Chapter 4 - Ice
It took Peter about two hours to sort through the whole mess. I sat in the car, pulling the blanket tight around me and trying to ignore how much my body hurt. Once the adrenaline wore off, I felt slightly shaky and acutely aware of how my cuts and bruises hurt. All those movies where the hero gets beaten up and shrugs it off, where he gets shot and gets going, doesn't even notice he's bleeding all over the place – it's all a lie.
Getting punched hurts. Getting punched hard enough to knock you down hurts even more. Smashing your mouth against concrete hurts. And slamming around in a semi cab as it turns over hurts too. Even the fight I had endured in prison wasn't this bad. In that fight, I had gotten caught in a brawl and been tossed against a wall and stepped on a few times, but nothing bad enough to send me to the infirmary.
I didn't want to be a whiner, but I would have given anything right then for a bed and some painkillers. I thought the white collar crime division would mean never having to risk bodily harm, but apparently I was wrong.
Of course, this whole thing had kind of been partly due to me, a little, maybe. If one looked at it at the right angle, one might conjure this whole mess resulted from my actions, but I would deny that. I hadn't been the one to steal and smuggle all the artwork, and I was trying to ensure we got the bad guys. According to Peter, we got the bad guys all right. We caught them red-handed, and the evidence was all intact . . . mostly.
Oh, who was I kidding? Peter was going to nail me good for this. I had been impatient and gone off on my own. I know – I know that I'm stepping out of line, but no one has any idea how frustrating it is being monitored all the time.
In my head, I replayed the conversation Peter and I have all the time.
"You were a criminal, Caffrey. We got you on the bonds, but you can't tell me that the bonds were the only thing you ever did."
"Just because I might have done a few things that the law frowns on doesn't mean I have to be watched all the time, Peter."
"You have a two mile radius. That is very generous."
"Generous? I can barely go anywhere."
"You don't need to go anywhere. I'm watching you – just remember that."
(In a low grumble) "As if I could forget it, FBI lemming."
"What was that?"
"Oh, nothing."
We had had some version of that conversation over and over again, with him saying I needed less freedom and me saying I was tired of being monitored. It didn't matter who won the argument – my radius stayed the same and I was still watched. They didn't even keep this close track of me in prison. There, if you showed up at the right place when the bells rang, they didn't care what you did in your free time.
But under Warden Peter, I had to toe the line and inform him of every little thing, and now I was going to get my ass handed to me, just because I kind of went off by myself and kind of got beat up. I wondered if I could play the hurt angle to get some sympathy, maybe groan and sigh until he let me off for tonight and then hightail it to Mexico in the middle of the night.
He came back to the car to check on me a few times, promising it was almost time to leave. I nodded along, but I was relieved when he finally got into the car and buckled his seatbelt.
"Okay, Cruz and Jones are going to wrap up. Look at me."
I slowly turned my head in his direction.
"Man," he shook his head, "you look awful. I wish I could sneak you upstairs without El looking at you. She's going to freak."
"It doesn't hurt that much," I leaned back in my seat as he pulled out of the warehouse lot.
"Baloney," Peter scoffed. "I've gotten punched in the face before. Anything hard enough to leave a mark hurts. We'll get some ice on your face. How's your side?"
"It's fine."
"You don't get extra points by shrugging off the pain."
"What? You aren't going to tell me to cowboy up?" I glanced at him.
"Not when your face looks like pulverized meat. Did they do that when they found you hiding?"
I hesitated. So far I wasn't sure what Peter had put in the report. The thugs would be drilled for information, but who knew what they would tell the authorities, and even then no one had to believe their version of what happened in the warehouse. I could let Peter think they found me and beat me up instead of me jumping out and provoking them.
Chances were, if I went along with the finding-me story, I could get away with lying. Peter wasn't smart enough to figure that out, was he? Yeah, he had caught me a few times, but I'm a world-class liar and –
Peter swung the car to a small side street and jerked to a stop. He sighed and looked at me.
