FIC: On the Same Page 1/2 (White Collar, posted by request)
On the Same Page
By firechild
Rated PG-13
Disclaimer: The code is mine. The characters are not. L
Warning: Do I really have to mention that this contains the non-sexual corporal punishment of adults? Seriously? And yes, I said adults-as in, plural.
A/N: This is a tag to ‘By the Book,’ written partially at the request of halo and partially because the boys just seemed to be asking for it in the episode.
---
Jones didn’t know why his boss had insisted that he join the Burkes for dinner at their home, and he really didn’t get why Peter had ordered him to follow the lead agent into June’s mansion to fetch Caffrey; something in his gut was bugging him, but that could easily be the FBI coffee, and he was hungry for something that didn’t come from a yellow paper wrapper, so Jones didn’t bother to question it. Caffrey, however, questioned everything, very politely resisting Peter’s repeated orders for him to come with them, until Burke raised an eyebrow and quietly said, “Hamilton and Jackson.” Caffrey froze for a second, eyes slightly wider than normal, then swallowed and stepped forward, prompting the other two men to retreat to the hallway so that he could lock his door.
Burke was unusually quiet on the way to his house; Caffrey, not so much. The ex-con seemed, if anything, more talkative than usual, flitting from one topic to another, even bringing up sports and other such things with which he usually didn’t bother, trying to draw Peter into a conversation. Trying and failing. If Jones didn’t know better, he’d guess that Caffrey was nervous. Burke wouldn’t rise to anything that Caffrey dangled before him, and Jones had a distinct feeling that he was missing something.
It wasn’t until after a very strange, very uncomfortable dinner, which oddly included Caffrey’s paranoid friend, that Jones found out what was going on. It started when. . . well, actually, he supposed later when he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about it, it started when Peter stood up and kept Elizabeth from going to the kitchen for dessert for all of them, stating that he could only think of two people in the house who deserved sweets. She looked up at her husband and asked, maybe a little bit sadly, if this was really a good time, and he looked down into her face--in that way that always made Jones feel like he was intruding just by being there--and replied in a gentle voice that this was the best time they were going to get, before something really terrible happened.
From Jones’s right, he heard Caffrey mutter, ”Pretty sure something terrible’s about to happen.”
The three men at the table watched, with three very different reasons for feeling awkward, as the couple shared a long hug and a short kiss before separating. “Neal, Clinton, I’m sure Elizabeth would appreciate your help in clearing the table and taking care of the dishes.” That marked the first time that Peter Burke had ever used Jones’s first name. And somehow, even put mildly and graciously, his suggestion didn’t sound like a suggestion to Jones, who stood up and started to gather dishes, feeling like he was back at home. Caffrey muttered again, this time something Jones didn’t catch, but Peter must have, because he raised an eyebrow at Caffrey and said, “Lincoln and Hamilton.” Caffrey went kind of quiet after that.
“Mozzie, I’d like for you to come with me, please,” Elizabeth said. “There’s something I think you should see.”
The middle-aged grifter stood up, watching her warily but with some interest as she went to get her jacket and bag from their cradle between the front door and the foot of the stairs. “Where do you want to go?”
“The gallery. We’re doing some updates and renovations, and I’d really appreciate your thoughts on our plans.” Elizabeth reached into her bag and pulled out some palete strips.
A beautiful woman who had somehow earned his affection and tentative trust had just flattered him. The conspiracy theorist and tactician, defeated by two big eyes and a handful of paint swatches. Jones snickered and looked over at Neal, figuring that the young con would be just as amused at his friend’s reputational demise, but Caffrey seemed alarmed, trying to get Mozzie’s attention with wide eyes and sharp shakes of his head. Mozzie didn’t see any of this and actually held the front door open for Elizabeth, trying to hide his grin when she complimented his manners. Caffrey rolled his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest, shaking his head in dismay.
He’d just raised his head and was scrubbing his hand down over his face when Burke looked up at the two of them. “Why are you two still standing there? Dishes! Now!”
---
If Jones ever started a restaurant or got stuck on KP duty at his uncle’s house, he knew whom he was going to hire to man the sink. Caffrey seemed to be examining every inch of every dish, washing twice or sometimes three times before handing them to Jones for drying... almost as if he was trying to drag out what he hadn’t wanted to do ten minutes ago. Jones didn’t get it, and for once, Caffrey didn’t seem to be in a talkative mood, so the agent just shrugged and dried.
Caffrey then insisted on cleaning out the dual sinks, wiping down the counters (and handles and knobs and fixtures,) sweeping the floor, and generally cleaning Mrs. Burke’s already-clean kitchen. Jones was leaning against the sinkboard, watching him alphabetize the spices, when Peter called them to the living room. Caffrey’s head whipped around, his wide eyes distinctly alarmed, and Jones rolled his own eyes and chucked the towel onto the drainboard before leading the way from the kitchen and back to his boss.
Peter stood by the couch, waiting for them with an expression that Jones couldn’t read; the younger agent noticed that the coffee table now sat several feet away from the couch, that the senior agent’s sleeves were folded up above his elbows, and that Peter held something in his right hand. “We need to have a talk,” the senior agent said. Jones didn’t really have time to wonder why his stomach was sinking before Burke looked past him. “Neal.” Jones twisted to the see the young consultant apparently frozen just past the living room threshold, his face pale and his jaw set. Eyes fixed on Peter, Caffrey shook his head. Peter said firmly, “Yes.” Caffrey shook his head more sharply, and Burke’s “Yes, Neal,” went past firm to stern. Jones was twisting back and forth so much that he felt like he was at a tennis match-though, with the way that Caffrey seemed determined to keep him in the middle, and the way Peter appeared to have forgotten his presence, the young agent wasn’t real sure whether he was the linesman or the net.
Then Peter raised a brow, and his voice was lower and quieter (though farther from soft) than Jones had ever heard it. “Two Lincolns now, and if I have to come and get you, Jackson every morning for a week.”
It sounded almost like the terms of some sort of deal or bet, though whether Neal objected to the terms or the deal itself, Jones couldn’t tell. Was Burke going to politic the kid to death? Make him copy a history textbook? Whatever it was, Neal evidently wasn’t willing to raise the stakes or call Peter’s bluff; the young con gulped and stepped past Jones to stand before the senior agent.
