White Collar Fic - If Nothing is Given, Then Nothing is Required

[elrhiarhodan]

Title: If Nothing is Given, Then Nothing is Required
Author: elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, Satchmo; Peter/Elizabeth, Pre-Peter/Neal, Neal/Kate
Word Count: ~5000
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Reference to possible hard drug usage
Beta Credit: None
Summary: Set very early in Season One, between Pilot and Flip of the Coin. Peter and Neal are still feeling their way through their very complex relationship, when Peter gets a call from the Marshals. In the wee small hours of the morning, Neal crossed out of his radius three times and the Marshals want to know why. So does Peter.

Author’s Note: Written for runthecon, from a tag from pooh_collector, "In the Bathtub". I do have to admit, this probably isn't what Pooh was expecting. But then I remembered an exchange between Tim and Matt in the March 2010 Webcast. See endnotes for the exact quotation.

__________________



The buzzing feeling that was taking over his brain had become an all-to-common sensation since he'd retrieved Neal Caffrey from Sing-Sing on a sunny afternoon a few weeks ago. It was the feeling he got when Neal did something utterly brilliant and thoroughly reckless. It was the feeling he got when he thought about all the paperwork he'd need to file to justify some outrageous scheme of Neal's that would invariably put the bad guy behind bars. Or when Neal got up to something highly illegal with his friend, the one that Peter wasn't really supposed to know about.

He's had spent way too many fruitless hours searching through all sorts of databases to learn something about the man. Jones had described him down to a T, and even worked with a sketch artist. But the Bureau's facial recognition software came up with nothing. Short of tearing a page out of the NSA's handbook and indulging in some extraordinary rendition, Peter wasn't going to find out anything without confronting the man directly.

And to be honest, Neal's dodgy acquaintance was the least of his problems right now. He had an irate U.S. Marshal wanting to know why Caffrey had crossed over his radius not once, not twice, but three times, very early this morning.

Peter had pulled up the map and the information made absolutely no sense. He'd been hoping to be able to placate the Marshals, to explain that Neal had been working after hours on a case and there had been an oversight, that he should have been on monitoring status only.

But he couldn’t explain why Neal was in a neighborhood that wasn't know for its art galleries and wine bars or why he'd had crossed the northbound side of the road to the median on the West Side Highway and three times between three and four AM.

Peter's gut fought with his brain as a dozen different scenarios formed. And he didn't like any of them, especially the ones that seemed most likely of all.

There was a tap on the door and Peter looked up. It was Neal, grinning like he didn't have a care in the world. "You wanted to see me?"

"Sit."

Neal obeyed without comment and dropped his ass in a chair, still behaving like nothing was wrong. Peter got up and closed his office door before sitting on the edge of his desk, arms crossed on his chest.

He gave Neal his Stare of Doom. The ones that made probies piss themselves.

At first, Neal's smile brightened, but Peter didn't react to it. It took a few seconds, but that smile began to waver, the wide-eyed look of innocence changed to worry and doubt clouded those all-too-guileless eyes. Finally, Neal's gaze dropped - just for a moment. He licked his lips and lifted his eyes again, and Peter felt a stirring.

Not just the surge of lust he normally experienced when Neal obeyed like a well-trained dog, but appreciation for what Neal was trying to do. Like that time in Kate's abandoned apartment or when he'd found him in Hagen's office with a Cuban cigar and the stolen Spanish Victory Bond, he was flirting, he was making promises with his eyes, with his body. Promises he had no intention of keeping.

Which was fine with Peter, because he had no intention on calling them in. Neal Caffrey was a convicted felon, out of prison only by the grace of Peter's good standing with the Justice Department. Something that could change at any moment. There was no way he was getting involved with him.

Not like that.

Peter kept staring at Neal, waiting for this new mask to fall apart. It took another thirty seconds, which was probably something of a record. Only Diana, now reassigned as the FBI's liaison to the State Department, ever lasted longer.

"What's the matter?"

Peter got up and walked behind his desk, but he didn't break eye-contact. He waited another few seconds and Neal licked his lips again. This time, it was a nervous gesture.

He tossed the printout of last night's tracking report at Neal and said, "Why don't you tell me?"

Neal glanced at the page and grinned. "So that's what all this drama's about."

