WC Fic: Keeping Warm
White Collar -- Fanfiction
Disclaimer:
All recognizable characters are property of Jeff Eastin and USA Network.
No copyright infringement intended.
Title: Keeping warm
- Rating: R
- Warnings: Adult content, nothing explicit; no slash
- Category: Dramedy, Bromance
"Since when does Neal Caffrey have to pay for it?"
A/N:
Many thanks to nexteightlives for continuous encouragement and endless diligence and patience in proofing.
Keeping warm
Peter passes the tall brunette on the doorstep outside of June's house. Behind her the heavy door is just falling into its lock with a hollow thud. He has an eye for sizing up people in passing. It comes with the territory of being a Fed. The woman is in her early twenties. Her clothes and makeup are high-end if a little suggestive for his taste. Her clutch is a Prada. A real one. Peter files her away as a girlfriend of June's niece and chooses to forget her. He doesn't think of the girl again until he reaches Neal's loft.
His brief rap against the door with the six-pack of beer he carries remains unanswered. The door is unlocked and he lets himself in. The lights inside are off save for the reading lamp by the bed. Peter looks around the space, expecting to see the familiar outline of a figure sitting in the darkness of the living room, but his search comes up empty.
The deserted bed under the pitch-black skylights is unmade, the top sheet pushed aside, the fitted sheet wrinkled. The investigative curiosity so deeply engrained in his every fiber makes his hand reach out to feel the residual heat radiating from the luxuriously soft cotton. Peter places the six-pack onto the nightstand. He doesn't fail to notice the open condom wrapper by the base of the table lamp. There are two more equally torn wrappers on the floor. He nudges one of them with the tip of his shoe.
Walking out onto the rooftop deck, he spots Neal lounging on a chaise. His robe is open, exposing the pale boxer-clad body underneath to the pleasantly refreshing evening breeze. There's a bottle of wine clasped tightly in one fist. There's a glowing cigarette held between the thumb and index finger of the other hand. Not a cigarette, Peter reevaluates, the sweet heady scent of marijuana infiltrating his nostrils as he steps closer.
Peter knows his presence on the rooftop terrace has not gone unnoticed but is being willfully ignored. The hand with the bottle is raised to the conman's face and remains there longer than Peter likes. Neal's throat pulsates with every greedy gulp he takes.
Peter pulls up a chair and positions it next to the other man's knee, facing the chaise head on. When he settles into the chair, the seating arrangement seems awkward and intimate. He is determined not to be ignored.
"I came to make amends but now it seems there are more pressing matters at hand," Peter says.
"Yes, like what?" Neal Caffrey is not a sloppy drunk, no more so than he is a sloppy criminal. When the alcohol coursing through his veins lulls his systems into pleasant indifference, his con artist’s tongue preserves the veneer of perfect control. He doesn't slur his words. Instead his speech is slow and deliberately enunciated.
"Possession of a controlled substance for starters," Peter states, sounding every bit the agent. Neal takes a long drag from his joint. He makes a point to inhale, his bare chest expanding and freezing in that position for the duration of several of Peter's calm breaths. His eyes are fixed on the agent's in an open challenge.
"Then there’s the solicitation," Peter adds, ignoring the smoke Neal expels into his face. "Since when does Neal Caffrey have to pay for it?"
Neal's gaze pointedly travels down his left leg to the bulky tracking device.
"And Veronica is a massage therapist," he adds.
"Humor me, Caffrey," Peter snorts. "I've seen the wrappers. All three of them. Looks like you got your money's worth."
A hollow, joyless laugh escapes the conman's throat.
"I wouldn't say that." Neal pauses to take swig from the bottle. He offers it to Peter, who accepts, if only to take the alcohol away from his friend. He takes a small sip and then places the bottle on the floor out of the other man's reach. If Neal is aware of this he doesn't let on. He raises his now empty hand in front of his face and stares at it in glossy-eyed fascination. The hand trembles.
"Seems like my hand is not the only thing a little uncooperative these days,” Neal states flatly.
