WC Fic: Shirts & Skins - Part 2.2
White Collar -- Fanfiction
Disclaimer:
All recognizable characters are property of Jeff Eastin and USA Network.
No copyright infringement intended.
Title: Shirts & Skins - Part 2
A collection of loosely related stories revolving around pre-series encounters of Burke and Caffrey. Previously posted on Fanfiction.net.
Part 2: Hooch (2/2)
When Peter is asked to help Neal Caffrey out of a hopeless situation abroad, he sees a chance to capture the elusive con man.
Posted in 2 parts due to post length limitations
The first ten minutes of the car ride passed in tense silence. Both men constantly checked the rearview mirrors in shocked disbelief that Peter’s brazen stunt had gone by without a hitch. Buckled into the passenger seat with his wrists still restrained, Caffrey let out a sigh of relief when the prison finally disappeared from view. He turned his attention to the agent driving the car and studied him curiously.
“I’m impressed, Peter. I didn’t think you’d have it in you.” His tone was light-hearted and slightly mocking.
“Don’t underestimate me, Caffrey,” Peter growled and shot him a piercing glance. “And since when are we on first name basis, anyway?” A cheeky grin spread across the young man’s face and looked oddly out of place in a backdrop of bruises.
“I think it’s safe to say that we’ve crossed that line at some point during your little Peeping Tom reconnaissance mission in Italy last July. How’s the arm, by the way?”
Peter decided not to grace the con man’s comment with a reply. The men rode on in silence for several minutes as Peter reflected on the mission to Italy that had gone awry so spectacularly. He had been the object of ridicule by his junior colleagues for weeks after the incident, never straight to his face, yet painfully hard to ignore. The ribbing had finally stopped after Hughes had read the Riot Act to the entire unit following the appearance of an 8-by-10-inch full frontal surveillance shot of Caffrey on Peter’s desk one morning. He remembered Elizabeth’s face turn beet-red with laughter when he told her of the office prank over dinner. He had found the photo stuck to his refrigerator door during an ice cream run later that night.
Peter looked over at Neal who had relaxed against the headrest and was looking out the passenger window. He wished the young man would wipe that stupid grin off of his face.
“You look like shit, Caffrey,” he commented. The grin disappeared.
“Yeah, that’s the last time I fall for that free weekend at the spa scheme.” Peter chuckled politely at the weak attempt of a joke. Caffrey continued to gaze out the window and Peter could tell that he wasn’t looking at anything. The young man’s eyes were focused on some arbitrary point at half distance, his mind clearly cataloging the events of the past few weeks. Peter let him be.
“Are you going to arrest me?” Caffrey asked after a long pause, his mind finally returning to the present.
“I just did, didn’t I?” Peter inclined his head towards the cuffed hands resting in Caffrey’s lap.
“You know what I mean.”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Peter realized that he was lying the moment the words had left his lips. The disappointment in the passenger seat was palpable. Neal chewed on his lower lip and stared at his hands, flexing his fingers repeatedly.
“Thanks for that, by the way.” The young man motioned towards the metal cuffs around his shirtsleeves. “That was kind.” He seemed to search for the appropriate words. “And unexpected.”
“You bet.” Peter was touched, although he didn’t quite understand why. After chasing Caffrey like an over-eager bloodhound for almost a year, putting him in handcuffs had been oddly anticlimactic. Catching the elusive con man should have been satisfying. Caffrey had frighteningly sharp wits, carefully crafted grace, seductive charm and infuriating audacity. The kid in the passenger seat had none of that. He was foolish enough to allow himself to be locked up over the defense of a dog. He was careless enough to almost blab Peter’s identity after recognizing him outside the warden’s office. And whatever words could be used to describe the way the kid had been shuffling and stumbling alongside him on the way to the car, graceful was definitely not one of them. Peter glanced over at the con man. The kid in the passenger seat was starved enough for his ridiculously overpriced designer casuals to be hanging off of his lanky frame. His pale and bruised face with a dirty mop of unkempt hair and chapped, dry lips sucked every ounce of pride in the con man’s capture out of the pit in Peter’s stomach and left a warm gooey mess of pity in its place. Peter had come to catch Caffrey and had ended up with Neal instead.
Peter reached into the center console and pulled out a bottle of water. He offered it to Neal who accepted it gratefully. The agent watched as the young man struggled with the plastic cap, his fingers unable to hold on to it firmly enough to unscrew it. Without comment Peter reached over and reclaimed the bottle. Clamping it against the steering wheel with one hand, he used the other to loosen the cap before placing the bottle back into Neal’s lap. The young man drank greedily and moistened his parched lips. Peter dug through the center console a second time and retrieved two ham sandwiches that Elizabeth had packed for him. He passed one sandwich to Neal and watched him scarf it down while chewing his own without hurry. He had half of his left by the time the kid was finished and he offered up the remaining half. Neal eyed it hungrily and declined.
“Thanks, Peter.” He relaxed into the back of the seat and leaned his head against the passenger window. The adrenaline rush of the escape gone, fatigue started to claim his body. Peter watched as Neal’s eyelids drooped and repeatedly jerked open in a losing battle to stay awake.
“Why don’t you get some rest?” Peter suggested. “We still have a 90 minute drive ahead of us.”
Lulled into sleep by the steady hum of the car, Neal’s eyes eventually remained shut. Peter drove on in silence. There was a part in him that wanted to analyze why sitting next to this career criminal somehow felt natural and comfortable. A different part, the tired and exhausted part, decided to accept the puzzling affect Neal had on his emotional state. For the next 90 minutes he was willing to accept the sleeping man in the passenger like he would welcome an old friend that had come to him for help. The picture of peaceful coexistence the two of them were painting on this deserted backcountry road was only marred by the pair of handcuffs slung around the younger man’s forearms. Peter pulled the car to the side of the road and unlocked the restraints without waking Neal.
--
At 5pm the sedan pulled up in front of Dante’s vacation rental. The Hawaiian shirt hadn’t been kidding when he referred to it as a villa. The two-story beachfront mission-style property looked majestic in the early evening sun. Peter didn’t pull into the driveway, which was occupied by a red Porsche convertible, but stopped at the curb instead. He killed the engine. With the A/C shut down, the only noise in the car was the soft steady snore coming from the passenger seat. Peter extended a hand to gently shake Neal’s shoulder. The con man jerked awake with a gasp, his body tensing under Peter’s touch. The agent gave Neal’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze and left his hand in place until the startled man had a chance to get his bearings.
