WC: By Choice - Part 2.2
White Collar -- Fanfiction
Disclaimer:
All recognizable characters are property of Jeff Eastin and USA Network.
No copyright infringement intended.
Title: By Choice - Part 2.2
- Rating: PG-13
- Category: Hurt/Comfort, Drama
- Spoilers: None
Author's notes:
We're told the upcoming season three is about choices. This is my take on a few of those choices. The story is written in two parts. Due to post length restrictions I had to subdivide. A massive thank you to nice_disguise for burning the midnight oil on the beta and for always telling me like it is. All remaining mistakes, factual incorrectness and scarcity of gratuitous shirtlessness are entirely my fault.
This is post 4 of 4.
Summary:
Wrong choices. Impossible choices. Choices made against our better judgment.
BY CHOICE
PART 2.2
12.
“How much further?” Neal asks and grits his teeth as he hobbles along. Peter doesn’t need the map to know that they’ve scarcely made any progress in half an hour. His neck and shoulders are sore where Neal is putting more and more of his weight.
“You’re doing great,” Peter huffs. “We’re almost there.”
“Liar!” Neal retorts breathlessly. “But thanks.”
Fifteen minutes later, Neal nearly sobs with every jolting step.
Another ten minutes and Peter lets the barely conscious man sag to the ground.
“No,” Neal wheezes his protest and clings to a fistful of Peter’s jacket as he scrambles to keep his feet under him. “Keep going. Please.”
“We will,” Peter assures him. “I need a quick breather. Okay?”
He keeps a hand around the back of Neal’s neck as he rest his head against the wall.
“’kay,” Neal sits back and closes his eyes, his hand clutching his shoulder. “Wet.”
“Yeah, the floor’s a little damp.” Peter lets the flashlight sweep over the ground to check if he rested his friend in the middle of a puddle.
“Yeah, that too,” Neal breathes.
“Crap.” Peter realizes his mistake and lifts Neal’s hand to reveal the fresh blood on the young man’s palm. He pins the flashlight between his neck and his shoulder and stretches the neck hole of Neal’s sweater trying to take a look at the wound. Whatever Neal has stuffed under his shirt, a scarf maybe, is still in place. Neal’s sticky fingers wrap around his wrist.
“’s okay, Peter.” He doesn’t sound okay. “Nothing you can do. Let’s just go.”
Peter nods. He takes Neal’s hand and flattens it over the shoulder injury.
“Press down.” He gently pushes Neal’s hand until the young man gasps in pain. Sweeping the flashlight beam down Neal’s body, Peter zones in on his right leg. He pulls up the pant leg and carefully curls his hand around the swollen ankle. Neal stiffens and sucks in a sharp breath.
“You’re not walking another step on this, buddy.” He briefly pats Neal’s knee. “I’m going to take your sneaker off before the swelling gets worse.”
Peter unties the shoelaces, loosens them as far as they will give and slips off the dark grey tennis shoe. He narrowly escapes Neal’s unharmed leg that kicks out as the young man squirms and curses.
“Now my sock is going to get wet,” Neal complains breathlessly.
“No, it won’t.” Peter places the flashlight on Neal’s abdomen and lays Neal’s left hand over it. “Keep your shoulder still, but try and hold the flashlight.” He slides his right forearm under Neal’s knees.
“Put your good arm around my neck.”
“You’re not carrying me,” Neal protests. “This is humiliating.” Reluctantly, he lays his arm across Peter’s shoulders.
“You want to be humiliated or bleed to death down here?” Peter heaves his charge off the ground with a grunt. He staggers, trying to balance their center of gravity. “Point the damn flashlight so that I can see where I’m going. I’m not taking a nose-dive with you in front of the short guy.”
Neal quietly thinks for a moment then cocks his head.
“Wouldn’t be the most compromising position Mozzie has caught me in,” he says and Peter frowns at the notable slur in his speech. “There was this one night in the Village where…”
“Zip it, Caffrey.” Peter mumbles.
13.
“Neal!”