"Oh," Peter replies when the implication hits him.
"Yeah, oh." Neal closes his eyes and lets his head sink against the cushions. His hand drops limply onto his chest. His thumb lightly brushes the bare skin there as the tremors fade to an occasional twitch. He continues to smoke, the joint now shriveled to a stump that threatens to singe the fingers holding it.
"Out of purely professional curiosity: How much?" Peter asks.
"Are you trying to decide if you're paying me too much, Agent Burke?" Neal doesn't look at his friend.
"I saw her out front. I know you can't afford her on your compensation from the Bureau," Peter states. "I've been trying to get you a raise, by the way. But not if you have disposable income for bullshit like-“
"Two grand," Neal cuts him off. Peter lets out a short whistle.
"And you didn't even-?“ He gestures vaguely in the direction of Neal's silk boxer shorts, a puzzled frown wrinkling his forehead. The conman chuckles with his teeth bared in a soulless smile.
“It doesn’t work that way, Peter. There’s no satisfaction guarantee.”
“So you basically got yourself a 2000-dollar doobie?” Peter almost wants to laugh at the realization. Neal raises his head and looks at his friend with a mixture of pity and amusement.
“Doobie?” He asks. "You're dating yourself, Peter." The other man only shrugs with a mildly embarrassed smile playing in the corners of his mouth.
"And you're wrong." Neal props his bare left foot onto the other man's knee. Peter looks down at the ankle and sees the joint that's tucked behind the tracker. "I got myself two 1000-dollar doobies. Be my guest."
Peter hesitates, then slowly pulls the joint from its hiding place. Neal reaches inside the pocket of his robe and produces a Zippo lighter. The flame dances in the light breeze as he waits patiently for the other man to lean in and light up. He snaps the lighter shut and pockets it. A satisfied grin spreads over Neal’s lips as he settles back into the lounge chair. He stubs out the dwindled remains of his smoke on the small plate he has brought outside for an ashtray.
“I see you’ve done this before, Dudley Do-Right,” he remarks, watching Peter relax into his chair.
“What can I say, I had a rebellious phase in college,” Peter sighs.
“Uh-huh, how long did that last?” Neal mocks.
“All of two hours,” Peter replies with a clever smirk. “I really wanted to impress a girl. She was a drama student. Amanda. Mandy.”
“How did that pan out?” Neal asks. Peter just shrugs.
The men sit in silence. Peter smokes for appearances but doesn’t inhale. He will have to drive home later. Mostly, he doesn’t want to feel his age in the morning. He never understood what the big hype is about anyway. Reading Caffrey’s file-now that is a pastime to get your head spinning. Neal’s eyes are closed when he begins to talk quietly.
“Remember the day of the explosion, Peter?” He asks, sounding conversational.
“Yeah. I remember.” Peter nods although the other man doesn’t look at him.
“Remember how chilly it was?” It is a rhetorical question because Neal continues without waiting for his friend to reply. “There was this storm blowing in and the air was so bitterly cold it cut right through my coat. It brought tears to my eyes, you know.”
“I remember.” Peter reiterates. The look of tortured irresolution in Neal’s eyes as they stood on the tarmac is something Peter won’t ever forget. He is reasonably certain that the tears that trickled down the young man’s cheeks that day were not prompted by the frosty weather.
“That cold never left me, Peter. “ He pauses and Peter doesn’t know if he is expected to say anything. The carefully paced stream of words continues a moment later.
“It sits right here, and sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe.” Neal’s palm pushes down on his solar plexus. “I guess I just wanted to feel warm again. Just for a moment. I felt that was worth two grand.”
Neal’s voice doesn’t break. He sounds detached, as if he is talking about last night’s hockey scores that don’t really interest him. Peter is not fooled. He knows it took a mixture of THC and red wine for those words to leave the tightly guarded emotional vault that is Neal Caffrey. No matter how the words are delivered, they don’t fail at tearing into the hardened agent’s heart. He feels utterly helpless.