“We’re here.”
Neal looked around blinking rapidly. He lifted his hands, clearly reveling in their unrestricted movement.
“Where’s here?”
“The house your friend Dante is renting.”
“Who?”
Peter rolled his eyes.
“Short guy. Glasses. Unconventional dresser.”
“Ah, Dante. Of course.” Neal made an apologetic gesture towards his head as if to indicate that his thought processes were a little on the slow side after his nap. He gazed at the villa with a frown on his face. “Definitely not the Hostel we were bunking at three weeks ago and most definitely not the airport. I guess you’ve made up your mind, Agent Burke?” He couldn’t quite hide the hint of doubt in his blue eyes as they scrutinized Peter.
“What can I say,“ Peter replied with a crooked half-smile. “I guess I have a soft spot for dogs and kids who take a beating for them.”
“I’m not a kid.”
“You are today, Neal.” The con man’s first name rolled surprisingly easy over his tongue. Peter nodded towards the house. “Now get out of the damn car before I change my mind.”
Neal grinned at him vintage Caffrey style, toothy and without pretense. He opened his mouth to say something but then thought better of it. Instead he offered him a nod that he knew couldn’t begin to express his gratitude for all Peter had risked for him. He unbuckled and slipped out of the door with a failed attempt to look nimble despite his body’s protest of the sudden movement. The door fell shut with a thud. Peter rolled down the power window on the passenger side and leaned over the middle console.
“Just to be clear, Caffrey, next time I catch you, your ass is mine.” Neal feigned indignation.
“In that case, I think you’ll need this.” He pulled Peter’s wallet out of his back pocket and handed it through the open window. Peter yanked it from the con man’s hand with a withering glare. He shifted the car into drive and slowly pulled away from the curb. He kept checking the rearview mirror as he crept along the road, strangely reluctant to tear his eyes away from the man standing motionless by the curb. Peter was halfway down the block when he watched the shrinking figure by the curb take a step backwards towards the villa. The second step turned into a stagger. By the third step Neal’s legs gave out and he collapsed onto his back on the sidewalk.
Peter slammed on the brakes. Twisted in his seat, he stared out the rear window.
“Don’t toy with me, Caffrey,” he muttered, expecting the con man to sit up with a silly grin at any moment. Neal didn’t move. Peter counted the seconds. After a minute had passed he wrenched the shift lever into reverse and hastily backed up the vehicle until the right rear tire jumped onto the curb in front of the villa.
Peter was out of the car and by Caffrey’s side in a heartbeat. Spread-eagle on his back on the concrete with his eyes closed and his face relaxed Neal looked like he had simply chosen a bad spot for a late afternoon nap. Kneeling down, Peter dug his fingers into the side of the con man’s neck, relieved to find a pulse. He placed a hand on Neal’s chest and it rose and fell steadily against his palm.
“Alright, Neal, time to wake up.” Peter shook the young man’s shoulder and then gently tapped his cheek without getting a response. “Crap.” The agent looked around. He couldn’t leave him lying in the street without having the neighborhood snoops gather within a few minutes. Peter pulled out the pre-paid cell phone. Dante picked up on the second ring.
“Open your front door. We have a situation,” Peter requested tersely and hung up. He wiggled his right forearm under Neal’s back and slid the left under his knees. Scooping the limp man into his arms was easier than expected.
“Jesus, Neal, next time I offer you half of my sandwich, you take it,” the agent grumbled. He could feel the young man’s bony frame press against his arms as he gingerly rose to his feet, his knees creaking in protest. Neal’s head lolled back, his arms splayed out to dangle loosely to the side. Peter briefly swayed on his feet as he shifted the weight in his arms. Having found tentative balance, he crossed the lawn to the villa’s front entrance in quick and short strides, his breath hitching with the effort.
Dante’s head appeared in the crack of the front door. His chin dropped as he took in the picture of the approaching FBI agent and his precariously balanced load. He quickly unlatched both sides of the double door and opened the entrance wide enough for Peter to step inside.
“Over there.” Dante pointed into the large living room. He dashed past the FBI agent and pushed the coffee table aside to make room on the large plush rug in the center of the room. “Put him down here.”
Peter lowered himself onto his knees, groaning with the effort. Dante supported the back of Neal’s head as the unconscious man gently slid onto the floor. Peter retracted his arms and shook them to ease his cramping muscles.
“What happened? How long has he been like this?” The short man’s pitch rose in alarm.
“I don’t know. He was fine a minute ago. I dropped him off. He got out of the car. Next thing I know he’s flat on his back.” Peter hoped not to sound defensive. “He seemed a bit worse for wear on our way back here, but that’s not particularly surprising. Other than that he seemed ... fine. The little bastard stole my wallet, for crying out loud!”
“Okay, okay.” Dante held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. He exhaled from puffed up cheeks. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.” He dropped to the floor next to Neal and started running his hands through his friend’s dark hair to check for head injuries. Carefully brushing aside strands of filthy hair he exposed the healing sutures behind Neal’s ear, short hair growing back where it had to be shaved for the stitching.
“Looks good. But I guess they didn’t bother to take out the stitches. Go grab me the heavy scissors please?” He motioned towards a large plastic bin sitting in the corner of the living room and returned his attention to examining the bruising on Neal’s face. Peter made is way to the bin and found himself confronted with a well-organized collection of medical supplies that ranged from basic first aid items to IV bags, syringes and vials of drugs.
“I’m sure all of this is legal?” Peter asked sardonically. He grabbed the scissors from the bin and returned to Dante’s side.
“Absolutely,” the bespectacled man replied without flinching. He took the scissors out of Peter’s hand.
“You can’t take out stitches with those, you know.”
“What, you have a medical degree now, Agent Burke?”
“No. Do you?”
“Only from the School of Hard Knocks. And the scissors aren’t for the sutures.” The short man started slashing the length of Neal’s right sleeve, starting at the collar and working his way to the cuff. He paused mid movement.
“You’re welcome to leave, Agent Burke. You’ve already gone above and beyond what I asked of you.” Peter nodded but made no move to leave. Dante finished cutting the right sleeve and repeated the procedure on the left. He effectively butterflied the Rugby shirt by running the scissors down the center of the shirtfront. He brushed the fabric aside and Peter wanted to be sick.
