elrhiarhodan

Chapter Seven - I Love You, and That’s All I Know

Neal makes it back to his room, but he feels brittle and old.

Nothing changes, does it? He’s given Peter every opening, every opportunity and for what? To be accused and accused again.

But what did you expect? To Peter, you’re still Neal Caffrey, confidential informant.

It would be nice to be trusted. He argues with himself.

Have you ever really earned that trust? Or at least given him your perfect offer of proof? He wants that inner voice to shut up, but it’s young and bright and fresh as a newly minted coin. Stifling it isn’t a real choice.

Neal takes out his luggage and starts pulling his clothing from the wardrobe and drawers.

Running again? Great way to show your trustworthiness.

I’m not running. I’m leaving tomorrow, as scheduled. I just need something to do.

Yeah, you can lie to everyone else, even Peter, but you really can’t lie to yourself. Once you’re packed, you’ll be looking to change your ticket. The voice is snide now.

No, I won’t. I’m not running out again. I’m done with that.

A knock on the door interrupts his conversation with himself. He looks through the peephole, half hopeful, half dreading. It’s Elizabeth and he sighs with relief as he opens the door and lets her in.

“I’ve come to the conclusion that my husband is an idiot.” Elizabeth radiates all of the emotion that Neal’s been trying to suppress.

“Peter isn’t an idiot. It’s not like I don’t have a track record.”

“No, Neal. Peter’s an ass. You’ve given him so many openings, but he doesn’t want to see them.” She moves the pile of clothes on the bed and sits down. “Why don’t you just tell him? Why put yourself through all of this?”

He scrubs at his face. “I don’t know, Elizabeth. I’ve tried to make myself tell him a dozen times, but probably the demons that made Peter ask me what crimes I committed during those five months are first cousins to the ones that are keeping me from telling him, in full detail, of what I really was doing.”

Elizabeth reaches into her handbag and pulls out a white envelope. It’s a little stained and a little rumpled, but Neal recognizes it in an instant.

“Maybe it’s time you gave him this.”

“Have you read what I wrote?”

“It’s still sealed.”

“And a boiling tea kettle can fix that in an instant.”

Elizabeth smiles, but it’s a sad smile. “No, Neal. I’m not quite up to your tricks.”

He taps the letter against his fingers and thinks about all of the new options that this gives him. “Thank you. Thank you for saving this, thank you for bringing it with you, thank you for giving it back to me.”

“You’re going to give it to Peter?

“Yes, I am.” He kisses her, not on the cheek, but on the lips. A lover’s kiss, full of promise. “Do you want to have dinner alone with Peter, or can I join you for a farewell meal?”

Elizabeth thinks for a minute. “Join us for dessert, we’ll be having it our room tonight. Nine o’clock.”

“Elizabeth Burke, if you weren’t my best friend’s wife, I’d marry you.”

“Hold fast to that thought, buster. You may get your chance. I think you mentioned something about a jeweler you know back in New York?”

Neal closes his eyes and sees the three of them, matching rings and a real future. “Yeah, I know a jeweler.” His smile is practically angelic.

Back in their suite, she finds Peter engaging in the same activity as Neal, packing.

“I suppose Neal’s on his way off to wherever.” It doesn’t take a genius to see that he’s angry, furious at himself.

“Oh, honey.” She can tell just what he’s thinking.

“This time, I deserve it.” She watches as Peter shoves clothes randomly into a suitcase. At least it’s his clothes and she’s not going to intervene. “I’m never going to see him again.” He dumps the clothes on the floor and collapses on the bed, head in his hands. “I drove him away, didn’t I? After everything, I all but accuse him of going back to the life. What is wrong with me?”

It kills her to see Peter beat himself up, even if he did behave like an idiot. She sits down next, wraps an arm around his shoulders, and aches for him. “I think that there are a lot of issues you two are still going to have to work through. But Neal hasn’t gone anywhere. He’s in his room, packing. Just like you, only a hell of a lot neater.”

