Chapter 5 - Formal
My husband looked at me. "What did I do?" Peter gaped. "I – I, he got himself all banged up. I told him to be careful, I told him to wait until we got the warrant, but he didn't. He thought he was smarter than all of us and he went off to the warehouse by himself and nearly got himself killed."
Panic hit me, but I quelled it by reasoning that Neal had survived because he was sitting on our sofa, bruised but alive. No matter how horrible the story, he would be alive at the end of it. However, I immediately turned to Neal and fixed him with an icy look. "Neal? Is that true?"
He put the ice pack over his face, trying to hide behind it. Any other time, I would have found him adorable, the way those startling blue eyes flickered back and forth between Peter and me, worried and unsure.
Peter put his arm on mine and began telling me the whole story, not leaving a single thing out. When he got to the thugs in the warehouse, I was ready to strangle both of them, and when he told me about turning over the truck, I marched right up in front of Neal, my arms crossed.
He slouched down in the sofa, the ice pack over his face, looking like a teenager in front of a displeased mother.
"Did you do that?" I asked in the voice I reserved for Peter when he had done something really, really bad. Behind me, I sensed my husband stiffening. Oh, yes, he knew that tone.
Neal's head finally came up, wide eyes feigning innocence and confusion. "There was so much happening, and I got caught in the middle, and everyone had guns, and Peter won't let me have a gun –"
"You hate guns," I pulled my arms tighter around my torso, hating that he had reminded me about the fact that my husband carried a gun. "And it would be disastrous to give you one. No, don't you dare feel sorry for yourself."
Neal had begun to look down, but he yanked his gaze back up at my sharp tone.
"Do you want to explain why you acted so foolishly?" I demanded.
Neal glanced at Peter for help, but I shook my head.
"All right, he's safe now, honey," Peter intervened. "The medics looked at him and we got ice and medicine. No permanent damage."
Neal relaxed, but I wasn't about to let it go, "We'll see about that. Why do you have an ice pack on your side?"
"It's nothing," Neal said hastily.
I knew that look, too – the one Peter wore when he had gotten hurt and he was trying to hide it from me. I leaned over and pulled up Neal's pajama top.
"Hey!" Neal objected, wearing his outraged expression as if he were being violated.
"Don't you think that's a little inappropriate?" Peter began, but I saw the huge bruise on Neal's side: ugly, reddish black, looking so painful I flinched.
"Peter, it's all black and red! He could have broken ribs or internal bleeding!"
"The doctor said he was okay."
Just like a man, taking the doctor's words and not insisting they examine closer. But I didn't want to get in an argument about how Peter ignored his health and everyone's and thought people could just be all right. I lowered Neal's shirt and gave him a trusty smile.
"Don't worry, Neal. We'll take care of you. I don't know when Peter's work got so violent, but we'll see to it that you don't have to put yourself in harm's way again."
"It's all right. This isn't the first time I've . . ." Neal trailed off as he looked over my shoulder at Peter behind me. Neal swallowed and said nothing.
Peter looked at me kindly. "Honey, what do you want to do about dinner? Let me go pick something up."
"That might be a good idea. I'm getting him some water," I abruptly went into the kitchen. Like a good husband, Peter followed a moment later. I began breaking pieces of ice into glasses, keeping my back to him.
"Baby," he sighed.
I refused to turn around. "White collar, Peter, white collar."
"I know," he sighed even heavier.
"You told me the white collar division of the Bureau was practically the safest job you could have in the FBI, next to the autopsy people! And yes, I knew you carried a gun, but I thought it was just FBI protocol. You were going to be cooped up in an office looking at shipping reports for smugglers and accounts for fraud – not chasing thugs through warehouses with guns and flipping over trucks."
"It was going to be safe. I take every precaution, El. I do everything in my power to keep my team protected, but everyone has to follow orders. When they don't, they get hurt."
I turned around and he looked so tired and worried and drained that I dropped the ice and ran over to him. I hugged him tight, pulling in his warm, strong body like I never wanted to let it go.
"It's so dangerous," I said into his shoulder.
"I know, I know. Believe me, once Neal heals up, we're going to have a talk about this. I promise you he will never be so reckless again, I swear it."
"Keep both of you safe," I squeezed him hard and then let go.