Neal’s body looked like it had been hit by a Mack truck and dragged for a mile. Repeatedly. Lividly colored scrapes and bruises blanketed almost every inch of his chest. Purple imprints of fingers stood out where heavy-handed guards had gripped his upper arms. A film of sweat and grime coated his skin, dirt deeply ingrained in abrasions.
“Holy crap.” Dante undecidedly ghosted his hands over Neal’s injuries. “We need to get him cleaned up. I need to see what’s going on under all this dirt.” He positioned himself behind Neal’s head and slid his hands underneath his shoulders. “Can you grab his legs?” Snapping out of his stupor Peter complied. Lifting the prostrate con man with as much care as possible, they carried him into the bathroom.
“Geeze, we could have driven him in here,” Peter commented as he looked around the enormous bathroom. The walk-in shower stall was the size of a car wash, its walls ornately decorated with marble tile. Peter lowered Neal’s legs to the floor in the center of the shower stall and quickly pulled a bath towel from the rack. He handed it to the short man who slipped it under Neal’s head. With swift professional moves Dante undid the unconscious man’s jeans.
“Could you pull?” He asked Peter while he lifted Neal by the hips to make room for the pants to slide out. The agent pulled off the Neal’s Converse sneakers and tugged on the bottom of the jeans. The denim slipped off the con man’s legs, taking the boxers underneath with it and exposing scuffed knees and shins and unsightly bruised thighs. Glancing at Peter, who was visibly uncomfortable with the new turn of events, Dante pulled a towel from the rack and draped it over Neal’s midsection. The short man briefly left the bathroom and returned with an armful of supplies from the med bin. He deposited a pump bottle of antiseptic soap, a box of latex gloves, rubbing alcohol and a stack of gauze dressings on the floor next to Neal. He took the flexible showerhead from its cradle on the wall and turned the knob until the water flowed in a steady, low stream. Letting the water run directly into the floor drain, he took his time to adjust the temperature. Peter shrugged out of his jacket, removed his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves.
“What can I do to help?” The short man considered the question for a moment.
“Do you think you’d be comfortable with washing his hair?” Peter nodded. “There’s some shampoo on the shelf over there. I’ll start at the other end.” Peter retrieved the bottle and knelt down behind Neal’s head. He waited as Dante let water run over the young man’s legs and then passed the showerhead to Peter.
The men worked in companionable silence. Peter tried to recall an occasion when his career had taken him to a more bizarre place. Nothing came to mind. Fully dressed and on his knees in an obscenely large shower stall with a buck-naked career criminal and his zany sidekick definitely took the cake. Elizabeth would not let him live this down after she had pried every absurd little detail out of him. Water seeped into his pant legs as he lathered and rinsed Neal’s untamed head of hair, mindful of the healing scar and careful not to get suds into his eyes. He repeated the process twice until the water finally ran clear of dirt.
Occasionally looking up from his work Peter watched the short man wash layers of ground-in dust and dried blood from Neal’s skin with skillful, precise strokes. Working up his body he gingerly dabbed scrapes and cuts with gauze and alcohol, silently taking inventory of every injury. Finished with cleaning the painful looking abrasion on the right collarbone, Dante started sliding his hands over Neal’s bruised ribcage. Applying gentle then more vigorous pressure he felt for give where there shouldn’t be any. Neal let out a low moan when probing fingers found a particularly tender spot on his left side. He squirmed under Dante’s touch, his eyelids fluttering.
“He’s coming to.” Peter lightly slapped Neal’s cheek in an attempt to rouse him further. Dante’s hand clamped around his wrist to still it.
“Leave him be. It will be much easier and much less humiliating for everybody if he wakes up in 1000-thread-count Egyptian cotton. Trust me.” Peter nodded his agreement. Resting his hand heavily on Neal’s forehead in what he hoped would be a calming gesture, he watched and waited as the young man settled down.
“Help me turn him on his side, please.” Dante requested. Supporting Neal’s shoulders Peter helped flip the limp figure onto his right side. Dante bent Neal’s left leg at the knee and pushed it forward to stabilize his position. The battered condition of Neal’s back mirrored his front. Peter cringed when he watched the short man lather and rinse the young man’s lower back, a boot print-shaped bruise clearly visible.
Dante fished a pair of latex gloves out of the dispenser box and stuffed his hands into them. He caught Peter’s perplexed stare.
“Agent Burke, you might want to turn around for a moment. I need to check on ... something.” He motioned towards the soggy wet towel slung low over Neal’s hips. Peter felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment when the short man’s implication hit him. He staggered to his feet.
“I’ll find some more towels.”
“There’s a linen closet in the master bedroom.”
Peter crossed the hallway into the large master, the evening light filling the room with a warm glow. He opened several doors to mostly empty closets until he found the towels. He grabbed an armful of soft terry. Peter waited by the bathroom entrance until he heard the distinct rubbery smack of latex glove being removed. When he stepped inside, Dante had turned off the water and had draped a dry bath sheet over Neal. The short man looked up at Peter’s quizzical face with a hint of relief in his eye.
“I think our friend dodged that particular bullet this time,” Dante stated blankly.
“This time?” The moment the question had thoughtlessly left his mouth Peter had the creeping suspicion that he would regret asking it. Dante blinked at him, his gears clearly turning in trying to decide how much information to disclose. There were secrets in Neal’s past that only he was privy to. Events that would never make it into FBI files no matter how good the sources or how determined agents like Peter Burke were. He had an unspoken pact with Neal that certain topics were never to be brought up between the two of them and were certainly never-never-to leave the confidentiality of their friendship.
“Four years ago, Neal and I were involved in some quick-money gambling schemes in Eastern Russia.” The short man was surprised to hear his own voice. “We were greedy and sloppy, didn’t do our homework. I was waiting outside in the car when the police raided the gambling hall. I watched them whisk Neal away in the back of a truck. It only took me 48 hours to find the right person to bribe and get him out. Not bad for some backass hole in Siberia. But not good enough.” The short man paused and looked up at Peter to gauge his reaction. The agent’s face was unreadable, his eyes expectant but bare of judgment.