The ache in his neck and shoulders is nearly unbearable, but Peter gives his cargo a sharp jolt. Neal’s drooping head snaps up. “Stay awake, buddy. We’re almost there. I need you to keep pointing the flashlight. Can you do that for me?”
“I am. Pointing.” Neal sounds sleepy and slightly irritated. The beam of light erratically dances over the tunnel walls until it illuminates the floor up ahead. “See?”
“Good. Just a little bit further,” Peter says to himself as much as Neal. He takes another wobbly step forward. “Almost there.”
They make it around the next bend of the tunnel. Then the flashlight drops to the floor and Neal’s arm slides off Peter’s shoulder as his head rolls back.
“Damn it, Neal, don’t do this to me now!” Peter shakes the limp body and elicits a quiet moan that is drowned out by the sound of a nearby train. Panting with exhaustion, Peter stares at the flashlight at his feet. He should put Neal down, check on him, pick up the light. If he does, he won’t be able to shoulder the man’s dead weight again. His every muscle is trembling with strain already. Add a week’s worth of sore muscles to the headache his criminally inclined consultant has caused yet again.
With the tip of his shoe Peter nudges the maglite. It rolls a few feet forward before bumping into the tunnel wall. Peter sighs. This is going to be a slow and painful trek back to the hideout.
A dot of light up ahead suddenly draws his attention.
“Regretting not taking the headlamp, Suit?” The dot down the tunnel remarks and picks up speed. When Mozzie’s bespectacled face comes into view, his concern at the sight of his friend’s slack form is obvious. “Is he?”
“Bullet to the shoulder. And a broken leg.” Peter says from between gritted teeth. “I’m about a minute away from losing all feeling below the neck, so you better light the way home. Quick.”
“We’re close. Couple hundred yards.” Mozzie collects the maglite and scuttles down the tunnel, throwing worried glances behind him every few steps. “Where’d you find him?”
“Back … there.” Peter grunts. Why did the short guy have to pick the least opportune moment to make conversation with an FBI agent? Peter can barely breathe, let alone talk.
“Was he out when you found him?”
“Walk … please.” Peter huffs. His face must look desperate enough, even to Mozzie’s distorted sense of reality, because the con man directs his focus up ahead, leading them in short, well-paced strides.
“Watch your step.” Mozzies stops briefly to kick a piece of trash out of the way that Peter doesn’t care to identify. “Almost there.”
One more corner, a misstep that almost costs him his fragile balance, then Peter mentally counts down the steps to the open doorway to the release that is Wednesday.
Mozzie is clearing the pillows off the large sofa. Peter tries to put Neal down as softly as he can, which is not very softly at all. Peter’s muscles scream their relief and he allows himself a deep breath before he stoops over Neal to check his vitals.
“Prop his feet up,” he orders without looking at Mozzie. “Careful with his right foot.”
Peter grabs the collar of Neal’s sweatshirt. His jittery hands struggle to keep a firm grip on the fabric, but the cotton finally tears. He splits the front of the shirt and carefully peels the sticky fabric away from Neal’s left shoulder. Hovering over him, Mozzie blanches at the sight of the dried and fresh blood that is caking the left side of his friend’s torso.
“He’s going to be fine.” Peter gives the short guy a nod that is intended to be convincing in its well-practiced professionalism. Under normal circumstances he would pair such nod with a reassuring squeeze of Mozzie’s shoulder but when Peter looks down at his bloodstained hands he thinks better of it.
“Get me your first aid kit,” he asks. As Mozzie disappears behind the vintage counter of his wet bar, Peter lifts the wadded piece of clothing off the gunshot wound. It takes a second look to positively identify the crusty remains of a ski mask. Peter’s exasperated shake of the head is completely lost on the unconscious man.
“Here.” A stack of paper napkins and a bar towel are held out for him.
“I said first aid kit.” Peter throws Mozzie an incredulous look.
“I’m running a poker table, not a cage fighting operation, Suit. Bruised egos or a broken bank is as bad as it gets down here.” Mozzie replies indignantly.
“Call a bus. Give them my badge number. That should speed things up.” Peter briefly digs through his pockets to fish out his ID. He trades it for the napkins and towel. “I’m getting this back.” He says with a nod at his FBI badge.
