White Collar - "It Was Vodka"
Title: It Was Vodka
Author: TeeJay
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Peter, Elizabeth
Written for: thenewpub's Round 1 on Aug 6, 2011
Prompt: The drunk tank
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Spoilers for up to and including 3x08 'As You Were'
Summary: Peter gets a call from NYPD in the middle of the night about Neal being held in the drunk tank.
Author's Note: Consider this a tag to episode 3x08 'As You Were'. May be AU-ish for 3x09 'On The Fence' but doesn't necessarily have to be.
Originally, I only wanted this to be a short piece for the first writing round, but then it developed a mind of its own and turned into this longish one-shot that I ended up writing well past round 4. Hope this isn't too much of a stretch, but, man, Neal has got so much going on right now, so I can kind of see it.
Thank you, rabidchild67, for the beta!
Disclaimer: White Collar, its characters and its settings belong to Jeff Eastin and USA Network. And, guys? Your characters are not only welcome, they're wonderful. I'm just borrowing, I promise.
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Peter frowned when he hung up. A call from the local police station at 1 AM on a Saturday evening (or rather Sunday morning) could never be good. He scrubbed a hand over his face, fingering the two days' growth of stubble from not having shaved since Friday morning.
He padded back into the bedroom on bare feet, trying not to wake Elizabeth as he gathered some clothes. She stirred all the same, a tired question on her lips. "Honey? What's going on?"
He paused, looking at his wife in the dim light from the street lamps outside. "I'm sorry, I have to go."
"Work?" she asked groggily.
"I'm not sure. The 24th Precinct called. They're holding Neal in the drunk tank."
This was enough to make Elizabeth's brain kick into gear. "Drunk tank? What happened?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. Guess I'm gonna find out."
He pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, walking over to her side of the bed, and kissed her lightly on the forehead. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Don't wait up."
A worried frown was already etched into her forehead. "I hope he's all right."
"So do I," Peter muttered as he left.
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The 24th Precinct's holding cells were just the way Peter had imagined them. Barren, overcrowded, smelly and noisy.
Peter had tried to paint a mental picture of what would be expecting him on the drive there, but he had never seen Neal anything more than tipsy. And when Neal was tipsy, it was like all his most annoying skills and characteristics were amplified. He'd be even more unnervingly charming, sharp-witted and convincingly con-mannish. It drove Peter up the wall. (And, admittedly, even made him a little envious.)
So if they had picked Neal up because of a heightened state of inebriation, Peter expected to find him with a (no doubt well-practiced) apologetic smile on his face, a quip ready at the tip of his tongue. He imagined Neal draping an arm around his shoulder, babbling slurred apologies (i.e. half-lies) into his ear, maybe even a thank you for coming to rescue him from the delinquent pit.
What he didn't expect was what he saw when he looked through the iron bars of the cell that Officer Pearson showed him to. It was a very quiet, very forlorn looking Neal, perched on the edge of one of the cots, his head in his hands on elbows that were propped up on his knees.
"Caffrey!" the officer yelled, and Neal flinched, almost as if the sound of his name was causing him physical pain.
When he looked up and met Peter's gaze, his expression was weary, almost defeated. His eyes were red-rimmed (Peter wondered for a second if he had been crying), and there was something in them that made Peter think he was seeing a rare, raw version of Neal without the carefully crafted veneer.
Peter had only seen that veneer drop once. That day, in the hangar by the Hudson. It seemed like half a lifetime ago now.
"Caffrey, get up," Pearson commanded, and Neal slowly complied.
As he shuffled past the door and stepped out into the hall, Pearson shook his head and muttered, "And you'd think he'd be glad to get out of there."
Peter eyed Neal warily. What the hell had happened here? "Neal?" he asked carefully.
Neal just looked at him, his eyes widening for a split second, and stayed quiet. Peter's worry meter shot up by at least two units.
Pearson handed Peter some paperwork to sign while Neal dejectedly hovered nearby. It took four, maybe five minutes for NYPD to send both of them on their (not so) merry way.
In the car, Peter made no attempt to start the engine. He twisted around to face Neal. "Neal, tell me what happened that made NYPD drag me out of the house in the middle of the night?"
The quietness stretched on too long before Neal said, "I don't think I can."
Peter's temper flared. "You can't, or you won't?"
