mused.

"I think it does," Kirk said slowly. "What if he claimed he found boxes of the original bonds?"

Leonard, catching on, sat up in his seat. "Dragged them out of the caves in Spain."

"And how would they be authenticated?" Kirk coaxed.

"They'd be taken to the archives and compared to the original," Leonard answered, picking up speed.

"Which he's already switched out with one of his own copies," Kirk finished.

"They'd match," Chekov breathed.

Leonard caught Sulu leaning towards Uhura and whispering something. She nodded and snickered. Luckily, they schooled chastened expressions when he shot them both a glare.

Leonard nodded at Kirk, unable to hold back the smile on his face. "Oh, this is good. This is really good. All right, let's think about this."

His cell phone buzzed and moved across the table.

Uhura checked. Her face softened. She picked up his phone and handed it to him.

"Guess who?"

Leonard knew that was a broad grin on his face when he took the cell. "After I take this call," Leonard added before flipping it open. "Hey."

"Still catching bad guys, Dad?"

--

Jim tracked Bones as he walked out of the conference room, steering for his office next door.

"His daughter," Sulu explained as he reached over to snag a piece of scallion pancake.

"Oh." Jim poked at his fried rice. Somehow, McCoy knew to order it without MSG. Thank God. Sometimes Sam forgot. Swollen throat, choking, fevers was so not his idea of a fun night. He glanced at the door, his brow furrowing. The soft smile Bones wore was startling; he pretty much thought all the guy knew were scowls.

Behind him, Uhura's cell rang. Jim watched with interest when she flipped open her phone then escaped to the far corner to talk, her voice dropping to a low tone.

Jim's eyebrows knitted at what he could hear: polite lilts, tone too formal to be friendly, yet phrases like 'dinner would be great' and 'your turn to cook' confused the hell out of him. He checked with Chekov and Sulu, who were both contemplating the last egg roll.

"Who's that?" Jim asked casually as he poked his egg roll towards them.

Sulu was giving Jim's deep fried appetizer a wistful look, debating whether it would be rude to take Jim's share when Chekov reached over and took it.

"Hey!" Sulu glared at him before grabbing the one left in the foam takeout box. Muttering under his breath, Sulu chomped its top off before drowning the rest in hot chili sauce.

"Boyfriend," Chekov said, his mouth full. He blew at the steam still wafting out of the egg roll.

"Really?" Jim sat up higher. Sulu groaned.

Chekov gulped and gave Sulu a wide eyed look. "Was I not supposed to say?" He took another bite of the egg roll.

"Oh, is he an agent here?" Jim knew Big Brother probably had some rule against that.

"Nyet. Assistant district at—Why are you hitting me?" Chekov glared at Sulu. He rubbed his arm.

"You would never make a good spook," Sulu grumbled. He narrowed a look over to Jim. "You didn't hear it from us."

Jim shrugged. "Hear what?" He took another mouthful of fried rice. "She won't hear it from me. My lips are sealed."

"Then why can I see you chewing your food?" Uhura remarked as she returned to the table. She made a face when all three of them opened their mouths wide at her. "Oh that's mature." She studied the snickering trio. "What won't I hear?"

"That we told Jim about your boyfriend Spock," Chekov answered absently as he poked through his food, looking for more pork.

Chekov yelped, unable to completely avoid the packets of soy sauce flying his way from all directions.

--

Despite the warmth of the car interior, Jim found he couldn't doze even though his aching body was insisting that curling up in the backseat would be nice.

Jim chewed the inside of his mouth. He darted a look over to McCoy in the driver's seat.

"What?" McCoy asked, his eyes never leaving the road.

"Nothing…" After a pause, Jim checked McCoy again.

"Enough with the staring," McCoy grumbled. "Out with it."

Jim stared at the taillights of the car in front of them. "How old is your kid?" Jim finally asked.

A soft smile quirked on McCoy's face. "Nine."

Huh. Jim looked away.

"What?" McCoy was starting to sound annoyed.

Jim shrugged. "No, it just…that call…you do that every day?"

"Yup."

"Sounds like you and her…" Jim fumbled. "Sounds like you two are close."

McCoy appeared startled when he glanced over. "She's my kid." McCoy shrugged. "I guess we're lucky we worked things out enough to be on speaking terms. Makes it easier on Jo."

"So why did you divorce?" Jim asked bluntly. "If you're that worried about how it would affect her…?"

"Things happen," McCoy said flatly, "and if we had stayed together, it would have been worse for our daughter." McCoy glowered at Jim. "Why do I have to explain myself to you?"

"You don't." Jim shrugged and stared idly out the window at the lights that kept Park Avenue aglow with brightness. They streaked by like glittering ribbons. "Just asking."

"Uh huh."

Jim slumped into his seat and glumly looked out his window. He wished they had stayed in the office longer. It felt like they left things half done; a painting unfinished. But McCoy had been frowning at him all through his daughter's call. Watching him. Jim shifted wishing now he'd accepted the painkillers Sulu had offered him. His bruises were starting to complain.

"Almost there," McCoy said quietly for some reason.

Jim fidgeted in his seat. He cleared his throat.

"So ah…Big plans for the weekend?"

"Oh, you know, I gotta fix the sink, catch up on my reading."

Jim pretended to yawn.

"I saw that."

Knowing McCoy, he probably did. Jim glanced over.

"Figured you would have something different planned."

"Why's that?"

"The eighth is when your daughter's coming over, isn't it?"

Jim's seatbelt jerked him back into his seat when McCoy suddenly braked.

"Sorry!" Jim mouthed as a few cars shot past them, honking angrily until McCoy double parked away from the flowing traffic.