"What?" I gave him my best wide-eyed, innocent look.
"Anytime you hesitate for a second, you've done something wrong. Or you're thinking about doing something wrong."
"That's not fair," I objected. "Sometimes I need time to think."
"No thinking for you!" Peter pointed a finger at me.
"I'm not allowed to think now?"
"Thinking always gets you in trouble. You didn't stay hidden, did you? You went out to confront those guys?"
"There were only two of them, and I stalled them until you could get there. They could have driven off with the art. I stalled them and you got them."
"You got hurt. You ran a semi through a metal wall and flipped it over. You could have been killed. All because you didn't obey me."
I clenched my teeth together, drawing myself up in my seat despite the pain. "Peter, I may be a criminal and a consultant and the lowest scum in the world, according to you, but you're not my father. I'm over thirty, and I don't have to obey anyone."
He turned towards me ominously. "Neal Caffrey, I am responsible for your health and well-being on every case we take. I'm the team leader, and I make the decisions. Now, you apologize for putting yourself in danger and worrying me or I'm taking you straight back to prison."
I watched him carefully, feeling the hostility in the car as we fought this war of wills. Apologize! Like I was a little kid who had thrown a toy at a parent.
"You're bluffing," I countered.
"I am bluffing," Peter admitted. "But you apologize, or I swear you've lost my respect forever."
"You don't respect me," I shot back, feeling my eyes prickling with tears. Jeez, I was such a baby today. "You respect Lauren and Jones – I'm just a criminal."
"Well, whose choice was that? If a guy starts robbing gas stations, don't you call him a robber? If a guy kills someone, don't you call him a killer? You broke the law and got sent to prison – you're a criminal. Besides, respect has to be earned."
"Na-uh," I shook my head, "respect should be given freely."
"Jeez, we're back to being twelve again," Peter sighed. "You have to stop lying to me."
"Why? I've lied all my life. Why should I stop lying now? Telling the truth gets me in trouble."
"It does not."
"Yes, it does. If I lied and said the thug found me, you'd let it go. But if I told the truth, you'd be all mad at me for disobeying you."
"Ah, see there? You know you're supposed to obey me. People don't like being lied to. It ruins friendships."
"We're not friends," I said before I could stop myself.
He lifted his eyebrows at me, wearing a come-on-now expression.
"We're not," I insisted though it made my eyes hurt even more. "We're warden and prisoner. Friends don't boss friends around."
"Friends boss around friends who put themselves in danger. What do you think would have happened if I came back and saw that you had been shot or killed?"
"You'd think 'Good, I'm finished with him'," I declared though I didn't believe it.
"Neal, you're pushing it. Now, are you going to apologize or do I take you to the hospital and make them admit you for the night?"
That threat he could carry out. "You wouldn't," I tested.
"I'll make them put in an IV," he countered.
A needle in my hand that stayed there. "I'm sorry," I mumbled.
"For what?"
It was just like kindergarten all over again, that time I had tricked another boy out of the blue car so I could have them all and he cried and the teacher made me apologize.
"I'm sorry for not listening and getting beaten up."
"And once I take you home, are you going to behave?"
"I'm always nice at your home," I said as he pulled back out on the road. "I'm polite to your wife and kind to your dog. You're the one who's a grouch in your home."
"Only when you're there," he replied.
I hate that he has a retort for everything. I stayed quiet for a while, reaching up once to touch my puffy lips and check for bleeding.
"Don't touch it – you'll make it worse," Peter told me.
"Well, you're the one who pulled the car off to have a conversation instead of going home."
"I wouldn't have had to if you had been honest in the first place."
Once we got to his house, I got out of the car, wincing at the pain in my side as I tried to walk. Peter was by my side, grabbing my elbow to help me walk.
"I'm fine," I shook his hand off gently. "I don't need you to carry me."
