WC: Shirts & Skins - Part 3.2
White Collar -- Fanfiction
Disclaimer:
All recognizable characters are property of Jeff Eastin and USA Network.
No copyright infringement intended.
Title: Shirts & Skins - Part 3
- Rating: R
- Warnings: Adult content, Violence, Language; 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 3: Nor'easter (2/2)
A harmless game of pickpocketing turns into a race for Peter's life.
Posted in 2 parts due to post length limitations.
By the time they reach the Corolla, Peter is barely conscious. He is marginally aware of the man shouldering most of his weight, of a vice-like grip around his waist and a slim, angular pair of shoulders under his arm. His legs threaten to give out on every step, the pain in his thigh almost unbearable. His inner voice orders him to keep walking, to retain his precarious balance, knowing full well that the man pressed against his side won’t be able to bear more. Caffrey-Neal, he reminds himself-is staggering under his weight, every muscle tense and trembling with exhaustion. Peter hears the young man’s breath come in short strained bursts as Neal nearly whimpers with the frustration of not being able to ask more of his body.
With a final, shaky step Peter’s back is roughly deposited against the passenger side of the parked sedan. The flash of pain rouses him and he gracelessly hangs on to the vehicle for balance.
“Sorry,” Neal murmurs. Relieved of his burden, he slumps and lands on his backside at Peter’s feet. He hangs his head and does nothing but breathe for what feels like minutes. He finally raises his head to look at Peter. With the daylight all but gone he can’t see the agent’s eyes but he feels his gaze fixed upon him. A hand extends in his direction and he accepts it, pushing himself off the ground to stand. He brushes the snow off the back of his jeans.
“What now?” Peter asks. Neal swipes the snow from above the passenger door with a cursory pass of his coat sleeve. He opens the door, bends over and slides the seat back to allow Peter easy access and room for his injured leg.
“Now you sit.” He guides Peter into the seat, allowing the man to hold on to him while he settles into the upholstery. Lowering himself to a knee just outside the door, Neal examines the leg wound in the dim interior light of the car. He carefully adjusts the tie over the injury, and Peter flinches. There is more fresh blood after the strenuous walk. There’s nothing he can do about it.
“My cell phone doesn’t have a signal. And I doubt the car is going anywhere,” he explains matter-of-factly, his voice calm and controlled. “I’m going to walk down to the main road and get help.” Peter’s hand settles heavily on his shoulder. The agent studies the young man kneeling at his side. Illuminated by the car’s dome light he can see the weariness etched into Neal’s face and the bull-headed determination in his eyes. Underneath all of that the kid looks scared shitless. Peter is momentarily stumped by the realization that Neal is not scared of him but for him.
“Let’s be realistic, Caffrey,” Peter hopes his words don’t sound belittling, “We’re in the middle of a blizzard, there’s already a foot of snow on the ground and it’s going to keep coming down hard for a while longer. There’s nobody out there tonight.” He doubts that the exhausted man could make it another fifty yards in these conditions, let alone the half-mile distance to the road. He keeps those thoughts to himself. “Let’s rest up for a few hours. The road will be there in the morning.”
“What about you?”
“Yeah, I’ll be here.” The clever smile briefly plays on Peter’s lips. His hand on Neal’s shoulder offers a light squeeze, then slides up and casually brushes along his neck before giving him a friendly cuff on the side of the head. “Get in the car and turn on the heat. I’m freezing.”
--
“Nothing useful in the trunk.” Patting the snow off of his hat and clothes, Neal slips into the driver’s seat of the idling car.
“Did you make sure the tailpipe is clear?”
“Don’t worry, Peter, if you kick the bucket tonight, it won’t be from carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“That’s comforting.” Peter leans back in his seat and tries to get settled for what is going to be a long night. With the sun almost set, darkness is closing in around them. The dashboard illumination will soon be the only source of light in the car.
“How much gas?” Peter asks, not sure he wants to hear the answer.
“Quarter of a tank.” Neal is crunching the numbers in his head. “Maybe four to six hours of heat, if we’re lucky.” The vents pointed directly at them and blowing out hot air at maximum setting, warmth is slowly creeping back into their bodies. The humidity in the passenger compartment rises steadily and the windows are fogged within minutes, obscuring any view of the outside world. Their soaked, heavy clothes won’t dry completely, but feeling damp after feeling soggy is a step in the right direction.