“At 21 Neal was whip-smart and cavalier and cocksure,” the short man continued quietly, “and too fucking pretty to pass up for a couple of cell mates who really needed to get their rocks off.” He saw Peter swallow hard. There was a part of him that wanted to confess to the silent, unwavering presence that was Peter Burke. There was a tightness in his chest that wanted to find release by telling him about the five days it took for Neal to stop bleeding onto the cheap cotton sheets in the under-heated motel room they had holed up in. About the shocking amount of black-market drugs he had to pump into his friend to keep his reeling mind dim enough to be able to tend to his violated body. About the bottles of third-rate vodka the kid had downed to erase the memories. About the empty shell Neal had been for weeks, unable to look at him or talk to him or accept his comfort. Back then Dante would have given anything to have somebody like Peter at his side to stand with him in the vortex of Neal’s self-destruction. Today he decided to repay Peter’s act of kindness towards Neal by sparing him the brutal details of the past. The silence in the room was pregnant with untold truths as Peter’s mind filled in the blanks.
“How did he get over it?” Peter finally asked. Dante didn’t know how to begin answering that question, mostly because he had no clear concept of how Neal had dealt with it, if he ever truly had. He just knew that one afternoon he had returned to the shabby motel room to find Neal sober and clean-shaven in a brand-new tailored Italian suit with a new passport and a pair of first-class tickets to Rio in his breast pocket. The remains of his belongings were smoldering in a vodka-fueled fire in a trash bin behind the motel.
“He never used that alias again.” He stated flatly and he could see Peter’s mind run through the pages and pages of Caffrey’s file that he stored somewhere in his brain.
“Alex Chechov,” Peter recalled. The name had unexpectedly dropped from the scene a few years ago and Peter had started to believe that it had never been an alias of Neal’s. In an onslaught of rising panic Peter’s mind began swimming with numerous other aliases that had been erased from the con man’s tumultuous biography. He saw the short man’s face light up with a good-natured smile.
“Don’t worry, Agent Burke. Not every corpse in the graveyard of Neal’s identities has a gruesome tale to tell. Typically, Neal just gets bored with them easily. Now help me get him dried off and into that outrageously comfortable bed that I’m renting for an arm and a leg.” No more low-budget dingy Russian motel rooms, Dante’s mind added. He had been prepared this time with sun-drenched marble floors and seaside porches and luxury linens and resolute determination to weather the hurricane that was Neal in whatever condition he came back to him.
Fifteen minutes later Peter stood with his shoulder resting against the bedroom doorjamb. His pant legs and shirt were still damp and smelled of coconut shampoo and antiseptic soap. He felt the warmth of the setting sun on his face and dog-tiredness in his bones. Across the room Neal lay nestled into the king size bed, the top sheet loosely tucked around his waist. His right hand was resting palm up on Dante’s thigh as the short man was perched on the edge of the bed, diligently wrapping a gauze bandage around the chafed wrist. An IV needle was secured to the crook of Neal’s arm, a bag of fluids and antibiotics hanging from a coat rack placed by the side of the bed.
Peter watched and thought of the last time he had shared a sunny space with Caffrey. That time Neal had been healthy and vibrant, suavely prancing over the deck of a million-dollar yacht. Six months later and he found that the stillness of the pale and worn man disconcerted him. This time there wouldn’t be any photos left by pranksters on his desk. There was no greeting card hand-drawn for him in mockery and, maybe, in quiet respect. There was only the realization that at some point in the last 24 hours he had started caring less about the hunt and more about the man he hunted. Neal wouldn’t slip the skin of the career criminal because he needed the thrill like he needed air to breathe, despite the price he had to pay for it. Peter felt his heart sink when he thought of the day he would put this brilliant, foolhardy kid behind bars, where he would slowly fade and, eventually, break in the face of reality. Peter studied the short, quirky man sitting on the bed with concern etched deeply into his face and he felt a sudden and unexpected kinship. Guilt was a gift that Neal Caffrey dealt to his friends as generously and unconsciously as he dealt them smiles.
Peter saw Neal stir on the bed and slipped quietly out the door.
--
A month later, Peter sat in his office chair and answered his ringing cell phone.
“Honey, you have to come home and see this,” Elizabeth chirped with excitement on the other end of the line.
“What’s going on? Is everything all right?” He checked his watch. He had a meeting with Hughes in an hour. This wasn’t a good time to go home.
“Peter, please, it’s important.”
The agent sighed. Resistance was futile. It always was with El.
Unnerved and edgy after twenty minutes of New York City lunchtime traffic Peter unlocked his front door. He was greeted by two incredible sights to behold. The first was his beautiful wife, delightfully happy, bouncing towards the door and then around his neck. The second was a small yellow fluff-ball with a wagging tail that made a beeline for him in a frenzy of squeals and yelps.
“Isn’t he wonderful, Peter?” El’s voice rose to a pitch that was typically reserved for their most intimate moments.
“Where did that ... that thing come from?” Peter watched in disbelief as the retriever puppy had discovered his shoelaces and was chewing and tugging on them with enthusiasm.
“I’ll tell you if you promise not to get mad.”
“Elizabeth!” He tried to look intimidating, which was hard to accomplish while trying to shake off a determined puppy.
“Okay, okay.” She pulled a small envelope from the top of the dog crate sitting in his living room and handed it to her husband. “He was delivered by courier an hour ago. I’m sorry, I read the card, even though it’s addressed to you.”
Peter recognized the handwriting the moment he saw his name written on the white paper. Opening the envelope with shaky fingers, he pulled out the card. Drawn in black ink, a scruffy looking dog regarded him with trusting, warm eyes. A pair of open handcuffs dangled from the dog’s bristly muzzle. Peter turned the drawing over and read silently: ‘To Peter, who has a soft spot for dogs and the scoundrels who love them. Thank you. NC.’ Elizabeth stared at him in nervous apprehension.
“What do you think, honey. Can we keep him? Please?” Peter knew he had lost that battle the moment his wife had laid eyes on the dog. He groaned and swore under his breath, cursing Caffrey with every epithet he could think of.
“As long as we’re not calling him Neal,” he grumbled. Bending down, he picked the dog up and held him in front of his chest, the pup’s pink and round belly facing him. “If you’re anything like the scamming good-for-nothing SOB who sent you, so help us God.” Two simultaneous sensations illustrated the puppy’s standpoint on the matter better than words ever could. The first was a cold and wet nose forcefully planted in Peter’s face as the retriever lapped at his nose. The second was the warm stream of dog pee that soaked into Peter’s tie and slowly trickled down his shirtfront.