He hovered by me as we made it inside. Thankfully, Elizabeth was not there so I didn't have to look all tough in front of her. Peter sat me down in the kitchen and went to the freezer to grab ice packs.
"Lift your arm," he motioned to my right arm as he wrapped an ice pack in a dish cloth.
It hurt to lift it up, and Peter yanked my shirt up and pressed the ice pack there. It was freezing cold even through the cloth and I'm ticklish on the sides so I nearly fell out of the chair, protesting,
"No, I can't."
"Stop that," he held me still with one hand and slowly put the ice pack down over the ugly bruise.
I gritted my teeth in pain and tried to breathe through it. He lowered my shirt and then positioned my right arm down over it, to hold it in place.
"Pull your arm down and put pressure on it but not too much," he instructed. Wrapping up another ice pack in a dish cloth, he put it on the left side of my face where I had been pistol-whipped and put my left hand up to hold it.
"Stay there while I see to your lip," he went to the pantry to get the first aid kit.
I let off a little while he was gone, letting the ice packs touch my skin without being pressed into it. The cold hurt, and though I knew the advantages of alternating cold and heat for bruises, it hurt less to not touch my bruises at all. But when Peter came back out, I was dutifully holding the packs in place and trying not to grimace against the pain.
"Okay, look up at me," Peter instructed as he opened the first aid kit.
I did and he dabbed my lips with something wet and cool that immediately stung like fire.
"Ow!" I yanked back. "That hurts."
"Well, of course, it hurts. You got hit with a gun, kicked, and banged around in a truck and did a face-plant on the concrete. Now, stop being a baby and hold still while I clean you up."
"Where's Elizabeth?" I scowled as I leaned forward. "She'd be nicer than you."
"Probably," Peter agreed as he started dabbing the antiseptic wipe on my lips again, "but I'm hoping if I get you bandaged up before she comes home, she'll only take off our heads a little."
"You think she's going to be mad?" I made myself concentrate on our conversation instead of how much I hurt.
"Oh, yeah."
"At you or me?"
"Both of us. You for getting hurt, me for letting it happen."
"I'll take the blame," I offered. "It was my fault."
"I know, but she doesn't like it when my job gets dangerous. She keeps thinking I live in the office and shuffle through papers. She was upset for weeks when she found out that I carried a gun."
"I was upset, too," I grinned a little though my lips stung. "I didn't like the idea of anyone after me with guns."
"That might have saved your life. Most criminals buy a gun when they realize the FBI is after them. Things get really dirty after that. Lift the ice pack from your face."
I did, and he dabbed at the skin where the impact of the metal gun had gouged a little. It hurt, but the cold pack helped numb the pain.
He threw away the wipes and took the last ice pack and wrapped it in paper towels so I wouldn't get blood on the dishcloth. He held it out for my mouth, but I said,
"I'm out of hands."
"Here," he put it in my right hand. "Hold that to your mouth and I'll hold the one on your side."
I shifted hands, and he pressed the ice pack to my side, more firmly than I would have liked, but I could put my puffy lips to the last ice pack.
It was definitely awkward with so many icepacks, but we stayed that way about ten minutes. Then he had me take them off and went to get me some ibuprofen and water.
After two more applications of the ice packs, I thought my side and face were significantly frozen enough, and Peter decided to move on to heat.
"You going to turn on the oven and have me hop in?" I suggested.
"No, you can have a bath."
"Come on, it's not even nighttime yet."
"So?"
"So, if I take a bath, you'll want me to wear those dumb pajamas again and get in bed to rest."
"The doctors said you need rest."
"I'm fine."
"You were in a car accident."
"Technically, I think a car accident involves something hitting your car."
"It does not. A car accident is when something bad happens to your car."
"If that were the definition, then your battery dying would be a car accident. It has to hit another car, a person, or something on the road to be a car accident."
"If you ran off the road and flipped into a ditch, you would call that a car accident."