“He hasn’t gone?” He gets up, or tries to, but she holds on to him.

“He’s angry and I don’t think he wants to see you right now, but he’s not going anywhere yet.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, Peter. I’m sure. He said he’ll join us for dessert tonight. Here, in our room. He just needs a little time to get over his mad.”

“Get over his mad? Like he’s a three year old who threw a tantrum. For chrissakes, El – I insulted him and I’ll be damned if I’m going to have to wait another year to apologize.”

“Peter Burke, listen to me. You go charging in there, you’ll end up saying something you’ll regret. If I thought your immediate apology was going to make things right, I’d be dragging you to his room by your short and curlies.”

“So, now what?”

“Let me help you finish packing. We’ll go for a last walk, have dinner and come back here for dessert.”

“Dessert?”

“Yes, darling, dessert. And in case you weren’t sure, that word is filled with innuendo. I don’t think we are going to find what we want on the room service menu.”

A little after 9:00, Neal lets himself into Peter and Elizabeth’s suite. Their bags are packed and waiting in the living room. His own luggage is in the same state. It feels strange, to be leaving this way; orderly, tidy, like a regular tourist, instead of a man on the run. He even has reservations for a water taxi to Marco Polo, a costly ride but he really doesn’t want to have to deal with the masses of people on the water bus.

Doffing jacket, socks and shoes, he stretches out on the couch to wait. He’s never really been a dessert course before, and he half-wonders if he should have arranged for something else. Despite his reputation as an accomplished flirt, he’s always prized true affection over sexual athleticism, preferring partners for whom he cared deeply (except for the marks). Before Kate, there was Alex, before Alex, Sebastian, and before than, Micah. That was it, because after Kate, there was no one he wanted except Peter, and until she gave him permission to dream, Elizabeth. Eight years of celibacy because he’s too fastidious, too romantic to want anything but love.

The slide of the key into the slot and the click of the disengaging lock is as loud as a gunshot in the near-perfect silence of the hotel room. He forces himself to keep still. Elizabeth enters the room first, and her smile is bright enough to light the city. She’s wearing a midnight blue strapless gown, her magnificent breasts made even more magnificent by the garment’s tightly fitted waist. Peter’s right behind her, in a dinner suit that Elizabeth had bought for him at Neal’s direction, and he catches his breath. They are such an exquisitely perfect pairing; he knows he’s going to have to paint them sometime soon.

Peter’s smile turns wary as he sees him sitting there. He doesn’t say anything.

“Neal…”

“Yeah?”

“I was an ass. Again.”

“Yes you were, Peter.”

“Forgive me?”

“Absolutely. And for the record, I think if we are keeping a tally of second changes, it may take a lifetime for us to even approach parity.” Neal tries to keep his voice light, but he fails miserably. It’s always been this hard with Peter, and he doubts that it will ever get any easier.

Someone sighs and both men turn to Elizabeth. “Boys, has the high drama part of the evening has come to a conclusion?”

“Yeah, it most certainly has.” Neal doesn’t look to for Peter for confirmation. Instead, he goes to Elizabeth, who coyly turns her back to him.

“Unzip me.”

He presses a hot kiss to her shoulder and slowly slides the zipper down. The bodice falls away like an exotic piece of armor, revealing a delicate merry widow made of panels of lace and satin. The rest of the dress pools at her ankles, and her remaining garments are just a garter belt and stockings.

He whistles in appreciation. “Elizabeth Burke, do you always go commando in formal wear?”

“We both do.” Peter answers for his wife. “It adds an air of mystery.”

Neal can’t believe his ears. “I’m feeling a trifle overdressed.”

“I think we can remedy that.”

He finds himself the filling in a Burke sandwich, as Peter and Elizabeth strip him to his skin. He doesn’t remember moving to the bedroom, but at some point he’s on his back, Elizabeth raising a hickey on his neck and Peter’s mouth is on his cock, trying to swallow him whole.