Back to part 2.1 On to Shirts & Skins Part 3
Disclaimer:
All recognizable characters are property of Jeff Eastin and USA Network.
No copyright infringement intended.
Title: Shirts & Skins - Part 2
- Rating: R
- Warnings: Adult content, nothing explicit; no slash
- Category: Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Humor, Pre-canon, AU
A collection of loosely related stories revolving around pre-series encounters of Burke and Caffrey. Previously posted on Fanfiction.net.
Part 2: Hooch (2/2)
When Peter is asked to help Neal Caffrey out of a hopeless situation abroad, he sees a chance to capture the elusive con man.
Posted in 2 parts due to post length limitations
The first ten minutes of the car ride passed in tense silence. Both men constantly checked the rearview mirrors in shocked disbelief that Peter’s brazen stunt had gone by without a hitch. Buckled into the passenger seat with his wrists still restrained, Caffrey let out a sigh of relief when the prison finally disappeared from view. He turned his attention to the agent driving the car and studied him curiously.
“I’m impressed, Peter. I didn’t think you’d have it in you.” His tone was light-hearted and slightly mocking.
“Don’t underestimate me, Caffrey,” Peter growled and shot him a piercing glance. “And since when are we on first name basis, anyway?” A cheeky grin spread across the young man’s face and looked oddly out of place in a backdrop of bruises.
“I think it’s safe to say that we’ve crossed that line at some point during your little Peeping Tom reconnaissance mission in Italy last July. How’s the arm, by the way?”
Peter decided not to grace the con man’s comment with a reply. The men rode on in silence for several minutes as Peter reflected on the mission to Italy that had gone awry so spectacularly. He had been the object of ridicule by his junior colleagues for weeks after the incident, never straight to his face, yet painfully hard to ignore. The ribbing had finally stopped after Hughes had read the Riot Act to the entire unit following the appearance of an 8-by-10-inch full frontal surveillance shot of Caffrey on Peter’s desk one morning. He remembered Elizabeth’s face turn beet-red with laughter when he told her of the office prank over dinner. He had found the photo stuck to his refrigerator door during an ice cream run later that night.
Peter looked over at Neal who had relaxed against the headrest and was looking out the passenger window. He wished the young man would wipe that stupid grin off of his face.
“You look like shit, Caffrey,” he commented. The grin disappeared.
“Yeah, that’s the last time I fall for that free weekend at the spa scheme.” Peter chuckled politely at the weak attempt of a joke. Caffrey continued to gaze out the window and Peter could tell that he wasn’t looking at anything. The young man’s eyes were focused on some arbitrary point at half distance, his mind clearly cataloging the events of the past few weeks. Peter let him be.
“Are you going to arrest me?” Caffrey asked after a long pause, his mind finally returning to the present.
“I just did, didn’t I?” Peter inclined his head towards the cuffed hands resting in Caffrey’s lap.
“You know what I mean.”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Peter realized that he was lying the moment the words had left his lips. The disappointment in the passenger seat was palpable. Neal chewed on his lower lip and stared at his hands, flexing his fingers repeatedly.
“Thanks for that, by the way.” The young man motioned towards the metal cuffs around his shirtsleeves. “That was kind.” He seemed to search for the appropriate words. “And unexpected.”
“You bet.” Peter was touched, although he didn’t quite understand why. After chasing Caffrey like an over-eager bloodhound for almost a year, putting him in handcuffs had been oddly anticlimactic. Catching the elusive con man should have been satisfying. Caffrey had frighteningly sharp wits, carefully crafted grace, seductive charm and infuriating audacity. The kid in the passenger seat had none of that. He was foolish enough to allow himself to be locked up over the defense of a dog. He was careless enough to almost blab Peter’s identity after recognizing him outside the warden’s office. And whatever words could be used to describe the way the kid had been shuffling and stumbling alongside him on the way to the car, graceful was definitely not one of them. Peter glanced over at the con man. The kid in the passenger seat was starved enough for his ridiculously overpriced designer casuals to be hanging off of his lanky frame. His pale and bruised face with a dirty mop of unkempt hair and chapped, dry lips sucked every ounce of pride in the con man’s capture out of the pit in Peter’s stomach and left a warm gooey mess of pity in its place. Peter had come to catch Caffrey and had ended up with Neal instead.
Peter reached into the center console and pulled out a bottle of water. He offered it to Neal who accepted it gratefully. The agent watched as the young man struggled with the plastic cap, his fingers unable to hold on to it firmly enough to unscrew it. Without comment Peter reached over and reclaimed the bottle. Clamping it against the steering wheel with one hand, he used the other to loosen the cap before placing the bottle back into Neal’s lap. The young man drank greedily and moistened his parched lips. Peter dug through the center console a second time and retrieved two ham sandwiches that Elizabeth had packed for him. He passed one sandwich to Neal and watched him scarf it down while chewing his own without hurry. He had half of his left by the time the kid was finished and he offered up the remaining half. Neal eyed it hungrily and declined.
“Thanks, Peter.” He relaxed into the back of the seat and leaned his head against the passenger window. The adrenaline rush of the escape gone, fatigue started to claim his body. Peter watched as Neal’s eyelids drooped and repeatedly jerked open in a losing battle to stay awake.
“Why don’t you get some rest?” Peter suggested. “We still have a 90 minute drive ahead of us.”
Lulled into sleep by the steady hum of the car, Neal’s eyes eventually remained shut. Peter drove on in silence. There was a part in him that wanted to analyze why sitting next to this career criminal somehow felt natural and comfortable. A different part, the tired and exhausted part, decided to accept the puzzling affect Neal had on his emotional state. For the next 90 minutes he was willing to accept the sleeping man in the passenger like he would welcome an old friend that had come to him for help. The picture of peaceful coexistence the two of them were painting on this deserted backcountry road was only marred by the pair of handcuffs slung around the younger man’s forearms. Peter pulled the car to the side of the road and unlocked the restraints without waking Neal.
--
At 5pm the sedan pulled up in front of Dante’s vacation rental. The Hawaiian shirt hadn’t been kidding when he referred to it as a villa. The two-story beachfront mission-style property looked majestic in the early evening sun. Peter didn’t pull into the driveway, which was occupied by a red Porsche convertible, but stopped at the curb instead. He killed the engine. With the A/C shut down, the only noise in the car was the soft steady snore coming from the passenger seat. Peter extended a hand to gently shake Neal’s shoulder. The con man jerked awake with a gasp, his body tensing under Peter’s touch. The agent gave Neal’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze and left his hand in place until the startled man had a chance to get his bearings.