"Both."
"Great," Peter muttered sarcastically. "Just great. How much did you have to drink?"
Neal shrugged. "Don't know."
"Don't know as in, I can't recall? Or don't know as in, I don't wanna talk about it?"
"I would lean towards the latter, though the first may apply as well."
"Geez, Neal, how much wine did you have? Did you kill a whole bottle by yourself?"
Silence stretched on again before Neal admitted in a low voice, "It was vodka."
"Vodk-" It stuck in the back of Peter's throat. He vaguely recalled Neal having ordered Ketel One on the rocks in a bar once, but that had been part of the undercover mission, part of the con, the persona. He just couldn't see Neal with a vodka bottle in hand, drinking himself into oblivion.
Peter sighed. This wasn't going anywhere. "Okay," he said, more to himself than anyone. He gave Neal another look. "Here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna take you to my house. You're going to sleep it off in our guest room. And I don't wanna hear any arguments."
"Fine," Neal acceded, and that was all he said for the rest of the drive.
Peter wasn't doing it out of the sheer goodness of his heart. It was the best way to make sure Neal didn't get into any more trouble tonight. Because while the Burkes' house was exempted in terms of his radius, the rest of Brooklyn wasn't.
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Peter knew his wife too well, which was why he wasn't surprised when he found her wrapped in a bathrobe on the living room couch. Likewise, she didn't seem surprised that Peter had Neal in tow.
She and Peter exchanged a meaningful glance, and Elizabeth said, "The guest room is all set up."
Peter wanted nothing more than to kiss her. He quelled the impulse and turned to Neal. "You heard the woman."
Neal said nothing and trudged up the stairs. Elizabeth closed the distance between her and her husband. "What happened? Is he all right?"
"I don't know. He wouldn't talk."
Her forehead creased in concern. "He seems quiet."
"He's barely said ten words the whole time."
She softly rubbed his upper arm. "Do we need to worry?"
Peter let out a long breath. "I don't know. Let me see if I can get the story out of him."
He found Neal in the guest room, sitting on the edge of the bed like a repentant puppy waiting for his punishment. It was all Peter could do not to pat him on the head. Instead, he threw a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt at Neal, who caught them with an awkward move of his hands.
"Go shower, then we'll talk," Peter told him.
Fifteen minutes later, Neal emerged from the bathroom, dressed in Peter's ill-fitting clothes. Damp hair framed his face, and it struck Peter how vulnerable he looked when he wasn't clad in impeccably chosen combinations of Hugo Boss, Giorgio Armani or Sy Devore.
Peter all but thrust a mug of coffee into Neal's hand, commanding, "Sit. Drink."
Neal sampled it carefully, wrinkling his face at the taste. "Damn, Peter, what is this? With this amount of caffeine, it's gonna keep me up all night."
"Good," Peter just said. "Maybe then you can tell me the story you owe me."
Neal took another sip, then placed the mug on the nightstand. He sat down on the bed, leaning against the headboard with his knees drawn up. Peter settled in the armchair in the corner.
More silence, and Peter's patience was wearing thin. "Neal..." he carefully probed.
Neal drew in a breath. "Look, I don't know what you want me to say."
"Well, you could start with how you ended up in an NYPD drunk tank."
"I drank too much vodka. The details are a bit fuzzy, but I may have roamed the streets of Manhattan, causing a bit of a traffic altercation on West 99th."
"That explains the crime, not the motive."
"Yeah, and that's where things get a little tricky."
"Is Mozzie involved?"
Neal hesitated a moment. "Yes and no."
Peter sighed in frustration. "Okay, that doesn't help. This is not about Sara, is it?"
"No." The answer was quick, maybe a little too quick.
"Look, Neal, I know this whole breakup hasn't been-"
"It's not about Sara, okay?"
"Okay," Peter surrendered with raised hands. "Then what is it about."
"I can't..." Regret was spilling into his words. "Peter, I can't talk about it."
"Because it would get you in trouble?"
"I think that'd be an understatement, but, yes."
"Does it have to do with the fact that you were at my house last night? While I was pulling an all-nighter in the van and Mozzie lured Elizabeth out of the house for an art exhibit and overpriced dinner?"
Neal's head shot up at the question, unbridled surprise in his eyes. "You know about that?"