When Neal thinks back on that night, his brain can’t seem to settle on any one moment of pleasure, they are all moments of pleasure. Elizabeth sliding down on his cock with exquisite control, drawing his orgasm out from somewhere past his knees. Peter’s big, blunt fingers working their way inside him, stretching, scissoring, making him ready, then shifting him so they are face to face. The burn of his slow penetration, the texture of the calluses on his thumb on the head of his dick as he teases another orgasm from him. Elizabeth’s mouth, her little cat tongue licking up the splashes of come that decorate his belly and chest.

He thinks he passed out from joy, from exhaustion with his face buried in Peter’s groin and Elizabeth humping his ass, but he can’t be too sure. The next time he opens his eyes, the phone is ringing and daylight’s seeping in from behind the curtains. He’s stuck in the middle, trapped under the weight of Peter’s leg and Elizabeth’s arm and no one’s moving to answer the phone. As he shift and reaches out, Peter throws his arm over him.

“It’s just the wake up call. You’re not going anywhere, Caffrey.” Peter’s voice was a sleepy grumble, but it brooks no disobedience. Despite his utter satiation, he shivers with arousal. Maybe it was the way Peter said “Caffrey,” when they are in bed, naked and achy from sex.

“Wasn’t planning on it. Just wanted to shut the damn thing up.”

Elizabeth simply reaches out and pushed the phone off the cradle. “Go back to sleep or go fuck. Whatever you do, just shut up.”

Neal bites his lip to stop himself from laughing and looks at Peter, who is just shaking his head. They lay there for a few minutes, until the off-the-hook sound starts. This time, Peter lets him reach over and fix the phone. When he tries to get out of bed, Peter traps him between his legs and kisses him.

“Ugh… Morning breath. Please.”

“You don’t exactly taste minty fresh either.”

“Boys, if you don’t stop the banter, I won’t be responsible for the consequences.”

Peter hauls him out of bed and into the shower. Neal had never thought of soap and water, or even shampoo as such potent sexual aids, but the way Peter washes him, running slick hands over every inch of his body and scrubbing his hair (something that should have been anything but erotic) leaves him with barely enough strength to stand. In a small corner of his mind, probably the last place left that isn’t consumed by desire, Neal wonders when the webbing between his toes became an erogenous zone. He stands there, propped against the marble tiled wall, water pouring down in a warm deluge and Peter is kneeling at his feet, giving him the most exquisite blowjob of his life. He wants to return the pleasure, but after he comes over Peter’s face, he can barely remain upright. When Peter uses the detachable shower head to rinse him off, he all but collapses in a puddle of boneless lust.

Peter wraps him in one of the hotel’s terry robes, towel dries his hair and Neal feels cherished. He waits for Peter in the suite’s outer room and thinks that the conversation he had with Elizabeth right here the first night feels like it was another lifetime ago. He knows what Peter’s doing, he’s trying it make it impossible for Neal to leave them. And he’s doing a damn good job of it.

Peter sits down next to Neal, and he feels like he’s running out of time. It’s killing him that he can count the hours until their parting on one hand. He tries to take hope in Neal’s off-hand comment last night about a jeweler in New York, but he’s not a man who deals well with oblique promises and veiled references when it comes to his life. He can chase down the cons and frauds and cheats from the vaguest hints and the barest clues, but in matters of the heart, he needs signs in big, bold letters. That’s the problem between him and Neal, a lack of simple, direct communication. So, maybe it’s time for straight forward talking and stop dancing around what he wants. What they want.

“When are you going to be back in New York, Neal?”

Neal looks at him, startled.

“That deer in the headlights look isn’t your style. Can you just answer my question, please? I don’t care how long you need, but I need to know that you’ll be coming back. Or not coming back.”

The answer Neal gives him almost breaks his heart with happiness. “I’ll be back in New York in time for Thanksgiving, maybe sooner.”

