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elrhiarhodanA Life More Ordinary – Part Four
It was Monday and Elizabeth came in from a meeting with a new client, when Yvonne announced with great delight, “You got a delivery.” "
"Hmmm, thanks, but I get deliveries all the time." She hung up her coat and was headed for the coffee maker. The weather changed last night, a cold front sweeping away the autumn sunshine. Wind and rain battered against the glass storefront, and the whole office seemed bleak. Except for the enormous bouquet of flowers occupying a place of honor in the middle of the showroom floor.
The bouquet was vast and almost incomprehensible. There were tulips – exotic gorgeous, fringed varieties, fantastic dahlias in blazing pinks and oranges, ruby-throated lilies, all interspersed with white roses the size of teacups and lush greenery framing everything.
"These came for you about a half-hour ago."
El reached out and brushed a finger against one of the flowers, it was so perfect she almost didn’t think it was real. "Was there a card?" She had no idea who’d send her flowers like this. Not her husband – he preferred to make his grand gestures in bed. Asher, maybe? He’d called a few times and they’d talked, behaving like casual friends getting to know each other again. Except that he always made it clear that he’d be interested in picking up where they’d left off. And despite what she and Peter had decided a few months ago, Asher’s offer was more and more appealing.
Yvonne handed her the small envelope. El recognized the florist’s seal, it was a company she used for only of the most exclusive and expensive events she managed. Yes, this was a gesture that Asher would make. She smiled as she opened the card.
And blinked. The flowers weren’t from Asher.
Yvonne had the good sense and better manners not to pry about the card, but she was obviously curious. "A happy client?"
"Yes." Damn, she hated lying.
"Ah." Thankfully, Yvonne didn’t say anything more than that and drifted back to whatever task she’d been doing before El came back from lunch. Her assistant knew that she and Peter had a somewhat unconventional marriage, but she never pried or passed judgment.
She looked at the flowers and then down at the card and back at the flowers again. She carefully plucked a single white rose from the bouquet and headed back to her private office.
The card was as succinct as the flowers were extravagant. Just a simple request, "Please call me, Neal."
Her stomach filled with butterflies as she read those four words over and over again, tapping the white rose against her cheek. She was a little giddy, a little frightened. Hadn’t she just told Peter that she wasn’t sure she wanted a relationship with Neal, that they might be better as a "V" than a perfect triangle? And now, looking at the card, seeing that bouquet, she felt like a teenager who was waiting to be picked up on her first date.
She put down the rose and took a deep breath before dialing Neal’s number. It rang twice before he answered.
"Elizabeth?"
She could hear the smile in his voice. "Hi, Neal."
"You got the flowers."
"Yes, and they’re magnificent."
"I hoped you’d like them – I noticed you were partial to dahlias."
"I am, and tulips and lilies and roses."
"Good. I’m glad."
The silence strung out for a bit, but not uncomfortably.
El asked, because they were supposed to be friends and she wanted to find the right level with him. "How was the rest of your weekend?"
"It was good, mostly quiet. Yours?"
"The same." She and Peter had spent most of Saturday afternoon lounging in bed. Neal didn’t really need to know that. "We went to movie on Saturday. Sunday was a typical chore day. It’s not a glamorous life we lead."
"It’s the ordinary things that make life good."
"That’s true." She thought about all the extraordinary events in her life – the good and the terrible. Yes, there was something to be said for the ordinary life.
"Elizabeth?"
She smiled at the slight nervousness she heard in Neal’s voice. "Yes?"
"Are you free for lunch today? I don’t have office hours after eleven and I’d like to take you to out."
"Just me?"
"Just the two of us. How does that sound?"
"Mmm, nice. Where?"
They talked restaurants for a bit and settled on a SoHo bistro. El figured that the menu wasn’t really going to matter. And she was right.
A little before one o’clock, she breezed into the restaurant, her cheeks flushed from brisk walk. She’d debated taking a cab from her office, not wanted to look mussed. But the cab lost the debate. Her showroom was only a dozen blocks away and she didn’t want to appear like she was trying too hard, either. So, it was a bright red power suit, with heels that were high enough to flatter her legs but not so high that she’d end up crippled from the walk. The morning’s storm had blown out, leaving one of those perfect autumn days that New York City was so famous for in its wake.
Neal was waiting at the bar. Elizabeth was reminded of their first meeting – when he appeared to be nothing more than a carefree young professional, one who had piqued her husband’s interest and hers too.
He met her halfway across the room and kissed her cheek. She felt very continental and even a bit naughty, as if she hadn’t shared her marriage with others over the past dozen years.
The hostess showed them to a comfortable booth towards the back of the restaurant and left them alone for a few minutes.
"So." She might have had the urge to be cosseted, but she would never be a shrinking violet. "Why am I here?"
Neal smiled at her, his pleasure lighting up in his eyes. "Thank you for this."
"For meeting you for lunch?" She looked at him from under her eyelashes
"That, for starters."
"What’s the main course, then? You?" Neal blinked and El cursed herself. She was running hot and cold, and if there was one thing that annoyed her, it was inconsistency.
Neal didn’t stop smiling, but his expression turned thoughtful. "I could be on the menu, but maybe not for lunch – not this afternoon."
"Then let me ask again, why am I here?"
Neal rested his hand palms down on the table, fingers spread wide. She liked the look of those hand against the dark wood.
"I treated you very badly."
All the girlishness, the heady, flirtatious mood she’d worked up on the walk over, vanished. "You did, but not without reason."
Neal reached out with those long perfect fingers and snagged her hand. He didn’t hold it like a lover, like someone bent on seduction. He held it like her hand, her being, was a gentle, delicate creature, something that might shatter at the slightest touch. "Maybe my reasons were good, maybe they weren’t, but that’s besides the point. I never apologized to you. I may have, to Peter, but not to you. That day in the liquor store, you called me a liar and a coward – "
"Neal – "
"No, let me finish. I was just what you called me, a liar and a coward. I was too afraid to see that the two of you were offering me something wonderful, something I should never have been afraid of. I’m more grateful that words can express that Peter’s been able to forgive me. But I’m not sure that you’ve forgiven me." Neal paused and took a breath. "And I’m not sure how I can earn the right to your forgiveness."
Neal, in his earnestness, looked impossibly young. Then she met his eyes and that illusion vanished. He looked older than anyone should. He was wary, but still hopeful.
"I’ll be honest, Neal. I wasn’t sure that I could forgive you. I wanted to, I wanted to make you part of our lives. There was something there. There still is."
"But?"
She turned the hand he was holding, so their fingers meshed. "But …"
"I’m not easy. I have too much baggage." The sad twist in Neal’s smile was heartbreaking.
"You do." Elizabeth sighed. "But maybe the problem isn’t your baggage. Maybe it’s me. I’m tired. It’s been a long, hard year." She licked her lips. "And maybe I don’t want to have to be strong for you, too." There, she said it.
Neal seemed to understand. "I don’t know if I could be as strong as you are – as you’ve been. Peter told me what happened, how he was shot." Neal squeezed her hand. "I’ve seen the scars and I can barely imagine how he survived."
El shuddered at the memory. "I don’t know, either. A miracle of science, a lot of luck. That Peter’s walking is almost incomprehensible. Five years ago, he might have lost his leg. That bastard used cop-killer bullets on him."
"Peter didn’t tell me that."
"Yeah – if he hadn’t been wearing one of the new vests, he would have died from the first shot." She shook her head, trying to dispel the rage and fear that thought always brought.
"You’ve been with him every step of the way, haven’t you?"
She nodded, but was unwilling to share the details. "A lot of long days and longer nights. But we pulled through."
"And right now, you deserve someone a little easier, someone who doesn’t have as many issues as the New Yorker."
She laughed at the analogy. "Maybe. But Peter wants you in his life. He cares very much for you."
"Is that a problem?"
"No. Not at all. When I came home on Saturday, hearing him laugh like that, knowing that you brought that to him, made me so happy. How could I object?"
Neal sighed. "But I’m not what you want."
El admitted to her ambivalence. "I don’t know."
"You don’t know?"
"Objectively, Neal – you’re everything I could want. You’re smart, you’re sensitive, you appreciate who and what we are."
"I just have a lot of baggage."
"Yeah." She wanted to erase the clouds she put in Neal’s eyes. "You and Peter – you have my blessing. Don’t doubt that."
"Thank you – but still, it feels unfair."
"Why?"
"Peter gets me, I get Peter – what do you have?"
"Well, I still have Peter. He’s my husband. He loves me very much."
"I know that, but …"
El chuckled. "You don’t really know much about polyamory, do you?"
Neal shrugged. "I haven’t done a lot research on the subject."
"Quite a few of our poly relationships haven’t been triangles."
"Huh?"
"We’re not always a threesome. Peter’s had his interests, I’ve had mine. Admittedly, some of our best times have been with a shared partner, but not always."
Neal nodded, processing her statement. "So, if Peter and I are together, you will have Peter and someone else?"
"Maybe. Likely."
"Someone easy? Someone uncomplicated?"
"Probably."
"That seems … fair."
"You don’t sound convinced."
"It’s not that."
"Then what?"
"I, well …"
Even in the dim light of the restaurant, Elizabeth could see the blush stealing across Neal’s cheeks. "Neal?"
"I want you, too."
The way he bit his lip and looked at her, it made her want to drag him off to the nearest hotel room and have her wicked way with him. It made her want to forget all her hesitations. But she didn’t give in. She reached out and stroked his cheek. "That’s not off the table, but I think that right now, it might be best for us to find our own normal without the complications of sex."