"Damn, damn, damn!"

Jim winced. "I guess it slipped your mind."

McCoy looked like he was ready to shoot his car. He punched his steering wheel repeatedly.

Jim held up his hands. "Hey. Relax, you still have a few days."

McCoy shook his head." No, this is what happened last year. I had a lead on the Dutchman and I just—" McCoy growled. "I promised my kid something great not just the usual trip to the Natural History museum and a shopping spree at Dylan's!!"

Jim blinked. Actually that didn't sound bad. "Dinosaurs are fun." When McCoy scowled at him, Jim amended it to, "But she is nine now."

"Exactly." McCoy slumped back into his seat. "She's nine."

Jim tapped the dashboard. "Okay, let's problem solve. What does she like?"

"Peanut butter and raisin sandwiches and SpongeBob," McCoy answered immediately.

"Ugh, no." Jim grimaced. "I mean what are her hobbies? She into anything these days?"

McCoy screwed up his face. "I'm drawing a blank," he said finally. "I know she was into horses a few years back but these days…"

Jim stared. "When you were chasing me you knew my shoe size, what time I woke up in the morning. How could you not know what your—"

McCoy twisted around in his seat and jabbed a finger in the air at Jim. "Oh, no, no. You don't get to lecture me on that! My family didn't change their identities and flee the country to get away from me!"

As soon as the words were out, McCoy froze.

Jim swallowed. He set his jaw and looked out his window as McCoy started the car again. Sullen, he watched Park Avenue speed by him. He wondered where the people on the sidewalks were going; if anyone cared.

McCoy cleared his throat. "That was a shit thing to say. I didn't…I didn't mean that."

Yes you did, Jim thought but he said nothing. McCoy fell silent as he made the turn towards Pike's place.

"Look, we…" McCoy breathed out sharply. "My ex and I…we'd only started talking to each other again a few years ago and Jo…" His face twisted as he gripped the steering wheel tightly. "Last time I saw her every day, she was learning how to write her name and now, I get letters from her every month. Letters."

Jim didn't know what to say. He wasn't expecting the acerbic agent to tell him all this and now that he did, Jim was unsure what to do with the information.

"Was it me?"

Startled, McCoy's eyes whipped to the side. "What?"

"Your divorce." Jim swallowed. "The timing seems to be…was it because of my case?"

McCoy's laugh was harsh, self-loathing. "It would be easy to blame it all on you, but no." McCoy's mouth flattened. "Not completely. Chasing after you was the symptom, the final straw maybe, but no…" McCoy shook his head. "It wasn't you."

"Thank God," Jim joked weakly. "I didn't want to be the other woman."

McCoy snorted. "Don't flatter yourself." His shoulders slumped. "I was a bit…out of my head then…your case…you guys were just…convenient."

"Oh." Jim ignored the queasiness in his stomach when the agent said 'you guys'. Maybe that's why Sam and Eddy fled. "Is that 'you' as in me or 'you' as in us con men in general?"

Even in the dark, Jim could see McCoy's face turn to stone.

"Kind of explains why you were a…ah…"

"A little OCD?" McCoy drawled.

"How do—"

The agent laughed. "Three years, Jim. Three years."

Jim grumbled. "Took you three years and a month." McCoy only laughed harder. Now, Jim couldn't help snickering as well. The suffocating air in the car dissipated and Jim sat there, smiling even after the mirth faded into an oddly comfortable silence.

His bruised fingers chose that moment to spasm. Jim shook them absently to ease the cramping.

"Rice."

Jim looked over. McCoy spared him a mild frown as he nodded to Jim's hand.

"Rest. Ice. Compression. Elevation. Ice that hand and keep it elevated tonight."

Jim nodded and muttered his thanks as he massaged his hand with the other.

"Did they really flee the country?" Jim quietly asked after a few moments.

"I'm sorry, I don't know."

Jim slumped in his seat.

"They weren't trying to get away from me."

McCoy exhaled. "Jim—"

"They weren't." Jim stared broodingly out the window. "There must have been a reason."

"Thought you said the bottle was good-bye." McCoy tapped his steering wheel. "Thought that was them calling it quits."

"It was." Jim flexed his feet and felt the tracker knock against his ankle. "France? Maybe they went to France?" He had once promised Eddy they would go there. Someday.

"I don't know," McCoy sighed and was able to offer nothing more.

Jim would have kept asking, poking and prodding McCoy until the answers were given to him if he thought he was holding back. But glancing at the other man's face he was pretty certain he wasn't. So, he would have to find or make his own answers; ones that would make sense of the world again.

He was good at coming up with answers when things didn't work. Sam said so.

But he was too tired right now. His head hurt. Field's eyes wouldn't leave him alone.

"Just for a couple of bucks," Jim muttered.

"What?"

"Field. They killed him for a couple of bucks."

McCoy shot him a disbelieving look. "A hundred and forty million isn't a couple of bucks."

Jim scowled out his window. "Still, I think Field would have happily paid that to keep his life. It doesn't seem right."

"A thief with a moral dilemma. Imagine that." McCoy's tone wasn't mocking though; it was almost …admiring.

Uncomfortable, Jim sat up and scoffed. "Thief? I was a convicted forger."

"Same thing."

"No it's not." Jim waved idly at him. "It's like calling you a nurse instead of a doctor."

The amusement was still clear in McCoy's voice. "But I'm not a doctor, I'm an agent."

Jim studied him. "But you could have been." He tensed when the car braked again.

"We're here," McCoy said, all humor gone. "Get some rest. I'll pick you up at nine tomorrow."



| Act 3 (2/2) |