"You crossed out of your radius three times."

"Really? I don't remember my light going red."

"Maybe because you weren't looking at your ankle when you were running back and forth across the West Side Highway like you were playing a demented game of chicken."

"It was windy last night."

"This morning. You were doing your little dance at three thirty-seven AM."

Neal tipped his head, ceding the point to Peter. "It was windy this morning. Very windy."

"And what do the meteorological conditions have to do with anything."

"I kept losing my hat."

"So you risked life and limb three times to retrieve your hat?"

"It's a good hat. June had once told me that it was Byron's favorite. I couldn't let it go."

"And this happened three times?" His tone dripped with skepticism.

"Actually, it did."

"Why didn't you just carry it, instead of putting it back on your head?"

"I said, it was windy - the second and third time, it blew right out of my hand."

Peter took a deep breath and gathered the fraying ends of his patience. "The Marshals want to put you on lock down for the weekend. They want you in the MCC from five tonight until eight on Monday morning."

Now Neal looked seriously worried. "No! That's unfair. I didn't mean …"

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions, Caffrey. Maybe forty-eight hours in lockup might help you remember why you're not spending four years there."

Neal just sat there, staring at his hands, looking way too shaken. And then he simply said, "Okay. I'll be ready when the Marshals come this evening."

For the second time in the space of ten minutes, Peter was impressed. If he hadn't spent three years getting inside the man's head, he might have bought this little performance. "You weren't listening to me, Neal. I said that the Marshals wanted to put you in the Metropolitan Correctional Center for the weekend, and while I see some merit in the idea, I didn't say I was going to let them."

It was such a pleasure seeing Neal so confused. It didn't happen too often, so Peter savored the moment. "Instead, you're going to be spending the weekend with me."

"You?"

"Yup, at the house. From tonight until Monday morning, when we're back at work, you're going to be within a fifteen-yard radius of me at all times." He held up a small gray plastic object. "This is a proximity beacon. At five PM, the Marshals will switch the center of your radius over to the GPS coordinates transmitted from this device and reduce it to a mere forty-five feet. Which is the distance from my kitchen to the bathroom upstairs. Any further, and the Marshals will be sending someone to pick you up and take you in. And I can't guarantee that they'll let you out anytime soon."

"Sounds like fun. You and me and Elizabeth all cozy together for the weekend." The flirtatious Neal was back, and so was that smile.

"El's got a thing in the Hampton's all weekend. She's probably halfway there by now. So it's just the two of us. And Satchmo."

Neal leaned back against the chair. "Sweet. You know - there's a really great exhibit at the Channing …"

"No art museums, Neal."

"What about the - "

"Nope."

"Don't tell me, we're going to watch basketball all weekend."

"Maybe we'll get in a game or two, but only after you help me cross off a number of items on my honey-do list."

"Your what?"

"My honey-do list. On weekends when she's out of town, El gives me a list of things she'd like done around the house. I think this weekend I need to clean the gutters, fix the kitchen sink, and wash the dog. All chores you're going to help me with."

Neal's grin grew broader, "You're joking."

Peter gave him a milder form of the Stare of Doom.

"You're not joking. You're really going to make me do your household chores?"

"Yes I am. I hope Byron left behind something a little less fancy, because I don't think you want to be bathing Satchmo in a custom made suit."

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Five o'clock came and Peter kept Neal waiting. He would have enjoyed this display of power a little more if the stakes weren't quite so high. Captain Shattuck at the Twenty-Fifth Precinct sent over last night's sector reports. A block north of the intersection where Neal crossed his radius and claimed to have lost his hat three times, the NYPD swept up a half-dozen heroin buyers and their dealer.

Peter wanted to believe it was just bad coincidence, but his gut was telling him otherwise.

When he was chasing Caffrey, he'd always been surprised at the level of personal discipline the man displayed. He'd loved the finer things in life but he never over-indulged. Not food, not wine, and never drugs. But prison had a way of twisting people and while Neal explained why he kept running back and forth across the road, he didn't say why he was down in that neighborhood to begin with.

Neal kept looking up at his office and Peter finally relented. Time to get this show on the road. He grabbed his jacket and headed downstairs. Neal was up like a shot, or like a dog who was just told he could go for a car ride.