He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving hers.
"I know I was the one who did the chasing at first, but I think I need someone to woo me – "
"For what it’s worth, I think I wanted to be caught. But … "
El understood the dilemma. "You were afraid. And I didn’t understand."
"But you were still hurt."
"Yes, and I am annoyed that I’m still hurt."
Neal gave her a considering look.
"What?"
"Maybe you’re not so much still hurt but wary."
"Of what?"
"Getting involved with someone who’s never been part of the poly life – "
She was about to interrupt – this was nothing new, and not something she hadn’t considered.
Neal held up a hand, forestalling her. "It’s not only that. I’m a novice when it comes to a relationship based on trust and respect. I need to learn a whole new set of behaviors."
"I think you’re doing fine."
"But with Peter."
She conceded the point. "Maybe we should try for friendship, first. Then see what happens."
"I’d like that. I’d like to be your friend."
Something unknotted in Elizabeth, a tension she didn’t realize she was holding onto. "There are duties that come along with friendship, you know." Her tone was teasing.
"Such as?" Neal’s smile changed just a bit, becoming more boyish, more open.
"Feeding me. I’m starving."
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter had come to loathe Mondays in a way he never did when he was a kid or a student or even a young adult first getting around in the work-a-day world.
He had a standing appointment with the FBI shrink on Mondays. The woman was relentless, picking and prying and combing through his psyche, making him talking about things he didn’t want to discuss, asking questions that seemed innocuous but were of vital importance.
Peter could respect her, he did respect her, and he understood the job she did. But it didn’t make things any less painful.
Over the past few months, he had taken a bunch of psychological assessment tests. Some were familiar, retreads of the tests he taken as an applicant almost twenty years ago. Others were annoying, filled with questions about how he felt about his bowel movements. He did variations of the Rorschach test, rapid response word associations, and a whole battery of attitude tests.
Apparently, his answers were not good enough and the FBI had required him to attend a weekly therapy session to address his "issues" about the shooting. This was his sixth meeting with Doctor Emily Crawford and he had to know if he was getting anywhere.
So he asked.
The doctor took off her glasses and gave him a level look. "Peter, I appreciate that you’re concerned, but these sessions are nothing unusual. You’ve had a traumatic experience – physically and psychologically."
He sighed. "And you’re not really my therapist, are you. You work for the Bureau. Your reports go to the Bureau. I remember what I signed. It wasn’t like I had a choice." Peter felt unaccountably bitter today.
"You had a choice, you always have a choice."
"Really? If I didn’t sign on the dotted line and agree to waive the doctor-patient confidentiality, I’d never be re-certified for even a desk job, let alone field work. Hell, if I didn’t agree to these sessions with all of their conditions, I’d probably be transferred to the Resident Agency office in Kew Gardens for the rest of my career if the Bureau didn’t force me to retire. Some choice."
"You really think that?"
Peter had to give her points for credible skepticism. "Not ‘think,’ Doctor, I know. The Bureau might make noise about my value as a highly trained agent, due all honor from being wounded in the line of duty, but if I’m deemed a risk, they’ll shuffle me off to someplace where I can’t do any damage. It’s all about image these days." Peter closed his eyes and wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
"Then why do you want to get back so badly?"
"Because I love what I do. I love being able to help people." He laughed. "About half of my division’s case load is the most unglamorous work you could imagine. In the last eight years, I’ve worked about twenty different boiler room scams."
"I’m not really familiar with the term, Peter. Can you explain it?"
Peter raised an eyebrow at that – he didn’t believe for a moment that the good doctor didn’t know what a boiler room scam was. But he explained it anyway. "Some Wall Street whiz isn’t content with the twenty percent he legitimately collects in management fees, so he sets up a room – literally – in some out of the way place – "
"Like a boiler room?"
"Exactly. And he’ll hire a few dozen junior Gordon Geckos to push some penny stock on unsophisticated investors."
"Penny stocks aren’t that much of a risk – isn’t that why their called that?"
"If you know what you’re doing, you can make a lot of money, but these traders are cold-calling people whose entire investment experience might be picking a mutual fund or two when they signed up for their company’s 401k plan."
"That doesn’t sound particularly illegal."
"You’re right. Technically, it isn’t illegal or fraudulent to prey upon unsophisticated investors. But it doesn’t stop there. The stocks these boiler room scams are pushing are hyped with all sorts of false information. A drug company stock might be touted as the next IBM by claiming that the company is about to release a new miracle product – something that will cure cancer or the common cold. The trader will provide all sorts of data that makes it seem like he’s sharing insider information – or claim that he’s got an inside track with the FDA – but in truth, the company’s holding on by a thread. Other trading companies might pick up on this, start buying stock, raising the share price. It’s a classic pump and dump scenario."
Peter built up a head of steam. "The guy that set up the room? He’s invested a few million in this worthless stock, and he’ll cash out when he’s going to make the most profit. He sells his shares, his traders sell theirs, maybe – but the men and women who bought on the recommendation of these liars and thieves? They’re left with nothing. They’ve invested their life savings on what was sold as a sure thing and now they can’t pay the mortgage, they can’t send their kids to college, they can’t retire because everything’s gone. All because someone got greedy."
Peter paused, took a deep breath and finished. "This is what I do. It’s not exciting, it’s not glamorous. It’s nothing like what you see on television. But it matters. I can do good."
Doctor Crawford deliberately capped her pen and closed her notebook. "Thank you for telling me that, Peter. I know that this has been difficult and you might feel like you don’t have any allies in this process."
"You’re not my ally." He was blunt with the truth.
"I’m not unsympathetic. And I’m not your enemy, either."
Peter nodded, knowing that this was the best he was going to get. "Are we done." He hoped so.
"For today, yes. I’ll see you next Monday, one PM."
"I’ll be here. With bells on." He let out a huff of laughter. "Sorry – the sarcasm doesn’t help my cause, I know."
The doctor didn’t say anything, but her lips twitched in the barest hint of a smile.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Elizabeth should have stopped Neal as poured out the rest of the third bottle into her glass. She didn’t.
She should have stopped him before he asked the waiter for another bottle of that really excellent Italian red.
She should have stopped herself before she told Neal how she asked Peter out on their first date.
But there was something about Neal – when he was so open, so eager – that made a joke of her self-control.
"Let me get this straight. Peter was stalking you? Using FBI surveillance equipment?"
"Yeah – it was kind of adorable."
"Adorable? Seems a bit … I don’t know … extreme?"
The touch of worry in Neal’s tone, the sudden shadow in his eyes, penetrated the golden haze of a three-bottle lunch. "Oh, sweetie – it was nothing like that. Peter was just too shy to ask me out."
"Shy? You can’t tell me that Peter Burke, FBI agent and a man so dominant that you’d have to climb Everest to top him, is shy?"
She had to laugh at that analogy. Peter was dominant. "That may be, but he can get a little tongue-tied around someone he finds attractive. I bet when he first met you, he was less than eloquent.
Neal blinked and she could almost see the memories spool back.
"Yeah – he did seem a little tongue-tied at first." But Neal still seemed a little disturbed by their early courtship. "You weren’t freaked out by him, seriously?"
"Nah – he was just – " El was about to say that Peter was just trying to make sure she wasn’t dating anyone else, but thought better of it, in light of Neal’s history. "He just was working up the courage to ask me for a date."
"And I guess he finally did."
"Actually, I was the one who asked him. I knew he was watching, so I made a sign telling him that I loved Italian food."
"And he bit?"
"Big time. Took me to this terrific little hole-in-the-wall place on Arthur Avenue, got red sauce all down the front of his shirt and I took him home with me that night."
"To clean him up?" Neal was grinning.
"That’s one way to put it!" Elizabeth leaned over the table and stared Neal right in the eye. "You better not break my husband’s heart, Neal Caffrey."
He reached out and touched her cheek, the amusement in his eyes replaced by something deeper, richer. "The thought of hurting either of you again terrifies me."
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It was a little before two and Peter was at loose ends. When the sessions ended, he usually went downtown to take Elizabeth out for a late lunch, but she had emailed a picture of the flowers Neal had sent, letting him know that she was going to meet with him. He had no problems with that. Peter wasn’t going to interfere with what needed to happen between his wife and Neal. Elizabeth had to make up her own mind – he’d be equally happy with her as part of a relationship with Neal, or if she decided she wanted something else.
"Peter?" A very familiar voice called his name.
He looked around and spotted, of all things, a Municipal Utilities van. An equally familiar one, with the dent and scrape of yellow along the back fender where it had been sideswiped by a taxi a few years ago. Lost in his own thoughts, he would have walked right by it if Diana hadn’t opened the side door and called out.
Peter didn’t wait for an invitation and climbed in.
"You’re looking very good, boss!" She hugged him tight.
"Thanks. I’m doing good." It wasn’t really a lie. He’s been better.
She pulled him into the operations center. Jones was there and greeted him with pleasure.
Clinton pointed to the display. "We’ve been tracking you since you came out of the McGraw-Hill Building. Diana was all set to pounce if you passed by."
"It’s good to see you – both of you." Good barely described his emotions. "But shouldn’t you be tracking your suspect?"
The two agents – two other agents – laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. Jones commented, "We’re here, monitoring a pen register on the phones belonging to a day trader who’s currently on vacation in Aruba."
