White Collar Fic: Confidence Man 2/2
Continued from part one, here.
***
“Wrong way, Peter,” Neal pointed out, unable to dredge up more than a mild tone of objection.
Peter didn't reply to this, only pointed out in turn: “You're smudging the glass.” He sounded even less motivated than Neal to do anything about his complaint.
“Feels nice.” Neal made no movement to sit up, or remove the side of his face from the passenger-door window. The vibration of the moving car was making his nose itch, but he wasn't about to give up his pseudo ice-pack.
“That pill working?”
“Mhmm.” Whatever they'd given him, it hadn't made the numerous aches and pains go away, exactly, but it had made them all matter a whole lot less.
“Keep telling you, buddy: hospitals are your friend.”
Neal didn't feel like commenting on that with his mind in its current state of mush, so instead he reminded Peter more firmly: “Still going the wrong way. Apartment's back...there.” He cast his gaze sideways and watched Peter's face, in profile, narrowing his eyes irritably when Peter's lips curved into a small smile. “C'mon, I'm too tired for the scenic route. Turn 'round.”
“Sheesh, Grumpy. Take a nap,” Peter suggested, but with that small, lenient smile still in place.
“Peter...”
“Nuh uh. None of that. Meatloaf for dinner, remember? El called while you were being patched up in ER. I'm under strict orders, here.”
Neal gave a moan that was intended to sound pathetic. Actually, going to Peter's for dinner didn't sound so bad. Maybe it even sounded kind of nice. Not that Neal would admit that, at least not to Peter. “Just don't 'spect entertainment,” he warned. “M'beat.”
Peter's expression turned strangely serious for a moment. “Yeah,” he said softly, and then gave a small huff of laughter. “Well, I'll let you off the hook this time. No shadow puppet show, tonight.”
“M'good at shadow puppets, you know,” Neal's pride compelled him to boast. “Used to practice on the wall, all the time, after I was supposed to be asleep.” That bit of irrelevant honesty was probably just compelled by the remnants of the morning's hangover, and the afternoon's drama, and the evening's drugs.
“Peter?” Neal asked, after they'd driven in comfortable since for several more minutes.
“Hmm?”
“They're not going to be able to lock him away for very long.”
Peter sighed. “Assault's a start. We've got the photographic evidence of the damage he's done to you. With any luck, it'll be called second degree. We'll do our best.”
Despite the euphoria of successfully knocking Dyer out with the sleeping pills-and the satisfaction of seeing his limp carcass hauled out in handcuffs-Neal was having a hard time feeling the optimism. “He knows where I live now. It's not like I can just pick up and relocate.”
“That's what restraining orders are for. We'll get one of those, too. I'll make sure of it.”
Neal snorted. There was some irony in the idea of Neal being restrained to his radius, and Dyer being restrained from entering it. “Yeah,” he agreed, without placing too much faith in the thought.
Peter spared his eyes from the road long enough to shoot him a look. “You don't think it'll work.”
“I think, after what I just did, he'll take the first chance he gets to do what he's been promising he'd do from the start, if I didn't do what he wanted.”
“What's that?” Peter's tone said he already suspected. More than suspected.
“Kill me,” Neal informed him, dispassionately. The threat felt at once imminent after having seen Dyer again, and, at the same time, faint and far off, because he'd seen Dyer being loaded into the police car to be taken off to a holding cell somewhere.
“Yeah, well, that's not gonna happen.”
Neal gave him a curious look. “You shouldn't drive angry. Clouds your judgement.”
Peter just continued to stare at the road. More than simply cloudy, his judgement was beginning to look completely dark and overcast, with possible thunder-heads forming in the distance. “He's not coming after you again, Neal.”
“What? You're going to kill him?”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
“Really?” The thought shouldn't have warmed Neal. It did.
“More than once.”
“You haven't even met the guy. Least not when he's awake.”
“Don't need to.”
“Peter... You know I could be making all of this up.” That was definitely the drugs or the exhaustion compelling him. Still, it only felt fair to give the warning. Peter had always brought out Neal's most sporting side. “It's really my word against Dyer's. You can't know he made me steal anything in the past. You can't really know I'm in any way innocent, here.”
Peter spared him another glance. “Yeah. Yeah, I can.”
“I like to steal things.”
“Not chump change, for a guy like Dyer. And don't tell me you like being beaten to a bloody pulp, either.”
“Not so much.”
“There you have it, then. I believe you.”
“I'm still not a victim,” Neal muttered. “I got him in the end, didn't I?”
“You did.” Peter nodded his head a few times, with a chuckle of approval. “Which is one reason he won't be coming back. Not a bully and a coward like Dyer.”
“And the other reason?”
“Leave that one to me.”
Neal shifted his face to smudge a new, colder section of the window, letting it numb his throbbing temple. His first reaction was mistrust. His second was simply: “'Kay, Peter.”
***
Since Peter had arrived at Neal's apartment, the refrain of the day had turned into “I'm not a victim.” But every time Peter got a look at the damage Dyer had done to Neal's face, all he heard was “child abuse charges.” No amount of reminding himself that Neal was grown man diminished the feeling. Even at fifteen, he had no doubts that Neal had possessed a strong independent streak; that didn't make the idea of what Dyer had done any easier to think about, and keep control of his temper at the same time.