“We’re here.”
Neal looked around blinking rapidly. He lifted his hands, clearly reveling in their unrestricted movement.
“Where’s here?”
“The house your friend Dante is renting.”
“Who?”
Peter rolled his eyes.
“Short guy. Glasses. Unconventional dresser.”
“Ah, Dante. Of course.” Neal made an apologetic gesture towards his head as if to indicate that his thought processes were a little on the slow side after his nap. He gazed at the villa with a frown on his face. “Definitely not the Hostel we were bunking at three weeks ago and most definitely not the airport. I guess you’ve made up your mind, Agent Burke?” He couldn’t quite hide the hint of doubt in his blue eyes as they scrutinized Peter.
“What can I say,“ Peter replied with a crooked half-smile. “I guess I have a soft spot for dogs and kids who take a beating for them.”
“I’m not a kid.”
“You are today, Neal.” The con man’s first name rolled surprisingly easy over his tongue. Peter nodded towards the house. “Now get out of the damn car before I change my mind.”
Neal grinned at him vintage Caffrey style, toothy and without pretense. He opened his mouth to say something but then thought better of it. Instead he offered him a nod that he knew couldn’t begin to express his gratitude for all Peter had risked for him. He unbuckled and slipped out of the door with a failed attempt to look nimble despite his body’s protest of the sudden movement. The door fell shut with a thud. Peter rolled down the power window on the passenger side and leaned over the middle console.
“Just to be clear, Caffrey, next time I catch you, your ass is mine.” Neal feigned indignation.
“In that case, I think you’ll need this.” He pulled Peter’s wallet out of his back pocket and handed it through the open window. Peter yanked it from the con man’s hand with a withering glare. He shifted the car into drive and slowly pulled away from the curb. He kept checking the rearview mirror as he crept along the road, strangely reluctant to tear his eyes away from the man standing motionless by the curb. Peter was halfway down the block when he watched the shrinking figure by the curb take a step backwards towards the villa. The second step turned into a stagger. By the third step Neal’s legs gave out and he collapsed onto his back on the sidewalk.
Peter slammed on the brakes. Twisted in his seat, he stared out the rear window.
“Don’t toy with me, Caffrey,” he muttered, expecting the con man to sit up with a silly grin at any moment. Neal didn’t move. Peter counted the seconds. After a minute had passed he wrenched the shift lever into reverse and hastily backed up the vehicle until the right rear tire jumped onto the curb in front of the villa.
Peter was out of the car and by Caffrey’s side in a heartbeat. Spread-eagle on his back on the concrete with his eyes closed and his face relaxed Neal looked like he had simply chosen a bad spot for a late afternoon nap. Kneeling down, Peter dug his fingers into the side of the con man’s neck, relieved to find a pulse. He placed a hand on Neal’s chest and it rose and fell steadily against his palm.
“Alright, Neal, time to wake up.” Peter shook the young man’s shoulder and then gently tapped his cheek without getting a response. “Crap.” The agent looked around. He couldn’t leave him lying in the street without having the neighborhood snoops gather within a few minutes. Peter pulled out the pre-paid cell phone. Dante picked up on the second ring.
“Open your front door. We have a situation,” Peter requested tersely and hung up. He wiggled his right forearm under Neal’s back and slid the left under his knees. Scooping the limp man into his arms was easier than expected.
“Jesus, Neal, next time I offer you half of my sandwich, you take it,” the agent grumbled. He could feel the young man’s bony frame press against his arms as he gingerly rose to his feet, his knees creaking in protest. Neal’s head lolled back, his arms splayed out to dangle loosely to the side. Peter briefly swayed on his feet as he shifted the weight in his arms. Having found tentative balance, he crossed the lawn to the villa’s front entrance in quick and short strides, his breath hitching with the effort.
Dante’s head appeared in the crack of the front door. His chin dropped as he took in the picture of the approaching FBI agent and his precariously balanced load. He quickly unlatched both sides of the double door and opened the entrance wide enough for Peter to step inside.
“Over there.” Dante pointed into the large living room. He dashed past the FBI agent and pushed the coffee table aside to make room on the large plush rug in the center of the room. “Put him down here.”
Peter lowered himself onto his knees, groaning with the effort. Dante supported the back of Neal’s head as the unconscious man gently slid onto the floor. Peter retracted his arms and shook them to ease his cramping muscles.
“What happened? How long has he been like this?” The short man’s pitch rose in alarm.
“I don’t know. He was fine a minute ago. I dropped him off. He got out of the car. Next thing I know he’s flat on his back.” Peter hoped not to sound defensive. “He seemed a bit worse for wear on our way back here, but that’s not particularly surprising. Other than that he seemed ... fine. The little bastard stole my wallet, for crying out loud!”
“Okay, okay.” Dante held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. He exhaled from puffed up cheeks. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.” He dropped to the floor next to Neal and started running his hands through his friend’s dark hair to check for head injuries. Carefully brushing aside strands of filthy hair he exposed the healing sutures behind Neal’s ear, short hair growing back where it had to be shaved for the stitching.
“Looks good. But I guess they didn’t bother to take out the stitches. Go grab me the heavy scissors please?” He motioned towards a large plastic bin sitting in the corner of the living room and returned his attention to examining the bruising on Neal’s face. Peter made is way to the bin and found himself confronted with a well-organized collection of medical supplies that ranged from basic first aid items to IV bags, syringes and vials of drugs.
“I’m sure all of this is legal?” Peter asked sardonically. He grabbed the scissors from the bin and returned to Dante’s side.
“Absolutely,” the bespectacled man replied without flinching. He took the scissors out of Peter’s hand.
“You can’t take out stitches with those, you know.”
“What, you have a medical degree now, Agent Burke?”
“No. Do you?”
“Only from the School of Hard Knocks. And the scissors aren’t for the sutures.” The short man started slashing the length of Neal’s right sleeve, starting at the collar and working his way to the cuff. He paused mid movement.
“You’re welcome to leave, Agent Burke. You’ve already gone above and beyond what I asked of you.” Peter nodded but made no move to leave. Dante finished cutting the right sleeve and repeated the procedure on the left. He effectively butterflied the Rugby shirt by running the scissors down the center of the shirtfront. He brushed the fabric aside and Peter wanted to be sick.