When I went back into the living room, Neal seemed jumpy and on edge. Ever since the case when my friend's husband was accused of stealing gold from Iraq, Neal has been wary of fights between Peter and me. We have to wait until we're alone to have a disagreement. Sometimes I feel like we're parents who take extra care not to fight in front of the kid because it will scar him for life.
But I gave him the ice and sat down on the sofa and talked to them about other cases that they were working on. Neal finally leaned back against the sofa, interchanging sips of water and cold pressure on his face.
The rest of the evening passed quickly. We kept the mood light, laughing over dinner and pushing food on Neal. He seemed relaxed and at ease, smiling despite his hurt face, and he told us several funny stories about friends he had known who committed crimes which turned out badly. Peter looked at me in the middle of the first story, clearly realizing that the "friend" was Neal, but the stories were so amusing that Peter had to laugh along.
However, at certain times, during a pause in the conversation, Peter would look at me or the food or reach for a bottle of wine, and from the corner of my eye, I saw Neal's face. He looked apprehensive, concerned, those pretty eyes darting around, and I knew he was watching for any sign of Peter getting fed up.
Men. I wanted to roll my eyes right there at the table. Neal had screwed up big time, and Peter knew he knew it, but both of them skirted around the issue.
It was absurd sometimes, the fact that this criminal had become such a big part of our lives. Peter had chased him for three years, and for three years, I had nearly gone crazy watching Peter during those days as he kept after Neal. And once they got him, Peter had been worried the evidence wouldn't stick. They finally got the bonds to stick enough to convict him, but Peter said four years in prison was a drop in the bucket to all the trouble Neal had caused.
It had made me angry, too, especially when Neal escaped and Peter had to go after him. I can't understand how my husband takes it – working so hard to stop bad guys only to have the courts toss out the evidence or the prisons let people escape or the lawyers make plea bargains so the criminals get out because they give information about other bad guys.
I had fully expected to hate Neal when I first met him, but I found myself swayed by his charm and ease and sweet nature. I do not sympathize with most criminals, but Neal won me over quickly, and I loved his romantic nature and his growing friendship with Peter. Peter doesn't get to work with people who are as brilliant and quick-minded and clever as Neal, and it's good for him to find his match and challenge himself even more.
As the night grew later, I insisted that Neal spend the night with us. "After all," I pointed out, "you're already in pajamas, and it's too cold for you to wander New York in pajamas."
Neal smiled, but agreed. He kept watching Peter, almost if he expected Peter to blow up any minute, but my husband stayed pleasant and even-toned throughout the evening. We watched a little TV, and around ten we all went up to bed, Neal nearly dozing off on the sofa.
I got ready for bed and went to the guest room where Peter was making sure Neal was down for the night.
"I'm going to get up every few hours and wake you," Peter said as Neal pulled the covers over him and settled down in the queen-sized bed.
"I don't have a concussion."
"Just in case. You need us in the night, just call out. I'm a light sleeper."
"You're going to make a great dad," I teased as Peter came out, leaving the door cracked an inch.
Peter shook his head and sighed. "More trouble than he's worth."
"Shh," I giggled pulling him into our bedroom, "he'll hear you."
Peter grumbled, but I started kissing him hard, crushing my body up against his, having to stand on tiptoes to reach his mouth. He kissed me back and then pulled back a little.
"Honey, what – what's going on?"
It's a habit of mine; every time his work gets dangerous, I have to make love to him that night. It's a desperate urge I have, one that makes me want to cry and to have sex with him all night long. His job terrifies me, and I fight against that hysteria that rises inside me every time he goes on a dangerous mission. I feel better knowing Neal is with him, but now that Neal was acting like a lunatic –
"Whoa, whoa, El," Peter grabbed me by the arms. "I just saw about fifteen different emotions flash over your face. What's going on in there?"
"Just worried," I leaned my head on his shoulder.
He hugged me tight and then we moved to the bed together.
------
The next week, I was busy with planning a fund-raiser event and I was away from home so much that I only saw Peter at night. He said work was going fine and we were so sleep deprived that we didn't talk. No more dangerous jobs had come in, just a few cases of fraud, so I could rest easy.
But everything came to a head Saturday morning. Satchmo was making noise downstairs, and I got out of bed around nine to let him out, edging off the mattress as softly as possible to not wake Peter up. He didn't move, my poor tired man, and I put on a robe to go downstairs.