But Neal clearly wouldn't appreciate any of those sentiments. He wasn't a victim, after all, he could take care of himself, as he was adamant in reminding Peter.
From the moment Elizabeth opened the door and ushered them inside, however, getting her first look at the bruises on Neal's face, Peter could tell she was exactly of the same mindset as he himself was.
To Peter's bemusement, Neal bore her instant hovering with a mien of good grace that bordered on something like actual enjoyment, or at least suspiciously not unhappy sheepishness. Peter couldn't begrudge him a bit of pity, though. From the look of him, he needed some motherly pats on the head right then, and all the soft, caring exclamations of sympathy over his injures that he would take. Since neither of those fell within Peter's jurisdiction, he was more than willing to stand by and let El take over.
El hadn't heard the whole story of what had happened with Dyer. But Neal was worn, and hurt, and there on her doorstep-so clearly a victim, to everyone but himself, even if an ultimately triumphant victim-and it was more than enough for her.
“Smells good,” Neal commented, as they headed for the table. Satchmo followed with his tail wagging in hesitant, yet hopeful, expectation, waiting for some attention (or, better, some meatloaf) to come his way.
“I know what you're thinking...” El began, teasingly argumentative. She ducked into the kitchen, re-emerging with a platter of sliced meat in hand, and finished: “Meatloaf isn't a gourmet's dream come true.”
“I'm sure it's delicious,” Neal hazarded-with just the faintest touch of too much careful guilelessness to be taken at face value.
“Just try it before you give it that dubious look,” Elizabeth instructed, with a show of supposed sternness, dishing plates and passing them down the table. “It's an old family favourite.”
“Tastes good with ketchup, too,” Peter inserted helpfully.
But Neal-taking his first bite, chewing and swallowing it with a thoughtfully considering expression-gave Peter an affronted look. “Ketchup? Seriously, Peter?”
“I know,” Elizabeth lamented, ruefully. “Believe me, he'd put it on potato chips if I didn't draw the line somewhere.”
Peter just made a disgruntled noise, and continued eating. Trying to argue food with those two would've been less than futile. He didn't see the big difference between potato chips and french fries, or why putting ketchup on the second was somehow less sacrilegious than putting it on the first. Ketchup, as far he was concerned, pretty much made any good entree better, and any not-so-good entree at least palatable. It was one of those survival tools. BBQ sauce made a good Plan B, too.
But no need to open his mouth and offend the gods of Fine Cuisine-not to mention risking drawing fire from the fiends of Fine Cuisine sitting at his table. There was always a breakfast of ketchup on cold meatloaf leftovers to look forward to.
“This is really, really good,” Neal said, decisively, between bites, giving immediate credence to his own review by proceeding to devour the piece on his plate with a diligence that was so honestly and openly ravenous it made Peter exchange an amused smile with Elizabeth over the top of his head.
“Can't go wrong, stuffing it with mozzarella and ham,” El averred, beaming all the same. “You want another piece?”
And so the doting continued.
After dinner, Peter left to take Satchmo on a walk. When he returned, Neal was with Elizabeth in the kitchen, helping with the dishes.
A suitably sarcastic comment was on the tip of Peter's tongue to deliver at the sight of Caffrey involved in such a domestic scene. Under his roof. With his wife. Again. But the words died unspoken as he really stopped to take it all in. Neal, with his shirtsleeves rolled up, rinsing dishes and loading them into the dishwasher, and all the while talking animatedly about God-knew-what. It never really mattered what Neal talked about. Words were just so much putty in his hands-and Elizabeth, putting the remnants of the meatloaf into a Tupperware container, was laughing over whatever he was saying with complete abandon.
So maybe it was only natural to be a bit jealous of a guy with Neal's looks-and maybe it made it twice as easy to be jealous and suspicious because it was Neal wearing those looks. But somewhere along the line Neal had started to fit, here, under Peter's roof-even in the kitchen, washing dishes, and making El laugh. He was no longer an interloper, and if Peter was honest with himself all wife-stealing accusations were simple habit. He trusted El.
Caffrey, maybe not so much. But when it came to his intentions as regarded Elizabeth? (Or, rather, his proper lack of any intentions whatsoever.) Yeah. That was one area he knew that Neal knew was off-limits.
Even if “with suspicion” was the only sane way to regard Caffrey on a daily basis, Peter couldn't find it in him to resent the kid right then, especially just for being himself. Because, even on a bad day, when Caffrey deserved a chewing out, it was hard to resent him for being himself. Tonight, with his face a painful assortment of developing black-and-blue smudges, and his eyes full of finally thawing hurt and dread, it was downright impossible.
It didn't exactly help nurture suspicion, either, when your presence was greeted by a mega-watt smile, and a “hey, Peter” of the really-and-truly glad to see you variety. It kind of reminded Peter of Satchmo, actually: the way Neal could greet you back from a ten minute walk with the same exuberance he would've greeted you after you'd been gone on a ten day vacation. And wouldn't Neal love to hear that analogy.
El chimed in with “pecan pie for dessert,” and before long they were ensconced in the living room, eating off paper plates-because both El and Neal had objected to the idea of making more dishes to clean. Yeah, Neal was definitely no longer “company,” if he'd ever really fit into the formality of that role to begin with.