“I’ll wait outside for the ambulance.” Mozzie is already halfway out the door, his cell phone pressed against his ear. Peter lowers himself onto a stiff and aching knee next to his consultant. He takes another look at Neal’s shoulder and places a thick stack of napkins over the bleeding wound, slowly applying pressure.
Neal wakes with a tortured gasp.
“Shhh.” Peter holds Neal’s arm down that tries to push him away. “It’s alright, buddy. Lie still.”
Neal’s eyes are brimming with moisture as he blinks rapidly around the room before his disoriented gaze finds Peter’s face. His mouth opens and closes but all that escapes is a throaty whimper.
“I know it hurts.” Peter rests a soothing hand on Neal’s forehead and leaves a sticky handprint. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. I need to keep this covered until the paramedics get here.”
“Mozzie?” Neal manages to breathe.
“He’s outside. He’s fine.” Peter lifts the makeshift dressing to check on the wound. “You, not so much.”
Neal lifts his head to look down his body. He brushes the right edge of the torn shirt aside to inspect the deep bruising covering his flank and ribcage.
“Jesus, Neal. What did you do to yourself?”
“Fell on … the damn … painting.” Neal grits his teeth when Peter’s palm probes the newly exposed injury. “Don’t … touch … please.”
“Maybe you should stick with being an artist and not a thief. You’re supposed to suffer for your own art, not someone else’s.”
“Funny.” Neal’s weak chuckle turns into a snivel. “Peter … I’m … I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want to hear it, Caffrey. Not now.” Peter shuts him down.
“You’re mad.” Neal blinks at him with heavy eyelids, and Peter wishes the young man would stop looking so frail.
“Yes, I’m furious, Neal.” He replies dryly. “And that’s why you need to shut up and get better. So that I can yell at you without having to feel guilty.”
Neal’s brow furrows in an odd combination of skepticism, confusion and fear. Peter wonders if the option of bleeding to death is beginning to sound appealing to his consultant. He checks his hold on the compress covering Neal’s shoulder.
“Just take it easy, okay?” Peter softens his tone. He turns his head at the sound of the door opening at the top of the staircase. A moment later Mozzie and the paramedics rush into the room.
“I’m Special Agent Peter Burke,” Peter addresses the EMTs without letting go of Neal. “This is my partner.”
“Partner?” Neal whispers with a bleary-eyed look of surprise. A timid smile steals onto his trembling lips. Peter can’t decide if he is touched or annoyed.
“Old habits,” he grumbles. The con man’s smile wants to broaden but then a new wave of pain ripples through his body. Peter feels the man under his hands tense.
“Peter!” Neal wheezes and grits his teeth. His eyes wide with naked panic, he clutches at Peter’s sleeve, his frantic gaze darting between the agent and the approaching EMT who threatens to pull him away. “’m sorry.”
“Neal, don’t-“ Peter implores. Neal’s eyes roll back and he goes limp before Peter can finish his thought. It’s almost a relief. He wasn’t sure whether he was about to scold him or forgive him.
14.
Peter inhales deeply before opening the door to Neal’s private hospital room.
“I’m sorry, sir, you are going to have to wait for a minute.” At the nurse’s firm tone, Peter freezes in the doorway.
“No, it’s alright.” Neal looks at him, his face lighting up with a flash of gladness that gives way to carefully guarded insecurity. Then his head turns to face the nurse. “It’s fine, Amy. He can stay. We’re almost finished, right?”
The nurse briefly studies Peter, and the agent can’t shake the feeling that her judgment doesn’t fall in his favor. She motions for him to take a seat. Peter picks up the stack of magazines that occupy the vinyl-coated chair in the far corner of the room before sinking heavily onto the seat cushion. It’s not until the agent has settled down that Amy, the overly circumspect nurse, puts the sponge in her hand aside and begins to towel off her patient’s freshly bathed neck, chest and shoulders.