“Good choice.” Peter’s tone was almost gentle... almost. He held out the object-which turned out to be a wrist rest, part of a set that Mrs. Burke had had custom-made for her husband’s desk at the Bureau-and when Caffrey looked at it, Jones could have sworn that he heard the civilian whimper. Neal reluctantly took the object, holding it like he might hold a particularly badly done forgery, and shot Burke a look of appeal, but all he got was a nod toward another part of the living room. When Neal Caffrey, the indomitable master of all things confidence, dejectedly shuffled over and actually stood facing the corner nearest the entertainment center, Jones began to wonder if he’d fallen into the Twilight Zone.
“Clinton.” Jones hadn’t even registered that he was staring at Caffrey, or rather, at Caffrey’s back, until his boss’s voice pulled him back to his own weird slice of reality. He turned back to Burke and waited. Peter raised one eyebrow. “Not going to comment on my putting our consultant in the corner?”
Jones shrugged and raised his hands. “Hey, man, what goes on between you two’s got nothing to do with me.”
The look he got in return set random nerves to itching. “Oh, I wouldn’t count on that.”
Peter gestured for Jones to sit on the end of the couch, then took the seat next to him. “Clinton, I want you to tell me exactly what happened outside when you were supposed to be keeping an eye on Neal.”
Jones blinked, puzzled. “Everything’s in my rep-“
Peter cut him off. “Clinton. Please do as I asked.”
Jones was a bit thrown off by this, but complied as if he was giving a verbal report. Peter listened to the whole explanation in silence, then grunted. “I see. Now, can you give me all of the reasons why that was a bad idea?”
Jones pulled back and gave his boss an incredulous look. “What? There was an opportunity. I improvised. You taught me to do that!”
Peter’s eyes narrowed and his voice went hard. “No, I taught you to assess the risks, decide if they’re justified, and then improvise within those parameters.”
“What’s the difference?” Jones asked with some heat. He was beginning to wish that he’d stuck with a Whopper and reruns of Primeval.
“The difference is that I think you skipped a couple of steps-like thinking about the possible risks to yourself, your charge, your case, and your job!” Peter, who had risen in agitation, now stood where the coffee table had been, his hands on his hips in a stance that should have looked mildly ridiculous on a grown man, but actually just showcased a power that most people wouldn’t guess in the affable senior agent. Feeling unaccountably intimidated, Jones opened his mouth to defend himself, but something caught his attention.
“My job? What do you mean, the risks to my job?”
“I mean,” Peter rumbled, now lethally calm, “that actions like the stunt you pulled have consequences; you endangered yourself, our consultant, our only witness, our victim, and our legal case with your little impromptu unauthorized undercover work. Defense attorneys have field days with that kind of cavalier tactic.” He fixed Jones with a pointed look. “Serial killers have walked for less.” He didn’t say it harshly at all, but he saw Jones flinch and wince. Peter folded his arms across his chest and leaned toward his agent, his voice somber but much softer. “And the SAC is tired of taking flack and cleaning up after mistakes made and risks taken by those associated with his division. Clinton, Hughes wants to suspend you for two weeks, at the very least.”
Jones felt himself go a little gray; he really hadn’t imagined that this would all be such a big deal. Suspension was bad enough (try paying for an apartment in New York on half a month’s pay) but an official censure like that also came with a black mark on an agent’s permanent record. It wasn’t the end of the world, but it could make it difficult for an agent to get promoted or reassigned where he or she wanted; not that he anticipated wanting to leave Peter’s team, but Jones believed in keeping his options open (he supposed that was something that he and Caffrey understood about each other.)
Peter let Jones chew on that for a minute before moving his hands back to his hips and saying, in a very deep and stern voice, “I’m pretty sure that I can convince Hughes to accept that I’ve dealt with you and to cut you some slack, but you need to understand that I can’t let this slide; I couldn’t even if Hughes didn’t care, because it just so happens that I do.” He didn’t wait for Jones to acknowledge that; Peter sat down on the center cushion of the couch, reached to his right with both hands, grabbed his junior agent’s arms, and pulled the younger man over his lap.
Like any well-trained law enforcement agent, when he found himself being manhandled, Jones reacted-he reflexively reached for his gun, finding that Peter had actually disarmed him at some point without Jones noticing. He resorted to struggling physically, only to belatedly register that Peter must’ve really planned this out, maybe even practiced somehow (and wasn’t that a cheery thought) for the older agent had no trouble anticipating and restraining his partner. “It’s gonna happen, Clinton. The sooner you stop fighting me, the sooner you get out of this position.” Maybe it was the calm tone, maybe it was the positive incentive, maybe it was the fact that Jones didn’t really believe that he was in this ridiculous position to begin with, but he went still then, and Peter rewarded him by saying, “Thank you, Clinton. I knew I could count on you.” That was nice to hear, but Peter went on in the conversational tone that Jones knew from hundreds of busts-the tone designed to lull perps into a false sense of complacence before they realized that they were up the creek and heading toward the rapids. “I had a feeling that a change of scenery would get your attention; have I got your attention? Good, good. You know, Clinton, I’m very proud of the agent you’re becoming. I’m also very proud of your sense of self-preservation; you just need to work on learning when to follow it-fighting me won’t get you anywhere you want to be, but if you’d used some of that sense earlier today, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Conversation? Jones just barely fought off a snort. A conversation involved actual verbal input from at least two people. This was no conversation. This was Peter using his strength and authority to make a point. Well, okay, point made. Jones was so over this. He wanted to go home and pretend that he hadn’t been butt-up over his boss’s knee for a one-sided. . . whatever. He’d gotten upturned, he’d listened, he’d taken his punishment, and now he was done. Peter wanted conversation, fine, he would get conversation. “I understand. I shouldn’t have let Caffrey and his little friend con me into playing their little game. It won’t happen again. Are we good?”
“Oh, I see-you understand. Well, let’s see what we understand, shall we? Hmm-for instance, I understand that they had very little time to work a con on an experienced, not to mention wise-to-them, federal agent. Do you understand that I’m not buying it? Do you understand that if Devlin hadn’t bought your act, our case could have been in the toilet? Do you understand that if he’d had buddies nearby to cover him, or if his bosses had had him tailed to protect their investment, you and Neal and Mozzie could so easily have been toast down there--without any help because we didn’t know about your little improvisation--to say nothing of the hostage?”
And actually, Jones did know all of this, but until Peter said it, the younger agent had been successfully ignoring all of it. Now that it was right there in the air around him, he went limp with regret. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I understand.”
“This is not okay, Clinton. Endangering the work is not okay. Endangering yourself and your people needlessly will never be okay.”
Remorse and embarrassment, not to mention plain discomfort, had Jones losing patience. “I said I understand!” It came out loud, through his teeth; he’d talked, they’d talked, he wanted up.