“Let’s enjoy it while it lasts.”
--
Two hours later Neal is hungry and bored. Dozing off periodically, Peter is anything but engaging company. In the passenger seat the agent finally stirs and comes to with a groan. Neal offers him a sip of water he had collected by melting snow in a plastic cup he retrieved from under the seat. The agent drinks eagerly and returns the empty cup. Neal waits patiently for the other man to get his bearings after his nap.
“How’s the dog?” Neal decides that Peter is fit enough for small talk.
“Satch?” Peter can’t help but smile when he thinks of the energetic puppy that has taken reign of his house. “He’s destroying my property, stealing my food and siphoning off my wife’s attention.” It’s intended to sound grumpy but comes across wistful instead. Neal watches the raw emotions play out on Peter’s face as the other man wipes the condensation from his window and stares out into the night. He feels for him. Elizabeth must be worried sick.
“She’s a generous tipper, you know,” Neal states, stirring Peter from his absent thoughts.
“Who?”
“Elizabeth. Your wife?”
“How do you-?”Sudden realization spreads over the agent’s face. “You delivered the dog yourself. You came to my house?”
A smug grin is plastered on Neal’s face. Peter glares at him. Gradually, his eyes narrow and his jaw clenches. Out of nowhere, the agent’s right arm hooks around, his fist roughly seizing the lapel of Neal’s coat. With unexpected force Peter yanks the young man towards him. Neal collides with his injured shoulder, eliciting a pain-filled grunt. The agony only fuels the agent’s strength as he jerks the dumbstruck man over the middle console. There is a faint sound of buttons being torn from the front of the pea coat. Neal’s arms flail wildly until his hands find purchase and he is able to brace himself against the passenger window and the back of Peter’s seat. His upper body hovers awkwardly twisted over Peter’s. The gearshift lever digs unpleasantly into his thigh. Peter’s white-knuckled fist continues to grab Neal’s collar, pulling the con man’s face within inches of his own.
“Listen closely, Caffrey. I’m only going to say this once.” Peter’s voice rumbles low in his throat. His breath is hot in Neal’s face. “My wife is off limits. You don’t talk to her. You don’t refer to her by her first name. You stay the hell away from her. You will not taint her with the pathetic mess that is your life. Because if you do, I will hunt you down and you will wish I had never gotten you out of that hellhole in Mexico. Do you understand?”
Neal nods.
“I need you to say it.”
“I understand,” the young man acquiesces. Peter scrutinizes his face in the near darkness, looking for guile and defiance but seeing only bewilderment.
“Alright,” Peter breathes huskily into Neal’s face, his tone no less threatening. There’s a cryptic smirk on his face that Neal finds slightly unsettling. Peter retightens his grip on the jacket and gives it another hard tug. “Now it’s time to give it up, Caffrey.”
It is meant to be a joke. A light-hearted quip to defuse the awkward tension that fills the small space of the car. The cruel insinuation of his words dawns on Peter when he sees a sudden, naked panic cloud the young man’s eyes. Verbally dressed down, physically restrained in an uncomfortable position, coat front torn wide open by Peter’s unyielding hold, Neal feels utterly exposed.
“That’s not what I meant,” Peter stammers regretfully, shaking his head. Still holding on to Neal’s collar, he reaches for the breast pocket inside the pea coat. Unintentionally, the back of his hand brushes the damp skin underneath and he feels the young man recoil with a choked gasp, every muscle in his body tightening. Peter’s fingers slip inside the pocket and pull the small bound calendar from its hiding place. He holds the booklet in front of Neal’s face and waits for the fear-stricken blue eyes to focus.
“This is what I meant,” he states, his voice calming. He lets go of the coat. Neal clambers back into his seat and slumps against the headrest. He draws the jacket tightly around his body, hugging his arms to his chest. He lacks the courage to look at the man next to him but he can feel Peter’s eyes fixed on his. Neal’s lips are pursed into a thin, tight line. His jaw line twitches as he struggles with the conflicting emotions of anger and humiliation that consume him.
“Jesus Christ, Neal. Who do you think I am?” There is no reply. Peter leans back in his seat as the throbbing in his agitated shoulder radiates into his body. He closes his eyes, willing the pain to subside. It doesn’t.