Peter blinked, "That doesn’t seem to be the best use of your skills. Why isn’t it automated?"
Diana sighed and didn’t answer. "When are you coming back? The temporary SAIC that was assigned is getting way too cozy in your office."
"Temporary SAIC? I thought that Hughes was running things? When did this happen?"
Diana and Clinton exchanged looks. "About three weeks ago. Amanda Calloway – from the Atlanta office – breezed in and took charge. Hughes didn’t look too happy about it, but all he said when he introduced her was that her assignment was temporary."
A cold, sick feeling settled under Peter’s heart. He’d spoken with Reese a couple times over the few weeks, including coffee exactly a week ago, and his old friend hadn’t said anything about a replacement, temporary or otherwise. However, he wasn’t going to make matters worse by telling Clinton or Diana that. "And your take on Agent Calloway?" Their paths had crossed a few times. She wasn’t a particularly good investigative agent, but she was ambitious and knew how to cultivate the right people who would advance her career.
Clinton confirmed this opinion. "She’s very popular in certain circles. Very ‘efficient,’ if you get my drift."
Peter did. He might have had one of the highest closure rates in the country, but he also had to answer for frequent cost overruns, too. The higher ups didn’t mind when there were results to justify the expenses, but in this economic climate, he had to suppose that someone who paid attention to the bottom line was going to be rewarded. And yet something didn’t make sense. Why was she’s wasting valuable resources? Sticking two senior agents in a van monitoring an inactive wiretap was pointless.
"When are you coming back, Peter?" Diana asked again, this time with a note of desperation in her voice.
Suddenly, Peter understood everything that Diana wasn’t saying. "I wish I could give you an answer, Di. I haven’t even been cleared for desk duty yet."
"But it will be soon?"
"I hope so."
Clinton gave him a sour look. "It’s only been a few weeks since Calloway arrived, but it feels like eternity. Is there anything that we – " He pointed to Diana and himself, "Can do?"
Peter shook his head. "No, I’ve got to work through the process. I guess that getting shot and almost dying generates an awful lot of paperwork." He tried to make light of the situation. "I don’t recommend it."
His agents smiled, allowing the tension to break.
"Listen, maybe you two want to come over for dinner next week? Elizabeth would love to see you."
They chatted for a few more minutes, making plans for a social evening. These two were more than just his best agents, they were his friends and he needed to let them know that.
Diana checked the cameras and gave him the all-clear. No one was watching. Their suspect wasn’t even in the country, but it was standard operating procedure to make sure that they weren’t under observation. A man in casual street clothes climbing in and out of a work truck was memorable for all of the wrong reasons.
Peter didn’t wave or say goodbye once he was back on the street, but he walked halfway up the block, turned and nodded, certain that his friends were watching.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal got home and found Mozzie perched at his kitchen table like a gnome in a country garden.
"So, how did lunch with Mrs. Suit go?"
That appellation was beginning to annoy Neal. He glared at Moz and tried to remember that this man saved his life, literally. But today, he just wasn’t in the mood.
Moz wasn’t accepting his silence. "Well?"
"Lunch was fine."
"Did she like the flowers?"
"I think they were a little overwhelming."
"It’s the gesture that counts."
"Four hundred dollars for something that’s going to be tossed into the trash in less a week is quite the gesture."
"It’s not like you paid for them."
"I wish you wouldn’t do things like that."
"Like what?"
"Get things…"
"What do you mean, ‘get things’?"
"You know what I mean – you ‘get’ things. Without paying for them."
"You think I stole those flowers?" There was just a touch of outrage in Mozzie’s question. It wasn’t convincing.
"Not exactly ‘stole’."
"Can you stop talking with quotation marks around your words? I hate that."
Neal sighed. "Sorry. And Elizabeth loved the flowers."
Moz nodded, looking like a very serene turtle. "Good. And for the record, I didn’t steal them. They were just … redirected."
Neal refrained from sighing. Moz was Moz. Brilliant, quirky, loyal and if he occasionally felt the need to indulge in a little felonious behavior, what could Neal really do about it?
"So, the lunch?"
Moz was also relentless.
"Lunch was good. I had the salmon with grilled asparagus, Elizabeth had an arugula and goat cheese salad with dried cranberries and candied walnuts. The bread was freshly baked and the butter, French. We split three bottles of Grosjean Valle d’Aosta Torrette Superieur. All in all, a lovely meal."
"I didn’t ask you for your menu. How did it go?"
"You don’t like when I talk in quotation marks, I don’t care for the italics in your tone."
"Stop with the deflecting already. Has Mrs. Suit forgiven you?"
Moz wasn’t going to leave it alone, so Neal answered. "Yes."
"Yes, that’s it? Nothing more?"
"What do you want?"
"Details, my friend. I want the details."
Neal bit back a sharp retort and gave a more measured answer. "I really appreciate that you’re looking out for me. You’ve been the best friend anyone could want and your support has been invaluable – "
Moz cut him off. "But what goes on between you and the Suits isn’t my business. Unless I have to rescue you."
"Moz – "
"Can it, Neal. I know what I’m good for."
Moz got up, but Neal reached out and grabbed his wrist. "That’s not what I’m saying."
"Then what are you saying?"
"It’s all very new, very …" Neal searched for the right word. "Delicate."
Moz nodded slowly. "And you’re afraid you’ll jinx it?"
"Yeah." He hoped Moz would understand his reticence.
He did, but still asked, sounding sad, "Will I need to move out?"
"Why?"
"Well, don’t you want your privacy – in case you want to be with them?"
Neal shrugged. "I could always hang a sock on the door."
Moz chuckled. "Yeah – that would bring back memories."
Neal chuckled, too. They’d met as roommates at Harvard, and Neal – a very young sixteen year old freshman, had no idea what the sock on the doorknob meant. He’d learned quickly, after walking in on Moz in a sandwich between two very well-endowed redheads. "But seriously, Moz – I want you to stay. You’re my best friend and I need you in my life."
Moz took off his glasses and started wiping them furiously. "Okay. Then I’ll stay."
"And I want you to meet Peter and Elizabeth."
"I’ve already met the magnificent Mrs. Suit."
"Moz – "
"All right, all right. Set it up, I’ll be there, with bells on."
Neal just said, "Bells will be fine, just leave the seersucker for your Good Humor route."
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter couldn’t shake the sick feeling in his gut, the one he knew he needed to listen to. The unexpected meeting with Clinton and Diana and the news they gave him left him shaken. He needed to see Reese, maybe even meet with Calloway and try to find out if she really believed the assignment was temporary.
It didn’t seem like that, though. Three weeks in and she was already doing her best to make life difficult for his top two agents, giving them meaningless assignments. She couldn’t have them reassigned without cause, but she’d do everything she could to make them transfer out and bring in her own staff.
Or he could be over-thinking this and there might be a good reason why she had Diana and Clinton sitting on a dormant pen register, twiddling their thumbs.
But bursting into Hughes’ office, making demands wasn’t the best way to go about it. Reese had been his greatest advocate for as long as Peter had been with the White Collar division. Hell, it was Reese who offered him the job there so many years ago. After the debacle with Matthew Keller, his career was bound for a dead end. He’d pissed off the wrong people and whistleblowers were never anyone’s favorite employee. At least not until the screenwriters got ahold of the story and it was Oscar season.
Reese had stood by him, promoted him, he made sure he had the resources he needed to do his job. And he was more than just a boss. Reese was a good friend, and the only person other than Elizabeth who he trusted without question. Which made the news about Calloway unexpected and disturbing.
Peter sent Hughes a text, letting him know he was near the office, asking if he’d he like to meet for coffee.
He received a reply about two minutes later.
Peter’s gut started churning in overdrive.
There was a small, old-fashioned coffee shop about three blocks from the office, the kind with high booths that gave the patrons an illusion of privacy. He’d been a regular for years, and had met Reese here a few times since he’d regained his mobility. As Peter made his way towards a booth at the back, he glanced over at the other patrons – mostly construction workers and a few office drones. No one he recognized. No one who seemed to be FBI. No one who’d be the least interested in his conversation.
As he sat down, Peter laughed at himself. Once, years ago, Elizabeth called him a professional paranoid. It was said in affection, but Peter recognized the truth of that. He never went into a situation without making sure he had all the information. Well, almost never. The last time that happened, he almost died.
A waitress came with a cup of coffee and a menu, which Peter declined. He probably should have declined the coffee too – it was strong enough to strip paint. But it gave him something to do while he waited.
Reese arrived just after his first refill.
Peter didn’t bother with any pleasantries. "I ran just ran into Berrigan and Jones."
Hughes grimaced. "And I guess they told you."
"About my ‘replacement,’ yes."
"It’s only temporary."
Peter just looked at Reese over the rim of his coffee cup.
"It is, Peter."
"Somehow, I’m not reassured."
Reese made a face. "Can’t you trust me?"
"I saw you a week ago. We sat here, in this very booth, when Amanda Calloway was already in place and setting up shop in my office, but you didn’t say a word to me." Peter took a deep breath and tried to rein in his temper. "I have to wonder why that is."
Hughes nodded. "I can understand that you’re annoyed at me."
"Why didn’t you tell me?"
"It’s only temporary, Peter."
"You’ve already said that, and it’s not really an answer to my question."
Reese took a sip of his own coffee and frowned. "I know."
"Do you know something?" Peter was getting more worried as every second passed.
"About what?"