“Oh, you will.” With that, Peter smacked Jones. On the butt. With his hand. Hard. And then he did it again.
Jones didn’t keep count. He didn’t make note of the time. He would have been surprised to learn that he only got fifteen swats, one for each day of the suspension Peter was saving him from and one ‘to grow on.’ He was too shocked even to vocalize, or to put up much of a fight, not that he’d have had time to make a decent attempt, anyway. The whole s… s… smacking took less than a minute.
When Peter decided that he was finished, he flexed his fingers a few times before reaching down and levering his partner back up to sit next to him on the couch. Jones sucked in a breath as his weight settled onto his backside, but mostly he was wide-eyed, his heart hammering.
The next few minutes were a little fuzzy for Jones; later, he would sort of remember Peter saying something about ‘no next time’ and ‘break in another partner,’ and Jones was pretty sure that he nodded and murmured to Peter’s general satisfaction, but nothing really sank in. He was pretty much still in shock. So it took a minute for him realize that Peter was telling him to get up. Peter looked a little concerned, and maybe that should have made Jones feel vindicated, but really, it just made him feel worse. He pushed himself to his feet, holding in the wince and the surprise that taking pressure off of his butt hurt as much as putting pressure on to it. Jones thought for just a second that Peter looked a little unsure, but decided that he’d imagined it (maybe wishful thinking) when his apparently epicly in-charge boss reached out and pulled Jones into a stiff but sincere hug for just a moment. Then the older man told his partner to give him some space-but not to leave the room. Jones couldn’t have said why, after getting his butt… whatevered, that order had his stomach sinking again.
He followed the order, though, certain only that he didn’t want to give Peter any more reasons to be upset with him. Not knowing what to do with himself, and not being allowed to leave the room to go nurse his discombobulated ego, the young agent made his way across the room to the bookshelves, scanning titles and trying to be interested in what he was seeing. He even pulled out a couple of them in the ensuing quiet, though he just couldn’t manage to keep his focus on printed words. Jones was still working on it some fifteen minutes after his dismissal, and he jumped a little when he heard Peter, quiet though the man’s voice was now, call for Caffrey. The consultant tensed and started to shake his head, and Peter rumbled in stern warning, “Neal.” Jokes watched as Caffrey slumped, sighed, and slowly turned himself around and started toward Peter. The younger agent didn’t notice anything amiss, but the senior agent did. “Neal,” he said, and his tone made Jones want to hide. Apparently, Caffrey was neither a complete moron nor completely impervious, because he sighed, went back to the corner, retrieved the wrist rest, and made his way to where Peter stood in front of the couch. Jones wasn’t sure why Peter thanked Caffrey then, but the young agent winced when Caffrey snorted. Jones'… ordeal had not been so much painful as shocking (though it had hurt, enough so that he could still feel it almost half an hour later) but he wasn’t stupid-Caffrey was obviously in deeper trouble, and somehow Jones suspected that his boss wasn’t going to settle for just getting the young consultant’s attention.
Jones had turned back to the bookcase, to spare all of them some embarrassment and himself the acute wrongness of watching another guy get his butt smacked; he blinked as each swat fell. He hadn’t counted during his own… he couldn’t even bring himself to think the word… but he couldn’t keep himself from counting now.
After twenty smacks, Peter stopped, and Jones felt his shoulders slump in
sympathetic relief. He heard Peter ask Caffrey why they were here, and Jones barely suppressed what was probably an ill-advised snort when Caffrey, his voice sounding indignant and just a little strained, retorted, “Because you’re mad that the Antiques Roadshow got moved to Tuesdays?” After a pause (probably to let Caffrey think about his own insanity,) Jones was pretty sure that he heard Peter say something about ‘Hamilton in the morning.’ The lead agent let that sink in before asking again, and this time a somewhat subdued Caffrey managed a response that Peter found acceptable. The senior agent kept up a low conversation with his consultant for a few more minutes, during which Jones only caught bits and pieces like, “…you a favor this…” and “…keep them…” and “…will never be okay with…”
The younger agent could tell from the direction of Caffrey’s voice that the consultant was still, uh, in an unpleasant position, so Jones guessed that Peter wasn’t done when he paused the conversation.
He was right.
When Jones heard a very loud thwack and Caffrey hissed, the younger agent whirled around, startled, to see that Peter was using the wrist rest as a paddle, ignoring Caffrey’s wriggling and kicking and moaning as he slammed down the object with considerable force, starting high and working his way down Caffrey’s backside, leaving a couple of seconds between swats. With each successive impact, Caffrey’s responses got louder, and with the fifth swat, the young con couldn’t keep his cry contained; Peter’s jaw was set, his expression sad but determined, and even though Caffrey wore out and went limp after ten swats, the senior agent kept going until he’d doled out a full fifteen. Then he chucked the wrist rest onto the coffee table-without aiming-and the three men were left with Jones’s awkward shifting, Caffrey’s quiet sobs, and the ticking of Elizabeth’s antique mantle clock.
Peter took a minute to just sit back and breathe, and another to massage his fingers where Jones could see marks from the thinly-padded lower edges of the wrist rest; when he placed a hand on Caffrey’s back and murmured softly to him, Jones shook himself free of his transfixed stare and turned around, embarrassed and feeling just a little queasy. He heard Peter coaxing Caffrey up, some rustling and sniffling, and more murmuring, but Jones figured that he owed Caffrey, so he kept his back turned to give them some privacy.
After several minutes, Peter called to his partner, and Jones turned slowly to see Caffrey stepping backward out of the lead agent’s arms. Confusion and anger suddenly twisted Jones’s gut-how could Peter do that to them? And how were they ever supposed to look him in the eye after that? How could Caffrey just stand there like what had just happened was, if not nothing, at least okay, and not a gross violation of personal space and trust? This obviously wasn’t the first time for them, which made it all the more puzzling from Jones’s perspective; Caffrey was the most self-assured, confident, indomitable person he’d ever met, so how was he okay with this?
But then Peter was squeezing Caffrey’s shoulder and sending him upstairs to ‘clean up,’ and then the two agents were alone in the room, and then Peter was turning to him and beckoning him closer, and Jones was realizing that, just at the moment, he couldn’t find enough nerve to say what was on his mind. He obeyed the summons without really knowing why, shuffling over to his partner and boss while focusing on everything but.