Both men sit in silence and listen to the continuous buzz of the heater fan.
--
When Neal’s voice disrupts the mute darkness fifteen minutes later he sounds as if the past half hour never happened.
“When did you know?” He asks, his tone perplexingly light and curious.
“The second you took it.” Peter replies. He peers at the con man, trying to gauge his expression in the dim light of the dashboard illumination. “I’ve told you before not to underestimate me. I could pick you out of a crowd with my eyes closed and headphones on.”
“Why didn’t you stop me?”
“This might be an unfamiliar concept for you, but sometimes I have better things to do than to chase after Neal freaking Caffrey. Plus, I was wearing a brand new pair of shoes. If I ruined them on the first day, El would have had... .” He trails off. He shouldn’t bring up his wife, considering the bad turn the conversation had taken at her last mention. “And before you ask, yes, I saw you sipping your latte-nonfat, no sugar-this afternoon.”
“You know how I like my coffee. I’m flattered, Peter.”
“Don’t be. Having an FBI file the size of the Encyclopedia Britannica is not an asset.”
“For what it’s worth, if I hadn’t plucked your calendar you’d be turning into a popsicle somewhere out there right now.” Neal vaguely gestures into the darkness outside.
“So you’re saying your life of crime is paying off?”
“It did for you today!” Neal spurts out, clearly relishing in the fact that Peter is going to lose this argument. “A little gratitude wouldn’t be completely inappropriate, you know.”
Peter is chewing the inside of his cheek. The kid has a point. He can’t argue with that, no matter how absurd the notion was. If five years of marriage have taught him anything, it is how to admit defeat gracefully.
“You are right. Thank you.”
“I bet that hurt to say.”
“You’ll never know.” Peter smirks. He turns his head to the side to watch Neal recline his seatback and slide low on his seat. The young man shuffles his feet in the foot well, trying to find a way to accommodate his lanky legs under the steering wheel. He groans with frustration when he realizes his efforts are futile. Forcing his body to relax, Neal closes his eyes.
“I guess we can call it even, Peter.” It sounds more like a contented sigh than a statement. “You do something nice for me, I do something nice for you. Thank you cards are exchanged. Everything is hunky-dory.” There is a long pause.
“This is not a game, you know.” Peter’s tone is serious. Neal refuses to look at him.
“Is this going to be a lecture, Agent Burke? ‘Cause if it is, I should grab my legal pad to take notes.”
Peter shakes his head in exasperation. He wishes he could bring back the Neal from barely thirty minutes ago. He wants to speak to the man who was raw with emotion, who was almost undone by a few thoughtless words and a careless touch. Maybe that man hiding under the skin-deep shell of nonchalance and cockiness would listen.
“Fine. Let’s skip the lecture and move on to the pop quiz, Neal.” Peter grits his teeth.
“I’m all ears. This ought to be good.”
“How do you think this is going to end?”
“This what?”
“This career of crime of yours? This perpetual gamble with your life and freedom? This fucked up pas de deux between you and me? Take your pick!”
The silence on the other side of the car makes it clear that Neal isn’t planning on discussing any of those topics. Peter waits patiently for a response that is not forthcoming.
“Alright,” he surrenders. “Let me tell you how it’s going to end, Neal. One of these days some underpaid, overworked poor schmuck of a security guard will put a bullet in you, ruin his life and end yours. And if it’s not the security guard with the gun, it’ll be some goon with a baseball bat, hired by some rich guy whose wife you screwed to get to the Picasso hanging over her bed.” Peter pauses and carefully chooses his next words. “Or maybe the bribe your faithful little sidekick scraped together will come just a couple of days too late to get you out of some small town prison in Eastern Russia.”
Peter waits for the situation to blow up in his face. He knows he’s dealing blows below the belt. He isn’t supposed to know about Russia. In the driver’s seat Neal tenses almost imperceptibly and doesn’t swallow the bait.
“You certainly devote a lot of time envisioning creative scenarios of my death, Peter.” Neal’s snide reply carries a strained undercurrent.
“Almost as much time as I spend trying to get to you before that bullet does, Neal.”