I found Neal in our living room, sitting on the sofa, one hand patting the dog.
"How did you get in?" I asked in surprise.
"Front door," he nodded his head in that direction.
"And the alarm?"
"I know the code. It's the same as Peter's pin number for his debit card."
"Peter's not up yet. Are you two working on a case?"
Neal nodded. He looked much better – his face was nearly healed and he was wearing a collared shirt and dark pants. "Maybe I should go," he suggested though he didn't move from the sofa.
My lips twitched, and I fought not to smile. For all his charm and sleek attitude, Neal is shamelessly easy to read sometimes. He obviously wanted me to ask him what was wrong, but didn't want to tell me without being asked first. I considered calling his bluff by showing him the door, but I'm not heartless so I played along.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he ran a hand over Satchmo's head, looking so lost it tugged on my heart strings.
"Oh, now, I'm sure it's all going to work out," I took a seat on the sofa. "Is it Peter?"
"Kind of," his face fell another fraction of an inch.
"Were you two having problems at work? Is he still upset about the whole warehouse thing?"
"I don't know. It's been weird between us since then. Hughes was furious – I got chewed out by him in front of Jones and Lauren. I had to swear never to do something that reckless ever again. And then everything just went back to normal."
"And that's not good?" I questioned, intently watching his face.
"It is, but . . . Peter's different now."
"In what way?"
"He doesn't – oh forget it."
Neal leaned forward to stand up, but I put a hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him back.
"No, it was important enough for you to come all the way here. Is he being short with you? Is he cutting you down or making you feel bad about yourself?" I didn't believe Peter would do any of those things, but I've found that asking extremes about a problem often helps a person open up. It worked now because Neal answered,
"Oh, no, nothing like that. He's just extra professional now. I mean, he was professional before, but now . . . before we used to joke sometimes. I would rag him about his clothes and tastes, and he would retort things about sending me back to prison or how he was always watching me. It was fun, just things we say to each other to get on each other's nerves, but in a good way, you know?"
"It's how you guys relate to each other," I nodded. "I always thought you balanced each other out. You lighten him up, and he gets you to concentrate on the jobs."
"And it was good until –" Neal kicked out a foot restlessly. It didn't hit anything, but it was the most frustrated thing I had ever seen him do.
"Until you didn't listen and got hurt and flipped a truck?" I supplied.
He gave me a side look, clearly unwilling to admit his blame.
"So you want things to return to the way they were before?" I went on. "You want to be able to act anyway you choose and have your behavior not affect the people around you?"
"That's not fair," he protested.
"But that's what you're saying. You want to be able to do whatever you want and never reap any consequences of your decisions. You can't have it both ways, Neal. You can't have people who care about you and the freedom to do whatever you like whenever you like."
"But aren't friends supposed to support your decisions? Aren't they supposed to forgive you when you do something wrong?"
"To an extent. Like with Peter – he says something flippant and cold without meaning to, and I call him on it. He apologizes, I forgive him, and we put the matter behind us."
"Exactly. I want him to do that with me. Forgive me and move on."
"That's saying something. If I knew Peter had ignored protocol and rules at his job and put himself in danger and then he came home to me hurt –" my expression finished the rest of my thoughts.
Neal drew back a little. "I'm guessing you'd have a little more than a nice talk. Probably a yelling match."
"To say the least," I added dryly.
"Well, why can't he yell? He shouts at me for a while, I snarl back, and then we're done. Or if he's that mad at me, swear at me or punch me or kick me out of the car while it's going, but don't be polite to me. I can't stand people being polite when they're furious."
This time I had to raise my hand to cover my smile. Neal was too adorable, sitting there and grousing about Peter punishing him with politeness. "It can't be that bad."
"But it is. All day long, 'Neal, please make a copy of this.' 'Neal, we're going to lunch in five minutes. Please get your coat.' 'Neal, please don't touch the radio in my car. Thank you.' All this without a smile. When did he take the whole Agent Burke thing so seriously?"
"All right," I stood up, "I'm going to talk to him. You stay here and entertain Satchmo."
"I should leave," Neal looked at the door, but made no movement again.
"Even if you leave, Peter can find you anywhere," I reminded him.
Neal reached over and petted the dog's head.
I went upstairs to find that Peter had rolled over on his side. "Hey," I climbed onto the bed beside him.