"No, I would call that bad driving."
"Fine, you were a victim of bad driving today. Either way, you're going upstairs for a bath and I want you to stay in there for a while. Then you can rest in bed."
I made a groaning/whining noise as I stood. "If I go along without complaining, can I watch TV on the sofa? I promise to stay still."
"Yeah, you can put some more ice on then."
He got me upstairs (the stairs hurt my side), and he actually put Epsom salts in the bathtub as it filled.
"Keep turning the water hotter every five minutes," Peter told me as he adjusted the handles. "But don't get it too hot."
"If I do, are you going to come in here?"
"I might. I want to see that side after you're through."
"Look at your own side," I grumbled as he left. I locked the bathroom door, but it was one of those cheap kinds that you could pop open from the other side with a straight wire. I stripped off my clothes and looked at myself in the mirror.
I looked like some kind of abuse victim what with my face and side bruised and swollen. Ow.
The hot water did feel good though it made my side ache, and I soaked in it for a long time, turning the hot water on every so often. I took a washcloth and dipped it in the tub and pressed it slowly to my face. I managed to wash my hair, using the arm from my good side to suds up my dark hair and then sliding down in the tub to dunk back under water to get the shampoo out. It smelled like violet, obviously Elizabeth's, but it was the only bottle I could reach without standing up.
Peter knocked on the door once and reported that he left clean clothes outside the door. When I finally got out of the tub, I found the hated pajamas there, all clean and folded with a pair of his boxers. I put on the clothes, thinking mean thoughts about FBI agents who torture consultants with plaid pajamas that were not in any kind of style. I towel-dried my hair with one hand and tried to fix it in a presentable style, but without gel, it kind of laid flat and deflated, making me look younger.
I liked that I could still pass for early twenties if I needed to, but with the absurd pajamas, I did not like the image staring me back in the mirror. At this rate, I should be clutching a teddy bear and sucking my thumb. Of course, my bashed-up face worked against the young, innocent look, creating the impression of a guy who had gotten in a bad fight while looking adorable in pajamas. Maybe for looking adorable in pajamas.
Giving up on my appearance, I went downstairs where Peter promptly put me on the sofa with more ice packs and handed me the remote. I flipped through the channels and settled on an old movie, keeping the sound down low so I could hear Peter as he talked on the phone in the dining room. Apparently, his boss – er, our boss was not very happy about the whole mess at the warehouse.
"I know," Peter said into the phone. "It's in the report . . . I know . . . yes, an overturned semi does look bad . . . Caffrey . . . I didn't let him drive it! He jumped in without –. . . yes, I know we used that trick before with the Dutchman. But this time, I approved it seeing how long it was taking to get the warrant . . . No, I'm at home. Caffrey's with me. He got beaten up by some thugs. The medics said he wasn't concussed, but I patched him up once I got him here . . . Well, it saves the Bureau the cost of a hospital stay or the hassle of insurance."
Peter came to stand at the edge of the living room near the bookcase, frowning at me as he talked. I didn't really like Hughes – I thought he was kind of a bully, especially when Peter was trying his hardest.
"No," Peter went on, "I understand how this looks . . . Oh, believe me, I'm going to read him the riot act. But the main point is we got the guys and the evidence. Their only choice at this point is plea-bargain which their lawyers should recognize so that's nice . . . I'll be in sometime tomorrow. . . No, no more truck-driving for Caffrey . . . yes, sir, see you tomorrow."
Peter hung up his phone.
"Was he mad?" I asked.
"He found out that our art-expert consultant flipped a semi-truck full of artwork – what do you think?"
"Do I still have a job?"
"Barely. He expects you to be apologetic and watch yourself from here on out. But he's glad we got the guys so that helps a little. Oh, El's home early."
He went to get the door, and I heard Elizabeth's shoes on the floor.
"Hi, honey," they kissed. "Why are you home so early? Is Neal here? I was thinking we could –" Elizabeth came around in the living room, but she stopped short at the sight of me.