There is a brief turn of Neal’s head, a fleeting glance that seeks to detect any deceit in Peter’s words. The glance finds the agent’s eyes trained on him, sincere and unfaltering. Neal’s head whips back to its previous position and he continues to stare at the snow collecting on the driver’s side window.
“Gee, Agent Burke, you keep saying things like that and people will start to think you care about me.”
Peter exhales audibly. There is no getting through to the headstrong, sulking man child in the seat next to him. Not tonight. Maybe never.
“I’m not your get-out-of-jail-free card, Caffrey.”
“I don’t expect you to be.”
Peter shifts in his seat. His muscles are starting to cramp after hours of immobility in the tight confines of the small car. He can’t stifle a moan when the movement agitates his shoulder and leg. Neal’s head suddenly materialized by his side, as the young man reaches under the passenger seat to lift the seat release lever.
“I think you can still move back a little.” He guides the seat on its tracks as Peter pushes back with his unhurt leg. “There. This should give you some more room. Would you like me to adjust your seatback?”
“Thanks. I think I can handle.” Peter feels for the notched wheel on the right hand base of the seatback. His hand locks around it, but the wheel doesn’t budge. He grunts with the strain when his fingers slip over the notches. Neal’s upper body hovers over his chest as a cool hand displaces his own on the seatback control. The seat reclines with a jerk, and the back of Peter’s head slams into the headrest prompting a gasp.
“Better?” Neal’s hand briefly settles onto Peter’s right shoulder, squeezing lightly in a tentative gesture of comfort.
“Yeah. Thanks.” Peter watches Neal retreat to the driver’s seat and wiggle into a semi-recumbent position. He decides to judge Neal Caffrey by his actions, not by his words.
A few minutes past midnight the Corolla’s motor stutters and finally gives out. The engine’s heat gone, Neal turns off the ignition, plunging the car’s interior into complete darkness and silence. The two men sit and listen to the sound of their own breathing, steeling themselves for the bitter cold that will gradually creep into the car and seep into their damp clothes.
“Peter?” Neal whispers.
“Yes?”
“I’m not spooning.”
Peter can almost feel the cheeky grin spreading over the young man’s face.
“Okay.” He chuckles and pulls his coat closer around his body.
--
The morning light finds Peter alive and fighting for wakefulness after a few hours of fitful sleep. With his eyes still shut and his senses slow to respond, he takes assessment of his condition. His feet and legs are numb from the cold, the pain in his thigh momentarily lessened. The rest of his body feels surprisingly warm and comfortable. His head pounds viciously and he extends a probing hand to rub his temple. His fingertips encounter the soft wooly feel of a knit hat that has been pulled over his head. Sliding his hand down to his injured shoulder, Peter finds it cushioned by a heavy wool coat that has been draped over his body and tucked neatly around his shoulders. With a sleepy sigh Peter sinks deeper into the seat cushions, reveling in the warmth and the comforting weight of the coat on his chest. His eyes fly open a moment later.
Neal is upright in his seat with his shoulders hunched and head lowered. His eyes are intently focused on his hands in his lap. Peter peripherally notices that there are several small screws and a screwdriver neatly arranged on the dashboard. Pieces of plastic that once constituted a cellular phone are laid out in Neal’s lap along with a thin flexible rod that Peter identifies as the roof-mounted car antenna. The items and whatever Neal’s busy hands are doing with them barely register with Peter because he is utterly baffled by the sight of the man next to him. Bare from the waist up, Neal’s pale skin is covered in gooseflesh, his every muscle tense in the below freezing temperature. Shivers are rippling through his body continuously, but the young man seems to neither care nor notice. Moving his trembling fingers with surprising dexterity, Neal works with fervent concentration. Frost is collecting on his lashes. He hardly blinks, his eyes never wavering from the project laid out in his lap. It suddenly hits Peter that it’s exactly this kind of focus and commitment to the task at hand that has kept the con man one step ahead of him for two years.
“Have you completely lost your mind, Caffrey?” Peter croaks. He coughs, trying to clear his uncooperative vocal chords. Neal’s head turns to look at Peter in a disoriented, distracted way that leaves the impression he is only now becoming aware of the other man’s presence. His lips are tinged blue and quivering and his bloodshot eyes let on that he hasn’t gotten much rest.