They headed to June's place so Neal could get some clothes for the weekend. Traffic was sluggish - typical for New York on a Friday in early autumn. Neal toyed with the radio and Peter slapped his hand away and it felt almost normal.

But Peter couldn't stop worrying. His brain and his gut were in sync on this. Neal had no business being out on the streets last night - no legitimate business. And if he'd picked up some seriously bad habits, it was up to him to make sure that those habits were broken.

When they got to the ridiculously exquisite mansion that Neal called "home", he pulled over and parked illegally in front of a mailbox.

Neal started to get out of the car and said, "Just wait here - I'll be down in ten minutes. Probably less."

"You're forgetting something, Caffrey." Peter pulled the gray box out of his pocket. "It's after five. Forty-five feet at all times, until Monday morning."

Neal glared at him.

"Or I can call the Marshals and have them reserve a cell for you at the MCC."

Neal didn't say a word and Peter tossed his FBI placard on the dash. Maybe, just maybe, City Traffic Enforcement would honor it. But probably not.

Peter followed Neal up to the fourth floor and watched as he pulled a duffle bag from the wardrobe unit in the sleeping area. "Your running kit?"

"What? Me? Why would I need a running kit?"

"Because you're just waiting for the chance to go find Kate?"

"You wound me, Peter. I gave you my word."

Peter nodded. "And I know that your word was as good as you bond. Which was why you're on a tracking anklet with a radius reduced to fifteen yards."

Neal didn't comment, but he headed for the side door.

"Where are you going?"

"My clothes are in the hall closet and I'll need some toiletries. Are you going to follow me into the bathroom?"

Peter waved him off. This would give him a few minutes to search. Neal disappeared and Peter dashed over to the sleeping area, pulling open the night table drawer. The contents were both disturbing and enlightening - three bottles of lube, one opened. A box of condoms, half gone. A butt plug of almost terrifying proportions and a hot pink silicone cock ring. But no drug paraphernalia.

One ear opened to the hallway, Peter frantically looked for other, less obvious hiding places. He touched the small painting over the night table, and it didn't move like it was on picture wire. He tugged and it opened on hinges.

Peter swallowed hard and reached inside. It was empty.

Damn

Peter scanned the room and settled on the fireplace. There were probably a dozen different cubbyhole hidden behind the ornate woodwork. But he was going to have to let it go unsearched, he heard Neal coming back.

"Find anything incriminating, Agent Burke?"

Peter shot back, "Just your sex toys, Caffrey." Oh, it was so worth everything to see Neal blush like a virgin. "It's going to be warm this weekend, hope you've got the right clothes."

"I do wear casual clothes, Peter."

"Couldn't prove it by me."

"Well, now's my chance."

By the time they fought through traffic and made it to Brooklyn, it was nearly seven and Peter was starving. "Pizza okay?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Hope you don't want pineapple or salad on it."

"What's wrong with pineapple on pizza? Or a salad pizza?"

"There's nothing wrong with pineapple or with salad. But neither item belongs on a pizza."

"Philistine."

"I'm not denying that."

It was strange, but Peter enjoyed bantering like this with Neal. He liked the give and take between them, Neal's display of smarts and bravado. His own chance to show off. This was something he'd never get with his agents. Not even Diana, who often gave as good as she got, or Jones, who was one of the smartest men he knew. Both of them were all too aware that Peter was their boss and that created a natural barrier between them. Neal had no such barriers with him - he didn't seem to care that all it would take was one word from him and he'd be back at Sing Sing for another four years. Or maybe life.

And Peter found that exciting.

Once inside, once the pizza was ordered and Satchmo let out to do his business, Neal asked, "Are we starting on your honey-do list tonight?"

Peter went over to the fridge and found the list El left for him. All the items he expected were there, "Fix the sink, clean the back gutters, trim the rosebushes, wash the dog. Nope, none of these are evening activities. Which is good, since there's a Knicks - Heat game on."

That didn't thrill Neal at all. "Maybe I'll just go to bed early. Was out late last night."

Peter frowned as Neal inadvertently reminded him why he was here for the weekend. "Early. You were out early this morning."

Neal shrugged off the correction, "Whatever."

"If you want, you can get out of your suit. It's a little warm in here."