“Clinton.” Peter’s voice was soft now. “Clinton, please look at me.” To his credit, Jones tried, he really did, but he just couldn’t bring his gaze all the way to his lead’s. He heard Peter sigh, and a little part of him flinched, afraid that he’d crossed the line again and would find himself upended again, but Peter Burke rarely failed to think through a situation, and this was no exception; rather than growing aggravated with his younger partner, the older man took a firm but gentle hold of Jones’s chin and turned his partner’s face to his, and Jones’s surprise finished the job. What Jones saw in Peter’s eyes wasn’t anger or disappointment or censure-it was understanding.
Wait… what the heck?!?
He didn’t really have time to even process the thought before his boss spoke again, one hand holding his chin and the other comfortably cupped on his shoulder. “Clinton, I know that this was… rough for you, for all of us. I need you to understand, first, that I meant every word, and that I will back up every word whenever-and wherever-I need to.” He squeezed the shoulder and waited for Jones’s nod before going on, gentling his hand again. “Good. I also need you to understand that I didn’t give you a choice this time because I needed Neal to see that he really wasn’t the only one being held responsible and that he wasn’t the only one facing embarrassing and painful consequences-he knows that I care very much about you, and he needed to see that connection so that he doesn’t start to think that I just treat him that way to make myself feel powerful. Now, you want to file a report against me, that’s up to you, but I think we both know that you earned what you got tonight. If anything like today happens again, I’ll probably give you a choice between my consequences and the official ones; I think you can figure out that I’m not thrilled about doing it, but given the choice, I’d rather lose your favor than lose you.”
Well, when he put it like that… Jones wasn’t sure that all of his reservations had been answered or even completely quieted, but for some reason, he relaxed a little, and Peter nodded in approval and quirked that almost-smile at him. And then the front door opened and Elizabeth came in, alone and looking worn and mournful, and the moment ended with Peter quietly telling Jones to go upstairs and wash his face.
-----
After an evening of surprises, Jones really shouldn’t have been surprised to find himself informed that he would be spending the night in the Burkes’ living room. Peter didn’t explain, and it was clear enough from the senior agent’s demeanor that he didn’t have to. He produced t-shirts for both guys (Caffrey rolled his eyes dramatically at being handed an FBI shirt, but when he came out after his final turn in the bathroom, he seemed pretty comfortable wearing it) and brought down blankets and pillows, issuing last instructions for them to bed down, turn off the light, stay put, and go to sleep. Then Peter disappeared upstairs with two mugs of tea, and Jones and Caffrey were left wondering what had happened between Elizabeth and Mozzie.
Caffrey was gentleman enough to offer the couch-apparently his usual spot-to Jones, who considered for all of four seconds before declining; he was pretty sure that the consultant needed it more. As he evidently had in times past. The two young men got themselves settled quickly enough, Jones on his back on the floor and Caffrey on his stomach on the couch, and the quiet of the house settled over them, so that they could both hear the ticking clock and the street noise and each other’s muffled shifting. Jones knew that his rear was still a little sensitive, but he wouldn’t give in to it, especially since he was sleeping on a floor with very little to cushion his shoulders if he rolled onto either side. He didn’t understand why Caffrey seemed uncomfortable facedown on the couch… though, after some reflection, he supposed that the consultant might not have gotten past the active burn stage yet. Jones winced, though he could only partially empathize; he’d had a girlfriend who had liked to play around some, but she’d always wanted him to be the, uh, the one ‘in charge,’ and he’d never played rough enough for her tastes. Tonight was the first time that Clinton Jones had ever been over anyone’s knee.
It hadn’t been fun, and he had no intention of going there again.
Jones was just wondering if he’d ever actually get his brain to calm down enough for sleep when Caffrey’s quiet voice startled him.
“Well, that was a fun way to spend an evening.” The sarcasm was as thick as cold molasses. Caffrey sighed softly after a moment. “You okay?”
Jones smiled to himself in the darkness; he’d just heard what was probably the closest thing to an apology he was likely to get over all of this. It wasn’t that Caffrey was incapable of actually apologizing, but come on, who really says, “Hey, good buddy, so sorry I pulled you into my little scheme and got you put over your boss’s knee for a spanking”? Never gonna happen. Should never happen.
“Yeah, I’m good. You?”
Caffrey snorted quietly. “Oh, yeah, I’m cool, that was nothing.”
Jones rolled his eyes. “And I’m the love child of Princess Leia and Severus Snape. Come on, man, we both know that wasn’t nothing. I’m not entirely sure what it was, but I know I don’t want it myself.”
Caffrey shifted again, blowing out a small breath. “Don’t worry, never happen.”
“Ya think so?”
“Nah, Peter’d never do that to you. He did what he did tonight, probably, to make a point to you that he cares enough about you to keep stuff off-book, and too much to be afraid to go out of the box so you’ll remember.”
“Sounds like you speak from experience. You can’t expect me to believe that that was your first trip… over.”
Caffrey was quiet for a couple of minutes before conceding, “I was kinda hoping you’d be too distracted to notice.” Jones chuckled quietly. “Peter and I have… a history.”
Caffrey probably really wanted that to be the end of the conversation. And that was really too bad-Jones had always loved puzzles; it was the main reason he’d become a federal investigator. “So… history, huh? History, like how he caught you twice, or history, like… Jackson and Hamilton?” He could all but hear the wince and feel the heat of Caffrey’s blush, but he waited, unrelenting.
And it eventually paid off; Caffrey poutily explained the code that Peter had devised years before and why. Jones took a couple of minutes to digest the new information, which told him a lot more about these two men than Caffrey had probably intended for it to; he ventured an educated guess at what Peter had meant by, “Hamilton in the morning,” and Caffrey’s response, that it meant that Jones would probably want to grab breakfast from somewhere other than the house in the morning, told the young agent that he’d been right. Jones winced at the thought that this wasn’t over for Caffrey, and again he wondered at the young con man’s acceptance of all of this, but he’d gotten the firm impression that, as much as Caffrey wasn’t insane or masochistic and would therefore prefer not to be facedown over the knee of someone intent on causing him pain in such a personal way, Peter had earned the consultant’s trust and his willingness to stick around and deal. In that light, and given the current circumstances of Caffrey’s life, Jones had to wonder if maybe Peter really had something.
-----
Morning came all too soon-albeit, to the aroma of really superior coffee. Elizabeth woke her guests, and Caffrey gave Jones first crack at the bathroom. The agent emerged a few minutes later, back in his suit, and was surprised when Elizabeth looped her arm through his and told the others that she was going to teach him what a real breakfast was so that maybe he’d rub off on her husband and Caffrey.