Ten minutes later, Neal fell asleep partway through eating his slice of pie. Peter snagged the plate off his knees, and took the fork as it began to slide from nerveless fingers.
El handed Peter her own empty plate for him to discard on his trip to the kitchen, whispering for him to save the rest of Neal's pie-Neal could have it for breakfast. Peter gave her a raised eyebrow, mouthing in disbelief, “For breakfast?” She gave him a serene look back. Yeah, Neal was definitely scoring sympathy points, tonight. Pie for breakfast. Neal would probably wake up in the morning with his hair sticking up at odd angles, the bruises on his face fully developed, and offer her a sleepy smile. Naturally, at that point El would probably offer him the rest of the pie, too. Or, God forbid, the meatloaf.
Peter returned to the living room to find El had effectively tucked Neal in by pulling his feet up onto the couch and draping a blanket over him. But her look was fiercer than he'd expected, as she stood surveying her handiwork.
“Honey?”
“Someone really deserves to be hurt for-this.” She whispered back fiercely, jerking her chin in Neal's direction. “Why would anyone want to beat Neal up?”
As regarded criminals, the question would seem to answer itself. Neal, of course, wasn't most criminals. Maybe hating violence didn't automatically exempt you from being on the receiving end of it-but for a guy who hated it so passionately, it sure seemed like Neal should've been cut some slack every once in a while from being flung about so callously by life.
Certainly, it was easy to understand the disbelief and outrage in Elizabeth's voice, what with said “criminal” lying on their couch, currently looking like the poster-child for abuse victims, not to mention painfully young and innocent.
“Because he could,” Peter answered her, finally. “Because it was easy.” Because he thought Neal was so much putty in his hands.
“Was it revenge? Did Neal do something to this guy in the past?”
Peter sighed. He wasn't sure how much he should tell her; how much Neal would want her to know; how much she needed to know. She already looked ready to spit fire: maternal instincts clearly in full working order. Of course, that probably meant her keen sense of intuition was also on high alert. “Let's just say that before today I'd never thought I'd actually believe Neal if he told me there were crimes he'd had no choice but to commit,” he answered quietly.
“Is Neal going to be in trouble over this?” she asked, in sudden alarm.
Peter shook his head. He came closer, wrapping an arm around her waist, squeezing gently. “All he did was defend himself, hon. And my guess? This guy-Dyer-probably has a history of violence. Neal was fifteen when they first met. If Dyer had a nasty temper back then, and a tendency to take it out on people...”
Elizabeth's expression became fractionally harder. “Fifteen,” she repeated with a small shake of her head. “Tell me the guy's going to be serving time for this.”
“If I have any say in the matter, plenty of it.”
Elizabeth nodded, but still looked far from satisfied. She tilted her head to rest it against his shoulder, sighing: “I'd like to give this Dyer a piece of my mind.”
“Well, he's not going to get away without getting a piece of mine,” Peter stated in a low voice.
“Make it good, hon,” El's hushed tone sounded at least mildly appeased at the idea.
Peter just gave her her waist another squeeze. He'd make it good, alright. And if Dyer knew what was good for him, he'd listen to every last word.
***
“Mr. Dyer,” Peter acknowledged with a nod.
“Mr....”
“Special Agent Burke,” Peter corrected.
Dyer rested his hands on the table, 'cuffs clinking against the surface. He gave Peter what was probably supposed to be his best “unimpressed, tough-guy” look. Instead, he merely looked disgruntled, miserable, and unkempt.
“What do you want with me, Special Agent Burke?”
Peter folded his arms casually across his chest, letting the stale, echoing noises of prison fill the void for a minute: buzzers, and clanging doors, and muffled orders.
A light bulb all but appeared over Dyer's head, eyes lighting up with realization. “You're here about Caffrey.” He was triumphant. “I knew he had to be into something big, with an apartment like that. Guy's a crook-a con. As slippery as they come. Don't let those oh-so-innocent blue eyes fool you. But I guess you guys know all that already, right?”
“Yeah,” Peter agreed, not without humor, letting Dyer feel like he had the upper hand for a brief moment. “We know all about Caffrey.”
“So I'm getting out of here, then. I mean, clearly, the guy's lying. He's a professional liar. He drugged me. Oh-and he hit me good in the chest, too. I'm lucky I don't have cracked ribs.”
“You gave him a few things to remember you by, yourself,” Peter stated coolly.
Dyer frowned. “Caffrey's not the victim, here.”
“And you are?” Peter let disdain color his voice.
Dyer's frown deepened. “Look, I don't know what he's been telling you guys, but he's the one who should be in a cell. You've got him locked up, right?”
“Actually...” Peter pursed his lips in a show of consideration, before shaking his head. “Right about now, my wife's probably making him a late breakfast. He crashed on our couch last night after dinner-fell asleep in the middle of dessert. Kind of a bad habit of his, dropping off to sleep like that, especially when he's on pain meds, but I didn't have the heart to wake him up just to send him home.”
Dyer obviously didn't know how to take this information.
Peter spelled it out for him: “Caffrey's already been caught, Dyer. He's out on probation after agreeing to assist our white-collar unit on cases. He's part of my team.”
The cogs and wheels were really spinning, now. “He works for...the Feds?”
“One of the best CIs we've got.”
“Doesn't mean he's the innocent one, here,” Dyer countered, self-righteously.