Neal gave him an odd look. "You seem awfully concerned about my overheating."

"Just seems ridiculous for you to be hanging around in a suit."

"I could say the same thing."

"True - why don't we both go change?"

Neal hefted his bag and Peter took him upstairs, pointing him to the guest bedroom while he headed towards the master. It took a few minutes to lock up his gun and change out of his suit and into a comfortable pair of old jeans and a tee shirt. He left his badge on the dresser but shoved the gray plastic box he'd shown Neal back in his pocket.

The pizza arrived a few minutes after he came back downstairs. He dropped the box on the dining room table, let the dog in, fetched some paper plates and napkins from the kitchen and called upstairs. "Dinner's here."

Neal joined him and to his dismay, he was wearing a henley with three-quarter length sleeves.

Peter practically growled, "Aren't you warm?"

Neal gave him a puzzled look. "No, I'm fine. This is actually getting a little creepy. Do you want me to go shirtless?"

Yes, that would be a huge help. "No, I just want you to be comfortable."

"Believe me, I'm fine."

Peter shrugged, knowing that he couldn't take this any further.

Pizza finished, Peter insisted on taking Satchmo for a walk. When Neal looked ready to kick back and relax, he pulled out the proximity beacon. "Like I told you - forty-five feet or a cell at the Metropolitan Correctional Center. Your choice."

Neal sighed. "I'm not carrying the poop bag."

"Did I ask you to?"

The evening was pleasant and there were still a lot of people out, some who stopped to chat. He could feel Neal's irritation, especially when Peter introduced him as a new co-worker.

Back at the house, he commented, "I thought that you - as a professional liar - would understand the value of keeping lies as close to the truth as possible. Besides, I don't think my neighbors would be happy to learn that they've just shook hands with a felon on work release."

Neal didn't say a word and just stomped upstairs like a sulky teenager, which suited Peter perfectly.

He got a beer, turned on the Knicks game and relaxed. Or tried to. As the Heat trounced the ever-hapless Knicks in the early-season matchup, Peter tried to construct a plausible reason why Neal was in one of the few completely unrehabilitated areas left in Manhattan, but he couldn't think of one that didn't involve a drug buy or peddling his ass.

Unless he'd found Kate and that's where they'd met.

And he had to admit, that troubled him more than the other two options.

About a quarter to eleven, just as the game was ending, El called.

"Hey, hon"

"Hey, hon. How was your event?"

"Everything went fine - usual snags in the rehearsal. That's why it's called a 'rehearsal' but the bride and groom are disgustingly happy, all of the parents and the step-parents and the grandparents behaved themselves, none of the groomsmen were molested by the bridesmaids, and the celebrant remained sober."

"Doesn't really sound like a typical Burke Premier Event."

"Oh hon, you're so funny. Anyway - tell me about your evening."

Peter hadn't had the chance to tell Elizabeth about his plans for the weekend before she'd left for the Hamptons. "I have Neal here. For the weekend."

"You do? You have to wait for me to go out of town to indulge in your animal lusts?"

"Hon - "

"I guess it's too much to ask for you to videotape your first night together."

"Elizabeth - " Usually when he used her full name, El knew he was being serious.

"Okay, okay - what's really wrong."

He told her about the call from the Marshals this afternoon, Neal's odd behavior at an unusual location at the edge of his radius and what he'd suspected.

"You really think Neal was buying drugs?"

"Or selling his ass. Or looking for Kate. I can't think of any other reason why he'd be on the West Side Highway near the Lincoln Tunnel at three AM."

"Have you asked him?"

"I asked him why he was playing chicken. He gave me some cockamamie story about the wind blowing his hat off and he kept needing to fetch it."

"It was very windy last night - the trees banging against the bedroom window woke me up around four."

"Okay - so maybe he wasn't lying about his hat, but that doesn't explain why he was there in the first place."

"Have you asked him?"

"Directly, no. I don 't want to have him lie to me. Not about something like this."

"I think you're making a mistake. I think that if you ask him, he'll tell you the truth. You might not like it, but at least you won't spend the rest of the weekend stewing about it."

"I'll take that under advisement."

"You'd better. Now, I've got to go. You found the list?"

"Yup - will take care of everything."