“I don’t know what to say, Neal,” he says after a long silence. “But I can tell you that it takes more than making love to a complete stranger to keep yourself warm.”
“Making love?” Neal’s head pops up and he looks at Peter, the inebriation in his eyes betraying his steady voice. “You’re so damn proper, Peter. I assure you, love had nothing to do with it.”
Peter looks contrite but remains silent, hoping that somehow the words will keep spilling out of the other man. Neal’s head drops back against the chaise, and his open eyes dart around the star-filled sky.
“You don’t know what it’s like, Peter,” the young man continues, and emotion finally begins to bleed into his voice. “You don’t know what it’s like not to feel a single loving touch for more than four years. And to come so close to the moment you’ve longed for only to have every ounce of hope throttled in the blink of an eye. You don’t know how that feels. And don’t pretend like you do. ”
“What can I do to help, Neal?” Peter desperately shifts into problem-solving mode. “Tell me.”
“You can pass me that bottle of Cabernet and leave.” The young man’s eyes meet the agent’s worried scrutiny. There is no provocation left in their watery depths. There is not much of anything left, Peter realizes with a sinking heart. There is only absence. Of hope. Of joy. Of spirit. Certainly of willingness to talk.
Peter sighs and pushes himself to his feet. His spine creaks in protest of being yanked from its comfortable slouch on the deck chair. The agent looks down at the shriveled joint between his fingers. He acknowledges Neal with a curt nod when the young man lifts the ashtray for him to use. Peter stubs out the cigarette.
“I’ll pay you back,” he says. “By not arresting you, I suppose.” He flashes Neal a brief smile that wilts when it fails to be mirrored in the other man’s face.
“You’ll have one hell of a headache in the morning, buddy,” Peter continues to talk, unwilling to leave just yet. “I hope you’re not planning on calling in sick tomorrow. I’ll be picking you up at 7:30. Sharp.” He puts on his best impression of Peter Burke-Special Agent, boss, uncompromising handler of ex-cons-while feeling like a complete stranger to that version of himself at this moment. At his feet, Neal closes his eyes and turns his face away from him.
“Okay then.” Peter indecisively looks around the patio, his palms patting the outside of his pockets in search of his car keys. “I’ll see you, Neal. Take care of yourself. Please?” He pauses for another long moment to give the young man a chance to say something or, at the very least, display any sign that he is still aware of the world outside of his own narcotic-dulled mind. Peter slowly turns on his heels and walks towards the exit.
“Peter!” Neal’s voice stops him halfway across the rooftop deck.
“Yeah, buddy, what is it?” Peter takes a couple of hopeful strides back in the young man’s direction.
“The Cabernet?” Neal’s hand listlessly indicates the wine bottle that is still sitting out of his reach. Peter slaps the side of his thighs in exasperation. He shakes his head and chews on his lower lip as his incredulous gaze bounces over the patio before coming to rest on the young man’s face, which is largely obscured by the distance and the darkness between them.
“Get up.” Peter’s voice adopts the commanding tone he has perfected through long years of being responsible for other people and their lives. Across the rooftop he can hear the harsh, caustic laugh that escapes the young man’s throat.
“Get. The fuck. Up. Caffrey!” Peter orders, shuffling his feet into a wider, more solid stance.
In the lounge chair, Neal’s body tenses visibly. His brow draws in as his gaze narrows. Reluctance smoothly transitions to petulance as he swings his legs over the edge of the chaise and gets to his feet. He lightly sways for a moment before he regains control of his intoxicated body. His palms turn to face the agent in a gesture of indifference.
“What, Peter?” The young man sounds openly hostile. “Forgot to give your lecture? Bring it on. I know it’s burning on your tongue. I’m surprised you were able to hold back this long.”
Peter’s studies the man who defies his authority with a confidence that belies his inebriated state. Leave it to Caffrey to pull off a cocksure attitude while standing in front of an FBI agent in a pair of flimsy boxer shorts. Leave it to Neal to make a gaping shiny robe, that screams ‘retro’ or ‘metro’, look like impenetrable body armor.