“But he is,” Peter said quietly, with confidence that he'd rarely been able to have when it came to something involving Neal. “And he was then, too, wasn't he?”
Dyer stiffened. “Don't know what you're talking about, Agent Burke.”
There were too many reasons digging into Neal's past “acquaintance” with Dyer-in an official, investigative sense-was a moot point. At this point, there was no evidence (except for Neal's word) of any of the abuse. As for the crimes Dyer had manipulated him into committing, on the one hand there was the statute of limitations on Neal's side, not to mention the fact that...
“He was still a minor,” Peter stated levelly. “Anything he did, you're more likely to get in trouble for than he is.”
Dyer scoffed. “More like a major pain in the-”
“-You can't afford to open that can of worms,” Peter interrupted. “It'll only go the worse for you in the end.”
“Are you threatening me?”
Peter smiled. “Only with the effectiveness of due process, Mr. Dyer. You're not afraid of justice, are you?”
Dyer told Peter exactly what he could do with his “due process” and “justice.”
“I'd let your attorney rephrase that sentiment for you at your hearing, if I were you,” Peter suggested off-handedly. “You're going to need all the help you can get.”
“Because I'm so much trouble.” Dyer snorted. “You mean for hitting the kid around?”
“Your assault on Neal Caffrey's just the tip of the iceberg, the way I hear it.”
“Who says?” Dyer shot back, petulantly.
“The officer who brought you in, for a start. Turns out your record's not terribly flattering. Indecent public behaviour? Brawling? Attacking an ATM machine?” Peter winced in mock sympathy before finishing with emphasis: “That's not to mention destruction of Federal property. Ouch. That's a felony, right there. Throwing rocks at police cars isn't a smart move, especially when you're within view of the dash-cam.” Judging by the way Dyer's eyes widened a fraction, it was news to him that he'd been caught red-handed, his drunken bit of fun “witnessed” by an empty police car. “But I shouldn't go into any more of that, not without your lawyer present.”
Dyer had a few unfiltered sentiments about lawyers to air, too.
“Well, that's your choice, Dyer. I really came here for another reason.”
“What's that?” Dyer was sullen in the face of Peter's cheerful calm.
Peter leaned in, confidentially. “I don't know how long they're going to lock you away for, Dyer. More than likely, five to ten years, if they find you guilty of half the stuff I just mentioned.”
Dyer mumbled some more general insults, but his attitude was becoming increasingly subdued.
“When you do get out,” Peter continued, “there's going to be a restraining order on you.” They made eye contact. “If you ever try to contact him, or threaten to harm him again, we'll be having another conversation.”
“Now you are threatening me.”
“I'm giving you the best advice of your life,” Peter contradicted, coldly. “Neal Caffrey isn't a fifteen-year-old kid on his own anymore. He's got a home, and he's got friends who care about him-and he doesn't manipulate easily.” And I've spent too long working to get him on the straight and narrow to have a moron like you come in and ruin the prospects in life he's finally beginning to earn by going clean.
Dyer swallowed thickly under Peter's uncompromising stare, and Peter knew the message had been received.
But far be it from a braggart and bully like Dyer to let the conversation end with that.
“Too much of a headache, anyway.” Dyer laughed. “Always was high maintenance, the Caff. Kid's not worth it.”
Peter left, deciding it was as close to a promise as he was going to get. Dyer would be getting another visit as a reminder-once he'd served his time. Hopefully he'd still remember just how much of a headache “the Caff” was after he was out of prison. Either way, the restraining order would be ready, and so would Peter.
The tension of anger had time to bleed away on his drive home. Dyer's last words kept replaying in his mind. High maintenance. A headache. Admittedly, Neal could be both.
“Kid's not worth it.”
That was the part that drew Peter up short, and gave him a surge of fresh anger. Dyer really was an idiot if that was his conclusion-his final summary of Neal.
Peter pulled into the driveway, and sat for a moment, grounding himself back in the present. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon. The guy who'd hurt Neal was behind bars. Moreover, Peter was home. All of which meant that the Peter Burke whose name was prefaced by “Special Agent” could go back to the office and wait for him until tomorrow. Today he could be just Peter for a while.
Peter opened the front door, the sounds within leading him towards the kitchen.
“Hey Peter,” Neal greeted, smiling broadly. He stood with a hip leaned against the kitchen counter, a plate of meatloaf in hand. “Elizabeth ran to get a few groceries. Should be back any minute.” He set his fork on his plate long enough to reach down and scratch an extremely attentive Satchmo behind the ear. “Where were you, anyway?”
“I'll tell you about it later.”
Neal gave him a suspicious look, as if he sensed all. But he shrugged, then, and took another bite of meatloaf, chewing thoughtfully and swallowing. “Thanks for letting me use the couch.”
“I think it's got your name on it by now.”
Neal just smiled and ate more meatloaf, unrepentantly. This was Caffrey. He knew exactly the kind of sympathy a bruised and battered face, tousled hair, and sleep-rumpled clothes could buy him.
“There's more meatloaf in the fridge,” Neal pointed out, and added generously, “I won't even tell Elizabeth if you use the ketchup.”
Peter muttered at Neal-warnings about coming between a federal agent and his sauce of choice-and watched Neal smirk in satisfaction. He decided right then and there that Dyer didn't know a thing about worthwhile endeavours.