“I just need to change your bandage and then we’re finished for the night.” The pleasant voice that speaks to Neal sounds like that of a completely different woman. Peter shakes his head. He shouldn’t be surprised that Neal has already managed to turn every nurse on the floor into a tenderly caring and fiercely protective mother bear. He shuffles through the stack of magazines in his lap, an odd assortment of the Wine Spectator, fashion magazines, Popular Science and law enforcement trade journals. The detective in him wants to match each magazine to a member of the equally eclectic group of people who have spent the past few days and nights here. The exhausted man in him doesn’t really care where Mozzie gets his fashion advice.
Peter picks out the science magazine, opens it to the crossword and tries not to listen in on the conversation his consultant is having with the nurse. He tries harder not to look at Neal. He fails at both. While he eavesdrops on Amy’s account of her youngest daughter’s roaring success portraying a vegetable in a school play, he can’t help but glance at the heavy cast on Neal’s propped up right lower leg or at the bruised skin covering the fractured ribs that must have caused sheer agony when he dragged and carried his friend through the underground maze. His cursory survey finishes at Neal’s face, at the con man’s eyes that consciously avoid contact with his and at that dependable smile that hides his discomfort as Amy replaces the thick wad of dressing on his left shoulder.
“This looks really good,” the nurse says and tapes down the fresh bandage. She closes the front of the hospital gown and repositions the sling that immobilizes Neal’s left arm. “Just keep it still to let it heal, okay?”
“Looks like keeping still is about all I’m allowed to do nowadays,” Neal mumbles and takes a drink of water from the straw she offers.
“The physical therapist will come see you tomorrow.” Amy offers him a consoling smile and straightens the pillow behind his neck. “I’m sure he’ll make you more comfortable.”
Neal only has a discontented sigh for her. She briefly pets his cheek with the back of her fingers.
“Try and go to sleep soon, sweetie.” Amy coos, and Peter finds himself the target of another hostile glare from her. “I’ll pop my head in later, but call if you need anything.”
She adjusts the covers one last time. Then she secures the bed’s remote control and the call button within reach of his right hand where it is handcuffed to the bed railing.
Peter and Neal silently watch the nurse as she leaves the room.
“It’s been a week,” Neal says brusquely when the door closes behind her.
Peter assumes those words are meant to be an accusation, but the underlying hurt is hard to miss. He puts his magazine aside and approaches the bed on Neal’s right. The con man’s eyes follow his every move.
“Didn’t think you’d show.”
“I showed.”
Peter had. He hadn’t left Neal’s side all the way to the hospital, he had waited anxiously through the surgery, hadn’t gone home until hours later when Neal had shown signs of waking up in the recovery room.
“I stopped by a couple of times after work, but you were asleep.”
“You mean you waited to stop by until after I was asleep?”
Peter looks down at his CI and tries to figure out why Neal feels entitled to look wounded and faultless. He pulls up a chair and sits down. He surveys the hand cuffed to the bed frame directly in front of him. The scabbed knuckles and fingertips look painful, but they are mending. The rope burns cut into the palm are covered with a strip of gauze dressing. Neal’s wrist looks fine under the loose metal cuff that barely puts pressure on the limb it encloses.
“I needed to think,” Peter finally states and raises his eyes at the con man’s face.
His lips tight, Neal stares back before his focus is drawn elsewhere as his restrained hand begins to fumble with the buttons on the electric bed’s remote. The foot end, then the midsection and, finally the head end jerk up and down a few times until Neal succeeds in raising his upper body’s position by several inches. His discomfort in the process is obvious.
“How’s the pain?” Peter asks, his voice softened.
Neal shoots him an irritated glare.
“They took me off the happy juice,” he snaps. “And I’m … I’m fucking helpless, okay?” He yanks on the handcuffs hard enough that it must hurt.
Peter is no stranger to frustration. Heaven knows, the con man has been the cause for enough of it. He understands Neal’s sentiment. He also understands that pity for Neal isn’t going to help either of them.
“Perhaps you should take it as an opportunity to be reminded of what it feels to have your liberties taken away from you.” Peter says calmly.
“Do you think I would forget for even one minute what that was like, Peter?” Neal’s voice is raw.