He knew that his old friend was deflecting, buying time – but for what, Peter was afraid to find out. "About whether or not I’m ever going to be cleared for active duty."
That seemed to shock Hughes. "What? You don’t think you’re coming back?"
"I’ve been mobile for three months, Reese. They’ve had me with a department therapist for almost two months. It’s beginning to feel like I’m going to be forced into early retirement."
"Well, I can assure that that that’s not the case. You were shot and nearly killed. It’s a miracle you’re walking. No one’s even considering making you retire. You’re too valuable and now that you’re feeling better, you anxious to be back in the saddle. I understand that, but coming back before you’re physically and mentally ready is the worst possible thing to do. We’re understaffed as it is, and with your record, they aren’t going to let you go so easily."
"We’re perpetually understaffed, and because of the damned sequester, the entire Bureau has to take furlough days. The brass are looking for any way to cut headcount and keep costs down. Clinton mentioned that my replacement has an eye for efficiency. That has to sit well with the higher ups."
"Efficiency doesn’t equal a 93% conviction record, Peter. Amanda Calloway is a placeholder." Before Peter could interrupt, Reese held up a hand. "Yes, an ambitious placeholder but that’s all she is. She can’t touch your record."
Peter wasn’t sure he believed Reese, but short of calling him a liar, he had to accept that statement at face value. But he couldn’t let it go. "Why now? You’ve been running my team since the shooting. Why bring in a new broom at this stage?"
"Peter …"
He didn’t like the tone in his old friend’s voice. His gut started roiling for a completely different reason.
"What’s the matter?"
Hughes sighed and grimaced. "I didn’t want to tell you. Not yet, anyway."
"Are they forcing you into retirement?"
"No."
That single syllable didn’t do much to relieve Peter’s anxiety. "Then what?"
"I had some tests. The results were … inconclusive."
"Reese?" Peter was afraid he knew what Hughes was about to tell him.
"They found a lump on a lymph node. It may be malignant."
Ten years ago, Reese had a cancer scare. Actually, it was more than just a scare. He had Hodgkin’s disease. They caught it early, but he still needed treatment: surgery and radiation. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was effective. It had been easier to tell everyone he was retiring rather than deal with the sympathetic looks, the horror stories from well-meaning colleagues. As Reese had said at the time, he didn’t want to deal with all the crap that came when too many people knew his business. Peter was one of a very few people who knew that the "retirement" wasn’t really a retirement.
"Shit."
"Yeah – that’s just what I said."
"So, what happens now?"
"I’ve got a bunch more tests scheduled. A few that will take me out of the office for some time."
"Which is why you had to get someone else in. You can’t run both the department and my crew." He understood but couldn’t help wish that Reese had tapped Clinton for the job, especially if it was going to be temporary.
Reese nodded. "I didn’t want to dump it on you. Which was wrong, I know. But – "
"If you admitted it, it became too real."
"Exactly." Hughes sighed. "Don’t worry. You’ll be cleared soon. Calloway’s only temporary. I promise not to let her get too comfortable. And I’ll try to keep an eye on Jones and Berrigan. They deserve better treatment than they’ve gotten from her."
And yet, his friend’s words did nothing to calm Peter’s turmoil.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Elizabeth was, admittedly, a lot less than sober when she got out of the cab. That’s what happened when you split the better part of three bottles of wine. She had wanted to walk back to the office, telling Neal that the exercise would help to sober her up, but Neal had insisted. "It’s after three, it’ll be dark soon."
"And we’re in Lower Manhattan. The worst thing that could happen is that I’d be mugged by some desperate Wall Street type."
He just looked at her, held out a hand and a yellow cab glided to the curb, just like that. To her surprise, Neal gave the driver a twenty, with the admonition to avoid potholes and pedestrians. As the taxi pulled away, Elizabeth turned and watched Neal as he just stood there, hands in his pockets, like some sentinel.
The ride back to the office took less than ten minutes and she wasn’t surprised that the cabbie didn’t offer her any change, even though the fare was a third of what Neal had given him.
"Nice lunch?" Yvonne gave her a head-to-toe look.
"Very nice. Went to …" Damn, she couldn’t remember the name of the restaurant. "That new gastropub on Reade Street."
"Uh huh." Her assistant nodded, but clearly didn’t believe her. "Flowers fit for a queen, a three hour-long lunch and you can’t remember the name of the place you ate at?"
"It’s not what you think."
"Yup, you didn’t just have a booty call."
"Yvonne Felicity Adams, you get your mind out of the gutter." El tried for outrage. She failed miserably.
"Right. You just had ‘lunch’." She crooked her fingers and made a too-familiar gesture after the last word.
"And stop with the air quotes."
"Okay, you’re the boss."
El nodded. "Damn right I am." She hiccupped. "Have any breath mints?" Not that they’d sober her up.
Yvonne handed her a box of Altoids with a wink. "Surprised you don’t carry these around with you."
She took one, ignored Yvonne’s editorializing, and handed the box back. "I’m going into my office. Unless the world is coming to an end or the Bergerons call to change their colors, don’t bother me. And in fact, if the Bergerons call, don’t bother me."
Yvonne chuckled. "Whatever you say."
El pretended not to hear her assistant mutter under her breath, "That must have been some booty call."
Closing the office door behind her, El sat down, slipped off her shoes and propped her feet on her desk. The postprandial buzz was pleasant, and has her eyes drooped, she knew that she’d pay for it later.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter watched his wife sleep and stifled an almost irresistible urge to wake her up in some outrageous way – maybe kissing her bare ankles, opening her blouse and nibbling on the soft, silken flesh he found there, or taking the pins out of her elaborate hair do and running his fingers through her scalp. But he contented himself with watching her sleep.
Yvonne had warned him that Elizabeth had come back very late and a little drunk from her lunch date and dropped hints that his wife might have gotten lucky. She wasn’t trying to make trouble, not in the least. Yvonne had never been a bedmate of theirs, but she was part of the poly community. El had (and probably would) never admit it, but she’d hired Yvonne because of that.
Peter sat and watched his wife sleep and wondered if she had, in fact, gotten lucky. With Neal.
That thought stoked an unpleasant moment of jealousy, a feeling so foreign, so wrong, that he immediately tried to discard it. If Elizabeth had changed her mind and decided to pursue a physical relationship with Neal, she didn’t need his permission. It was just that he’d hoped that when the time was right, they’d all be there together.
Elizabeth’s eyelids fluttered and Peter donned his best loving husband smile. "Hey there, hon."
She stretched and as the desk chair started to tip back precariously, Peter reached out and steadied her.
El smiled at him. "My savoir – but what are you doing here?"
"I had some time, thought we’d go home together."
"Hmmm – thought your appointment was over at two? Figured you’d be long home by now."
"Nah – ran into Diana and Clinton, spent some time talking." He didn’t tell her about the conversation he had with Reese. He was still digesting what his old friend had told him.
Elizabeth fished for her shoes and when Peter turned on the overhead light to help her, she winced. "Neal Caffrey drinks like a fish."
"Fish don’t actually drink." Peter hoped his tone was a little warmer than it sounded to his ears.
His wife slapped at his arm. "You know what I mean. We split three bottles of wine at lunch." El found her shoes and put them on. "I don’t think even Asher drinks that much."
"Asher? What’s he got to do with anything?"
"Dunno, except that he can drink – and pardon me for my scientific inaccuracies, like a fish – too."
"So, lunch was good?"
"Yeah. It was."
"And Neal? Was he good, too?"
El gave him a questioning look. "Hon?"
Damn. "Just wondering how you got along with Neal today."
"Fine – really fine. Actually better than fine."
That cold, hateful knot of jealousy was back, but Peter strove not to give into it. "So?"
"So, what?"
"You and Neal?"
"Neal and I, what?"
This was getting ridiculous. "After lunch, you and Neal…"
"Hon – what the hell are you talking about? After lunch, Neal insisted I get into a cab even though I wanted to walk back here. He’s a very old-fashioned kind of guy, to be honest." El blinked at him. "Don’t tell me you were listening to Yvonne?"
Peter nodded, feeling like an idiot.
"I’m going to kill her."
"Hon, don’t say anything. I think she was just trying to be cute – when was the last time you came back from lunch like that?"
"Okay, okay – but it’s really not that funny." El pushed her bangs off her forehead. "You know that I’m not interested in Neal like that – not right now."
Peter reached for his wife and wrapped his arms around her. "I know, but you were, and you’ve been conflicted and there’s no reason not to take him up on anything that he’d offer."
"I wouldn’t do that to you. We don’t do that to each other."
Now he felt worse. "I know, I know – it’s just…" His voice trailed off. All the insecurities he felt during his therapy session, even when he was talking with Reese, came roaring back.
El put a hand on his cheek, she sensed his distress. "I understand, hon." He clung to her, hating how needy he felt. But she held just as tightly to him. "Take me home, okay?"
GO TO PART FIVE: ON DW | ON LJ
It was Monday and Elizabeth came in from a meeting with a new client, when Yvonne announced with great delight, “You got a delivery.” "
"Hmmm, thanks, but I get deliveries all the time." She hung up her coat and was headed for the coffee maker. The weather changed last night, a cold front sweeping away the autumn sunshine. Wind and rain battered against the glass storefront, and the whole office seemed bleak. Except for the enormous bouquet of flowers occupying a place of honor in the middle of the showroom floor.