***
End
***
“Wrong way, Peter,” Neal pointed out, unable to dredge up more than a mild tone of objection.
Peter didn't reply to this, only pointed out in turn: “You're smudging the glass.” He sounded even less motivated than Neal to do anything about his complaint.
“Feels nice.” Neal made no movement to sit up, or remove the side of his face from the passenger-door window. The vibration of the moving car was making his nose itch, but he wasn't about to give up his pseudo ice-pack.
“That pill working?”
“Mhmm.” Whatever they'd given him, it hadn't made the numerous aches and pains go away, exactly, but it had made them all matter a whole lot less.
“Keep telling you, buddy: hospitals are your friend.”
Neal didn't feel like commenting on that with his mind in its current state of mush, so instead he reminded Peter more firmly: “Still going the wrong way. Apartment's back...there.” He cast his gaze sideways and watched Peter's face, in profile, narrowing his eyes irritably when Peter's lips curved into a small smile. “C'mon, I'm too tired for the scenic route. Turn 'round.”
“Sheesh, Grumpy. Take a nap,” Peter suggested, but with that small, lenient smile still in place.
“Peter...”
“Nuh uh. None of that. Meatloaf for dinner, remember? El called while you were being patched up in ER. I'm under strict orders, here.”
Neal gave a moan that was intended to sound pathetic. Actually, going to Peter's for dinner didn't sound so bad. Maybe it even sounded kind of nice. Not that Neal would admit that, at least not to Peter. “Just don't 'spect entertainment,” he warned. “M'beat.”
Peter's expression turned strangely serious for a moment. “Yeah,” he said softly, and then gave a small huff of laughter. “Well, I'll let you off the hook this time. No shadow puppet show, tonight.”
“M'good at shadow puppets, you know,” Neal's pride compelled him to boast. “Used to practice on the wall, all the time, after I was supposed to be asleep.” That bit of irrelevant honesty was probably just compelled by the remnants of the morning's hangover, and the afternoon's drama, and the evening's drugs.
“Peter?” Neal asked, after they'd driven in comfortable since for several more minutes.
“Hmm?”
“They're not going to be able to lock him away for very long.”
Peter sighed. “Assault's a start. We've got the photographic evidence of the damage he's done to you. With any luck, it'll be called second degree. We'll do our best.”
Despite the euphoria of successfully knocking Dyer out with the sleeping pills-and the satisfaction of seeing his limp carcass hauled out in handcuffs-Neal was having a hard time feeling the optimism. “He knows where I live now. It's not like I can just pick up and relocate.”
“That's what restraining orders are for. We'll get one of those, too. I'll make sure of it.”
Neal snorted. There was some irony in the idea of Neal being restrained to his radius, and Dyer being restrained from entering it. “Yeah,” he agreed, without placing too much faith in the thought.
Peter spared his eyes from the road long enough to shoot him a look. “You don't think it'll work.”
“I think, after what I just did, he'll take the first chance he gets to do what he's been promising he'd do from the start, if I didn't do what he wanted.”
“What's that?” Peter's tone said he already suspected. More than suspected.
“Kill me,” Neal informed him, dispassionately. The threat felt at once imminent after having seen Dyer again, and, at the same time, faint and far off, because he'd seen Dyer being loaded into the police car to be taken off to a holding cell somewhere.
“Yeah, well, that's not gonna happen.”
Neal gave him a curious look. “You shouldn't drive angry. Clouds your judgement.”
Peter just continued to stare at the road. More than simply cloudy, his judgement was beginning to look completely dark and overcast, with possible thunder-heads forming in the distance. “He's not coming after you again, Neal.”
“What? You're going to kill him?”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
“Really?” The thought shouldn't have warmed Neal. It did.
“More than once.”
“You haven't even met the guy. Least not when he's awake.”
“Don't need to.”
“Peter... You know I could be making all of this up.” That was definitely the drugs or the exhaustion compelling him. Still, it only felt fair to give the warning. Peter had always brought out Neal's most sporting side. “It's really my word against Dyer's. You can't know he made me steal anything in the past. You can't really know I'm in any way innocent, here.”
Peter spared him another glance. “Yeah. Yeah, I can.”
“I like to steal things.”
“Not chump change, for a guy like Dyer. And don't tell me you like being beaten to a bloody pulp, either.”
“Not so much.”
“There you have it, then. I believe you.”
“I'm still not a victim,” Neal muttered. “I got him in the end, didn't I?”
“You did.” Peter nodded his head a few times, with a chuckle of approval. “Which is one reason he won't be coming back. Not a bully and a coward like Dyer.”
“And the other reason?”
“Leave that one to me.”
Neal shifted his face to smudge a new, colder section of the window, letting it numb his throbbing temple. His first reaction was mistrust. His second was simply: “'Kay, Peter.”
***
Since Peter had arrived at Neal's apartment, the refrain of the day had turned into “I'm not a victim.” But every time Peter got a look at the damage Dyer had done to Neal's face, all he heard was “child abuse charges.” No amount of reminding himself that Neal was grown man diminished the feeling. Even at fifteen, he had no doubts that Neal had possessed a strong independent streak; that didn't make the idea of what Dyer had done any easier to think about, and keep control of his temper at the same time.