“Could have fooled me, buddy.”
Neal seems momentarily at a loss for words. Maybe he has decided to bite his tongue. He tests his restraints one more time and moans when the movement aggravates his injuries. He shuts his eyes and waits for the pain to ease up.
“Look, Neal. It wasn’t my idea to lock you down like this. Hughes was livid after your last stunt. He left me with no choice.”
“There’s always a choice. Isn’t that what you said, Peter?”
“Oh, that’s rich coming from you.” Peter leans forward in his chair. “My choices don’t involve stealing from my partner or from an art collection. They don’t leave me with broken bones and a busted shoulder at the bottom of some elevator shaft and they don’t leave a mess for my friends to straighten out.”
“It’s not that simple,” Neal says quietly.
“Yes, it is, Neal. Right or wrong. Within the law or outside the law. Your new life as my partner or your old life as the criminal I will bring to justice.” Peter pauses and studies Neal and the small furrow in his right brow that appears whenever he is thinking or sulking. “You’re a smart guy, Neal. You understand what’s right and wrong.”
“But you don’t understand that doing what is right in your book could have gotten Mozzie killed. You saw what they did to him at the slightest suspicion that he had talked to the Feds.” Neal’s eyes lock in on his and won’t let up. “You’re asking me to choose between my old life and what you’re offering. I get that. And maybe that’s all you ever saw in me, but I wasn’t just a thief and a forger and a con man back then, Peter. I was a friend and a lover and sometimes even a son. You can’t ask me to choose between your friendship and the people that meant something to me back then. That’s an impossible choice to make.”
Neal shakes his head.
“Neal, you’re going to have to find a way to help the people you care about within the limits of the law.”
“You’re a hypocrite, Peter,” Neal says from between gritted teeth. “You’re perfectly fine with using me and my convenient and oh-so-criminal skills whenever the Bureau needs something done. And don’t tell me that everything we do is within the law. We both know it isn’t. As long as you clear your stellar number of cases, the interpretation of the law seems to be at your discretion.”
Neal stares at him from overly alert eyes, breathing rapidly and clearly waiting for Peter to defend himself. Peter wants to chime in, wants to set the record straight, but he holds back. He rarely gets an unfiltered piece of Neal’s mind.
“Peter, I’m risking my life out there, with you,” Neal continues. “And for what? To bring your justice to people who will make sure I wouldn’t last a day if I ever went back to my old life. I’m sticking my neck out to protect FBI agents who think I’m not worth the microchip in my tracker. Tell me that it’s wrong to do the same for someone who gives a damn about me. Tell me, Peter!”
“It’s wrong,” Peter replies without missing a beat. Neal suddenly looks at him as if he was a complete stranger. For a long, stunned moment the con man’s eyes search his face and then turn away.
Peter rests his hand on Neal’s forearm. Neal pulls away, tugging harder when the handcuffs keep his arm within Peter’s reach.
“Hey!” Peter says gently and tightens his hold. “Stop it.” He doesn’t ease up until he feels the tight muscles under his fingers relax. Neal glares at him with renewed anger.
“Neal, I know that you think you had good reasons to do what you did.”
“I didn’t just think that-“
Peter holds up a hand to quiet him.
“Okay, let’s assume I agree with you. Let’s say your motives were good and honorable and-for lack of a better description-right.” Peter pauses for a second and self-consciously wonders when his hand had started to do some of the talking. He grabs the bed railing. “What you always get wrong is that you think the right reasons give you license to do stupid, illegal and, most of all, dangerous things.”
“What was I supposed to do?”
“Talk to me.”
“I tried.”
“Not hard enough!”
“It’s not that simple, Peter.”
Peter exhales from puffed up cheeks and slumps back in his chair. Why does his partnership with Neal have to feel like an endless circular argument?
“Talking to me is simple, Neal. It’s when you lie to me that things get complicated.” Peter says plainly. He lets those words sink in, studying his consultant’s face closely for any emotional response. Whatever flicker he sees in Neal’s eyes, he can’t interpret. With a sigh, he continues.