"Neal, I'm many things, but I'm not stupid."
Neal said nothing-again.
"When I called you, were you in my house?"
"Come on, Peter, you wanna tell me you didn't check?"
"Actually, I haven't, not down to that detail. And now I wanna hear it from you."
"What if I said I was?"
Now it was Peter's turn to reply with a long stretch of silence. His voice was quietly controlled when he said just above a whisper, "Did you break into my safe?"
"What safe?"
"Neal, what did I say about being stupid?"
"Is there something missing from your safe?"
"I'm the one asking the questions. But, no, there's nothing missing."
"What-this is an interrogation now?"
"Do you need it to be? I can drag you down to the office if that’s the case. But for now I'd like to think it's an honest conversation among friends."
Neal snorted out a quick breath through his nose. "Friends? Peter, we haven't been friends ever since you- Since you accused me of blowing up the warehouse."
"Yeah," Peter let out bitterly.
Neal closed his eyes for a long moment, rubbing his hand over them. "Do you remember what you said on the phone?"
"Vaguely."
"You said if I ever wanted to talk..."
"And you do?"
"Yes." It came out muted, pained.
"But...?"
"But... there are certain things I can't come back from."
There was definite foreboding in Peter's voice. "Neal, what the hell have you done?"
"I..." The words got caught in his throat. Peter sensed that he was this close to hearing something big, something profound, something that would change everything. But then he faltered, folded in on himself. "Peter, I'm tired."
Peter studied Neal, studied the lines on his forehead, the doubt chasing the dichotomy in his features. Was he just referring to a yearning for sleep, or was this a metaphor that was part of a much larger picture?
"Neal, I... I don't know what it is that you say you can't come back from, but I think I have a pretty good idea. Why don't we just stop beating around the bush and-"
"No," Neal interrupted him. "I need some more time." It came out almost like a plea.
"You do realize I can't just let you go like this."
"And why not? Can you prove that I've committed any crime that will hold up in court? Or even in front of the Marshals, or Hughes?"
"Well, for starters, you broke into my home."
"That's gonna be difficult to prove. The anklet has a margin of error of a few feet. So I came to your house to surprise you with a good bottle of wine among friends. I knocked on your front door. When I didn't get an answer, I checked your back porch. No one was home."
"Which is why you stayed for twenty minutes?"
"What can I say, I like your porch."
"Dammit, Neal, this isn't funny."
Neal's voice was uncharacteristically grave. "No, it's not. The offer you made on the phone- whatever you could do to help me-does it still stand?"
"I... wish I could say yes."
"Peter, if you wanna help me, you gotta let me figure this out."
"Neal..."
"Please," Neal whispered, and now he was honest-to-God pleading, a desperation creeping into his voice that Peter couldn't recall having heard before.
More silence stretched on, and Peter knew he had lost the fight. "Okay," he breathed out. "Let's get some sleep. We'll talk more about this later."
He turned back around in the door frame. "Do you have everything you need?"
Neal looked up at him from bleary eyes. "Yeah. I'm good."
"Okay."
"Thank you," Neal then said. Plainly, just like that. Peter wasn't sure if it was for the drunk tank rescue, or for whatever it was that he hadn't even agreed to.
In his own bedroom Peter quietly changed back into his pajamas and slipped underneath the covers. Elizabeth tiredly opened her eyes, reaching out with one hand to cup his cheek. "That must have been quite a talk. You were in there for a long time," she said in a hushed voice.
"Yeah," he sighed. "We sure talked. Except we didn't."
Her eyelids drooped closed. "Honey, you're going to have to tell me tomorrow. I don't think I'm capable of coherent conversation right now."
His eyes fell upon the illuminated display of the alarm clock on the nightstand. It read 3:26, and he couldn't blame her. He touched her hairline and gently pushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead. "Good night, Honey."
"Night," she mumbled.
He listened to her breathing evening out and dreaded the next morning. Silently, he cursed himself for having accepted Neal's anklet deal in the first place, almost two years ago now. His life would be so much easier if he hadn't fallen for the near imperturbable Caffrey charm. He wouldn't have to be lying here, losing sleep over an impossible decision.
Peter turned to lie on his other side, his back to Elizabeth. He closed his eyes wearily, knowing that even though he had already made his decision back there in the guest room, sleep would be a long time coming.