The bouquet was vast and almost incomprehensible. There were tulips – exotic gorgeous, fringed varieties, fantastic dahlias in blazing pinks and oranges, ruby-throated lilies, all interspersed with white roses the size of teacups and lush greenery framing everything.
"These came for you about a half-hour ago."
El reached out and brushed a finger against one of the flowers, it was so perfect she almost didn’t think it was real. "Was there a card?" She had no idea who’d send her flowers like this. Not her husband – he preferred to make his grand gestures in bed. Asher, maybe? He’d called a few times and they’d talked, behaving like casual friends getting to know each other again. Except that he always made it clear that he’d be interested in picking up where they’d left off. And despite what she and Peter had decided a few months ago, Asher’s offer was more and more appealing.
Yvonne handed her the small envelope. El recognized the florist’s seal, it was a company she used for only of the most exclusive and expensive events she managed. Yes, this was a gesture that Asher would make. She smiled as she opened the card.
And blinked. The flowers weren’t from Asher.
Yvonne had the good sense and better manners not to pry about the card, but she was obviously curious. "A happy client?"
"Yes." Damn, she hated lying.
"Ah." Thankfully, Yvonne didn’t say anything more than that and drifted back to whatever task she’d been doing before El came back from lunch. Her assistant knew that she and Peter had a somewhat unconventional marriage, but she never pried or passed judgment.
She looked at the flowers and then down at the card and back at the flowers again. She carefully plucked a single white rose from the bouquet and headed back to her private office.
The card was as succinct as the flowers were extravagant. Just a simple request, "Please call me, Neal."
Her stomach filled with butterflies as she read those four words over and over again, tapping the white rose against her cheek. She was a little giddy, a little frightened. Hadn’t she just told Peter that she wasn’t sure she wanted a relationship with Neal, that they might be better as a "V" than a perfect triangle? And now, looking at the card, seeing that bouquet, she felt like a teenager who was waiting to be picked up on her first date.
She put down the rose and took a deep breath before dialing Neal’s number. It rang twice before he answered.
"Elizabeth?"
She could hear the smile in his voice. "Hi, Neal."
"You got the flowers."
"Yes, and they’re magnificent."
"I hoped you’d like them – I noticed you were partial to dahlias."
"I am, and tulips and lilies and roses."
"Good. I’m glad."
The silence strung out for a bit, but not uncomfortably.
El asked, because they were supposed to be friends and she wanted to find the right level with him. "How was the rest of your weekend?"
"It was good, mostly quiet. Yours?"
"The same." She and Peter had spent most of Saturday afternoon lounging in bed. Neal didn’t really need to know that. "We went to movie on Saturday. Sunday was a typical chore day. It’s not a glamorous life we lead."
"It’s the ordinary things that make life good."
"That’s true." She thought about all the extraordinary events in her life – the good and the terrible. Yes, there was something to be said for the ordinary life.
"Elizabeth?"
She smiled at the slight nervousness she heard in Neal’s voice. "Yes?"
"Are you free for lunch today? I don’t have office hours after eleven and I’d like to take you to out."
"Just me?"
"Just the two of us. How does that sound?"
"Mmm, nice. Where?"
They talked restaurants for a bit and settled on a SoHo bistro. El figured that the menu wasn’t really going to matter. And she was right.
A little before one o’clock, she breezed into the restaurant, her cheeks flushed from brisk walk. She’d debated taking a cab from her office, not wanted to look mussed. But the cab lost the debate. Her showroom was only a dozen blocks away and she didn’t want to appear like she was trying too hard, either. So, it was a bright red power suit, with heels that were high enough to flatter her legs but not so high that she’d end up crippled from the walk. The morning’s storm had blown out, leaving one of those perfect autumn days that New York City was so famous for in its wake.
Neal was waiting at the bar. Elizabeth was reminded of their first meeting – when he appeared to be nothing more than a carefree young professional, one who had piqued her husband’s interest and hers too.
He met her halfway across the room and kissed her cheek. She felt very continental and even a bit naughty, as if she hadn’t shared her marriage with others over the past dozen years.
The hostess showed them to a comfortable booth towards the back of the restaurant and left them alone for a few minutes.
"So." She might have had the urge to be cosseted, but she would never be a shrinking violet. "Why am I here?"
Neal smiled at her, his pleasure lighting up in his eyes. "Thank you for this."
"For meeting you for lunch?" She looked at him from under her eyelashes
"That, for starters."
"What’s the main course, then? You?" Neal blinked and El cursed herself. She was running hot and cold, and if there was one thing that annoyed her, it was inconsistency.
Neal didn’t stop smiling, but his expression turned thoughtful. "I could be on the menu, but maybe not for lunch – not this afternoon."
"Then let me ask again, why am I here?"
Neal rested his hand palms down on the table, fingers spread wide. She liked the look of those hand against the dark wood.
"I treated you very badly."
All the girlishness, the heady, flirtatious mood she’d worked up on the walk over, vanished. "You did, but not without reason."
Neal reached out with those long perfect fingers and snagged her hand. He didn’t hold it like a lover, like someone bent on seduction. He held it like her hand, her being, was a gentle, delicate creature, something that might shatter at the slightest touch. "Maybe my reasons were good, maybe they weren’t, but that’s besides the point. I never apologized to you. I may have, to Peter, but not to you. That day in the liquor store, you called me a liar and a coward – "
"Neal – "
"No, let me finish. I was just what you called me, a liar and a coward. I was too afraid to see that the two of you were offering me something wonderful, something I should never have been afraid of. I’m more grateful that words can express that Peter’s been able to forgive me. But I’m not sure that you’ve forgiven me." Neal paused and took a breath. "And I’m not sure how I can earn the right to your forgiveness."
Neal, in his earnestness, looked impossibly young. Then she met his eyes and that illusion vanished. He looked older than anyone should. He was wary, but still hopeful.
"I’ll be honest, Neal. I wasn’t sure that I could forgive you. I wanted to, I wanted to make you part of our lives. There was something there. There still is."
"But?"
She turned the hand he was holding, so their fingers meshed. "But …"
"I’m not easy. I have too much baggage." The sad twist in Neal’s smile was heartbreaking.
"You do." Elizabeth sighed. "But maybe the problem isn’t your baggage. Maybe it’s me. I’m tired. It’s been a long, hard year." She licked her lips. "And maybe I don’t want to have to be strong for you, too." There, she said it.
Neal seemed to understand. "I don’t know if I could be as strong as you are – as you’ve been. Peter told me what happened, how he was shot." Neal squeezed her hand. "I’ve seen the scars and I can barely imagine how he survived."
El shuddered at the memory. "I don’t know, either. A miracle of science, a lot of luck. That Peter’s walking is almost incomprehensible. Five years ago, he might have lost his leg. That bastard used cop-killer bullets on him."
"Peter didn’t tell me that."
"Yeah – if he hadn’t been wearing one of the new vests, he would have died from the first shot." She shook her head, trying to dispel the rage and fear that thought always brought.
"You’ve been with him every step of the way, haven’t you?"
She nodded, but was unwilling to share the details. "A lot of long days and longer nights. But we pulled through."
"And right now, you deserve someone a little easier, someone who doesn’t have as many issues as the New Yorker."
She laughed at the analogy. "Maybe. But Peter wants you in his life. He cares very much for you."
"Is that a problem?"
"No. Not at all. When I came home on Saturday, hearing him laugh like that, knowing that you brought that to him, made me so happy. How could I object?"
Neal sighed. "But I’m not what you want."
El admitted to her ambivalence. "I don’t know."
"You don’t know?"
"Objectively, Neal – you’re everything I could want. You’re smart, you’re sensitive, you appreciate who and what we are."
"I just have a lot of baggage."
"Yeah." She wanted to erase the clouds she put in Neal’s eyes. "You and Peter – you have my blessing. Don’t doubt that."
"Thank you – but still, it feels unfair."
"Why?"
"Peter gets me, I get Peter – what do you have?"
"Well, I still have Peter. He’s my husband. He loves me very much."
"I know that, but …"
El chuckled. "You don’t really know much about polyamory, do you?"
Neal shrugged. "I haven’t done a lot research on the subject."
"Quite a few of our poly relationships haven’t been triangles."
"Huh?"
"We’re not always a threesome. Peter’s had his interests, I’ve had mine. Admittedly, some of our best times have been with a shared partner, but not always."
Neal nodded, processing her statement. "So, if Peter and I are together, you will have Peter and someone else?"
"Maybe. Likely."
"Someone easy? Someone uncomplicated?"
"Probably."
"That seems … fair."
"You don’t sound convinced."
"It’s not that."
"Then what?"
"I, well …"
Even in the dim light of the restaurant, Elizabeth could see the blush stealing across Neal’s cheeks. "Neal?"
"I want you, too."
The way he bit his lip and looked at her, it made her want to drag him off to the nearest hotel room and have her wicked way with him. It made her want to forget all her hesitations. But she didn’t give in. She reached out and stroked his cheek. "That’s not off the table, but I think that right now, it might be best for us to find our own normal without the complications of sex."
He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving hers.
"I know I was the one who did the chasing at first, but I think I need someone to woo me – "
"For what it’s worth, I think I wanted to be caught. But … "
El understood the dilemma. "You were afraid. And I didn’t understand."
"But you were still hurt."
"Yes, and I am annoyed that I’m still hurt."
Neal gave her a considering look.
"What?"
"Maybe you’re not so much still hurt but wary."
"Of what?"