But Neal clearly wouldn't appreciate any of those sentiments. He wasn't a victim, after all, he could take care of himself, as he was adamant in reminding Peter.
From the moment Elizabeth opened the door and ushered them inside, however, getting her first look at the bruises on Neal's face, Peter could tell she was exactly of the same mindset as he himself was.
To Peter's bemusement, Neal bore her instant hovering with a mien of good grace that bordered on something like actual enjoyment, or at least suspiciously not unhappy sheepishness. Peter couldn't begrudge him a bit of pity, though. From the look of him, he needed some motherly pats on the head right then, and all the soft, caring exclamations of sympathy over his injures that he would take. Since neither of those fell within Peter's jurisdiction, he was more than willing to stand by and let El take over.
El hadn't heard the whole story of what had happened with Dyer. But Neal was worn, and hurt, and there on her doorstep-so clearly a victim, to everyone but himself, even if an ultimately triumphant victim-and it was more than enough for her.
“Smells good,” Neal commented, as they headed for the table. Satchmo followed with his tail wagging in hesitant, yet hopeful, expectation, waiting for some attention (or, better, some meatloaf) to come his way.
“I know what you're thinking...” El began, teasingly argumentative. She ducked into the kitchen, re-emerging with a platter of sliced meat in hand, and finished: “Meatloaf isn't a gourmet's dream come true.”
“I'm sure it's delicious,” Neal hazarded-with just the faintest touch of too much careful guilelessness to be taken at face value.
“Just try it before you give it that dubious look,” Elizabeth instructed, with a show of supposed sternness, dishing plates and passing them down the table. “It's an old family favourite.”
“Tastes good with ketchup, too,” Peter inserted helpfully.
But Neal-taking his first bite, chewing and swallowing it with a thoughtfully considering expression-gave Peter an affronted look. “Ketchup? Seriously, Peter?”
“I know,” Elizabeth lamented, ruefully. “Believe me, he'd put it on potato chips if I didn't draw the line somewhere.”
Peter just made a disgruntled noise, and continued eating. Trying to argue food with those two would've been less than futile. He didn't see the big difference between potato chips and french fries, or why putting ketchup on the second was somehow less sacrilegious than putting it on the first. Ketchup, as far he was concerned, pretty much made any good entree better, and any not-so-good entree at least palatable. It was one of those survival tools. BBQ sauce made a good Plan B, too.
But no need to open his mouth and offend the gods of Fine Cuisine-not to mention risking drawing fire from the fiends of Fine Cuisine sitting at his table. There was always a breakfast of ketchup on cold meatloaf leftovers to look forward to.
“This is really, really good,” Neal said, decisively, between bites, giving immediate credence to his own review by proceeding to devour the piece on his plate with a diligence that was so honestly and openly ravenous it made Peter exchange an amused smile with Elizabeth over the top of his head.
“Can't go wrong, stuffing it with mozzarella and ham,” El averred, beaming all the same. “You want another piece?”
And so the doting continued.
After dinner, Peter left to take Satchmo on a walk. When he returned, Neal was with Elizabeth in the kitchen, helping with the dishes.
A suitably sarcastic comment was on the tip of Peter's tongue to deliver at the sight of Caffrey involved in such a domestic scene. Under his roof. With his wife. Again. But the words died unspoken as he really stopped to take it all in. Neal, with his shirtsleeves rolled up, rinsing dishes and loading them into the dishwasher, and all the while talking animatedly about God-knew-what. It never really mattered what Neal talked about. Words were just so much putty in his hands-and Elizabeth, putting the remnants of the meatloaf into a Tupperware container, was laughing over whatever he was saying with complete abandon.
So maybe it was only natural to be a bit jealous of a guy with Neal's looks-and maybe it made it twice as easy to be jealous and suspicious because it was Neal wearing those looks. But somewhere along the line Neal had started to fit, here, under Peter's roof-even in the kitchen, washing dishes, and making El laugh. He was no longer an interloper, and if Peter was honest with himself all wife-stealing accusations were simple habit. He trusted El.
Caffrey, maybe not so much. But when it came to his intentions as regarded Elizabeth? (Or, rather, his proper lack of any intentions whatsoever.) Yeah. That was one area he knew that Neal knew was off-limits.
Even if “with suspicion” was the only sane way to regard Caffrey on a daily basis, Peter couldn't find it in him to resent the kid right then, especially just for being himself. Because, even on a bad day, when Caffrey deserved a chewing out, it was hard to resent him for being himself. Tonight, with his face a painful assortment of developing black-and-blue smudges, and his eyes full of finally thawing hurt and dread, it was downright impossible.
It didn't exactly help nurture suspicion, either, when your presence was greeted by a mega-watt smile, and a “hey, Peter” of the really-and-truly glad to see you variety. It kind of reminded Peter of Satchmo, actually: the way Neal could greet you back from a ten minute walk with the same exuberance he would've greeted you after you'd been gone on a ten day vacation. And wouldn't Neal love to hear that analogy.
El chimed in with “pecan pie for dessert,” and before long they were ensconced in the living room, eating off paper plates-because both El and Neal had objected to the idea of making more dishes to clean. Yeah, Neal was definitely no longer “company,” if he'd ever really fit into the formality of that role to begin with.
Ten minutes later, Neal fell asleep partway through eating his slice of pie. Peter snagged the plate off his knees, and took the fork as it began to slide from nerveless fingers.