Peter is not fooled into taking it as a sign of insecurity when Neal starts to fix his state of undress. It is more likely that the conman’s ever-restless fingers have become aware of their idleness. His hands look rushed as they fold the left front of the robe over the right and grope for the ends of the belt that dangle from his hips. Neal cinches the robe shut with agitated force that seems all too violent for the delicate fabric. He impatiently loosens and reties the slip knot twice until he is either satisfied with his look or bored with the simple task.
“Cat got your tongue?” Neal challenges.
It is not until Peter approaches him in slow, measured strides that a hint of trepidation colors the rebellion in his eyes. Peter stops no more than a foot in front of him. The agent is only two inches taller than Neal, but tonight and at such close distance he towers intimidatingly over the young conman.
“Caffrey, this isn’t going to be easy for either one of us.” Peter states, keeping his tone cryptically neutral. He slips off his sports coat and tosses it onto the chaise behind Neal. The young man’s eyes travel from the agent’s face down his squared shoulders and come to rest on Peter’s right fist, which casually clenches and unclenches at his side. Neal’s gaze bounces back up and the tinge of panic that has crept into his hazy eyes is almost enough to tease a laugh from Peter’s throat. Instead, the agent dons his most enigmatic smirk, knowing full well that this subtle display of superiority irritates his partner immensely.
“You wanna take a swing at me, Peter?” For the first time since starting the conversation with the agent, the trace of a slur taints the conman’s diction, his methodical self-control slipping.
There is a small, guilt-ridden voice in the back of Peter’s mind that scolds him for gaining too much enjoyment from this innocuous power play. The voice of reason has the soft, melodious quality of Elizabeth’s. Peter wants to plead his case to the nagging voice, wants to make a point that having Caffrey in possession of less than his fully astute mental capability is a rare opportunity. He loses his internal argument, much like he loses almost every argument with Elizabeth in person. He exhales with a heavy sigh.
“Caffrey, my wife and I had a conversation about you last night over the phone,” Peter continues solemnly. “We talked about everything you’ve been through. I must say, Elizabeth was very specific about what she thinks you need. And she offered to give it to you, Neal.”
Whatever remaining command the young man has over his façade is falling to pieces in front of Peter’s amused eye. He swallows repeatedly, his gaze flitting over the other man’s face, utter confusion undisguised in the rapidly blinking bleary eyes.
“Peter, I swear-“ The agent silences him with a raised hand.
“Unfortunately for you, Elizabeth isn’t here tonight,” Peter goes on. “So yours truly will have to do.”
Before Neal has the chance to utter another word, the taller man takes a deep breath, closes the remaining distance between them and wraps his arms around the young man. Peter’s hands remain curled into tight fists. With Neal’s arms pinned to his sides, Peter pulls him into his chest and hooks his chin over his shoulder. The procedure feels clinical, awkward and entirely ridiculous. The final result bears closer resemblance to a wrestling hold than an embrace.
Peter believes himself to be the first witness of human flesh turning into a pillar of salt since the destruction of biblical Sodom. For a fleeting moment he is worried that the stiff figure in his arms may have stopped breathing. Then he feels and smells the herbal, alcoholic exhalation brush against his shoulder.
“What are you doing, Peter?” Neal’s voice sounds strained in Peter’s ear.
“I’m giving you a hug. It’s what you need. Or so I’ve been told,” Peter states dryly and draws the other man’s chest further into his own, eliciting a choked grunt.
“Peter?”
“Neal?”
“I don’t think I’m comfortable with this.” What little struggle Neal is able to put up in his paralyzed state is not enough to put any distance between himself and the intruding agent. Changing strategies, he lets his body drop backwards until his retreat is foiled by the edge of the lounge chair pressing against the back of his knees and by the vehement yank from Peter’s arms that pull him forward.
“Neither am I, buddy,” Peter replies, his voice strained.