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THE END.
Author: TeeJay
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Neal, Peter, Elizabeth
Written for: thenewpub's Round 1 on Aug 6, 2011
Prompt: The drunk tank
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Spoilers for up to and including 3x08 'As You Were'
Summary: Peter gets a call from NYPD in the middle of the night about Neal being held in the drunk tank.
Author's Note: Consider this a tag to episode 3x08 'As You Were'. May be AU-ish for 3x09 'On The Fence' but doesn't necessarily have to be.
Originally, I only wanted this to be a short piece for the first writing round, but then it developed a mind of its own and turned into this longish one-shot that I ended up writing well past round 4. Hope this isn't too much of a stretch, but, man, Neal has got so much going on right now, so I can kind of see it.
Thank you, rabidchild67, for the beta!
Disclaimer: White Collar, its characters and its settings belong to Jeff Eastin and USA Network. And, guys? Your characters are not only welcome, they're wonderful. I'm just borrowing, I promise.
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Peter frowned when he hung up. A call from the local police station at 1 AM on a Saturday evening (or rather Sunday morning) could never be good. He scrubbed a hand over his face, fingering the two days' growth of stubble from not having shaved since Friday morning.
He padded back into the bedroom on bare feet, trying not to wake Elizabeth as he gathered some clothes. She stirred all the same, a tired question on her lips. "Honey? What's going on?"
He paused, looking at his wife in the dim light from the street lamps outside. "I'm sorry, I have to go."
"Work?" she asked groggily.
"I'm not sure. The 24th Precinct called. They're holding Neal in the drunk tank."
This was enough to make Elizabeth's brain kick into gear. "Drunk tank? What happened?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. Guess I'm gonna find out."
He pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, walking over to her side of the bed, and kissed her lightly on the forehead. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Don't wait up."
A worried frown was already etched into her forehead. "I hope he's all right."
"So do I," Peter muttered as he left.
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The 24th Precinct's holding cells were just the way Peter had imagined them. Barren, overcrowded, smelly and noisy.
Peter had tried to paint a mental picture of what would be expecting him on the drive there, but he had never seen Neal anything more than tipsy. And when Neal was tipsy, it was like all his most annoying skills and characteristics were amplified. He'd be even more unnervingly charming, sharp-witted and convincingly con-mannish. It drove Peter up the wall. (And, admittedly, even made him a little envious.)
So if they had picked Neal up because of a heightened state of inebriation, Peter expected to find him with a (no doubt well-practiced) apologetic smile on his face, a quip ready at the tip of his tongue. He imagined Neal draping an arm around his shoulder, babbling slurred apologies (i.e. half-lies) into his ear, maybe even a thank you for coming to rescue him from the delinquent pit.
What he didn't expect was what he saw when he looked through the iron bars of the cell that Officer Pearson showed him to. It was a very quiet, very forlorn looking Neal, perched on the edge of one of the cots, his head in his hands on elbows that were propped up on his knees.
"Caffrey!" the officer yelled, and Neal flinched, almost as if the sound of his name was causing him physical pain.
When he looked up and met Peter's gaze, his expression was weary, almost defeated. His eyes were red-rimmed (Peter wondered for a second if he had been crying), and there was something in them that made Peter think he was seeing a rare, raw version of Neal without the carefully crafted veneer.
Peter had only seen that veneer drop once. That day, in the hangar by the Hudson. It seemed like half a lifetime ago now.
"Caffrey, get up," Pearson commanded, and Neal slowly complied.
As he shuffled past the door and stepped out into the hall, Pearson shook his head and muttered, "And you'd think he'd be glad to get out of there."
Peter eyed Neal warily. What the hell had happened here? "Neal?" he asked carefully.
Neal just looked at him, his eyes widening for a split second, and stayed quiet. Peter's worry meter shot up by at least two units.
Pearson handed Peter some paperwork to sign while Neal dejectedly hovered nearby. It took four, maybe five minutes for NYPD to send both of them on their (not so) merry way.
In the car, Peter made no attempt to start the engine. He twisted around to face Neal. "Neal, tell me what happened that made NYPD drag me out of the house in the middle of the night?"
The quietness stretched on too long before Neal said, "I don't think I can."
Peter's temper flared. "You can't, or you won't?"
"Both."