El handed Peter her own empty plate for him to discard on his trip to the kitchen, whispering for him to save the rest of Neal's pie-Neal could have it for breakfast. Peter gave her a raised eyebrow, mouthing in disbelief, “For breakfast?” She gave him a serene look back. Yeah, Neal was definitely scoring sympathy points, tonight. Pie for breakfast. Neal would probably wake up in the morning with his hair sticking up at odd angles, the bruises on his face fully developed, and offer her a sleepy smile. Naturally, at that point El would probably offer him the rest of the pie, too. Or, God forbid, the meatloaf.
Peter returned to the living room to find El had effectively tucked Neal in by pulling his feet up onto the couch and draping a blanket over him. But her look was fiercer than he'd expected, as she stood surveying her handiwork.
“Honey?”
“Someone really deserves to be hurt for-this.” She whispered back fiercely, jerking her chin in Neal's direction. “Why would anyone want to beat Neal up?”
As regarded criminals, the question would seem to answer itself. Neal, of course, wasn't most criminals. Maybe hating violence didn't automatically exempt you from being on the receiving end of it-but for a guy who hated it so passionately, it sure seemed like Neal should've been cut some slack every once in a while from being flung about so callously by life.
Certainly, it was easy to understand the disbelief and outrage in Elizabeth's voice, what with said “criminal” lying on their couch, currently looking like the poster-child for abuse victims, not to mention painfully young and innocent.
“Because he could,” Peter answered her, finally. “Because it was easy.” Because he thought Neal was so much putty in his hands.
“Was it revenge? Did Neal do something to this guy in the past?”
Peter sighed. He wasn't sure how much he should tell her; how much Neal would want her to know; how much she needed to know. She already looked ready to spit fire: maternal instincts clearly in full working order. Of course, that probably meant her keen sense of intuition was also on high alert. “Let's just say that before today I'd never thought I'd actually believe Neal if he told me there were crimes he'd had no choice but to commit,” he answered quietly.
“Is Neal going to be in trouble over this?” she asked, in sudden alarm.
Peter shook his head. He came closer, wrapping an arm around her waist, squeezing gently. “All he did was defend himself, hon. And my guess? This guy-Dyer-probably has a history of violence. Neal was fifteen when they first met. If Dyer had a nasty temper back then, and a tendency to take it out on people...”
Elizabeth's expression became fractionally harder. “Fifteen,” she repeated with a small shake of her head. “Tell me the guy's going to be serving time for this.”
“If I have any say in the matter, plenty of it.”
Elizabeth nodded, but still looked far from satisfied. She tilted her head to rest it against his shoulder, sighing: “I'd like to give this Dyer a piece of my mind.”
“Well, he's not going to get away without getting a piece of mine,” Peter stated in a low voice.
“Make it good, hon,” El's hushed tone sounded at least mildly appeased at the idea.
Peter just gave her her waist another squeeze. He'd make it good, alright. And if Dyer knew what was good for him, he'd listen to every last word.
***
“Mr. Dyer,” Peter acknowledged with a nod.
“Mr....”
“Special Agent Burke,” Peter corrected.
Dyer rested his hands on the table, 'cuffs clinking against the surface. He gave Peter what was probably supposed to be his best “unimpressed, tough-guy” look. Instead, he merely looked disgruntled, miserable, and unkempt.
“What do you want with me, Special Agent Burke?”
Peter folded his arms casually across his chest, letting the stale, echoing noises of prison fill the void for a minute: buzzers, and clanging doors, and muffled orders.
A light bulb all but appeared over Dyer's head, eyes lighting up with realization. “You're here about Caffrey.” He was triumphant. “I knew he had to be into something big, with an apartment like that. Guy's a crook-a con. As slippery as they come. Don't let those oh-so-innocent blue eyes fool you. But I guess you guys know all that already, right?”
“Yeah,” Peter agreed, not without humor, letting Dyer feel like he had the upper hand for a brief moment. “We know all about Caffrey.”
“So I'm getting out of here, then. I mean, clearly, the guy's lying. He's a professional liar. He drugged me. Oh-and he hit me good in the chest, too. I'm lucky I don't have cracked ribs.”
“You gave him a few things to remember you by, yourself,” Peter stated coolly.
Dyer frowned. “Caffrey's not the victim, here.”
“And you are?” Peter let disdain color his voice.
Dyer's frown deepened. “Look, I don't know what he's been telling you guys, but he's the one who should be in a cell. You've got him locked up, right?”
“Actually...” Peter pursed his lips in a show of consideration, before shaking his head. “Right about now, my wife's probably making him a late breakfast. He crashed on our couch last night after dinner-fell asleep in the middle of dessert. Kind of a bad habit of his, dropping off to sleep like that, especially when he's on pain meds, but I didn't have the heart to wake him up just to send him home.”
Dyer obviously didn't know how to take this information.
Peter spelled it out for him: “Caffrey's already been caught, Dyer. He's out on probation after agreeing to assist our white-collar unit on cases. He's part of my team.”
The cogs and wheels were really spinning, now. “He works for...the Feds?”
“One of the best CIs we've got.”
“Doesn't mean he's the innocent one, here,” Dyer countered, self-righteously.