"Hi," I smiled, lowering the ice pack from my face.
Elizabeth stared at me in horror. Then she whirled to face her husband. "What did you do to him?"
Getting punched hurts. Getting punched hard enough to knock you down hurts even more. Smashing your mouth against concrete hurts. And slamming around in a semi cab as it turns over hurts too. Even the fight I had endured in prison wasn't this bad. In that fight, I had gotten caught in a brawl and been tossed against a wall and stepped on a few times, but nothing bad enough to send me to the infirmary.
I didn't want to be a whiner, but I would have given anything right then for a bed and some painkillers. I thought the white collar crime division would mean never having to risk bodily harm, but apparently I was wrong.
Of course, this whole thing had kind of been partly due to me, a little, maybe. If one looked at it at the right angle, one might conjure this whole mess resulted from my actions, but I would deny that. I hadn't been the one to steal and smuggle all the artwork, and I was trying to ensure we got the bad guys. According to Peter, we got the bad guys all right. We caught them red-handed, and the evidence was all intact . . . mostly.
Oh, who was I kidding? Peter was going to nail me good for this. I had been impatient and gone off on my own. I know – I know that I'm stepping out of line, but no one has any idea how frustrating it is being monitored all the time.
In my head, I replayed the conversation Peter and I have all the time.
"You were a criminal, Caffrey. We got you on the bonds, but you can't tell me that the bonds were the only thing you ever did."
"Just because I might have done a few things that the law frowns on doesn't mean I have to be watched all the time, Peter."
"You have a two mile radius. That is very generous."
"Generous? I can barely go anywhere."
"You don't need to go anywhere. I'm watching you – just remember that."
(In a low grumble) "As if I could forget it, FBI lemming."
"What was that?"
"Oh, nothing."
We had had some version of that conversation over and over again, with him saying I needed less freedom and me saying I was tired of being monitored. It didn't matter who won the argument – my radius stayed the same and I was still watched. They didn't even keep this close track of me in prison. There, if you showed up at the right place when the bells rang, they didn't care what you did in your free time.
But under Warden Peter, I had to toe the line and inform him of every little thing, and now I was going to get my ass handed to me, just because I kind of went off by myself and kind of got beat up. I wondered if I could play the hurt angle to get some sympathy, maybe groan and sigh until he let me off for tonight and then hightail it to Mexico in the middle of the night.
He came back to the car to check on me a few times, promising it was almost time to leave. I nodded along, but I was relieved when he finally got into the car and buckled his seatbelt.
"Okay, Cruz and Jones are going to wrap up. Look at me."
I slowly turned my head in his direction.
"Man," he shook his head, "you look awful. I wish I could sneak you upstairs without El looking at you. She's going to freak."
"It doesn't hurt that much," I leaned back in my seat as he pulled out of the warehouse lot.
"Baloney," Peter scoffed. "I've gotten punched in the face before. Anything hard enough to leave a mark hurts. We'll get some ice on your face. How's your side?"
"It's fine."
"You don't get extra points by shrugging off the pain."
"What? You aren't going to tell me to cowboy up?" I glanced at him.
"Not when your face looks like pulverized meat. Did they do that when they found you hiding?"
I hesitated. So far I wasn't sure what Peter had put in the report. The thugs would be drilled for information, but who knew what they would tell the authorities, and even then no one had to believe their version of what happened in the warehouse. I could let Peter think they found me and beat me up instead of me jumping out and provoking them.
Chances were, if I went along with the finding-me story, I could get away with lying. Peter wasn't smart enough to figure that out, was he? Yeah, he had caught me a few times, but I'm a world-class liar and –
Peter swung the car to a small side street and jerked to a stop. He sighed and looked at me.
"What?" I gave him my best wide-eyed, innocent look.
"Anytime you hesitate for a second, you've done something wrong. Or you're thinking about doing something wrong."