As the two left the house, both carefully avoided saying anything about what was happening behind them.
By firechild
Rated PG-13
Disclaimer: The code is mine. The characters are not. L
Warning: Do I really have to mention that this contains the non-sexual corporal punishment of adults? Seriously? And yes, I said adults-as in, plural.
A/N: This is a tag to ‘By the Book,’ written partially at the request of halo and partially because the boys just seemed to be asking for it in the episode.
---
Jones didn’t know why his boss had insisted that he join the Burkes for dinner at their home, and he really didn’t get why Peter had ordered him to follow the lead agent into June’s mansion to fetch Caffrey; something in his gut was bugging him, but that could easily be the FBI coffee, and he was hungry for something that didn’t come from a yellow paper wrapper, so Jones didn’t bother to question it. Caffrey, however, questioned everything, very politely resisting Peter’s repeated orders for him to come with them, until Burke raised an eyebrow and quietly said, “Hamilton and Jackson.” Caffrey froze for a second, eyes slightly wider than normal, then swallowed and stepped forward, prompting the other two men to retreat to the hallway so that he could lock his door.
Burke was unusually quiet on the way to his house; Caffrey, not so much. The ex-con seemed, if anything, more talkative than usual, flitting from one topic to another, even bringing up sports and other such things with which he usually didn’t bother, trying to draw Peter into a conversation. Trying and failing. If Jones didn’t know better, he’d guess that Caffrey was nervous. Burke wouldn’t rise to anything that Caffrey dangled before him, and Jones had a distinct feeling that he was missing something.
It wasn’t until after a very strange, very uncomfortable dinner, which oddly included Caffrey’s paranoid friend, that Jones found out what was going on. It started when. . . well, actually, he supposed later when he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about it, it started when Peter stood up and kept Elizabeth from going to the kitchen for dessert for all of them, stating that he could only think of two people in the house who deserved sweets. She looked up at her husband and asked, maybe a little bit sadly, if this was really a good time, and he looked down into her face--in that way that always made Jones feel like he was intruding just by being there--and replied in a gentle voice that this was the best time they were going to get, before something really terrible happened.
From Jones’s right, he heard Caffrey mutter, ”Pretty sure something terrible’s about to happen.”
The three men at the table watched, with three very different reasons for feeling awkward, as the couple shared a long hug and a short kiss before separating. “Neal, Clinton, I’m sure Elizabeth would appreciate your help in clearing the table and taking care of the dishes.” That marked the first time that Peter Burke had ever used Jones’s first name. And somehow, even put mildly and graciously, his suggestion didn’t sound like a suggestion to Jones, who stood up and started to gather dishes, feeling like he was back at home. Caffrey muttered again, this time something Jones didn’t catch, but Peter must have, because he raised an eyebrow at Caffrey and said, “Lincoln and Hamilton.” Caffrey went kind of quiet after that.
“Mozzie, I’d like for you to come with me, please,” Elizabeth said. “There’s something I think you should see.”
The middle-aged grifter stood up, watching her warily but with some interest as she went to get her jacket and bag from their cradle between the front door and the foot of the stairs. “Where do you want to go?”
“The gallery. We’re doing some updates and renovations, and I’d really appreciate your thoughts on our plans.” Elizabeth reached into her bag and pulled out some palete strips.
A beautiful woman who had somehow earned his affection and tentative trust had just flattered him. The conspiracy theorist and tactician, defeated by two big eyes and a handful of paint swatches. Jones snickered and looked over at Neal, figuring that the young con would be just as amused at his friend’s reputational demise, but Caffrey seemed alarmed, trying to get Mozzie’s attention with wide eyes and sharp shakes of his head. Mozzie didn’t see any of this and actually held the front door open for Elizabeth, trying to hide his grin when she complimented his manners. Caffrey rolled his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest, shaking his head in dismay.
He’d just raised his head and was scrubbing his hand down over his face when Burke looked up at the two of them. “Why are you two still standing there? Dishes! Now!”
---
If Jones ever started a restaurant or got stuck on KP duty at his uncle’s house, he knew whom he was going to hire to man the sink. Caffrey seemed to be examining every inch of every dish, washing twice or sometimes three times before handing them to Jones for drying... almost as if he was trying to drag out what he hadn’t wanted to do ten minutes ago. Jones didn’t get it, and for once, Caffrey didn’t seem to be in a talkative mood, so the agent just shrugged and dried.
Caffrey then insisted on cleaning out the dual sinks, wiping down the counters (and handles and knobs and fixtures,) sweeping the floor, and generally cleaning Mrs. Burke’s already-clean kitchen. Jones was leaning against the sinkboard, watching him alphabetize the spices, when Peter called them to the living room. Caffrey’s head whipped around, his wide eyes distinctly alarmed, and Jones rolled his own eyes and chucked the towel onto the drainboard before leading the way from the kitchen and back to his boss.
Peter stood by the couch, waiting for them with an expression that Jones couldn’t read; the younger agent noticed that the coffee table now sat several feet away from the couch, that the senior agent’s sleeves were folded up above his elbows, and that Peter held something in his right hand. “We need to have a talk,” the senior agent said. Jones didn’t really have time to wonder why his stomach was sinking before Burke looked past him. “Neal.” Jones twisted to the see the young consultant apparently frozen just past the living room threshold, his face pale and his jaw set. Eyes fixed on Peter, Caffrey shook his head. Peter said firmly, “Yes.” Caffrey shook his head more sharply, and Burke’s “Yes, Neal,” went past firm to stern. Jones was twisting back and forth so much that he felt like he was at a tennis match-though, with the way that Caffrey seemed determined to keep him in the middle, and the way Peter appeared to have forgotten his presence, the young agent wasn’t real sure whether he was the linesman or the net.
Then Peter raised a brow, and his voice was lower and quieter (though farther from soft) than Jones had ever heard it. “Two Lincolns now, and if I have to come and get you, Jackson every morning for a week.”
It sounded almost like the terms of some sort of deal or bet, though whether Neal objected to the terms or the deal itself, Jones couldn’t tell. Was Burke going to politic the kid to death? Make him copy a history textbook? Whatever it was, Neal evidently wasn’t willing to raise the stakes or call Peter’s bluff; the young con gulped and stepped past Jones to stand before the senior agent.