“Peter,” he finally acknowledges the agent, furrowing his brow in an expression of true concern. “How are you feeling?” His speech is slightly slurred. Peter watches the short and rapid puffs of freezing breath that escape his trembling lips. The agent simply shakes his head in disbelief. He lifts the pea coat from his chest and offers it to Neal. The young man hesitantly accepts it and stiffly shrugs inside.
“I’ve felt worse,” Peter states matter-of-factly in reply to the earlier question.
“You slept like a log.” Neal leaves it at that. He had spent the night keeping a watchful eye on the injured man. At two in the morning, after a short while of exhausted rest, Peter had started to shiver violently. The con man had spent several hours rubbing the agent’s hands and limbs to keep his circulation going. He had pulled his knit cap over Peter’s head to avoid more heat loss and he had alternated in covering the man’s upper and lower body with his wool coat. By 5 a.m. the snowfall had finally let up and Neal had dug his way out of the car to get help. The snow had reached up to his thighs, and Neal had stood and shivered in the hostile darkness with a sinking feeling of utter despair. There was no way for him to get to the road. In a pointless attempt to get cell phone reception he had climbed atop the car. There was no signal, but there was the car antenna that almost tripped him.
“Looks like you’ve been busy.” Peter nodded towards the disassembled phone in Neal’s lap.
“I’m almost done.” The focus returns to Neal’s eyes, when he picks up the pieces of plastic. Twisting two pieces of wiring between shaky fingers he makes the final adjustments before reattaching the phone’s cover as well as the controlled chaos of wires and circuit boards allows. “I think hooking up the car antenna will give us a boost in signal.”
“Or your Franken-phone will send us to a parallel dimension.” Peter dubiously eyes the contraption.
“Let’s keep our fingers crossed. Wish me luck.” Neal tucks the phone into his breast pocket, the antenna peeking out from under the lapel. With a last hopeful glance at Peter, he slips out the door and scrambles onto the roof of the car. Neal holds his breath and pushes the power button. The screen flickers to life. He doesn’t dare to blink when he stares at the signal indicator. A single bar appears in the corner of the screen. He hits the speed dial. Mozzie picks up at the first ring.
With a wide, slaphappy grin that does nothing to keep his teeth from chattering, Neal listens to his fuming and ranting friend on the other end of the line.
“Moz!” He finally seizes an opportunity to cut the other man off. “There’ll be plenty of time to chew me out. Right now I need a snowplow.”
“You need what?”
--
Waiting for Mozzie’s arrival is testing Peter’s patience. This can largely be attributed to the fact that Neal is restlessly commuting between the driver’s seat and a spot down the campground road. His tracks have cut a trench into the three feet of powdery snow on the ground, and the young man paces within the narrow confines of this channel like a caged animal.
“Give it a rest, Caffrey,” Peter grumbles when Neal makes yet another pit stop at the Corolla.
“I don’t want Moz to miss us.”
“Moz?”
“Short guy, glasses, unconventional dresser. Moz.”
“Ah. So that’s his moniker for the day?”
“Maybe.” Neal shrugs.
“Help me up. I need to stretch my legs and I’d like to call my wife if that monstrosity of a phone is still working.” Neal looks the other man up and down, weighing the odds of winning the argument that Peter is in no condition to walk around. With a sigh of surrender he plods around the car and opens the passenger door. Bending over he lets Peter wrap an arm around his neck before hauling him out of the seat with a grunt. Hesitant to let go of Neal’s supporting shoulder Peter leans unsteadily against the side of the sedan. Pain flares up in his injured leg, but he can put enough weight on it to keep his balance.
“You okay?” Neal asks with worry etched into his face. Peter nods, unable to speak while swallowing the feeling of nausea that threatens to get the better of him. Neal pulls the cell phone out of his breast pocket, turns it on and dials Elizabeth Burke’s cell phone. Peter shoots him a scathing glare.
“What?” Neal replies with a guiltless grin. “Was I supposed to pretend I don’t know? You might want to have her number changed.”
“I will. Don’t worry.” Peter yanks the phone out of the other man’s hand and waits for his wife to answer the call. He looks up to dismiss the con man, but Neal is already trudging down his trench to give the agent some privacy. Breathing into his cupped hands in a futile attempt to warm them, Neal waits halfway down the trail and pretends not to overhear the snippets of conversation. He watches Peter’s face light up with a smile that for once is not difficult to read. The agent’s tone is calm and reassuring as he patiently tries to put his wife’s worried mind at ease.