"That's not fair," I objected. "Sometimes I need time to think."
"No thinking for you!" Peter pointed a finger at me.
"I'm not allowed to think now?"
"Thinking always gets you in trouble. You didn't stay hidden, did you? You went out to confront those guys?"
"There were only two of them, and I stalled them until you could get there. They could have driven off with the art. I stalled them and you got them."
"You got hurt. You ran a semi through a metal wall and flipped it over. You could have been killed. All because you didn't obey me."
I clenched my teeth together, drawing myself up in my seat despite the pain. "Peter, I may be a criminal and a consultant and the lowest scum in the world, according to you, but you're not my father. I'm over thirty, and I don't have to obey anyone."
He turned towards me ominously. "Neal Caffrey, I am responsible for your health and well-being on every case we take. I'm the team leader, and I make the decisions. Now, you apologize for putting yourself in danger and worrying me or I'm taking you straight back to prison."
I watched him carefully, feeling the hostility in the car as we fought this war of wills. Apologize! Like I was a little kid who had thrown a toy at a parent.
"You're bluffing," I countered.
"I am bluffing," Peter admitted. "But you apologize, or I swear you've lost my respect forever."
"You don't respect me," I shot back, feeling my eyes prickling with tears. Jeez, I was such a baby today. "You respect Lauren and Jones – I'm just a criminal."
"Well, whose choice was that? If a guy starts robbing gas stations, don't you call him a robber? If a guy kills someone, don't you call him a killer? You broke the law and got sent to prison – you're a criminal. Besides, respect has to be earned."
"Na-uh," I shook my head, "respect should be given freely."
"Jeez, we're back to being twelve again," Peter sighed. "You have to stop lying to me."
"Why? I've lied all my life. Why should I stop lying now? Telling the truth gets me in trouble."
"It does not."
"Yes, it does. If I lied and said the thug found me, you'd let it go. But if I told the truth, you'd be all mad at me for disobeying you."
"Ah, see there? You know you're supposed to obey me. People don't like being lied to. It ruins friendships."
"We're not friends," I said before I could stop myself.
He lifted his eyebrows at me, wearing a come-on-now expression.
"We're not," I insisted though it made my eyes hurt even more. "We're warden and prisoner. Friends don't boss friends around."
"Friends boss around friends who put themselves in danger. What do you think would have happened if I came back and saw that you had been shot or killed?"
"You'd think 'Good, I'm finished with him'," I declared though I didn't believe it.
"Neal, you're pushing it. Now, are you going to apologize or do I take you to the hospital and make them admit you for the night?"
That threat he could carry out. "You wouldn't," I tested.
"I'll make them put in an IV," he countered.
A needle in my hand that stayed there. "I'm sorry," I mumbled.
"For what?"
It was just like kindergarten all over again, that time I had tricked another boy out of the blue car so I could have them all and he cried and the teacher made me apologize.
"I'm sorry for not listening and getting beaten up."
"And once I take you home, are you going to behave?"
"I'm always nice at your home," I said as he pulled back out on the road. "I'm polite to your wife and kind to your dog. You're the one who's a grouch in your home."
"Only when you're there," he replied.
I hate that he has a retort for everything. I stayed quiet for a while, reaching up once to touch my puffy lips and check for bleeding.
"Don't touch it – you'll make it worse," Peter told me.
"Well, you're the one who pulled the car off to have a conversation instead of going home."
"I wouldn't have had to if you had been honest in the first place."
Once we got to his house, I got out of the car, wincing at the pain in my side as I tried to walk. Peter was by my side, grabbing my elbow to help me walk.
"I'm fine," I shook his hand off gently. "I don't need you to carry me."
He hovered by me as we made it inside. Thankfully, Elizabeth was not there so I didn't have to look all tough in front of her. Peter sat me down in the kitchen and went to the freezer to grab ice packs.