"Please make bathing Satch a priority. He's smelling a little … ripe"

"Will do. Love you, honey."

"Love you, too. Very much."

Peter disconnected and grimaced. This handler thing was a lot more difficult than he'd ever anticipated. Or maybe he'd just been deluding himself. After three years of chasing the slippery "James Bonds", he should have figured than making sure Neal Caffrey stayed on the right side of the law wasn't going to be a cakewalk.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal looked up at him, and even from the top rung of the ladder, Peter could read his irritation.

"Do you think you could have a little better aim with that stuff?"

A messy handful of decaying leaf matter had landed on Neal's head, instead of in the bag Neal had been holding open.

"Oh, my aim was just fine."

"Terrific."

It was really too much fun having Neal here, making him do all sorts of household chores. Like domesticating a feral kitten. "Just one more handful and we're done." He scooped out the last of the muck in the gutter and tossed it down. Neal had anticipated his aim and took one step to the left. The mess landed neatly in the bag.

Peter climbed down and grinned, "Impressive. Maybe we should sign you up for the FBI's softball league next spring."

Neal just glared at him.

"What, you don't like playing sports?"

"I'm not a fan of indentured servitude."

"But you are a fan of bespoke suits and silk ties. You'd have to trade them in for orange jumpsuits if you went back to prison for the next four years."

"How long are you going to hold that over me?"

Peter didn't bother to disguise his glee, "Until it stops getting a reaction."

Neal muttered something under his breath.

"What was that?"

"I asked - what's next on your list of chores."

"Well, we've fixed the sink, cleaned the gutters, and trimmed the rosebushes. That just leaves the hardest task of all. Bathing Satchmo."

Satchmo, who'd been dozing in the sun on the patio, heard his name in conjunction with the word "bath" and made for the back door. He started clawing at it in a futile attempt to escape.

Peter grabbed the dog's collar and pulled him over to Neal. "Hold him while I get the tub set up."

"We're going to bath him upstairs?"

"Nope. It's a warm day and we'll bathe him here. I have an old metal tub in the basement and I'll run the hose from the kitchen sink. But if you let Satch go, I'll have to drag him back out and trust me, it's not going to be a pretty sight."

Peter could see how Neal was sympathizing with his dog. They had too much in common at the moment.

"I'll be right back."

It took a few minutes to get the large metal tub up from the basement, plus Satchmo's doggie shampoo and an armful of old towels. Neal offered to help him with the hose, but he told him to keep holding Satchmo. "He'll try to dig under the fence to get away."

"What did you do to him to make him hate baths?"

"I don't know. He was fine as a puppy, but the last few years, he's become unreasonable."

Finally, the hose was set up and the tub was filled with warm water. Peter stripped off his shirt, toed off his shoes and picked Satchmo up.

At least the dog didn't struggle in his arms. Maybe he was just giving into the inevitable. But he did let out some heart-rending whimpers as Peter deposited him into the tub.

"Shh, shh. You're such a good boy. It's all right." As he tried to soothe his dog, Peter forgot about Neal. He loved Satch and he hated like hell to cause him any distress, but bathing was an essential evil, and in a few hours, when he was clean and dry, his fur all fluffy and sweet-smelling, Satch would be back to his normal, happy self.

Except that right now, he was shivering and whimpering and Peter could do nothing but continue with the bath. He reached for the shampoo and was surprised when someone handed it to him. Right, Neal was here.

"Thanks."

"Want me to help?"

"Yeah, could you hold him while I lather him up?"

Neal debated for a couple of seconds, then pulled off his shirt - that same irritating three-quarter sleeved henley, took off his shoes, and wrapped his arms around seventy pounds of wet dog.

Peter worked the soap into Satchmo's coat, trying to ignore the dog's distress. As he reached the mid-point, Neal said, "Let me" and he started massaging the lather over Satchmo's back and his belly. To Peter's astonishment, Satch stopped shivering and after a few minutes, his mouth opened in a happy pant.

Peter stepped back and watched Neal work his magic with his dog. Neal even managed to get all the sensitive bits around his hindquarters clean without Satchmo growling at him.

"Okay - I think our boy here is ready for a rinse."

Peter tested the water from the hose before running it over his dog. He got all of the soap rinsed off his back, but now was the tricky part - getting Satch out of the bathtub so he could finish the rest. Last time he did this, he pulled something in his back and Satchmo almost killed himself.