He tries to push his luck. “What are your plans? What will you do?”

Neal kisses him, but Peter wasn’t willing to be distracted.

“Neal, please.”

“I’m still weighing some options.”

“Can you share?”

“No, not just yet.”

Peter swallows, he’s afraid of the answer to his next question. “Would you consider … consider coming back to the Bureau. Even part time, free lance. Consulting on select cases. No mortgage fraud, I promise. Just cases you find interesting. I can promise you a market rate fee, if that’s an issue.”

“Peter …”

The rejection was patently obvious. “I know, I know… been there, done that. It was worth a shot.”

Neal looks like he was about to say something, but stops himself.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing, Caffrey. I know that look. You’re planning something.”

“Peter, I’ll be home…”

“Home?” He can’t keep the grin off his face.

“Yes, home. I said I’ll be home, back in New York before Thanksgiving, that’s a month away. That’s both a promise and a threat.”

“I can live with that.” And Peter realizes that he can.

Peter turns on the television for the first time since they arrived in Italy, and surfs through the channels until he finds CNN. It’s a quick reintroduction into the real world and they sit quietly, Neal leaning on Peter, listening to fluff news about some starlet’s arrest for coke possession, an interview with a rock star on his new philanthropy and finally, the financial news. Peter can’t restrain a sharp crack of triumphant laughter over a guilty verdict on a bank fraud case that the office investigated.

“Jones testified on that one.” He doesn’t try to keep the pride out of his voice.

“I remember the case. It landed on your desk about a month before I left. For bank fraud, a year from investigation to trial to guilty verdict is impressive.”

“Which just proves that you aren’t indispensable.” Not indispensable to the office, just essential to me..

“I never thought I was.” Neal’s tone is wry.

Elizabeth comes out of the bedroom, her hair an impressive imitation of a bird’s nest, her face painfully screwed up against the light from the television. “How long?”

“How long what, honey?”

“Until we leave. What time do we have to be at the airport? And don’t tell me I’m the keeper of the schedule.”

Peter retrieves the printouts of their e-tickets. “Our flight is at 3:45, so we need to be at the water bus before noon. It’s 8:30 now. Do I have to do the math for you?”

“Yes. Please.” El’s practically pleading as she seems to be holding her head onto her neck.

“That’s three hours, give or take. You’re all packed except for last night’s clothing.” Peter casts his head in the direction of her gown, now draped over the back of one of the chairs.

“Guys, I’m leaving Venice today too. My flight is at 3:30 and I’ve reserved a water taxi for 12:15. You can come with me.” Neal’s all wide-eyed and innocent sounding. Too innocent, but Peter doesn’t care.

“You always did prefer to travel in style, Caffrey. And we appreciate the offer to share.”

Neal picks up his clothes from last night, but before he leaves, he kisses El, and even though they whisper, Peter can clearly hear them both say “thank you.” He doesn’t kiss Peter, but the look they exchange is almost as good.

By the time El finishes her shower and they get the rest of their stuff packed, it’s nearly ten-thirty. Peter calls to have the luggage taken down and Elizabeth, finally recovered from last night (he’s not sure if she was hung over from alcohol or too much sex), is stage managing their removal.

Neal’s downstairs, waiting for them, debonair in the Baltic blue suit that Peter always thought made his eyes glow.

He can’t resist a dig, though. “You wear a suit to travel?”

“Standards have to be maintained. At least by some of us.”

“Are you sneering at my sport coat, Caffrey?”

“The fact that you’re even wearing a sport coat is really rather appalling. Hopefully, you aren’t wearing a short sleeved buttoned down with that.”

Peter ducks his head to hide the smile. A month or less.

They linger over their last espresso, and Peter can’t help but gaze mournfully at shiny brass of the machine that dominates the center of the restaurant. If he has any regrets about taking this trip, they revolve solely around a future without tiny cups of perfectly brewed coffee.