"Great," Peter muttered sarcastically. "Just great. How much did you have to drink?"
Neal shrugged. "Don't know."
"Don't know as in, I can't recall? Or don't know as in, I don't wanna talk about it?"
"I would lean towards the latter, though the first may apply as well."
"Geez, Neal, how much wine did you have? Did you kill a whole bottle by yourself?"
Silence stretched on again before Neal admitted in a low voice, "It was vodka."
"Vodk-" It stuck in the back of Peter's throat. He vaguely recalled Neal having ordered Ketel One on the rocks in a bar once, but that had been part of the undercover mission, part of the con, the persona. He just couldn't see Neal with a vodka bottle in hand, drinking himself into oblivion.
Peter sighed. This wasn't going anywhere. "Okay," he said, more to himself than anyone. He gave Neal another look. "Here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna take you to my house. You're going to sleep it off in our guest room. And I don't wanna hear any arguments."
"Fine," Neal acceded, and that was all he said for the rest of the drive.
Peter wasn't doing it out of the sheer goodness of his heart. It was the best way to make sure Neal didn't get into any more trouble tonight. Because while the Burkes' house was exempted in terms of his radius, the rest of Brooklyn wasn't.
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Peter knew his wife too well, which was why he wasn't surprised when he found her wrapped in a bathrobe on the living room couch. Likewise, she didn't seem surprised that Peter had Neal in tow.
She and Peter exchanged a meaningful glance, and Elizabeth said, "The guest room is all set up."
Peter wanted nothing more than to kiss her. He quelled the impulse and turned to Neal. "You heard the woman."
Neal said nothing and trudged up the stairs. Elizabeth closed the distance between her and her husband. "What happened? Is he all right?"
"I don't know. He wouldn't talk."
Her forehead creased in concern. "He seems quiet."
"He's barely said ten words the whole time."
She softly rubbed his upper arm. "Do we need to worry?"
Peter let out a long breath. "I don't know. Let me see if I can get the story out of him."
He found Neal in the guest room, sitting on the edge of the bed like a repentant puppy waiting for his punishment. It was all Peter could do not to pat him on the head. Instead, he threw a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt at Neal, who caught them with an awkward move of his hands.
"Go shower, then we'll talk," Peter told him.
Fifteen minutes later, Neal emerged from the bathroom, dressed in Peter's ill-fitting clothes. Damp hair framed his face, and it struck Peter how vulnerable he looked when he wasn't clad in impeccably chosen combinations of Hugo Boss, Giorgio Armani or Sy Devore.
Peter all but thrust a mug of coffee into Neal's hand, commanding, "Sit. Drink."
Neal sampled it carefully, wrinkling his face at the taste. "Damn, Peter, what is this? With this amount of caffeine, it's gonna keep me up all night."
"Good," Peter just said. "Maybe then you can tell me the story you owe me."
Neal took another sip, then placed the mug on the nightstand. He sat down on the bed, leaning against the headboard with his knees drawn up. Peter settled in the armchair in the corner.
More silence, and Peter's patience was wearing thin. "Neal..." he carefully probed.
Neal drew in a breath. "Look, I don't know what you want me to say."
"Well, you could start with how you ended up in an NYPD drunk tank."
"I drank too much vodka. The details are a bit fuzzy, but I may have roamed the streets of Manhattan, causing a bit of a traffic altercation on West 99th."
"That explains the crime, not the motive."
"Yeah, and that's where things get a little tricky."
"Is Mozzie involved?"
Neal hesitated a moment. "Yes and no."
Peter sighed in frustration. "Okay, that doesn't help. This is not about Sara, is it?"
"No." The answer was quick, maybe a little too quick.
"Look, Neal, I know this whole breakup hasn't been-"
"It's not about Sara, okay?"
"Okay," Peter surrendered with raised hands. "Then what is it about."
"I can't..." Regret was spilling into his words. "Peter, I can't talk about it."
"Because it would get you in trouble?"
"I think that'd be an understatement, but, yes."
"Does it have to do with the fact that you were at my house last night? While I was pulling an all-nighter in the van and Mozzie lured Elizabeth out of the house for an art exhibit and overpriced dinner?"
Neal's head shot up at the question, unbridled surprise in his eyes. "You know about that?"
"Neal, I'm many things, but I'm not stupid."