Trying to get better leverage, Peter’s fingers uncurl and sprawl out across the other man’s back. The agent tries to remember if he ever truly embraced another man like this. Sure, there were the fleeting, companionable bear hugs given to team members and sometimes to opponents after a game of football. There were the clumsy attempts to find a physical way to show his affection for his father, who was a hard-working man who loved his family deeply but was eternally confined by the social taboos of his generation. There was the time he had desperately thrown his arms around the man in front of him to stop him from running into the fireball of an exploding plane.
The body pulled against his feels like a foreign object. Peter cringes at the callousness of that thought. This is his partner, his confidant, his friend. He thinks of Elizabeth and how her curvy form molds so perfectly against his when the two of them are aligned in the very same geometry. Wrapped in his arms, her body is all warm, supple softness. The tissue under this thin robe is rigid to the point of seeming inorganic. He can feel Neal’s rapid heartbeat pound discordantly against his chest when he is used to the calm, muted drum of Elizabeth’s pulse, so often in sync with his own. The scent of booze, pot, aftershave and loveless sex that wafts off of the young man tonight is reminiscent of college frat houses and strikes Peter as repulsive and alien when confronted with it so intimately. The agent fights the overwhelming instinct to push the other man away and mercifully end this dismal attempt at comfort.
“Relax, Neal,” Peter says calmly. “I feel like I’m holding a surfboard.”
“You’ve lost your mind. Just let me go!” Neal’s tone edges towards high-pitched, whiny end of his vocal spectrum. With the tension of a high-strung bow his body is arched backwards. His face is turned to the side, away from Peter’s, avoiding any contact with the agent’s shoulder. His gaze bounces around the dark patio and over the illuminated skyline as if rescue from his predicament is to be found somewhere out there, as if to make sure that there are no witnesses to his humiliation. “This is ridiculous, Peter.”
“I’m not hearing you laugh, Neal,” Peter replies, not surrendering an inch of space to the younger man. “Now relax. That’s an order.”
“It’s really not a good idea for me to relax. Trust me.” The young man replies breathlessly, the confining grip around his torso making it hard to draw in air.
Peter is competitive by nature. He is competitive with his adversaries and his friends and, most of all, with himself. When presented with a forbidding, tedious, or downright impossible whale of a task, Peter takes it as a personal challenge. Acclaimed Burke determination and wiles against the world. Inexhaustible Burke patience against maddening Caffrey stubbornness. He repositions his hands on the young man’s back. Through the light satin fabric of Neal’s robe, Peter’s fingers easily feel every wiry string of taut muscle. The side of his thumb finds the rigid groove of the lumbar spine and starts to work against the contracted muscle strands along its ridges.
“Peter?”
“Uh-huh.” The agent sounds distracted as he concentrates on the calculated movements of his fingers.
“What are you doing?” Neal asks, a hint of a warning resonating in his tone, as a semblance of confidence returns to his voice. Without giving the agent a chance to answer he hastily continues. “And Peter-I swear to God-if the words ‘magic hands’ should somehow make their way into this conversation, I will rob the convenience store down the street just to be sent back to prison. Tonight!”
Peter’s hands pause briefly but then continue working the tense tissue along Neal’s spine.
“Unlike your ‘massage therapist’ Veronica, I won’t charge you two grand for my services,” Peter points out keeping his tone genial.
“Oh, right. Instead I’ll be paying you with the puny remains of my male dignity and self-respect,” Neal replies sarcastically. “I can picture it clearly: my testicles, displayed in a 4-by-6 shadowbox next to an FBI Medal of Valor in your office.”
The magic hands continue their ministrations undeterred as Peter mulls over the conman’s words.
“Well, in that case, I think Elizabeth would claim them for her desk,” the agent retorts, dead serious. “After all, this madness was all her idea.”
“Very funny, Peter,” the young man responds dryly. “And Ouch!” Neal’s body pitches forward against Peter’s chest as a knuckle on his back digs into tender muscle.
“Sorry,” Peter mumbles apologetically and eases up on the sore spot.
“I think we’re done here, Peter. I’ll be sure to tip you generously.” His patience wearing thin, Neal renews his efforts to extract himself from the vice-like hold the agent has on him. Peter stops, his hands once again spread over the silky satin covering the other man’s back.