"Lift your arm," he motioned to my right arm as he wrapped an ice pack in a dish cloth.
It hurt to lift it up, and Peter yanked my shirt up and pressed the ice pack there. It was freezing cold even through the cloth and I'm ticklish on the sides so I nearly fell out of the chair, protesting,
"No, I can't."
"Stop that," he held me still with one hand and slowly put the ice pack down over the ugly bruise.
I gritted my teeth in pain and tried to breathe through it. He lowered my shirt and then positioned my right arm down over it, to hold it in place.
"Pull your arm down and put pressure on it but not too much," he instructed. Wrapping up another ice pack in a dish cloth, he put it on the left side of my face where I had been pistol-whipped and put my left hand up to hold it.
"Stay there while I see to your lip," he went to the pantry to get the first aid kit.
I let off a little while he was gone, letting the ice packs touch my skin without being pressed into it. The cold hurt, and though I knew the advantages of alternating cold and heat for bruises, it hurt less to not touch my bruises at all. But when Peter came back out, I was dutifully holding the packs in place and trying not to grimace against the pain.
"Okay, look up at me," Peter instructed as he opened the first aid kit.
I did and he dabbed my lips with something wet and cool that immediately stung like fire.
"Ow!" I yanked back. "That hurts."
"Well, of course, it hurts. You got hit with a gun, kicked, and banged around in a truck and did a face-plant on the concrete. Now, stop being a baby and hold still while I clean you up."
"Where's Elizabeth?" I scowled as I leaned forward. "She'd be nicer than you."
"Probably," Peter agreed as he started dabbing the antiseptic wipe on my lips again, "but I'm hoping if I get you bandaged up before she comes home, she'll only take off our heads a little."
"You think she's going to be mad?" I made myself concentrate on our conversation instead of how much I hurt.
"Oh, yeah."
"At you or me?"
"Both of us. You for getting hurt, me for letting it happen."
"I'll take the blame," I offered. "It was my fault."
"I know, but she doesn't like it when my job gets dangerous. She keeps thinking I live in the office and shuffle through papers. She was upset for weeks when she found out that I carried a gun."
"I was upset, too," I grinned a little though my lips stung. "I didn't like the idea of anyone after me with guns."
"That might have saved your life. Most criminals buy a gun when they realize the FBI is after them. Things get really dirty after that. Lift the ice pack from your face."
I did, and he dabbed at the skin where the impact of the metal gun had gouged a little. It hurt, but the cold pack helped numb the pain.
He threw away the wipes and took the last ice pack and wrapped it in paper towels so I wouldn't get blood on the dishcloth. He held it out for my mouth, but I said,
"I'm out of hands."
"Here," he put it in my right hand. "Hold that to your mouth and I'll hold the one on your side."
I shifted hands, and he pressed the ice pack to my side, more firmly than I would have liked, but I could put my puffy lips to the last ice pack.
It was definitely awkward with so many icepacks, but we stayed that way about ten minutes. Then he had me take them off and went to get me some ibuprofen and water.
After two more applications of the ice packs, I thought my side and face were significantly frozen enough, and Peter decided to move on to heat.
"You going to turn on the oven and have me hop in?" I suggested.
"No, you can have a bath."
"Come on, it's not even nighttime yet."
"So?"
"So, if I take a bath, you'll want me to wear those dumb pajamas again and get in bed to rest."
"The doctors said you need rest."
"I'm fine."
"You were in a car accident."
"Technically, I think a car accident involves something hitting your car."
"It does not. A car accident is when something bad happens to your car."
"If that were the definition, then your battery dying would be a car accident. It has to hit another car, a person, or something on the road to be a car accident."
"If you ran off the road and flipped into a ditch, you would call that a car accident."
"No, I would call that bad driving."
"Fine, you were a victim of bad driving today. Either way, you're going upstairs for a bath and I want you to stay in there for a while. Then you can rest in bed."