Neal’s body looked like it had been hit by a Mack truck and dragged for a mile. Repeatedly. Lividly colored scrapes and bruises blanketed almost every inch of his chest. Purple imprints of fingers stood out where heavy-handed guards had gripped his upper arms. A film of sweat and grime coated his skin, dirt deeply ingrained in abrasions.
“Holy crap.” Dante undecidedly ghosted his hands over Neal’s injuries. “We need to get him cleaned up. I need to see what’s going on under all this dirt.” He positioned himself behind Neal’s head and slid his hands underneath his shoulders. “Can you grab his legs?” Snapping out of his stupor Peter complied. Lifting the prostrate con man with as much care as possible, they carried him into the bathroom.
“Geeze, we could have driven him in here,” Peter commented as he looked around the enormous bathroom. The walk-in shower stall was the size of a car wash, its walls ornately decorated with marble tile. Peter lowered Neal’s legs to the floor in the center of the shower stall and quickly pulled a bath towel from the rack. He handed it to the short man who slipped it under Neal’s head. With swift professional moves Dante undid the unconscious man’s jeans.
“Could you pull?” He asked Peter while he lifted Neal by the hips to make room for the pants to slide out. The agent pulled off the Neal’s Converse sneakers and tugged on the bottom of the jeans. The denim slipped off the con man’s legs, taking the boxers underneath with it and exposing scuffed knees and shins and unsightly bruised thighs. Glancing at Peter, who was visibly uncomfortable with the new turn of events, Dante pulled a towel from the rack and draped it over Neal’s midsection. The short man briefly left the bathroom and returned with an armful of supplies from the med bin. He deposited a pump bottle of antiseptic soap, a box of latex gloves, rubbing alcohol and a stack of gauze dressings on the floor next to Neal. He took the flexible showerhead from its cradle on the wall and turned the knob until the water flowed in a steady, low stream. Letting the water run directly into the floor drain, he took his time to adjust the temperature. Peter shrugged out of his jacket, removed his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves.
“What can I do to help?” The short man considered the question for a moment.
“Do you think you’d be comfortable with washing his hair?” Peter nodded. “There’s some shampoo on the shelf over there. I’ll start at the other end.” Peter retrieved the bottle and knelt down behind Neal’s head. He waited as Dante let water run over the young man’s legs and then passed the showerhead to Peter.
The men worked in companionable silence. Peter tried to recall an occasion when his career had taken him to a more bizarre place. Nothing came to mind. Fully dressed and on his knees in an obscenely large shower stall with a buck-naked career criminal and his zany sidekick definitely took the cake. Elizabeth would not let him live this down after she had pried every absurd little detail out of him. Water seeped into his pant legs as he lathered and rinsed Neal’s untamed head of hair, mindful of the healing scar and careful not to get suds into his eyes. He repeated the process twice until the water finally ran clear of dirt.
Occasionally looking up from his work Peter watched the short man wash layers of ground-in dust and dried blood from Neal’s skin with skillful, precise strokes. Working up his body he gingerly dabbed scrapes and cuts with gauze and alcohol, silently taking inventory of every injury. Finished with cleaning the painful looking abrasion on the right collarbone, Dante started sliding his hands over Neal’s bruised ribcage. Applying gentle then more vigorous pressure he felt for give where there shouldn’t be any. Neal let out a low moan when probing fingers found a particularly tender spot on his left side. He squirmed under Dante’s touch, his eyelids fluttering.
“He’s coming to.” Peter lightly slapped Neal’s cheek in an attempt to rouse him further. Dante’s hand clamped around his wrist to still it.
“Leave him be. It will be much easier and much less humiliating for everybody if he wakes up in 1000-thread-count Egyptian cotton. Trust me.” Peter nodded his agreement. Resting his hand heavily on Neal’s forehead in what he hoped would be a calming gesture, he watched and waited as the young man settled down.
“Help me turn him on his side, please.” Dante requested. Supporting Neal’s shoulders Peter helped flip the limp figure onto his right side. Dante bent Neal’s left leg at the knee and pushed it forward to stabilize his position. The battered condition of Neal’s back mirrored his front. Peter cringed when he watched the short man lather and rinse the young man’s lower back, a boot print-shaped bruise clearly visible.
Dante fished a pair of latex gloves out of the dispenser box and stuffed his hands into them. He caught Peter’s perplexed stare.
“Agent Burke, you might want to turn around for a moment. I need to check on ... something.” He motioned towards the soggy wet towel slung low over Neal’s hips. Peter felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment when the short man’s implication hit him. He staggered to his feet.
“I’ll find some more towels.”
“There’s a linen closet in the master bedroom.”
Peter crossed the hallway into the large master, the evening light filling the room with a warm glow. He opened several doors to mostly empty closets until he found the towels. He grabbed an armful of soft terry. Peter waited by the bathroom entrance until he heard the distinct rubbery smack of latex glove being removed. When he stepped inside, Dante had turned off the water and had draped a dry bath sheet over Neal. The short man looked up at Peter’s quizzical face with a hint of relief in his eye.
“I think our friend dodged that particular bullet this time,” Dante stated blankly.
“This time?” The moment the question had thoughtlessly left his mouth Peter had the creeping suspicion that he would regret asking it. Dante blinked at him, his gears clearly turning in trying to decide how much information to disclose. There were secrets in Neal’s past that only he was privy to. Events that would never make it into FBI files no matter how good the sources or how determined agents like Peter Burke were. He had an unspoken pact with Neal that certain topics were never to be brought up between the two of them and were certainly never-never-to leave the confidentiality of their friendship.
“Four years ago, Neal and I were involved in some quick-money gambling schemes in Eastern Russia.” The short man was surprised to hear his own voice. “We were greedy and sloppy, didn’t do our homework. I was waiting outside in the car when the police raided the gambling hall. I watched them whisk Neal away in the back of a truck. It only took me 48 hours to find the right person to bribe and get him out. Not bad for some backass hole in Siberia. But not good enough.” The short man paused and looked up at Peter to gauge his reaction. The agent’s face was unreadable, his eyes expectant but bare of judgment.