“So that’s a no to my rendition of ‘Kumbaya’ that I was just about to share with you?” The agent asks.
Neal freezes. His head drops as he buries his face into Peter’s shoulder. At first, the staccato of choked noises issued by the young man’s throat sound like sobbing. Then the sounds clearly morph into hysterical chuckles that resonate in rippling waves throughout Neal’s body.
“Oh, sure, go ahead. Laugh.” Peter feigns indignation. “I happen to get a lot of compliments on my singing.” Under his palms he feels the taut muscle tissue become pliant and Peter loosens his restrictive hold on the young man’s body to allow him a little more breathing room. He continues to pass a hand in long soothing strokes over the other man’s back as he waits for Neal’s laughter to subside.
The short bursts of hot breath that are expelled against Peter’s collarbone become less frequent and, ultimately, cease altogether. Peter expects the head resting on his shoulder to lift and the body pushed against his to pull away. Instead, Neal remains motionless, his shoulders slumped, his arms limp at his sides, all resistance to his friend’s proximity gone.
“Well, there you have it. It only took a 1000-dollar stick of funny stuff, a 60-dollar bottle of wine and the 5-cent Peter Burke comedy tour to get Neal Caffrey to relax.” Peter’s cheeks dimple as a self-satisfied grin spreads over his face. He lightly pats Neal’s back. “How’re you holding up, kid? Hangover starting to rear its ugly head yet?”
The tremors are barely noticeable at first. Then they get strong enough for Peter to freeze mid-movement as he is about to release his embrace. A few seconds later the man in his arms is shaking so violently that Peter fears he is suffering a delayed adverse reaction to the mix of drugs and alcohol and whatever else Caffrey may have used to self-destruct tonight.
“I told you it’s not a good idea for me to relax right now.” The thready whisper hardly reaches Peter’s ear. The agent closes his eyes when the implication of the young man’s words sinks in. He brings up his hand and buries his fingers in the thick waves of Neal’s hair. Whatever overpriced salon-only product is keeping Caffrey’s meticulously styled preppy haircut in shape feels sticky between his fingers. Peter gently coaxes Neal’s head over until the young man’s forehead rests against his cheek.
“Jesus, Caffrey. Is this what this mess has done to you?” He pulls the shaking body against his, comfortingly not forcibly. There is no answer, but Peter doesn’t need to hear what is so plainly spelled out by every jarring twitch that rocks against him. He hears Neal’s deep inhalation before the conman’s body begins to straighten and firm again, the tremors weakening as tension takes over.
“Neal, don’t,” Peter pleads, the hand in Neal’s hair sliding down until his thumb lightly brushes the nape of the neck. “It’s okay. We’ll wait till it stops.”
“It won’t. Trust me.” Neal pulls away and Peter’s arms no longer try to corral him. The agent meets the young man’s exhausted eyes and he nods his head, acknowledging capitulation to Neal’s personal demons for now.
“Let’s go inside.” With his hand at the small of Neal’s back, Peter urges the young man towards the loft. “I need some coffee, and you need a Motrin and a bed.”
Neal doesn’t resist as he is ushered inside. By the time he settles onto the couch he has slipped back into his self-policed, trusted shell.
“Can I get you some tea?” Peter asks from the kitchenette as he sets a kettle to boil for coffee.
“No thanks. Maybe some water, please?” The agent fills a glass and sets it on the coffee table. He shakes a couple of chalky ibuprofen pills from the small plastic bottle he has found in the kitchen cabinet and places them next to the glass. Neal thanks him with a brief nod.
Peter returns to the stove to pour the boiling water over the coffee grounds in the small French press. He carries the coffee press and an empty cup over to the sitting area and places them on the table before slumping onto the sofa. He looks over at his partner. Neal is sipping his water, perched on the couch as if he is wearing his best suit and is afraid to wrinkle it. For somebody who has perfected the art of slouching comfortably in intolerable plastic chairs at the White Collar offices, Neal looks startlingly on edge in his own home.