"Getting involved with someone who’s never been part of the poly life – "
She was about to interrupt – this was nothing new, and not something she hadn’t considered.
Neal held up a hand, forestalling her. "It’s not only that. I’m a novice when it comes to a relationship based on trust and respect. I need to learn a whole new set of behaviors."
"I think you’re doing fine."
"But with Peter."
She conceded the point. "Maybe we should try for friendship, first. Then see what happens."
"I’d like that. I’d like to be your friend."
Something unknotted in Elizabeth, a tension she didn’t realize she was holding onto. "There are duties that come along with friendship, you know." Her tone was teasing.
"Such as?" Neal’s smile changed just a bit, becoming more boyish, more open.
"Feeding me. I’m starving."
Peter had come to loathe Mondays in a way he never did when he was a kid or a student or even a young adult first getting around in the work-a-day world.
He had a standing appointment with the FBI shrink on Mondays. The woman was relentless, picking and prying and combing through his psyche, making him talking about things he didn’t want to discuss, asking questions that seemed innocuous but were of vital importance.
Peter could respect her, he did respect her, and he understood the job she did. But it didn’t make things any less painful.
Over the past few months, he had taken a bunch of psychological assessment tests. Some were familiar, retreads of the tests he taken as an applicant almost twenty years ago. Others were annoying, filled with questions about how he felt about his bowel movements. He did variations of the Rorschach test, rapid response word associations, and a whole battery of attitude tests.
Apparently, his answers were not good enough and the FBI had required him to attend a weekly therapy session to address his "issues" about the shooting. This was his sixth meeting with Doctor Emily Crawford and he had to know if he was getting anywhere.
So he asked.
The doctor took off her glasses and gave him a level look. "Peter, I appreciate that you’re concerned, but these sessions are nothing unusual. You’ve had a traumatic experience – physically and psychologically."
He sighed. "And you’re not really my therapist, are you. You work for the Bureau. Your reports go to the Bureau. I remember what I signed. It wasn’t like I had a choice." Peter felt unaccountably bitter today.
"You had a choice, you always have a choice."
"Really? If I didn’t sign on the dotted line and agree to waive the doctor-patient confidentiality, I’d never be re-certified for even a desk job, let alone field work. Hell, if I didn’t agree to these sessions with all of their conditions, I’d probably be transferred to the Resident Agency office in Kew Gardens for the rest of my career if the Bureau didn’t force me to retire. Some choice."
"You really think that?"
Peter had to give her points for credible skepticism. "Not ‘think,’ Doctor, I know. The Bureau might make noise about my value as a highly trained agent, due all honor from being wounded in the line of duty, but if I’m deemed a risk, they’ll shuffle me off to someplace where I can’t do any damage. It’s all about image these days." Peter closed his eyes and wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
"Then why do you want to get back so badly?"
"Because I love what I do. I love being able to help people." He laughed. "About half of my division’s case load is the most unglamorous work you could imagine. In the last eight years, I’ve worked about twenty different boiler room scams."
"I’m not really familiar with the term, Peter. Can you explain it?"
Peter raised an eyebrow at that – he didn’t believe for a moment that the good doctor didn’t know what a boiler room scam was. But he explained it anyway. "Some Wall Street whiz isn’t content with the twenty percent he legitimately collects in management fees, so he sets up a room – literally – in some out of the way place – "
"Like a boiler room?"
"Exactly. And he’ll hire a few dozen junior Gordon Geckos to push some penny stock on unsophisticated investors."
"Penny stocks aren’t that much of a risk – isn’t that why their called that?"
"If you know what you’re doing, you can make a lot of money, but these traders are cold-calling people whose entire investment experience might be picking a mutual fund or two when they signed up for their company’s 401k plan."
"That doesn’t sound particularly illegal."
"You’re right. Technically, it isn’t illegal or fraudulent to prey upon unsophisticated investors. But it doesn’t stop there. The stocks these boiler room scams are pushing are hyped with all sorts of false information. A drug company stock might be touted as the next IBM by claiming that the company is about to release a new miracle product – something that will cure cancer or the common cold. The trader will provide all sorts of data that makes it seem like he’s sharing insider information – or claim that he’s got an inside track with the FDA – but in truth, the company’s holding on by a thread. Other trading companies might pick up on this, start buying stock, raising the share price. It’s a classic pump and dump scenario."
Peter built up a head of steam. "The guy that set up the room? He’s invested a few million in this worthless stock, and he’ll cash out when he’s going to make the most profit. He sells his shares, his traders sell theirs, maybe – but the men and women who bought on the recommendation of these liars and thieves? They’re left with nothing. They’ve invested their life savings on what was sold as a sure thing and now they can’t pay the mortgage, they can’t send their kids to college, they can’t retire because everything’s gone. All because someone got greedy."
Peter paused, took a deep breath and finished. "This is what I do. It’s not exciting, it’s not glamorous. It’s nothing like what you see on television. But it matters. I can do good."
Doctor Crawford deliberately capped her pen and closed her notebook. "Thank you for telling me that, Peter. I know that this has been difficult and you might feel like you don’t have any allies in this process."
"You’re not my ally." He was blunt with the truth.
"I’m not unsympathetic. And I’m not your enemy, either."
Peter nodded, knowing that this was the best he was going to get. "Are we done." He hoped so.
"For today, yes. I’ll see you next Monday, one PM."
"I’ll be here. With bells on." He let out a huff of laughter. "Sorry – the sarcasm doesn’t help my cause, I know."
The doctor didn’t say anything, but her lips twitched in the barest hint of a smile.
Elizabeth should have stopped Neal as poured out the rest of the third bottle into her glass. She didn’t.
She should have stopped him before he asked the waiter for another bottle of that really excellent Italian red.
She should have stopped herself before she told Neal how she asked Peter out on their first date.
But there was something about Neal – when he was so open, so eager – that made a joke of her self-control.
"Let me get this straight. Peter was stalking you? Using FBI surveillance equipment?"
"Yeah – it was kind of adorable."
"Adorable? Seems a bit … I don’t know … extreme?"
The touch of worry in Neal’s tone, the sudden shadow in his eyes, penetrated the golden haze of a three-bottle lunch. "Oh, sweetie – it was nothing like that. Peter was just too shy to ask me out."
"Shy? You can’t tell me that Peter Burke, FBI agent and a man so dominant that you’d have to climb Everest to top him, is shy?"
She had to laugh at that analogy. Peter was dominant. "That may be, but he can get a little tongue-tied around someone he finds attractive. I bet when he first met you, he was less than eloquent.
Neal blinked and she could almost see the memories spool back.
"Yeah – he did seem a little tongue-tied at first." But Neal still seemed a little disturbed by their early courtship. "You weren’t freaked out by him, seriously?"
"Nah – he was just – " El was about to say that Peter was just trying to make sure she wasn’t dating anyone else, but thought better of it, in light of Neal’s history. "He just was working up the courage to ask me for a date."
"And I guess he finally did."
"Actually, I was the one who asked him. I knew he was watching, so I made a sign telling him that I loved Italian food."
"And he bit?"
"Big time. Took me to this terrific little hole-in-the-wall place on Arthur Avenue, got red sauce all down the front of his shirt and I took him home with me that night."
"To clean him up?" Neal was grinning.
"That’s one way to put it!" Elizabeth leaned over the table and stared Neal right in the eye. "You better not break my husband’s heart, Neal Caffrey."
He reached out and touched her cheek, the amusement in his eyes replaced by something deeper, richer. "The thought of hurting either of you again terrifies me."
It was a little before two and Peter was at loose ends. When the sessions ended, he usually went downtown to take Elizabeth out for a late lunch, but she had emailed a picture of the flowers Neal had sent, letting him know that she was going to meet with him. He had no problems with that. Peter wasn’t going to interfere with what needed to happen between his wife and Neal. Elizabeth had to make up her own mind – he’d be equally happy with her as part of a relationship with Neal, or if she decided she wanted something else.
"Peter?" A very familiar voice called his name.
He looked around and spotted, of all things, a Municipal Utilities van. An equally familiar one, with the dent and scrape of yellow along the back fender where it had been sideswiped by a taxi a few years ago. Lost in his own thoughts, he would have walked right by it if Diana hadn’t opened the side door and called out.
Peter didn’t wait for an invitation and climbed in.
"You’re looking very good, boss!" She hugged him tight.
"Thanks. I’m doing good." It wasn’t really a lie. He’s been better.
She pulled him into the operations center. Jones was there and greeted him with pleasure.
Clinton pointed to the display. "We’ve been tracking you since you came out of the McGraw-Hill Building. Diana was all set to pounce if you passed by."
"It’s good to see you – both of you." Good barely described his emotions. "But shouldn’t you be tracking your suspect?"
The two agents – two other agents – laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. Jones commented, "We’re here, monitoring a pen register on the phones belonging to a day trader who’s currently on vacation in Aruba."
Peter blinked, "That doesn’t seem to be the best use of your skills. Why isn’t it automated?"
Diana sighed and didn’t answer. "When are you coming back? The temporary SAIC that was assigned is getting way too cozy in your office."
"Temporary SAIC? I thought that Hughes was running things? When did this happen?"
Diana and Clinton exchanged looks. "About three weeks ago. Amanda Calloway – from the Atlanta office – breezed in and took charge. Hughes didn’t look too happy about it, but all he said when he introduced her was that her assignment was temporary."