“How do you think I would feel if you had died down there simply because you couldn’t tell me the damn truth just for once?”
Neal blankly stares at him for a moment as if doubting Peter’s concern for his life.
“I didn’t die.” He mumbles sullenly.
“No. But there’s always a next time, isn’t there?” Peter’s eyes drill into his friend, but Neal only blinks.
The agent rubs his eyes. A week’s worth of sleepless nights and caffeine-fueled days have taken their toll. He checks the wall clock. It’s already 9p.m. He has no idea where he is going to find the energy for another busy Monday morning in less than twelve hours. His stomach growls loud enough to draw a curious look from Neal.
“There are some brownies from June in that Tupperware.” Neal tips his head in the direction of the bedside table. “Some of Elizabeth’s cookies, too.”
Peter perks up at the news. He gets up from his chair and finds the plastic container, picking out one of the large soft-baked cookies.
“Hmm, white chocolate macadamia nut-my favorite.” He sinks his teeth into the treat and suddenly frowns. “Wait. When did Elizabeth make cookies? More importantly, how did she sneak them past me?”
Neal shrugs and gasps, his restrained hand reflexively reaching for his shoulder. Irritated and hurting, he slams his head back against the pillow. Peter watches him from the corner of an eye as he digs through the plastic container to secure a second cookie. He allows himself a moment to feel sorry for Neal, knowing that his CI doesn’t let his cool-headed self-control slip easily. Seeing Neal squirm with pain is hard to stomach. But watching him struggle like this is infinitely better than seeing his lifeless body rushed into an ER. Peter wanders over to the window, leans his shoulder against the frame and stares into the endless stream of taxicabs and cars in the dark streets several stories below. Even Neal’s hospital room has a view, he notes somewhat begrudgingly. He finishes his cookie and then a second in silence, ignoring what he knows to be his consultant’s watchful eyes on his back.
“So, is this it? Am I back in?” Neal finally asks.
Peter remains silent and doesn’t look at Neal. When he eventually speaks, he ignores the question.
“That was very smart of you,” he says, quietly and as if lost in thought. “Damn near brilliant.”
“What?”
Peter doesn’t have to turn to know that he has his consultant’s full attention.
“Weaving the alloy fibers into the canvas of the forgery Mozzie handed over to his Detroit friends,” Peter explains as he continues to gaze out into the city lights. “When his buyer tried to leave the country, the painting set off the airport metal detectors. TSA arrested him the morning after your heist. As a matter of fact, he was being interviewed by Diana while I was still dragging your soggy behind through the Manhattan underground.”
“What? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Peter glances over his shoulder to find Neal grabbing the bed railing to pull himself into an upright sitting position.
“Because I told them not to tell you,” Peter replies. “I know that’s a foreign concept to you, but some people actually follow my orders.”
“Even Mozzie?”
Peter nods. And grins. He takes his time to enjoy the sight of his baffled consultant and leisurely paces the room as he continues.
“Turns out Lorenzo’s buyer is a wealthy Dutch businessman. He’s been accumulating stolen art and artifacts for sport for well over a decade,” Peter’s voice slips smoothly into its FBI briefing timbre. “Interpol searched his properties and recovered at least 50 million dollars worth of lost masterpieces. Didn’t even have the sense to hide it. Hung the loot right in his living room, can you believe it?”
“Actually-“ Neal tilts his head.
“Never mind. I forgot whom I’m talking to,” Peter grumbles and suddenly realizes how much he has missed these exchanges with his CI in this past week. “Anyway, as soon as our boys from organized crime started leaning on Mr. de Vries, he sung. Handed us enough dirt on Lorenzo and his henchmen to put them away for a long, long time.”
“So, we got him?” Neal beams.
“No, we got him.” Peter points at himself. “You are still in the doghouse, buddy.”
“But Mozzie’s safe?”
“Yeah, the target’s off the little guy’s back.” Peter nods and ponders why that affirmation gives him a warm and fuzzy feeling. He needs to stop being a pushover for every charmingly quirky con man along the Eastern seaboard. Rubbing the back of his neck, he strolls over to the bedside table. He picks up the water glass and holds the straw out for Neal. The con man licks his dry lips and shakes his head. Pride, much like dishonesty, is a tough habit to break.