“At 21 Neal was whip-smart and cavalier and cocksure,” the short man continued quietly, “and too fucking pretty to pass up for a couple of cell mates who really needed to get their rocks off.” He saw Peter swallow hard. There was a part of him that wanted to confess to the silent, unwavering presence that was Peter Burke. There was a tightness in his chest that wanted to find release by telling him about the five days it took for Neal to stop bleeding onto the cheap cotton sheets in the under-heated motel room they had holed up in. About the shocking amount of black-market drugs he had to pump into his friend to keep his reeling mind dim enough to be able to tend to his violated body. About the bottles of third-rate vodka the kid had downed to erase the memories. About the empty shell Neal had been for weeks, unable to look at him or talk to him or accept his comfort. Back then Dante would have given anything to have somebody like Peter at his side to stand with him in the vortex of Neal’s self-destruction. Today he decided to repay Peter’s act of kindness towards Neal by sparing him the brutal details of the past. The silence in the room was pregnant with untold truths as Peter’s mind filled in the blanks.
“How did he get over it?” Peter finally asked. Dante didn’t know how to begin answering that question, mostly because he had no clear concept of how Neal had dealt with it, if he ever truly had. He just knew that one afternoon he had returned to the shabby motel room to find Neal sober and clean-shaven in a brand-new tailored Italian suit with a new passport and a pair of first-class tickets to Rio in his breast pocket. The remains of his belongings were smoldering in a vodka-fueled fire in a trash bin behind the motel.
“He never used that alias again.” He stated flatly and he could see Peter’s mind run through the pages and pages of Caffrey’s file that he stored somewhere in his brain.
“Alex Chechov,” Peter recalled. The name had unexpectedly dropped from the scene a few years ago and Peter had started to believe that it had never been an alias of Neal’s. In an onslaught of rising panic Peter’s mind began swimming with numerous other aliases that had been erased from the con man’s tumultuous biography. He saw the short man’s face light up with a good-natured smile.
“Don’t worry, Agent Burke. Not every corpse in the graveyard of Neal’s identities has a gruesome tale to tell. Typically, Neal just gets bored with them easily. Now help me get him dried off and into that outrageously comfortable bed that I’m renting for an arm and a leg.” No more low-budget dingy Russian motel rooms, Dante’s mind added. He had been prepared this time with sun-drenched marble floors and seaside porches and luxury linens and resolute determination to weather the hurricane that was Neal in whatever condition he came back to him.
Fifteen minutes later Peter stood with his shoulder resting against the bedroom doorjamb. His pant legs and shirt were still damp and smelled of coconut shampoo and antiseptic soap. He felt the warmth of the setting sun on his face and dog-tiredness in his bones. Across the room Neal lay nestled into the king size bed, the top sheet loosely tucked around his waist. His right hand was resting palm up on Dante’s thigh as the short man was perched on the edge of the bed, diligently wrapping a gauze bandage around the chafed wrist. An IV needle was secured to the crook of Neal’s arm, a bag of fluids and antibiotics hanging from a coat rack placed by the side of the bed.
Peter watched and thought of the last time he had shared a sunny space with Caffrey. That time Neal had been healthy and vibrant, suavely prancing over the deck of a million-dollar yacht. Six months later and he found that the stillness of the pale and worn man disconcerted him. This time there wouldn’t be any photos left by pranksters on his desk. There was no greeting card hand-drawn for him in mockery and, maybe, in quiet respect. There was only the realization that at some point in the last 24 hours he had started caring less about the hunt and more about the man he hunted. Neal wouldn’t slip the skin of the career criminal because he needed the thrill like he needed air to breathe, despite the price he had to pay for it. Peter felt his heart sink when he thought of the day he would put this brilliant, foolhardy kid behind bars, where he would slowly fade and, eventually, break in the face of reality. Peter studied the short, quirky man sitting on the bed with concern etched deeply into his face and he felt a sudden and unexpected kinship. Guilt was a gift that Neal Caffrey dealt to his friends as generously and unconsciously as he dealt them smiles.
Peter saw Neal stir on the bed and slipped quietly out the door.
--
A month later, Peter sat in his office chair and answered his ringing cell phone.
“Honey, you have to come home and see this,” Elizabeth chirped with excitement on the other end of the line.
“What’s going on? Is everything all right?” He checked his watch. He had a meeting with Hughes in an hour. This wasn’t a good time to go home.
“Peter, please, it’s important.”
The agent sighed. Resistance was futile. It always was with El.
Unnerved and edgy after twenty minutes of New York City lunchtime traffic Peter unlocked his front door. He was greeted by two incredible sights to behold. The first was his beautiful wife, delightfully happy, bouncing towards the door and then around his neck. The second was a small yellow fluff-ball with a wagging tail that made a beeline for him in a frenzy of squeals and yelps.
“Isn’t he wonderful, Peter?” El’s voice rose to a pitch that was typically reserved for their most intimate moments.
“Where did that ... that thing come from?” Peter watched in disbelief as the retriever puppy had discovered his shoelaces and was chewing and tugging on them with enthusiasm.
“I’ll tell you if you promise not to get mad.”
“Elizabeth!” He tried to look intimidating, which was hard to accomplish while trying to shake off a determined puppy.
“Okay, okay.” She pulled a small envelope from the top of the dog crate sitting in his living room and handed it to her husband. “He was delivered by courier an hour ago. I’m sorry, I read the card, even though it’s addressed to you.”
Peter recognized the handwriting the moment he saw his name written on the white paper. Opening the envelope with shaky fingers, he pulled out the card. Drawn in black ink, a scruffy looking dog regarded him with trusting, warm eyes. A pair of open handcuffs dangled from the dog’s bristly muzzle. Peter turned the drawing over and read silently: ‘To Peter, who has a soft spot for dogs and the scoundrels who love them. Thank you. NC.’ Elizabeth stared at him in nervous apprehension.
“What do you think, honey. Can we keep him? Please?” Peter knew he had lost that battle the moment his wife had laid eyes on the dog. He groaned and swore under his breath, cursing Caffrey with every epithet he could think of.
“As long as we’re not calling him Neal,” he grumbled. Bending down, he picked the dog up and held him in front of his chest, the pup’s pink and round belly facing him. “If you’re anything like the scamming good-for-nothing SOB who sent you, so help us God.” Two simultaneous sensations illustrated the puppy’s standpoint on the matter better than words ever could. The first was a cold and wet nose forcefully planted in Peter’s face as the retriever lapped at his nose. The second was the warm stream of dog pee that soaked into Peter’s tie and slowly trickled down his shirtfront.
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