I made a groaning/whining noise as I stood. "If I go along without complaining, can I watch TV on the sofa? I promise to stay still."
"Yeah, you can put some more ice on then."
He got me upstairs (the stairs hurt my side), and he actually put Epsom salts in the bathtub as it filled.
"Keep turning the water hotter every five minutes," Peter told me as he adjusted the handles. "But don't get it too hot."
"If I do, are you going to come in here?"
"I might. I want to see that side after you're through."
"Look at your own side," I grumbled as he left. I locked the bathroom door, but it was one of those cheap kinds that you could pop open from the other side with a straight wire. I stripped off my clothes and looked at myself in the mirror.
I looked like some kind of abuse victim what with my face and side bruised and swollen. Ow.
The hot water did feel good though it made my side ache, and I soaked in it for a long time, turning the hot water on every so often. I took a washcloth and dipped it in the tub and pressed it slowly to my face. I managed to wash my hair, using the arm from my good side to suds up my dark hair and then sliding down in the tub to dunk back under water to get the shampoo out. It smelled like violet, obviously Elizabeth's, but it was the only bottle I could reach without standing up.
Peter knocked on the door once and reported that he left clean clothes outside the door. When I finally got out of the tub, I found the hated pajamas there, all clean and folded with a pair of his boxers. I put on the clothes, thinking mean thoughts about FBI agents who torture consultants with plaid pajamas that were not in any kind of style. I towel-dried my hair with one hand and tried to fix it in a presentable style, but without gel, it kind of laid flat and deflated, making me look younger.
I liked that I could still pass for early twenties if I needed to, but with the absurd pajamas, I did not like the image staring me back in the mirror. At this rate, I should be clutching a teddy bear and sucking my thumb. Of course, my bashed-up face worked against the young, innocent look, creating the impression of a guy who had gotten in a bad fight while looking adorable in pajamas. Maybe for looking adorable in pajamas.
Giving up on my appearance, I went downstairs where Peter promptly put me on the sofa with more ice packs and handed me the remote. I flipped through the channels and settled on an old movie, keeping the sound down low so I could hear Peter as he talked on the phone in the dining room. Apparently, his boss – er, our boss was not very happy about the whole mess at the warehouse.
"I know," Peter said into the phone. "It's in the report . . . I know . . . yes, an overturned semi does look bad . . . Caffrey . . . I didn't let him drive it! He jumped in without –. . . yes, I know we used that trick before with the Dutchman. But this time, I approved it seeing how long it was taking to get the warrant . . . No, I'm at home. Caffrey's with me. He got beaten up by some thugs. The medics said he wasn't concussed, but I patched him up once I got him here . . . Well, it saves the Bureau the cost of a hospital stay or the hassle of insurance."
Peter came to stand at the edge of the living room near the bookcase, frowning at me as he talked. I didn't really like Hughes – I thought he was kind of a bully, especially when Peter was trying his hardest.
"No," Peter went on, "I understand how this looks . . . Oh, believe me, I'm going to read him the riot act. But the main point is we got the guys and the evidence. Their only choice at this point is plea-bargain which their lawyers should recognize so that's nice . . . I'll be in sometime tomorrow. . . No, no more truck-driving for Caffrey . . . yes, sir, see you tomorrow."
Peter hung up his phone.
"Was he mad?" I asked.
"He found out that our art-expert consultant flipped a semi-truck full of artwork – what do you think?"
"Do I still have a job?"
"Barely. He expects you to be apologetic and watch yourself from here on out. But he's glad we got the guys so that helps a little. Oh, El's home early."
He went to get the door, and I heard Elizabeth's shoes on the floor.
"Hi, honey," they kissed. "Why are you home so early? Is Neal here? I was thinking we could –" Elizabeth came around in the living room, but she stopped short at the sight of me.
"Hi," I smiled, lowering the ice pack from my face.
Elizabeth stared at me in horror. Then she whirled to face her husband. "What did you do to him?"
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