He has to admit, the ride back to the airport by water taxi is much more pleasant than trying to manage everything on a bus crowded with hundreds of other travelers. They disembark and walk together to the terminal. This is truly the moment he’s been dreading, and he keeps repeating a month or less, a month or less, a month or less to himself. He watches as Neal bids farewell to Elizabeth, their kiss anything but proper. He doesn’t hold a hand out to Neal; he just hauls him into his arms and kisses him as passionately as Neal just kissed his wife.

“Remember your promise, a month or less.” He has to whisper, the tears in his throat make it hard to speak.

“A month, or less. You’ll see me in a month or less.”

He slings an arm around El and they watch Neal disappear into the terminal. They check their luggage and are routed to the first class boarding line. Peter reaches into the inside pocket for their travel documents and pulls out a wrinkled envelope with his name on in. He’s standing there, holding it, seeing his name, seeing Neal’s handwriting.

El’s voice interrupts him. “Honey - I have the passports and boarding passes.”

Distracted, Peter stuffs the envelope back into his pocket and goes through security. He sets off the alarm and the guard asks him to check his pockets. He had forgotten to take out his wallet and his ID folder. The guard examines it and smiles, bongiorono, Federale. Marco Polo is a small airport and it’s a short walk to first class lounge. They wait about a half an hour before boarding, and Peter helps himself to one last cup of coffee. It’s not revolting, but if anything, its mediocrity brings him back to reality. He keeps patting the envelope in his pocket; he doesn’t want to read it until they’ve boarded the plane. He almost doesn’t want to read it at all.

Their flight is called and they board quickly. Elizabeth chuckles at the seating configuration and Peter laughs with her. The first class cabin on this flight lacks the cubicle feature of their outbound flight, and neither of them is disappointed at the lack of privacy. El’s been cured of her fascination with sex in public, or at least on an airplane.

A steward helps them settle in and Peter waves off the proffered glass of Prosecco. He buckles himself in and pulls out the letter.

“El, honey?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you know this says?”

“No. I picked it up and held onto it, but I never read it. It was for you.”

He turns the envelope over; it’s been opened and resealed.

“Neal may have added something to it. It was unopened when I gave it to him.”

“Do you think I should read it?”

“I think you have to read it.”

Peter slides a finger under the flap and tears it opened. There is a single sheet of standard American letter-sized plain white bond, and a few sheets of the smaller, A5 hotel stationary. He tucks those into the envelope and back into his jacket pocket, and starts to read the letter Neal wrote to him a year ago.

Peter –

I know you think I’m running away again, leaving you without saying goodbye. Taking the coward’s way out. And in a way, you are right. I am. But I have to leave, at least for a while and I hope I can make you understand why.

Everyone loves to call me unique, but they don’t realize that you are the truly exceptional one. You are a man filled with odd quirks and habits, and combined with your brilliant mind, you’d be insufferable except for the fact that you, Peter Burke, are a human being, a truly good man, and one who cares far too much. Once, I would have mocked that humanity, and I’ve certainly taken advantage of it, over and over again. But now, as our enforced relationship – okay – your ownership, my parole, comes to an end, I’ve come to realize that you are everything that I could have been, everything I should have been had I not done everything wrong at from the beginning.

For years, I’ve convinced myself that it was your white picket fence life that I wanted, the settled comfort of hearth and home – things that had been denied to me as a child. But as our time winds down, I’ve come to realize something. It isn’t your life that I want, it’s you – and not in the way you’re thinking (though I do want that too). I want to be Peter Burke– to have people look at me with trust and admiration, with respect, rather than tolerant amusement, mild affection or even thinly veiled contempt.

What was it that you said to me that first day? “The amount of work I do equals certain things in the real world.” I’ve finally realized that that I will never be able to charm or lie or steal what comes to you by the simple act of being the man you are. I’ve tried to mold myself into you by thinking “what would Peter do” in difficult circumstances, and it’s worked most of the time. But I still felt like a liar and a cheat – I’m borrowing and wearing you like a suit, and it feels unnatural and uncomfortable. I know it wouldn’t take much for me to get tired and frustrated with this role playing, and end up disappointing you, and failing myself.