A cold, sick feeling settled under Peter’s heart. He’d spoken with Reese a couple times over the few weeks, including coffee exactly a week ago, and his old friend hadn’t said anything about a replacement, temporary or otherwise. However, he wasn’t going to make matters worse by telling Clinton or Diana that. "And your take on Agent Calloway?" Their paths had crossed a few times. She wasn’t a particularly good investigative agent, but she was ambitious and knew how to cultivate the right people who would advance her career.
Clinton confirmed this opinion. "She’s very popular in certain circles. Very ‘efficient,’ if you get my drift."
Peter did. He might have had one of the highest closure rates in the country, but he also had to answer for frequent cost overruns, too. The higher ups didn’t mind when there were results to justify the expenses, but in this economic climate, he had to suppose that someone who paid attention to the bottom line was going to be rewarded. And yet something didn’t make sense. Why was she’s wasting valuable resources? Sticking two senior agents in a van monitoring an inactive wiretap was pointless.
"When are you coming back, Peter?" Diana asked again, this time with a note of desperation in her voice.
Suddenly, Peter understood everything that Diana wasn’t saying. "I wish I could give you an answer, Di. I haven’t even been cleared for desk duty yet."
"But it will be soon?"
"I hope so."
Clinton gave him a sour look. "It’s only been a few weeks since Calloway arrived, but it feels like eternity. Is there anything that we – " He pointed to Diana and himself, "Can do?"
Peter shook his head. "No, I’ve got to work through the process. I guess that getting shot and almost dying generates an awful lot of paperwork." He tried to make light of the situation. "I don’t recommend it."
His agents smiled, allowing the tension to break.
"Listen, maybe you two want to come over for dinner next week? Elizabeth would love to see you."
They chatted for a few more minutes, making plans for a social evening. These two were more than just his best agents, they were his friends and he needed to let them know that.
Diana checked the cameras and gave him the all-clear. No one was watching. Their suspect wasn’t even in the country, but it was standard operating procedure to make sure that they weren’t under observation. A man in casual street clothes climbing in and out of a work truck was memorable for all of the wrong reasons.
Peter didn’t wave or say goodbye once he was back on the street, but he walked halfway up the block, turned and nodded, certain that his friends were watching.
Neal got home and found Mozzie perched at his kitchen table like a gnome in a country garden.
"So, how did lunch with Mrs. Suit go?"
That appellation was beginning to annoy Neal. He glared at Moz and tried to remember that this man saved his life, literally. But today, he just wasn’t in the mood.
Moz wasn’t accepting his silence. "Well?"
"Lunch was fine."
"Did she like the flowers?"
"I think they were a little overwhelming."
"It’s the gesture that counts."
"Four hundred dollars for something that’s going to be tossed into the trash in less a week is quite the gesture."
"It’s not like you paid for them."
"I wish you wouldn’t do things like that."
"Like what?"
"Get things…"
"What do you mean, ‘get things’?"
"You know what I mean – you ‘get’ things. Without paying for them."
"You think I stole those flowers?" There was just a touch of outrage in Mozzie’s question. It wasn’t convincing.
"Not exactly ‘stole’."
"Can you stop talking with quotation marks around your words? I hate that."
Neal sighed. "Sorry. And Elizabeth loved the flowers."
Moz nodded, looking like a very serene turtle. "Good. And for the record, I didn’t steal them. They were just … redirected."
Neal refrained from sighing. Moz was Moz. Brilliant, quirky, loyal and if he occasionally felt the need to indulge in a little felonious behavior, what could Neal really do about it?
"So, the lunch?"
Moz was also relentless.
"Lunch was good. I had the salmon with grilled asparagus, Elizabeth had an arugula and goat cheese salad with dried cranberries and candied walnuts. The bread was freshly baked and the butter, French. We split three bottles of Grosjean Valle d’Aosta Torrette Superieur. All in all, a lovely meal."
"I didn’t ask you for your menu. How did it go?"
"You don’t like when I talk in quotation marks, I don’t care for the italics in your tone."
"Stop with the deflecting already. Has Mrs. Suit forgiven you?"
Moz wasn’t going to leave it alone, so Neal answered. "Yes."
"Yes, that’s it? Nothing more?"
"What do you want?"
"Details, my friend. I want the details."
Neal bit back a sharp retort and gave a more measured answer. "I really appreciate that you’re looking out for me. You’ve been the best friend anyone could want and your support has been invaluable – "
Moz cut him off. "But what goes on between you and the Suits isn’t my business. Unless I have to rescue you."
"Moz – "
"Can it, Neal. I know what I’m good for."
Moz got up, but Neal reached out and grabbed his wrist. "That’s not what I’m saying."
"Then what are you saying?"
"It’s all very new, very …" Neal searched for the right word. "Delicate."
Moz nodded slowly. "And you’re afraid you’ll jinx it?"
"Yeah." He hoped Moz would understand his reticence.
He did, but still asked, sounding sad, "Will I need to move out?"
"Why?"
"Well, don’t you want your privacy – in case you want to be with them?"
Neal shrugged. "I could always hang a sock on the door."
Moz chuckled. "Yeah – that would bring back memories."
Neal chuckled, too. They’d met as roommates at Harvard, and Neal – a very young sixteen year old freshman, had no idea what the sock on the doorknob meant. He’d learned quickly, after walking in on Moz in a sandwich between two very well-endowed redheads. "But seriously, Moz – I want you to stay. You’re my best friend and I need you in my life."
Moz took off his glasses and started wiping them furiously. "Okay. Then I’ll stay."
"And I want you to meet Peter and Elizabeth."
"I’ve already met the magnificent Mrs. Suit."
"Moz – "
"All right, all right. Set it up, I’ll be there, with bells on."
Neal just said, "Bells will be fine, just leave the seersucker for your Good Humor route."
Peter couldn’t shake the sick feeling in his gut, the one he knew he needed to listen to. The unexpected meeting with Clinton and Diana and the news they gave him left him shaken. He needed to see Reese, maybe even meet with Calloway and try to find out if she really believed the assignment was temporary.
It didn’t seem like that, though. Three weeks in and she was already doing her best to make life difficult for his top two agents, giving them meaningless assignments. She couldn’t have them reassigned without cause, but she’d do everything she could to make them transfer out and bring in her own staff.
Or he could be over-thinking this and there might be a good reason why she had Diana and Clinton sitting on a dormant pen register, twiddling their thumbs.
But bursting into Hughes’ office, making demands wasn’t the best way to go about it. Reese had been his greatest advocate for as long as Peter had been with the White Collar division. Hell, it was Reese who offered him the job there so many years ago. After the debacle with Matthew Keller, his career was bound for a dead end. He’d pissed off the wrong people and whistleblowers were never anyone’s favorite employee. At least not until the screenwriters got ahold of the story and it was Oscar season.
Reese had stood by him, promoted him, he made sure he had the resources he needed to do his job. And he was more than just a boss. Reese was a good friend, and the only person other than Elizabeth who he trusted without question. Which made the news about Calloway unexpected and disturbing.
Peter sent Hughes a text, letting him know he was near the office, asking if he’d he like to meet for coffee.
He received a reply about two minutes later.
Yes, and we need to talk
Peter’s gut started churning in overdrive.
There was a small, old-fashioned coffee shop about three blocks from the office, the kind with high booths that gave the patrons an illusion of privacy. He’d been a regular for years, and had met Reese here a few times since he’d regained his mobility. As Peter made his way towards a booth at the back, he glanced over at the other patrons – mostly construction workers and a few office drones. No one he recognized. No one who seemed to be FBI. No one who’d be the least interested in his conversation.
As he sat down, Peter laughed at himself. Once, years ago, Elizabeth called him a professional paranoid. It was said in affection, but Peter recognized the truth of that. He never went into a situation without making sure he had all the information. Well, almost never. The last time that happened, he almost died.
A waitress came with a cup of coffee and a menu, which Peter declined. He probably should have declined the coffee too – it was strong enough to strip paint. But it gave him something to do while he waited.
Reese arrived just after his first refill.
Peter didn’t bother with any pleasantries. "I ran just ran into Berrigan and Jones."
Hughes grimaced. "And I guess they told you."
"About my ‘replacement,’ yes."
"It’s only temporary."
Peter just looked at Reese over the rim of his coffee cup.
"It is, Peter."
"Somehow, I’m not reassured."
Reese made a face. "Can’t you trust me?"
"I saw you a week ago. We sat here, in this very booth, when Amanda Calloway was already in place and setting up shop in my office, but you didn’t say a word to me." Peter took a deep breath and tried to rein in his temper. "I have to wonder why that is."
Hughes nodded. "I can understand that you’re annoyed at me."
"Why didn’t you tell me?"
"It’s only temporary, Peter."
"You’ve already said that, and it’s not really an answer to my question."
Reese took a sip of his own coffee and frowned. "I know."
"Do you know something?" Peter was getting more worried as every second passed.
"About what?"
He knew that his old friend was deflecting, buying time – but for what, Peter was afraid to find out. "About whether or not I’m ever going to be cleared for active duty."
That seemed to shock Hughes. "What? You don’t think you’re coming back?"
"I’ve been mobile for three months, Reese. They’ve had me with a department therapist for almost two months. It’s beginning to feel like I’m going to be forced into early retirement."
"Well, I can assure that that that’s not the case. You were shot and nearly killed. It’s a miracle you’re walking. No one’s even considering making you retire. You’re too valuable and now that you’re feeling better, you anxious to be back in the saddle. I understand that, but coming back before you’re physically and mentally ready is the worst possible thing to do. We’re understaffed as it is, and with your record, they aren’t going to let you go so easily."