Neal lets his back sink against his pillows.
“My nose is itching,” he complains with a sniff.
“Tough break, Caffrey,” Peter replies sullenly. He plops himself down in the bedside chair again. “Get one of your nurses to scratch your itch. Or your girlfriend. I’m surprised she’s still talking to you. I guess that means she’s a keeper.”
“We’ll never know if you send me back to prison.”
Neal knows he’s off the hook. Knowing that Neal knows irks Peter to no end.
“You know how much I like smart,” Peter admits and swallows his resentment at having to let Neal get away with a slap on the wrist once again. At least his CI has the decency to hold back the grin that is threatening to creep onto his lips. “Turns out, so does organized crime. They think we’re freaking geniuses at the White Collar unit. They’ve been after Lorenzo for years. Hughes felt it best not to tell them that our in-house criminal pulled a fast one on us.”
The toothy grin wins.
“No, don’t.” Peter nips the con man’s triumph in the bud with a scowl and a double finger point. His tired bones protest the movement, but he heaves himself out of the chair. Threatening lectures to incorrigible ex-cons are best delivered with a height advantage. “Don’t think that this is going to be the end of this. There are going to be rules. Tough rules. Tougher rules. And you are going to toe the line, Neal. Do you understand?”
Neal agrees enthusiastically.
“No you don’t.” Peter sighs and cringes at the defeat in his voice.
Neal only has one-shouldered shrug for him. At least the con man has stopped grinning. It’s a small victory, but Peter will take it. He rubs his forehead and starts to leisurely pace the room again, Neal’s eyes tracking his every step.
“You know,” Peter eventually says. “Sometimes I question the wisdom of all of this. My wisdom. Why the hell do I put up with this, Neal? With you?”
Neal’s face darkens. He’s not the man who likes being referred to as something to be put up with.
“Then why do it, Peter?” He asks bitterly.
Peter keeps up his restless trek through the room.
“Why?” Neal challenges.
Peter stops and looks down at his sulking consultant. Then he reaches into his breast pocket. He pulls out Neal’s FBI ID he has been carrying with him for the past week. Peter flips the cover open and chucks the ID onto the bed. It lands squarely on Neal’s lap, the small piece of paper containing the cookie’s fortune still legible through the clear plastic: We meet by chance, by choice we become friends.
“Why?” Peter finally answers. “Because I made a choice too, Neal.”
He watches his consultant stare sheepishly at that ID on his thigh. His cuffed hand strains to reach the leather wallet and fails.
“Anyway,” Peter continues and digs the heels of his hands into his tired eyes. “Rumor has it they are going to let you out of here within a week. June and my cookie-smuggling wife are already sticking their pretty heads together to get you set up with the help you need. Not surprisingly, my petition to chain you to your desk at the office was voted down, in favor of private nursing care at your swanky loft. And apparently Mozzie has been tricking out a wheelchair. I’m sure it violates safety regulations in at least 40 states. I’d stay away from that thing, if I were you.”
“Thanks for the heads up. I think I have all the broken bones I can handle.”
Peter nods and puffs out a long breath of air.
“Listen, I’m heading home,” he says. “I’ll have a busy week. I can’t promise you I’ll be able to stop by tomorrow.”
“That’s okay.”
Peter opens the door.
“Anything you need me to tell the nurse’s desk on my way out? Body parts to scratch? Bedtime stories to read?”
Neal shakes his head and Peter is ready to pull the door closed behind him when Neal’s call stops him.
“Peter? Aren’t you forgetting something?” He rattles the handcuffs still securing his wrist to the bedrail.
“No, I’m not forgetting, Neal, and neither should you,” Peter says without humor. “Diana will stop by to put you back in your tracker tomorrow. Now go to sleep.”
“You know I could just pick it, right?” Neal announces, entirely too smug for someone whose freedom is hanging by a thread.
Peter hangs his head for a moment then looks his friend square in the eye.
“And then what, Neal?”
THE END
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