“Good choice.” Peter’s tone was almost gentle... almost. He held out the object-which turned out to be a wrist rest, part of a set that Mrs. Burke had had custom-made for her husband’s desk at the Bureau-and when Caffrey looked at it, Jones could have sworn that he heard the civilian whimper. Neal reluctantly took the object, holding it like he might hold a particularly badly done forgery, and shot Burke a look of appeal, but all he got was a nod toward another part of the living room. When Neal Caffrey, the indomitable master of all things confidence, dejectedly shuffled over and actually stood facing the corner nearest the entertainment center, Jones began to wonder if he’d fallen into the Twilight Zone.
“Clinton.” Jones hadn’t even registered that he was staring at Caffrey, or rather, at Caffrey’s back, until his boss’s voice pulled him back to his own weird slice of reality. He turned back to Burke and waited. Peter raised one eyebrow. “Not going to comment on my putting our consultant in the corner?”
Jones shrugged and raised his hands. “Hey, man, what goes on between you two’s got nothing to do with me.”
The look he got in return set random nerves to itching. “Oh, I wouldn’t count on that.”
Peter gestured for Jones to sit on the end of the couch, then took the seat next to him. “Clinton, I want you to tell me exactly what happened outside when you were supposed to be keeping an eye on Neal.”
Jones blinked, puzzled. “Everything’s in my rep-“
Peter cut him off. “Clinton. Please do as I asked.”
Jones was a bit thrown off by this, but complied as if he was giving a verbal report. Peter listened to the whole explanation in silence, then grunted. “I see. Now, can you give me all of the reasons why that was a bad idea?”
Jones pulled back and gave his boss an incredulous look. “What? There was an opportunity. I improvised. You taught me to do that!”
Peter’s eyes narrowed and his voice went hard. “No, I taught you to assess the risks, decide if they’re justified, and then improvise within those parameters.”
“What’s the difference?” Jones asked with some heat. He was beginning to wish that he’d stuck with a Whopper and reruns of Primeval.
“The difference is that I think you skipped a couple of steps-like thinking about the possible risks to yourself, your charge, your case, and your job!” Peter, who had risen in agitation, now stood where the coffee table had been, his hands on his hips in a stance that should have looked mildly ridiculous on a grown man, but actually just showcased a power that most people wouldn’t guess in the affable senior agent. Feeling unaccountably intimidated, Jones opened his mouth to defend himself, but something caught his attention.
“My job? What do you mean, the risks to my job?”
“I mean,” Peter rumbled, now lethally calm, “that actions like the stunt you pulled have consequences; you endangered yourself, our consultant, our only witness, our victim, and our legal case with your little impromptu unauthorized undercover work. Defense attorneys have field days with that kind of cavalier tactic.” He fixed Jones with a pointed look. “Serial killers have walked for less.” He didn’t say it harshly at all, but he saw Jones flinch and wince. Peter folded his arms across his chest and leaned toward his agent, his voice somber but much softer. “And the SAC is tired of taking flack and cleaning up after mistakes made and risks taken by those associated with his division. Clinton, Hughes wants to suspend you for two weeks, at the very least.”
Jones felt himself go a little gray; he really hadn’t imagined that this would all be such a big deal. Suspension was bad enough (try paying for an apartment in New York on half a month’s pay) but an official censure like that also came with a black mark on an agent’s permanent record. It wasn’t the end of the world, but it could make it difficult for an agent to get promoted or reassigned where he or she wanted; not that he anticipated wanting to leave Peter’s team, but Jones believed in keeping his options open (he supposed that was something that he and Caffrey understood about each other.)
Peter let Jones chew on that for a minute before moving his hands back to his hips and saying, in a very deep and stern voice, “I’m pretty sure that I can convince Hughes to accept that I’ve dealt with you and to cut you some slack, but you need to understand that I can’t let this slide; I couldn’t even if Hughes didn’t care, because it just so happens that I do.” He didn’t wait for Jones to acknowledge that; Peter sat down on the center cushion of the couch, reached to his right with both hands, grabbed his junior agent’s arms, and pulled the younger man over his lap.
Like any well-trained law enforcement agent, when he found himself being manhandled, Jones reacted-he reflexively reached for his gun, finding that Peter had actually disarmed him at some point without Jones noticing. He resorted to struggling physically, only to belatedly register that Peter must’ve really planned this out, maybe even practiced somehow (and wasn’t that a cheery thought) for the older agent had no trouble anticipating and restraining his partner. “It’s gonna happen, Clinton. The sooner you stop fighting me, the sooner you get out of this position.” Maybe it was the calm tone, maybe it was the positive incentive, maybe it was the fact that Jones didn’t really believe that he was in this ridiculous position to begin with, but he went still then, and Peter rewarded him by saying, “Thank you, Clinton. I knew I could count on you.” That was nice to hear, but Peter went on in the conversational tone that Jones knew from hundreds of busts-the tone designed to lull perps into a false sense of complacence before they realized that they were up the creek and heading toward the rapids. “I had a feeling that a change of scenery would get your attention; have I got your attention? Good, good. You know, Clinton, I’m very proud of the agent you’re becoming. I’m also very proud of your sense of self-preservation; you just need to work on learning when to follow it-fighting me won’t get you anywhere you want to be, but if you’d used some of that sense earlier today, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Conversation? Jones just barely fought off a snort. A conversation involved actual verbal input from at least two people. This was no conversation. This was Peter using his strength and authority to make a point. Well, okay, point made. Jones was so over this. He wanted to go home and pretend that he hadn’t been butt-up over his boss’s knee for a one-sided. . . whatever. He’d gotten upturned, he’d listened, he’d taken his punishment, and now he was done. Peter wanted conversation, fine, he would get conversation. “I understand. I shouldn’t have let Caffrey and his little friend con me into playing their little game. It won’t happen again. Are we good?”
“Oh, I see-you understand. Well, let’s see what we understand, shall we? Hmm-for instance, I understand that they had very little time to work a con on an experienced, not to mention wise-to-them, federal agent. Do you understand that I’m not buying it? Do you understand that if Devlin hadn’t bought your act, our case could have been in the toilet? Do you understand that if he’d had buddies nearby to cover him, or if his bosses had had him tailed to protect their investment, you and Neal and Mozzie could so easily have been toast down there--without any help because we didn’t know about your little improvisation--to say nothing of the hostage?”
And actually, Jones did know all of this, but until Peter said it, the younger agent had been successfully ignoring all of it. Now that it was right there in the air around him, he went limp with regret. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I understand.”
“This is not okay, Clinton. Endangering the work is not okay. Endangering yourself and your people needlessly will never be okay.”
Remorse and embarrassment, not to mention plain discomfort, had Jones losing patience. “I said I understand!” It came out loud, through his teeth; he’d talked, they’d talked, he wanted up.