But Neal managed to work another miracle and whistled. Peter watched in utter amazement as Satch sprung out of the tub like he had springs for legs. And instead of running off, he stood there while Peter rinsed the rest of the shampoo away.

He let Neal rub Satchmo down while he emptied the tub and disconnected the hose. By the time order was restored and everything put away, Satchmo was back to sleeping in the sun, his coat practically glittering.

Feeling almost uncomfortably grateful for Neal's assistance, he fetched a few bottles of beer from the fridge and they both sat at the patio table, damp and shirtless.

Peter looked at Neal's bare feet, almost surprised to see the left ankle decorated with the gray plastic block. For the space of an hour, he'd forgotten that Neal was a felon on work release, not a friend giving him a hand with an unpleasant chore.

Neal took a sip of his beer and casually asked, "Do you think you can tell me what's really going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"This whole charade."

"Charade?"

"Yeah - keeping me to a fifteen yard radius. The 'proximity beacon' crap."

"It's not crap."

"It's your spare cell phone battery." Neal pulled the gray plastic box out of his pocket and turned it over to display the label that said "certified authentic Blackberry product".

Peter felt a flush of embarrassment heat his cheeks. "I don't know how I could have forgotten how much you like to pick my pocket."

"If you wanted my company for the weekend, you could have just asked."

Peter remembered El's advice. Maybe Neal would be honest with him. "Why were you near the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel the other morning?"

"Is that what this is about?"

Peter laid his cards on the table. "Pedestrians are only there for two reasons, Neal. Either they're selling their ass or they're buying drugs. Heroin, usually."

Neal blinked, clearly this wasn't what he was expecting. "You think I was buying drugs? That I use?"

"I don't want to, but I couldn't form any other conclusion." Peter didn't want to mention Kate.

"And that's why you've wanted to see my arms."

He nodded, just slightly.

Neal held them out - there were no signs of any track marks. He also offered his feet for inspection. "Might as well check between my toes, too. That's another place where users shoot up."

"Neal - "

Neal sighed. "I guess that's a logical conclusion and I should be pleased that you didn't think I was prostituting myself."

"So, why were you there?"

"Helping a friend."

"The same friend who helped us a few weeks ago. The one who gave us the information about Hagen?"

"Yeah."

Peter weighed his next question very carefully. "Were you breaking any laws?"

"No."

Peter was kind of shocked at the lack of any equivocation. "What about your friend? Was he?"

"That's not something you need to know."

Peter sighed. "Okay - that's fair enough."

"Can I ask you something?"

"I guess you're entitled."

"What would have happened if you found out I was using?"

"I would have gotten you help. I would have gotten you clean."

That seemed to surprise Neal. "Why?"

"For the same reason why I couldn't let you rot for another four years. Smart people sometimes make boneheaded mistakes."

"Like breaking out of prison with three months left on a four year sentence."

"Yup." Peter didn't think he needed to say anything more.

Satchmo woke, lumbered to his feet, shook himself out and turned around a few times before settling back on the warm patio deck.

Peter commented, apropos of nothing, "We probably won't have weather like this for much longer. Winter's coming."

"I like snow. I like the hush of everything when the world's coated in white, the feeling that everything can be new again."

He could have commented about the mess that snow makes, the horrible traffic and all the difficulties that it brought to daily life. But he understood what Neal was saying. The message was clear.

"I do, too."

FIN

In the webcast, we were gifted with this delightful exchange, and five years later, I've finally be able to write a fic for it:

Tim: We're rolling. Uh, more importantly, um, I don't know, it's the writing! They write, you know, fortunately you get to go to this guy's home. You know, Peter Burke's home. And not often do you get that in a- from a uh-

Matt: That's true. You get to see a lot of the personal life as well-

Tim: You haven't seen Peter bathe yet.

Matt: Well you got to save- I meant that's magic right there, you got to save some of that kind of magic for subsequent seasons.

Tim: That's not magic. Yes, yes. Uh, but maybe- maybe we'll start with bathing Satchmo.

Matt: Yeah. I like that.

Tim: And then kind of work our way, 'cause suds is sexy.

Matt: Yep.