“Help is on the way, honey. I’ll call you as soon as I get somewhere with better reception. I promise. You’re breaking up.” There’s another pause in the exchange as Peter listens intently.
“I love you too, El. Call you soon.” Peter hangs up and takes a moment to process the conversation. His eyes find the young con man, who is watching him like a hawk from 50 feet away. Neal has lost all capacity or willingness to hide the fact that he is cold. Rubbing his arms he shifts from one foot onto the other. Running on no rest and no food the shivers that wrack his body are draining him of his remaining energy by the minute. With a nod and a wave, Peter motions for the other man to come over. Neal takes slow, deliberate steps, shoulders hunched and hands buried deep in his pockets. Peter inclines his head at the space to his right and Neal leans his back against the car, his shoulder almost touching the agent’s.
“I understand about your wife, you know,” Neal says with a sideways glance, his voice serious. “If it was Kate, I wouldn’t want anyone like me near her either.” Peter frowns at the nonsensicality of the statement. He has been watching Neal’s relationship with Kate Moreau with reservations. Peter is all too familiar with Kate’s resume and he isn’t terribly impressed. He had hoped that the con man would outgrow his adolescent infatuation with her, but it soon became clear that he was in it for the long haul. Falling hopelessly for the wrong woman had brought men greater than Neal Caffrey to their knees. Peter looks at the shaking man next to him and decides that this is not the moment for a well-meaning but critical relationship talk. He certainly didn’t consider himself an expert in the matter, anyway.
“For what it’s worth, El would be very grateful to you for saving my ass last night. She’d probably bake you a cake or something.”
“But you’re not going to tell her about me?”
“No.” Neal looks disappointed as he chews his bottom lip pensively.
“Kate’s not much of a baker,” he says with a sigh. “I like a good piece of chocolate cake once in a while.”
“I’m sure Kate has other redeeming qualities,” Peter says with a mischievous smirk. He casually wraps his right arm around Neal’s shoulder and briefly pulls him into his side with a companionable squeeze. He relaxes his arm but leaves his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Neal looks at him from the side, his head crooked and an eyebrow raised in intrigue.
“Agent Burke, I didn’t expect you to have a dirty mind. I’m scandalized.” His chattering teeth make him dwell on the “s” long enough to lose all pretense of eloquence. Peter smiles fondly without looking at Neal and slides his hand down over the con man’s shoulder to rub his upper arm and impart some much needed warmth.
“I’m a man of great complexity, Caffrey.” Neal permits himself to lean into the other man’s touch, relishing the warmness and unguarded familiarity. It only lasts a moment then Peter’s arm retracts with a final cursory squeeze of his shoulder.
“Keep and eye out for the short guy, will ya,” Peter says. “I need to go and sit down for a while.”
--
Two hours later Neal finds himself wedged in the middle seat between an overly animated bespectacled short man and an FBI agent who is convincingly pretending to be the strong silent type. Seated behind the steering wheel of the snowplow, beads of sweat are forming on Mozzie’s forehead as Neal cranks the truck’s heater up another notch. The young man pulls the heavy blanket more tightly around his body. To his right, Peter is wrapped in a similar fashion and is comfortably leaning against the door of the truck.
“You know how hard it is to get a hold of a snowplow in New York City after a blizzard?” Moz laments.
“I knew you could pull it off,” Neal replies, not really tuned into the conversation.
“You thought getting that Singer-Sargent was a challenge...”
“Moz!” The young man cuts in with an urgent nod into the direction of the FBI agent.
“I’m not even here,” Peter states blankly.
“Anyway,” Mozzie quickly changes the subject, “Kate’s pretty upset.”
“I’ll make it up to her.”
“She wants to go to Cannes.”
“That I heard,” Peter interjects.
“Way to set the Feds on our trail, Moz.” Neal shoots his friend a scolding glare.
“You didn’t want to go to Cannes, anyway. Now you have an excuse not to.”
With the fan spitting out stifling amounts of heat, they ride on in silence. Mozzie notes with concern that after 30 minutes in the warm truck Neal has yet to stop trembling. Looking over his friend in the middle seat, the short man fleetingly catches Peter’s eye. Moz wants to believe that was passes between them is a hint of commiseration, but then the agent turns the other way. Neal’s welfare isn’t Peter Burke’s problem. By all reasonable accounts it shouldn’t be Mozzie’s problem either, but his friendship with Neal has progressed beyond reason a long time ago.