“Oh, you will.” With that, Peter smacked Jones. On the butt. With his hand. Hard. And then he did it again.
Jones didn’t keep count. He didn’t make note of the time. He would have been surprised to learn that he only got fifteen swats, one for each day of the suspension Peter was saving him from and one ‘to grow on.’ He was too shocked even to vocalize, or to put up much of a fight, not that he’d have had time to make a decent attempt, anyway. The whole s… s… smacking took less than a minute.
When Peter decided that he was finished, he flexed his fingers a few times before reaching down and levering his partner back up to sit next to him on the couch. Jones sucked in a breath as his weight settled onto his backside, but mostly he was wide-eyed, his heart hammering.
The next few minutes were a little fuzzy for Jones; later, he would sort of remember Peter saying something about ‘no next time’ and ‘break in another partner,’ and Jones was pretty sure that he nodded and murmured to Peter’s general satisfaction, but nothing really sank in. He was pretty much still in shock. So it took a minute for him realize that Peter was telling him to get up. Peter looked a little concerned, and maybe that should have made Jones feel vindicated, but really, it just made him feel worse. He pushed himself to his feet, holding in the wince and the surprise that taking pressure off of his butt hurt as much as putting pressure on to it. Jones thought for just a second that Peter looked a little unsure, but decided that he’d imagined it (maybe wishful thinking) when his apparently epicly in-charge boss reached out and pulled Jones into a stiff but sincere hug for just a moment. Then the older man told his partner to give him some space-but not to leave the room. Jones couldn’t have said why, after getting his butt… whatevered, that order had his stomach sinking again.
He followed the order, though, certain only that he didn’t want to give Peter any more reasons to be upset with him. Not knowing what to do with himself, and not being allowed to leave the room to go nurse his discombobulated ego, the young agent made his way across the room to the bookshelves, scanning titles and trying to be interested in what he was seeing. He even pulled out a couple of them in the ensuing quiet, though he just couldn’t manage to keep his focus on printed words. Jones was still working on it some fifteen minutes after his dismissal, and he jumped a little when he heard Peter, quiet though the man’s voice was now, call for Caffrey. The consultant tensed and started to shake his head, and Peter rumbled in stern warning, “Neal.” Jokes watched as Caffrey slumped, sighed, and slowly turned himself around and started toward Peter. The younger agent didn’t notice anything amiss, but the senior agent did. “Neal,” he said, and his tone made Jones want to hide. Apparently, Caffrey was neither a complete moron nor completely impervious, because he sighed, went back to the corner, retrieved the wrist rest, and made his way to where Peter stood in front of the couch. Jones wasn’t sure why Peter thanked Caffrey then, but the young agent winced when Caffrey snorted. Jones'… ordeal had not been so much painful as shocking (though it had hurt, enough so that he could still feel it almost half an hour later) but he wasn’t stupid-Caffrey was obviously in deeper trouble, and somehow Jones suspected that his boss wasn’t going to settle for just getting the young consultant’s attention.
Jones had turned back to the bookcase, to spare all of them some embarrassment and himself the acute wrongness of watching another guy get his butt smacked; he blinked as each swat fell. He hadn’t counted during his own… he couldn’t even bring himself to think the word… but he couldn’t keep himself from counting now.
After twenty smacks, Peter stopped, and Jones felt his shoulders slump in
sympathetic relief. He heard Peter ask Caffrey why they were here, and Jones barely suppressed what was probably an ill-advised snort when Caffrey, his voice sounding indignant and just a little strained, retorted, “Because you’re mad that the Antiques Roadshow got moved to Tuesdays?” After a pause (probably to let Caffrey think about his own insanity,) Jones was pretty sure that he heard Peter say something about ‘Hamilton in the morning.’ The lead agent let that sink in before asking again, and this time a somewhat subdued Caffrey managed a response that Peter found acceptable. The senior agent kept up a low conversation with his consultant for a few more minutes, during which Jones only caught bits and pieces like, “…you a favor this…” and “…keep them…” and “…will never be okay with…”
The younger agent could tell from the direction of Caffrey’s voice that the consultant was still, uh, in an unpleasant position, so Jones guessed that Peter wasn’t done when he paused the conversation.
He was right.
When Jones heard a very loud thwack and Caffrey hissed, the younger agent whirled around, startled, to see that Peter was using the wrist rest as a paddle, ignoring Caffrey’s wriggling and kicking and moaning as he slammed down the object with considerable force, starting high and working his way down Caffrey’s backside, leaving a couple of seconds between swats. With each successive impact, Caffrey’s responses got louder, and with the fifth swat, the young con couldn’t keep his cry contained; Peter’s jaw was set, his expression sad but determined, and even though Caffrey wore out and went limp after ten swats, the senior agent kept going until he’d doled out a full fifteen. Then he chucked the wrist rest onto the coffee table-without aiming-and the three men were left with Jones’s awkward shifting, Caffrey’s quiet sobs, and the ticking of Elizabeth’s antique mantle clock.
Peter took a minute to just sit back and breathe, and another to massage his fingers where Jones could see marks from the thinly-padded lower edges of the wrist rest; when he placed a hand on Caffrey’s back and murmured softly to him, Jones shook himself free of his transfixed stare and turned around, embarrassed and feeling just a little queasy. He heard Peter coaxing Caffrey up, some rustling and sniffling, and more murmuring, but Jones figured that he owed Caffrey, so he kept his back turned to give them some privacy.
After several minutes, Peter called to his partner, and Jones turned slowly to see Caffrey stepping backward out of the lead agent’s arms. Confusion and anger suddenly twisted Jones’s gut-how could Peter do that to them? And how were they ever supposed to look him in the eye after that? How could Caffrey just stand there like what had just happened was, if not nothing, at least okay, and not a gross violation of personal space and trust? This obviously wasn’t the first time for them, which made it all the more puzzling from Jones’s perspective; Caffrey was the most self-assured, confident, indomitable person he’d ever met, so how was he okay with this?
But then Peter was squeezing Caffrey’s shoulder and sending him upstairs to ‘clean up,’ and then the two agents were alone in the room, and then Peter was turning to him and beckoning him closer, and Jones was realizing that, just at the moment, he couldn’t find enough nerve to say what was on his mind. He obeyed the summons without really knowing why, shuffling over to his partner and boss while focusing on everything but.