“But he is,” Peter said quietly, with confidence that he'd rarely been able to have when it came to something involving Neal. “And he was then, too, wasn't he?”
Dyer stiffened. “Don't know what you're talking about, Agent Burke.”
There were too many reasons digging into Neal's past “acquaintance” with Dyer-in an official, investigative sense-was a moot point. At this point, there was no evidence (except for Neal's word) of any of the abuse. As for the crimes Dyer had manipulated him into committing, on the one hand there was the statute of limitations on Neal's side, not to mention the fact that...
“He was still a minor,” Peter stated levelly. “Anything he did, you're more likely to get in trouble for than he is.”
Dyer scoffed. “More like a major pain in the-”
“-You can't afford to open that can of worms,” Peter interrupted. “It'll only go the worse for you in the end.”
“Are you threatening me?”
Peter smiled. “Only with the effectiveness of due process, Mr. Dyer. You're not afraid of justice, are you?”
Dyer told Peter exactly what he could do with his “due process” and “justice.”
“I'd let your attorney rephrase that sentiment for you at your hearing, if I were you,” Peter suggested off-handedly. “You're going to need all the help you can get.”
“Because I'm so much trouble.” Dyer snorted. “You mean for hitting the kid around?”
“Your assault on Neal Caffrey's just the tip of the iceberg, the way I hear it.”
“Who says?” Dyer shot back, petulantly.
“The officer who brought you in, for a start. Turns out your record's not terribly flattering. Indecent public behaviour? Brawling? Attacking an ATM machine?” Peter winced in mock sympathy before finishing with emphasis: “That's not to mention destruction of Federal property. Ouch. That's a felony, right there. Throwing rocks at police cars isn't a smart move, especially when you're within view of the dash-cam.” Judging by the way Dyer's eyes widened a fraction, it was news to him that he'd been caught red-handed, his drunken bit of fun “witnessed” by an empty police car. “But I shouldn't go into any more of that, not without your lawyer present.”
Dyer had a few unfiltered sentiments about lawyers to air, too.
“Well, that's your choice, Dyer. I really came here for another reason.”
“What's that?” Dyer was sullen in the face of Peter's cheerful calm.
Peter leaned in, confidentially. “I don't know how long they're going to lock you away for, Dyer. More than likely, five to ten years, if they find you guilty of half the stuff I just mentioned.”
Dyer mumbled some more general insults, but his attitude was becoming increasingly subdued.
“When you do get out,” Peter continued, “there's going to be a restraining order on you.” They made eye contact. “If you ever try to contact him, or threaten to harm him again, we'll be having another conversation.”
“Now you are threatening me.”
“I'm giving you the best advice of your life,” Peter contradicted, coldly. “Neal Caffrey isn't a fifteen-year-old kid on his own anymore. He's got a home, and he's got friends who care about him-and he doesn't manipulate easily.” And I've spent too long working to get him on the straight and narrow to have a moron like you come in and ruin the prospects in life he's finally beginning to earn by going clean.
Dyer swallowed thickly under Peter's uncompromising stare, and Peter knew the message had been received.
But far be it from a braggart and bully like Dyer to let the conversation end with that.
“Too much of a headache, anyway.” Dyer laughed. “Always was high maintenance, the Caff. Kid's not worth it.”
Peter left, deciding it was as close to a promise as he was going to get. Dyer would be getting another visit as a reminder-once he'd served his time. Hopefully he'd still remember just how much of a headache “the Caff” was after he was out of prison. Either way, the restraining order would be ready, and so would Peter.
The tension of anger had time to bleed away on his drive home. Dyer's last words kept replaying in his mind. High maintenance. A headache. Admittedly, Neal could be both.
“Kid's not worth it.”
That was the part that drew Peter up short, and gave him a surge of fresh anger. Dyer really was an idiot if that was his conclusion-his final summary of Neal.
Peter pulled into the driveway, and sat for a moment, grounding himself back in the present. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon. The guy who'd hurt Neal was behind bars. Moreover, Peter was home. All of which meant that the Peter Burke whose name was prefaced by “Special Agent” could go back to the office and wait for him until tomorrow. Today he could be just Peter for a while.
Peter opened the front door, the sounds within leading him towards the kitchen.
“Hey Peter,” Neal greeted, smiling broadly. He stood with a hip leaned against the kitchen counter, a plate of meatloaf in hand. “Elizabeth ran to get a few groceries. Should be back any minute.” He set his fork on his plate long enough to reach down and scratch an extremely attentive Satchmo behind the ear. “Where were you, anyway?”
“I'll tell you about it later.”
Neal gave him a suspicious look, as if he sensed all. But he shrugged, then, and took another bite of meatloaf, chewing thoughtfully and swallowing. “Thanks for letting me use the couch.”
“I think it's got your name on it by now.”
Neal just smiled and ate more meatloaf, unrepentantly. This was Caffrey. He knew exactly the kind of sympathy a bruised and battered face, tousled hair, and sleep-rumpled clothes could buy him.
“There's more meatloaf in the fridge,” Neal pointed out, and added generously, “I won't even tell Elizabeth if you use the ketchup.”
Peter muttered at Neal-warnings about coming between a federal agent and his sauce of choice-and watched Neal smirk in satisfaction. He decided right then and there that Dyer didn't know a thing about worthwhile endeavours.
***
End