There are no 12-step programs for reformed con artists. No sobriety chips or meetings in church basements where I could drink bad coffee and anonymously confess to all of the terrible things I’ve done. You – you and Elizabeth and the Bureau have been my support group for years. But it’s time for me to find out if I can stand on my own.

I need a year and maybe more, Peter. I need to find out if I can live within my own skin as Neal Caffrey, the person I want to be – not the composite created by the fake identities I’ve made for myself. You’ve always had faith in me – you may not have always trusted me, but you’ve always believed that I could be something better.

Do you remember the first time we met? We didn’t exactly linger and chat – but it was, for me, one of the most memorable moments of my life. Was it fate, karma, or just sheer dumb luck that put us both on the Rialto that evening. Next October, it will be eleven years. If you can bear one last grand, romantic gesture – meet me there, at the top of the Rialto Bridge. I’ve already talked to Elizabeth about it, and she doesn’t mind spending her anniversary in Venice.

I’ll be there, between 5 and 6 pm. I hope beyond words you will be too.

I love you, for all that you have done for me, for all that you have been to me and for everything that we could be, given time.

Neal

Peter doesn’t look up as passengers continue to fill the cabin. He re-reads Neal’s letter and then remembers that there is more. He pulls out the envelope with the rest of of it.

Peter –

I don’t know where to begin. We’ve spent much of the past two weeks just living in the moment, or at least trying avoid talking the really important stuff. You don’t want to ask, and I just can’t bring myself to volunteer the information. Sound familiar?

But that has to change, we can’t go on paying lip service to trust. A lot of this may make you angry, and a lot of it may not make any sense, but it’s the truth – all of it.

Those five missing months? The ones you thought I was on the run, holed up after a job gone bad or running some con? I wasn’t. I was at Quantico.

Yes, Quantico, at the FBI Training Academy. The new agent training program, not the National Academy for the local law and order types. And no, I am not an agent. It’s kind of hard to get one of those nice, shiny golden shields when you have a felony conviction and can’t even own a gun.

But as crazy as it sounds, I did complete the full training course.

About three months before my parole was up, James Bancroft showed up at my apartment with a proposal. Go to the Academy, complete the training, and come back to the Bureau as the lead analyst for the White Collar division, and report directly to him. He was sounding me out, he didn’t even want to approach the Academy with this bizarre request if I wasn’t interested. He told me I had two days to think about it. I didn’t need five minutes – I accepted his offer on the spot.

This was like the answer to my prayers – I wanted to stay with you, with the Bureau so badly, but on the other hand, I didn’t see how I could. I didn’t want to be a confidential informant for the rest of my life. That would make what was between us way too messy. The Jack Franklin problem was never far from my mind.

To say that it took a lot of convincing to get the Academy to accept my application is an understatement. Bancroft called in a career’s worth of favors, and it still took time. I didn’t know if I was going until a week before my parole was up.

I know what you’re thinking right now, why didn’t I tell you any of this? I’ve always said that you’re the only person I completely trust, and that’s the absolute truth. But you’re also the only person I hate to disappoint, even though I’ve let you down all the time. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to know if I washed out. I could live with Bancroft’s disappointment, but not yours – not for something as important as this.

The five months at the Academy were difficult – maybe even harder than four years in prison. And not for the reasons you may think. No one – not the students, not the instructors, knew who I was, even though I used my own name. The straight academics were a breeze, the mud was the worst part of the physical training and I still don’t like guns. It was the mental adjustments, the complete change in my point of reference. I had to stop thinking like a con artist or a CI. The first few weeks I got some really strange looks in class with my rather creative suggestions to problem solving. Since I am constitutionally incapable of keeping my opinions to myself, I had to learn and learn quickly.