“Clinton.” Peter’s voice was soft now. “Clinton, please look at me.” To his credit, Jones tried, he really did, but he just couldn’t bring his gaze all the way to his lead’s. He heard Peter sigh, and a little part of him flinched, afraid that he’d crossed the line again and would find himself upended again, but Peter Burke rarely failed to think through a situation, and this was no exception; rather than growing aggravated with his younger partner, the older man took a firm but gentle hold of Jones’s chin and turned his partner’s face to his, and Jones’s surprise finished the job. What Jones saw in Peter’s eyes wasn’t anger or disappointment or censure-it was understanding.
Wait… what the heck?!?
He didn’t really have time to even process the thought before his boss spoke again, one hand holding his chin and the other comfortably cupped on his shoulder. “Clinton, I know that this was… rough for you, for all of us. I need you to understand, first, that I meant every word, and that I will back up every word whenever-and wherever-I need to.” He squeezed the shoulder and waited for Jones’s nod before going on, gentling his hand again. “Good. I also need you to understand that I didn’t give you a choice this time because I needed Neal to see that he really wasn’t the only one being held responsible and that he wasn’t the only one facing embarrassing and painful consequences-he knows that I care very much about you, and he needed to see that connection so that he doesn’t start to think that I just treat him that way to make myself feel powerful. Now, you want to file a report against me, that’s up to you, but I think we both know that you earned what you got tonight. If anything like today happens again, I’ll probably give you a choice between my consequences and the official ones; I think you can figure out that I’m not thrilled about doing it, but given the choice, I’d rather lose your favor than lose you.”
Well, when he put it like that… Jones wasn’t sure that all of his reservations had been answered or even completely quieted, but for some reason, he relaxed a little, and Peter nodded in approval and quirked that almost-smile at him. And then the front door opened and Elizabeth came in, alone and looking worn and mournful, and the moment ended with Peter quietly telling Jones to go upstairs and wash his face.
-----
After an evening of surprises, Jones really shouldn’t have been surprised to find himself informed that he would be spending the night in the Burkes’ living room. Peter didn’t explain, and it was clear enough from the senior agent’s demeanor that he didn’t have to. He produced t-shirts for both guys (Caffrey rolled his eyes dramatically at being handed an FBI shirt, but when he came out after his final turn in the bathroom, he seemed pretty comfortable wearing it) and brought down blankets and pillows, issuing last instructions for them to bed down, turn off the light, stay put, and go to sleep. Then Peter disappeared upstairs with two mugs of tea, and Jones and Caffrey were left wondering what had happened between Elizabeth and Mozzie.
Caffrey was gentleman enough to offer the couch-apparently his usual spot-to Jones, who considered for all of four seconds before declining; he was pretty sure that the consultant needed it more. As he evidently had in times past. The two young men got themselves settled quickly enough, Jones on his back on the floor and Caffrey on his stomach on the couch, and the quiet of the house settled over them, so that they could both hear the ticking clock and the street noise and each other’s muffled shifting. Jones knew that his rear was still a little sensitive, but he wouldn’t give in to it, especially since he was sleeping on a floor with very little to cushion his shoulders if he rolled onto either side. He didn’t understand why Caffrey seemed uncomfortable facedown on the couch… though, after some reflection, he supposed that the consultant might not have gotten past the active burn stage yet. Jones winced, though he could only partially empathize; he’d had a girlfriend who had liked to play around some, but she’d always wanted him to be the, uh, the one ‘in charge,’ and he’d never played rough enough for her tastes. Tonight was the first time that Clinton Jones had ever been over anyone’s knee.
It hadn’t been fun, and he had no intention of going there again.
Jones was just wondering if he’d ever actually get his brain to calm down enough for sleep when Caffrey’s quiet voice startled him.
“Well, that was a fun way to spend an evening.” The sarcasm was as thick as cold molasses. Caffrey sighed softly after a moment. “You okay?”
Jones smiled to himself in the darkness; he’d just heard what was probably the closest thing to an apology he was likely to get over all of this. It wasn’t that Caffrey was incapable of actually apologizing, but come on, who really says, “Hey, good buddy, so sorry I pulled you into my little scheme and got you put over your boss’s knee for a spanking”? Never gonna happen. Should never happen.
“Yeah, I’m good. You?”
Caffrey snorted quietly. “Oh, yeah, I’m cool, that was nothing.”
Jones rolled his eyes. “And I’m the love child of Princess Leia and Severus Snape. Come on, man, we both know that wasn’t nothing. I’m not entirely sure what it was, but I know I don’t want it myself.”
Caffrey shifted again, blowing out a small breath. “Don’t worry, never happen.”
“Ya think so?”
“Nah, Peter’d never do that to you. He did what he did tonight, probably, to make a point to you that he cares enough about you to keep stuff off-book, and too much to be afraid to go out of the box so you’ll remember.”
“Sounds like you speak from experience. You can’t expect me to believe that that was your first trip… over.”
Caffrey was quiet for a couple of minutes before conceding, “I was kinda hoping you’d be too distracted to notice.” Jones chuckled quietly. “Peter and I have… a history.”
Caffrey probably really wanted that to be the end of the conversation. And that was really too bad-Jones had always loved puzzles; it was the main reason he’d become a federal investigator. “So… history, huh? History, like how he caught you twice, or history, like… Jackson and Hamilton?” He could all but hear the wince and feel the heat of Caffrey’s blush, but he waited, unrelenting.
And it eventually paid off; Caffrey poutily explained the code that Peter had devised years before and why. Jones took a couple of minutes to digest the new information, which told him a lot more about these two men than Caffrey had probably intended for it to; he ventured an educated guess at what Peter had meant by, “Hamilton in the morning,” and Caffrey’s response, that it meant that Jones would probably want to grab breakfast from somewhere other than the house in the morning, told the young agent that he’d been right. Jones winced at the thought that this wasn’t over for Caffrey, and again he wondered at the young con man’s acceptance of all of this, but he’d gotten the firm impression that, as much as Caffrey wasn’t insane or masochistic and would therefore prefer not to be facedown over the knee of someone intent on causing him pain in such a personal way, Peter had earned the consultant’s trust and his willingness to stick around and deal. In that light, and given the current circumstances of Caffrey’s life, Jones had to wonder if maybe Peter really had something.
-----
Morning came all too soon-albeit, to the aroma of really superior coffee. Elizabeth woke her guests, and Caffrey gave Jones first crack at the bathroom. The agent emerged a few minutes later, back in his suit, and was surprised when Elizabeth looped her arm through his and told the others that she was going to teach him what a real breakfast was so that maybe he’d rub off on her husband and Caffrey.
As the two left the house, both carefully avoided saying anything about what was happening behind them.