As they approach the gas station Peter perks up in his seat. His gaze scans the parked cars outside the convenience store. He smiles when he recognizes Elizabeth’s car. Moz maneuvers the truck into the far corner of the lot and shuts down the engine.
“This is your stop, Agent Burke,” Mozzie announces. “As always, it has been a pleasure. I’ll go get us some hot coffee, while you say your goodbyes, Neal. Play date’s over.” With a quick bob of his head in Peter’s direction Moz climbs out of the truck and heads for the convenience store.
“I’m going to say hello to my wife now,” Peter says matter-of-factly. Shrugging out of the blanket, he pulls the pocket calendar from his coat pocket and waves it in front of the young con man’s face.
“Next time you pull stupid shit like this, you’ll be in handcuffs. Are we clear?” Neal rolls his eyes and heaves a sigh.
“Let me help you out of the truck, Peter.“ He slips out of the driver’s side and walks around to open the heavy door for Peter. The agent gratefully accepts a steadying hand when he climbs to the ground on wobbly legs. Neal positions himself to slip under Peter’s shoulder for support, but the other man stops him.
“I can manage from here, Caffrey. Elizabeth is right over there.” Neal glances over at the parked cars and nods silently. “I’ll give you and the short guy a 10-minute head start before I contact the Bureau. They’re not looking for you, so you should be fine.”
“Okay. Thanks.” He motions at his knit cap, still pulled over Peter’s head. “Keep the hat. Makes you look like one of us common burglars.” Peter doesn’t smile.
“Take care, Neal.”
“I’ll see you, Peter.”
“I’m afraid so.” The agent turns and slowly limps across the parking lot. He can feel the con man’s eyes in his back, but his own gaze is fixed on the beautiful brunette who has gotten out of her car and is heading for him with her hand clasped over her mouth in shock.
Ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder he envelops her into a hug that leaves her gasping for air. His lips close over hers with an urgency that makes her feel like he has been gone for a month instead of a day.
“What happened to you, honey?” Elizabeth implores, carefully wiggling out of his grasp.
“It’s a long story.” Peter still smiles at her, exhausted but relieved. He doesn’t mean to, but he finds himself glancing over his shoulder and back at the man in a pea coat, who looks forlorn and insignificant next to the snowplow. Elizabeth catches his movement and follows his gaze.
“Who’s that, honey?” The man in the pea coat turns away when he notices her staring at him.
“Just some kid learning how to drive a snowplow. He’s nobody, really.”
He cringes at the sting of his own words.
--
“How are you feeling, hun?” Elizabeth rearranges the flowers and get-well-cards piling up on the table next to Peter’s hospital bed.
Peter only grunts in reply. His painkillers have been cut back since earlier this morning, leaving him in a surly mood.
“The doctors say you might get out of here in a couple of days.” Elizabeth is not deterred in her quest to remain positive in the face of her husband’s misery. He doesn’t reward her with a reaction.
“By the way, Peter, I hope you’re not mad at me.”
“About what?”
“I didn’t mean to pry, but your calendar fell open when they took it out of your jacket and gave it to me.” It isn’t the complete truth, and Elizabeth doesn’t doubt for a second that her husband knows she has been snooping. “I really hope you don’t mind, but I took care of that reminder you put in for yesterday.” She can practically see the wheels in his head turn, but he keeps looking at her with a blank expression.
“I wish you could have given me a few days notice, though,” she continues. “I was up until two in the morning to make that cake.” Peter looks downright lost now, a deep furrow adorning his forehead. Elizabeth sighs in exasperation. She seizes the calendar from the nightstand and opens it to yesterday’s date.
“Here. Are you sure didn’t hit your head?” He hesitantly takes the calendar and glances at the page. Sudden comprehension spreads over his face.
“Son of a gun.” He mouths. Penned in a perfect imitation of his own handwriting he reads: ‘IMPORTANT -- Send El’s homemade choc cake to The Plaza Rm 608, c/o NC’.
THE END
Back to part 3.1 On to Shirts & Skins Part 4