"Hey," he opened his eyes to squint. "What's going on?"
"Neal's here," I told him.
He groaned and burrowed down into the pillow. "Tell him I'm asleep."
"Honey, he's upset. He said everything is different with you at work."
"Man," Peter scowled even with his eyes shut, "there is no pleasing him. I'm sending him back to prison."
"Honey, wake up and tell me what's going on."
Peter sighed and rolled on his back, rubbing his hand over his face. I love that he wears his wedding ring to bed, the flash of gold which reminds me that he's mine.
"Nothing is wrong. After the little incident that nearly blew up in our faces, I thought maybe a formal response was in order."
"Meaning?"
"Well, Neal seemed to be getting a little too lax with rules and I thought maybe that was my fault," Peter looked at me, and I could see the worry in his eyes. "I'm the leader of the team, I set the tone and the rules. I'm a little looser than some agents so I thought maybe Neal was taking his cues from me. The first time he tried this trick with the Dutchman, I was so happy to close the case I didn't warn him about protocol or going off on his own. It was dangerous then, but I didn't lecture him. So this time, maybe it is my fault that he doesn't have any respect for the rules."
I pulled close to him, rubbing my hand through his hair.
"I thought," Peter continued, "if I treated him more like a consultant than Neal, it might help him focus. So I've been a little formal with him."
"Oh, honey," I hugged him tight, "you are absolutely awful at relationships."
"What?" he pulled away from me.
"Sweetie, of everything you have seen from Neal so far, what does he need the most?"
"A kick in the ass," Peter grumbled.
"Consistency. Above everything, he needs consistency. He is always changing – he's cool and suave, he's in love with Kate, he's flirting with every woman in shouting distance, he's being honest with you, he's sneaking around behind your back, he's lying, he's honest. Always changing. He's drawn to you because you are consistent."
"I'm not that consistent. I can be spontaneous."
"Yes, but for the most part you are steady and reliable and honest and everything that Neal needs in a leader. You lead by example, and he's always watching you, watching you at work, at home with me, out in the world. You have to be steady and dependable."
"I am!"
"But the problem," I continued, "is that you are two people to him. You are Peter and Agent Burke. He knows you as those two people."
Peter looked skeptical so I continued.
"Think about it, honey. Agent Burke is the man who caught him twice, Peter is the one who agreed to get him out of prison. Agent Burke cares about winning cases, Peter cares about him as a person. Agent Burke wants him to leave his problems at home and concentrate on work, Peter lectures him about his mistakes and life choices. Agent Burke wants him to do the right thing so he can continue working for the Bureau, Peter wants him to do the right thing because he should do the right thing and live a happy life. It's the switching back and forth that kills Neal – he doesn't know who he's getting each time he sees you."
"Well, I have to be those two people. And at work, I'm Agent Burke."
I recognized that stubborn glint in my husband's eye, but I refused to give up yet. "A few weeks ago, when he stole your car and you punished him, who were you? Agent Burke or Peter?"
"Peter," he mumbled, obviously not wanting to admit being wrong.
"And what would Agent Burke have done?"
"Told the Bureau and let Neal suffer the due consequences. Probably get him on some kind of stricter probation."
"When he got sick the other week, who took care of him? Agent Burke or Peter?"
"Peter. Really, El –"
"What should Agent Burke have done?" I asked.
"Counted it as a sick day and told him to come back to work when he was better."
"All right, I see a pattern here. When you realized that Neal had taken off against your orders, who acted then? Agent Burke or Peter?"
"Peter, by covering up. Agent Burke would have informed Hughes."
"And after it was over, you were Peter by bringing him here and taking care of him. But who have you been for the last week, to him?" I pushed harder.
"Agent Burke," Peter said reluctantly.
"See, I think Neal's confused because he doesn't know who he's going to have to face at the end. He admits he was wrong."
"He does?"
"Well, as much as Neal admits to anything. But still, now he's not sure what to do because you've become someone different."
"He scared me. He could have gotten shot or killed. This is not a game, El. The criminals we chase are dangerous and he needs to learn to follow the chain of command."
"So that's Agent Burke's take on it. What does Peter think? What does Peter want to do?"
"I want to beat his ass into shape," Peter sat up, clearly mad. "I want him to listen to me and promise he won't ever, ever go off on his own again."