Neal said nothing-again.
"When I called you, were you in my house?"
"Come on, Peter, you wanna tell me you didn't check?"
"Actually, I haven't, not down to that detail. And now I wanna hear it from you."
"What if I said I was?"
Now it was Peter's turn to reply with a long stretch of silence. His voice was quietly controlled when he said just above a whisper, "Did you break into my safe?"
"What safe?"
"Neal, what did I say about being stupid?"
"Is there something missing from your safe?"
"I'm the one asking the questions. But, no, there's nothing missing."
"What-this is an interrogation now?"
"Do you need it to be? I can drag you down to the office if that’s the case. But for now I'd like to think it's an honest conversation among friends."
Neal snorted out a quick breath through his nose. "Friends? Peter, we haven't been friends ever since you- Since you accused me of blowing up the warehouse."
"Yeah," Peter let out bitterly.
Neal closed his eyes for a long moment, rubbing his hand over them. "Do you remember what you said on the phone?"
"Vaguely."
"You said if I ever wanted to talk..."
"And you do?"
"Yes." It came out muted, pained.
"But...?"
"But... there are certain things I can't come back from."
There was definite foreboding in Peter's voice. "Neal, what the hell have you done?"
"I..." The words got caught in his throat. Peter sensed that he was this close to hearing something big, something profound, something that would change everything. But then he faltered, folded in on himself. "Peter, I'm tired."
Peter studied Neal, studied the lines on his forehead, the doubt chasing the dichotomy in his features. Was he just referring to a yearning for sleep, or was this a metaphor that was part of a much larger picture?
"Neal, I... I don't know what it is that you say you can't come back from, but I think I have a pretty good idea. Why don't we just stop beating around the bush and-"
"No," Neal interrupted him. "I need some more time." It came out almost like a plea.
"You do realize I can't just let you go like this."
"And why not? Can you prove that I've committed any crime that will hold up in court? Or even in front of the Marshals, or Hughes?"
"Well, for starters, you broke into my home."
"That's gonna be difficult to prove. The anklet has a margin of error of a few feet. So I came to your house to surprise you with a good bottle of wine among friends. I knocked on your front door. When I didn't get an answer, I checked your back porch. No one was home."
"Which is why you stayed for twenty minutes?"
"What can I say, I like your porch."
"Dammit, Neal, this isn't funny."
Neal's voice was uncharacteristically grave. "No, it's not. The offer you made on the phone- whatever you could do to help me-does it still stand?"
"I... wish I could say yes."
"Peter, if you wanna help me, you gotta let me figure this out."
"Neal..."
"Please," Neal whispered, and now he was honest-to-God pleading, a desperation creeping into his voice that Peter couldn't recall having heard before.
More silence stretched on, and Peter knew he had lost the fight. "Okay," he breathed out. "Let's get some sleep. We'll talk more about this later."
He turned back around in the door frame. "Do you have everything you need?"
Neal looked up at him from bleary eyes. "Yeah. I'm good."
"Okay."
"Thank you," Neal then said. Plainly, just like that. Peter wasn't sure if it was for the drunk tank rescue, or for whatever it was that he hadn't even agreed to.
In his own bedroom Peter quietly changed back into his pajamas and slipped underneath the covers. Elizabeth tiredly opened her eyes, reaching out with one hand to cup his cheek. "That must have been quite a talk. You were in there for a long time," she said in a hushed voice.
"Yeah," he sighed. "We sure talked. Except we didn't."
Her eyelids drooped closed. "Honey, you're going to have to tell me tomorrow. I don't think I'm capable of coherent conversation right now."
His eyes fell upon the illuminated display of the alarm clock on the nightstand. It read 3:26, and he couldn't blame her. He touched her hairline and gently pushed a stray strand of hair from her forehead. "Good night, Honey."
"Night," she mumbled.
He listened to her breathing evening out and dreaded the next morning. Silently, he cursed himself for having accepted Neal's anklet deal in the first place, almost two years ago now. His life would be so much easier if he hadn't fallen for the near imperturbable Caffrey charm. He wouldn't have to be lying here, losing sleep over an impossible decision.
Peter turned to lie on his other side, his back to Elizabeth. He closed his eyes wearily, knowing that even though he had already made his decision back there in the guest room, sleep would be a long time coming.
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THE END.