"We’re perpetually understaffed, and because of the damned sequester, the entire Bureau has to take furlough days. The brass are looking for any way to cut headcount and keep costs down. Clinton mentioned that my replacement has an eye for efficiency. That has to sit well with the higher ups."
"Efficiency doesn’t equal a 93% conviction record, Peter. Amanda Calloway is a placeholder." Before Peter could interrupt, Reese held up a hand. "Yes, an ambitious placeholder but that’s all she is. She can’t touch your record."
Peter wasn’t sure he believed Reese, but short of calling him a liar, he had to accept that statement at face value. But he couldn’t let it go. "Why now? You’ve been running my team since the shooting. Why bring in a new broom at this stage?"
"Peter …"
He didn’t like the tone in his old friend’s voice. His gut started roiling for a completely different reason.
"What’s the matter?"
Hughes sighed and grimaced. "I didn’t want to tell you. Not yet, anyway."
"Are they forcing you into retirement?"
"No."
That single syllable didn’t do much to relieve Peter’s anxiety. "Then what?"
"I had some tests. The results were … inconclusive."
"Reese?" Peter was afraid he knew what Hughes was about to tell him.
"They found a lump on a lymph node. It may be malignant."
Ten years ago, Reese had a cancer scare. Actually, it was more than just a scare. He had Hodgkin’s disease. They caught it early, but he still needed treatment: surgery and radiation. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was effective. It had been easier to tell everyone he was retiring rather than deal with the sympathetic looks, the horror stories from well-meaning colleagues. As Reese had said at the time, he didn’t want to deal with all the crap that came when too many people knew his business. Peter was one of a very few people who knew that the "retirement" wasn’t really a retirement.
"Shit."
"Yeah – that’s just what I said."
"So, what happens now?"
"I’ve got a bunch more tests scheduled. A few that will take me out of the office for some time."
"Which is why you had to get someone else in. You can’t run both the department and my crew." He understood but couldn’t help wish that Reese had tapped Clinton for the job, especially if it was going to be temporary.
Reese nodded. "I didn’t want to dump it on you. Which was wrong, I know. But – "
"If you admitted it, it became too real."
"Exactly." Hughes sighed. "Don’t worry. You’ll be cleared soon. Calloway’s only temporary. I promise not to let her get too comfortable. And I’ll try to keep an eye on Jones and Berrigan. They deserve better treatment than they’ve gotten from her."
And yet, his friend’s words did nothing to calm Peter’s turmoil.
Elizabeth was, admittedly, a lot less than sober when she got out of the cab. That’s what happened when you split the better part of three bottles of wine. She had wanted to walk back to the office, telling Neal that the exercise would help to sober her up, but Neal had insisted. "It’s after three, it’ll be dark soon."
"And we’re in Lower Manhattan. The worst thing that could happen is that I’d be mugged by some desperate Wall Street type."
He just looked at her, held out a hand and a yellow cab glided to the curb, just like that. To her surprise, Neal gave the driver a twenty, with the admonition to avoid potholes and pedestrians. As the taxi pulled away, Elizabeth turned and watched Neal as he just stood there, hands in his pockets, like some sentinel.
The ride back to the office took less than ten minutes and she wasn’t surprised that the cabbie didn’t offer her any change, even though the fare was a third of what Neal had given him.
"Nice lunch?" Yvonne gave her a head-to-toe look.
"Very nice. Went to …" Damn, she couldn’t remember the name of the restaurant. "That new gastropub on Reade Street."
"Uh huh." Her assistant nodded, but clearly didn’t believe her. "Flowers fit for a queen, a three hour-long lunch and you can’t remember the name of the place you ate at?"
"It’s not what you think."
"Yup, you didn’t just have a booty call."
"Yvonne Felicity Adams, you get your mind out of the gutter." El tried for outrage. She failed miserably.
"Right. You just had ‘lunch’." She crooked her fingers and made a too-familiar gesture after the last word.
"And stop with the air quotes."
"Okay, you’re the boss."
El nodded. "Damn right I am." She hiccupped. "Have any breath mints?" Not that they’d sober her up.
Yvonne handed her a box of Altoids with a wink. "Surprised you don’t carry these around with you."
She took one, ignored Yvonne’s editorializing, and handed the box back. "I’m going into my office. Unless the world is coming to an end or the Bergerons call to change their colors, don’t bother me. And in fact, if the Bergerons call, don’t bother me."
Yvonne chuckled. "Whatever you say."
El pretended not to hear her assistant mutter under her breath, "That must have been some booty call."
Closing the office door behind her, El sat down, slipped off her shoes and propped her feet on her desk. The postprandial buzz was pleasant, and has her eyes drooped, she knew that she’d pay for it later.
Peter watched his wife sleep and stifled an almost irresistible urge to wake her up in some outrageous way – maybe kissing her bare ankles, opening her blouse and nibbling on the soft, silken flesh he found there, or taking the pins out of her elaborate hair do and running his fingers through her scalp. But he contented himself with watching her sleep.
Yvonne had warned him that Elizabeth had come back very late and a little drunk from her lunch date and dropped hints that his wife might have gotten lucky. She wasn’t trying to make trouble, not in the least. Yvonne had never been a bedmate of theirs, but she was part of the poly community. El had (and probably would) never admit it, but she’d hired Yvonne because of that.
Peter sat and watched his wife sleep and wondered if she had, in fact, gotten lucky. With Neal.
That thought stoked an unpleasant moment of jealousy, a feeling so foreign, so wrong, that he immediately tried to discard it. If Elizabeth had changed her mind and decided to pursue a physical relationship with Neal, she didn’t need his permission. It was just that he’d hoped that when the time was right, they’d all be there together.
Elizabeth’s eyelids fluttered and Peter donned his best loving husband smile. "Hey there, hon."
She stretched and as the desk chair started to tip back precariously, Peter reached out and steadied her.
El smiled at him. "My savoir – but what are you doing here?"
"I had some time, thought we’d go home together."
"Hmmm – thought your appointment was over at two? Figured you’d be long home by now."
"Nah – ran into Diana and Clinton, spent some time talking." He didn’t tell her about the conversation he had with Reese. He was still digesting what his old friend had told him.
Elizabeth fished for her shoes and when Peter turned on the overhead light to help her, she winced. "Neal Caffrey drinks like a fish."
"Fish don’t actually drink." Peter hoped his tone was a little warmer than it sounded to his ears.
His wife slapped at his arm. "You know what I mean. We split three bottles of wine at lunch." El found her shoes and put them on. "I don’t think even Asher drinks that much."
"Asher? What’s he got to do with anything?"
"Dunno, except that he can drink – and pardon me for my scientific inaccuracies, like a fish – too."
"So, lunch was good?"
"Yeah. It was."
"And Neal? Was he good, too?"
El gave him a questioning look. "Hon?"
Damn. "Just wondering how you got along with Neal today."
"Fine – really fine. Actually better than fine."
That cold, hateful knot of jealousy was back, but Peter strove not to give into it. "So?"
"So, what?"
"You and Neal?"
"Neal and I, what?"
This was getting ridiculous. "After lunch, you and Neal…"
"Hon – what the hell are you talking about? After lunch, Neal insisted I get into a cab even though I wanted to walk back here. He’s a very old-fashioned kind of guy, to be honest." El blinked at him. "Don’t tell me you were listening to Yvonne?"
Peter nodded, feeling like an idiot.
"I’m going to kill her."
"Hon, don’t say anything. I think she was just trying to be cute – when was the last time you came back from lunch like that?"
"Okay, okay – but it’s really not that funny." El pushed her bangs off her forehead. "You know that I’m not interested in Neal like that – not right now."
Peter reached for his wife and wrapped his arms around her. "I know, but you were, and you’ve been conflicted and there’s no reason not to take him up on anything that he’d offer."
"I wouldn’t do that to you. We don’t do that to each other."
Now he felt worse. "I know, I know – it’s just…" His voice trailed off. All the insecurities he felt during his therapy session, even when he was talking with Reese, came roaring back.
El put a hand on his cheek, she sensed his distress. "I understand, hon." He clung to her, hating how needy he felt. But she held just as tightly to him. "Take me home, okay?"
Tags:
- character: clinton jones,
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: june ellington,
- character: mozzie,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: omc,
- character: peter burke,
- character: reese hughes,
- character: satchmo,
- genre: abuse,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: badassery,
- genre: emotional trauma,
- genre: first time,
- genre: friendship,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- genre: marital sex,
- genre: pre-ot3,
- genre: romance,
- genre: slash,
- kink: anal sex,
- kink: frotting,
- kink: kissing,
- kink: oral sex,
- pairing: elizabeth/neal,
- pairing: elizabeth/omc,
- pairing: peter/elizabeth,
- pairing: peter/neal,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- wc verse: vet neal,
- white collar,
- written for: polyamory big bang,
- year: 2013
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-11-20 10:40 am (UTC)And yay for the team making an appearance :D \o/ Also, what interesting way to bring Calloway in... and the talk with Hughes... you are so wonderfully clever putting all these canon bits and pieces into your stories and making them work \o/
no subject
Date: 2013-11-21 05:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-23 10:46 pm (UTC)I do admit when I read about El walking 12 blocks in heels I flinched, LOL.
You also made me miss Reece.