Peter shakes his head in frustrated defeat. He depresses the plunger of the coffee press and serves himself a cup of the steaming, aromatic brew. He takes a small sip, flinching when the hot liquid scalds his tongue.
“June’s roast. Still the best.” Peter briefly raises the coffee cup, catching Neal’s amused eye.
“Coffee at this hour?” The young man asks. “You got plans tonight, Peter?”
“The never ending mortgage fraud cases. I have a stack of paperwork waiting at home the size of a small country,” Peter sighs.
“How are you getting on with Elizabeth out of town?” Neal asks, finally leaning back into the sofa cushions, the persistent tension in his posture easing but not disappearing. Peter pauses, trying to remember when the focus of the conversation has shifted from the conman to him.
“As well as can be expected, I suppose,” Peter replies with a dismissive gesture. “The usual complaints: the bed’s a little too big, I’m getting tired of take-out food and I just miss waking up to that beautiful face, you know?” Neal looks at him with a small smile that conveys empathy salted with a hint of sadness.
“Sorry,” Peter is quick to add. “I forgot who I’m talking to.”
“You know, if one thing can be said for the US prison system, I not once had the feeling that my bed was too big,” Neal replies in good humor. “And I don’t recall there being an abundance of take-out food. Small blessings, I suppose.”
“Don’t tell El, but I let Satchmo claim her side of the bed.” Peter says with a smirk as he finishes his coffee.
“Talking about waking up to a beautiful face,” Neal remarks.
“You haven’t seen my wife in the morning!” Peter quips and instantly points a threatening finger at Neal’s scandalized face. “If any of this should reach Elizabeth’s ears, I will personally-“
“Snuggle me into submission, Papa Bear?” Neal suggests with a nod in the direction of the terrace. Peter shakes his head with an embarrassed smile. The young man sits back to think for a moment.
“Maybe next time you can send Diana,” he suggests with an arched eyebrow. “Isn’t it her job to do your dirty work, anyway?”
“Oh please! The poor woman is still traumatized from having to flirt with you, Caffrey,” Peter replies. He watches Neal sink a little lower on the sofa, a contented smile lingering on his lips. The conman still looks slightly drunk and more than slightly burned out. But he is only drained, not empty. The blue eyes that briefly meet Peter’s observant gaze remain bleary but the world behind them is no longer completely isolated from the world outside. Peter decides that that is the best he could hope to accomplish given the cards he was dealt tonight.
The agent draws in a lungful of air that he hopes will revitalize him enough to be able to get up from Neal’s comfortable couch. He rises to his feet with a groan. Peter looks at the conman, then he judges the distance from the sofa to the bed and calculates Neal’s odds of making it from point A to B. Four years of advanced math will do that to a man. He estimates Neal’s chances of success at greater than eighty percent. That’s good enough for Peter.
“I’d better be heading home,” he says with a yawn and a stretch.
“Yeah, sure.” Neal snaps out of his daze and pulls himself upright. “Whoa.” His hand clamps down on his forehead.
“Get some sleep, Caffrey.” Peter rolls his eyes. “And for the future, stick to bond forgery and art theft. Leave the petty drug crimes and solicitation of ‘massage therapy’ to people who have the stomach for it, okay?”
Peter backs away from the young man and makes his way to the door. He stops mid-step.
“That was one of those annoying Peter Burke lectures, wasn’t it?” Peter asks sheepishly. Neal flashes him a wide and loopy grin.
“Yes, it was. And I will ignore it in equally annoying Neal Caffrey fashion.” The conman replies with an exaggerated bow of the head.
Peter’s gaze briefly looks out into the darkness of the patio. His sports coat is still lying on the chaise. For a brief moment his eyes darken when recalls the events that took place out there earlier this evening. Neal’s gaze follows his friend’s.
“Why don’t you come up for coffee tomorrow morning.” The conman says. Peter nods his agreement.
“Let’s do lunch, too. Somewhere outside. I hear it’s going to be the first warm day of the season.”