I’m not going to bore you with the details of those five months, you’ve lived through them yourself. But the most terrifying moment was when the change in the guest lecturer was announced. Do you have any idea what it was like seeing your name and picture on the bulletin board and then have to listen to everyone talk about “Big Bad Peter Burke” for six weeks? One of the field counselors was a classmate of yours and he kept feeding us tales of your exploits. If I didn’t know you, I would have thought you were ten feet tall and could secure convictions with the sheer power of your mind. Then there are the Peter Burke groupies who know more about your career than even you do. We’re not talking about Lauren Cruz-types who do their dissertations about cases you’ve worked on, these guys are practically stalkers.

For six weeks, it drove me out of my mind. And then your lecture (nice touch, having Diana and Jones do the war stories). Given our parting, I really didn’t know what to expect. It was rather unreal, sitting in the back, listening to the three of you talk about our work. You will have to applaud my improved impulse control – as much as I wanted to, I didn’t jump up and point out that it was my idea to jam Govat’s cell phone with incoming call. It got so bad, I left during the break and didn’t come back.

But none of this is really important, is it?

You can’t bring yourself to really forgive me. I think you want to, but you don’t want to get hurt again. So you push me away. Instead of asking the question you wanted to ask (and I one I hoped you would), you freak out and accuse me of going back to the life. I know I should have told you all of this to your face, and a part of me wanted to – if just to see your reaction. To make you feel as bad as I did. But that would be as wrong as walking out on you again without saying goodbye. It would have betrayed everything I have tried to accomplish, everything I hoped to achieve.

I find I’ve run out of words. There is so much more than needs to be said, but not here, not like this. I’ll be back in New York in less than five weeks. There’s a little more travelling I’d like to do, the Aegean probably, before settling down in my new job. The one that starts December 1st, and I’ll be reporting to Bancroft. Yep, reporting to your boss’ boss. Funny thing how the FBI works, isn’t it? Who would have thought! Which means, for the month of December, I actually outrank you.

I hope this won’t be a problem, because I am going to enjoy every moment of it.

Neal

PS – I don’t know how many times I’ve told you, but you DO have an amazing wife. She’s known about this from the beginning. I asked her not to tell you and she agreed, on two conditions. The first was that I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye – and I almost did (she stopped me). The second was that if you really needed to know where I was during my training, she could tell you.

I love you both and will see you soon.

Peter is so involved with Neal’s letter that the minor commotion of a last minute boarding didn’t even register. He still can’t believe it, Neal. At Quantico. Of the myriad thoughts and feelings running through his brain, the first one is I’m not crazy, closely followed by I’m going to kill him. He folds the letters up and tucks them carefully back into his jacket, and is surprised to find that his hands are shaking.

To ask for scraps and be given a feast.

The doors of the plane are shut and it pushes away from the gate. The cabin crew takes their places for the pre-flight safety instruction and Peter finally gives a some attention to his surroundings. El looking at him, and Peter doesn’t think he’s ever seen such a huge, silly grin on her face. He doesn’t quite understand it, is she that happy about getting back to New York? He’ll be glad to get home too, but they have to endure nearly ten hours in flight and change of planes in Paris before getting there. Then she points to the passenger in the seat across the aisle. Peter closes his eyes, afraid to look. But he does.

It’s Neal.

Of course it’s Neal. Who else would be sitting there, across from him in the first class cabin on a flight back to New York.

“I thought you said a month.”

“I said a month, maybe less.”

Peter looks at his watch. “I guess an hour and forty-five minutes qualifies as ‘maybe less.”

“You read it?”

“Yeah.”

“All of it?”

“Yup.”

“And?”

“And ...” He knows the pause is killing Neal.

“Peter?”

He can hear the nerves in Neal’s voice.

He doesn’t even try to fight the smile. “Analysts don’t outrank agents. Ever. Remember that and we’ll get along just fine.”

FIN
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