"And then you'll feel better and things will get back to normal."
"Don't count on it," Peter yanked himself out of bed and started grabbing clothes. "I'm keeping such a close eye on him, he'll think he was a bug under a microscope. He was reckless and fool-hearty, and we haven't even touched on the whole getting-sick matter. Anymore shenanigans, and I'm shortening that tracker to a hundred feet."
I watched him get dressed, pulling on clothes while lecturing.
"As for consistency, oh, he's in for a world of consistency. I'll be so consistent that by the end of the week, he'll be begging me for the smallest bit of change."
"Oh, honey, I didn't mean –"
"And you're going to help me, El," Peter snapped his belt together and pulled up his fly. "You're good at getting to the root of the problem with Neal's nonsense. I'll be sure he knows that we're on to him."
"I don't think we need to mention my part –"
Peter grabbed me by the hand and we went towards the stairs. Peter is so sweet to me that I forget sometimes what he can get like when he's all worked up. He has told me that he is an unchallenged leader at work and people do what he says immediately, but I always thought that was him bragging and trying to be the man and the big shot. Now I felt like I had awakened the beast.
"Neal!" Peter said as we came down the stairs, me following by the hand as if we were some kind of parental team.
"Peter," Neal stood, "I didn't want to interrupt your weekend. I just wanted to tell you –"
"Over to the table," Peter pointed.
"What?" Neal's eyes opened wide.
"El, go get me the wooden board from the kitchen. Neal, over the table, hands down like last time. You know the drill. El?"
I quickly went to the kitchen, not wanting to see Peter now that I had got him riled up. I took the board off the wall, worried at how heavy it was. Surely Peter didn't swing it too hard. I wondered if I could convince him to use something small and lighter, like a wooden spoon. Or did we have any thin rulers? Maybe a flimsy hairbrush.
"Honey?" Peter called.
"I'm coming," I nearly dropped the wooden board in panic. It had been bad enough last time just watching – now I was involved. I could not believe how shaken up I felt; I was almost as nervous as Neal must feel and I wasn't even the one getting punished.
"I have it," I came out of the kitchen and handed it to my husband, unable to meet Neal's eyes. "Maybe I'll just go upstairs and take a shower . . ."
"Please take the dog into the other room," Peter requested. "We'll wait for you."
My heart was hammering in my chest as I got the dog out of the way. I dragged my feet back into the dining room, wishing I had never gotten mixed up in any of this. When Neal broke into the house with all his sad looks, I should have told him to speak to Peter directly.
"No, this isn't fair," Neal objected. "I'm not getting paddled now. We dealt with it at work and I was reprimanded there. I'm not getting punished."
"You weren't reprimanded. Any normal consultant would have found himself looking for a job if he had done something that outrageous. I'm not sending you back to prison, but I'm not giving you any special treatment either. So bend over and let's get this over with."
"You can't make me," Neal drew himself up tall. "You have no right to punish me like a child when I solved the case. And I got punched and kicked – I was punished enough already."
"The injuries you suffered were a direct result of showing yourself to the thugs when I said to stay hidden. Those were consequences of not thinking before you acted. This is a consequence of not following orders. So over you go."
"That's double jeopardy!"
I watched them argue back and forth, my eyes darting back and forth. The dynamic was certainly interesting, neither of them willing to back down.
"Neal," I finally spoke, "I think you better go along with him."
Neal turned to me, betrayed. "You're taking his side?"
"What you did was dangerous, thoughtless, and foolish. You said you wanted things to go back to normal between the two of you. Let him punish you, and then we can put this entire mess behind us."
Neal glanced from me back to Peter and then to the board in his hand and then back to me. The room was ominously silent as we waited for him to make his decision.
Panic hit me, but I quelled it by reasoning that Neal had survived because he was sitting on our sofa, bruised but alive. No matter how horrible the story, he would be alive at the end of it. However, I immediately turned to Neal and fixed him with an icy look. "Neal? Is that true?"
He put the ice pack over his face, trying to hide behind it. Any other time, I would have found him adorable, the way those startling blue eyes flickered back and forth between Peter and me, worried and unsure.
Peter put his arm on mine and began telling me the whole story, not leaving a single thing out. When he got to the thugs in the warehouse, I was ready to strangle both of them, and when he told me about turning over the truck, I marched right up in front of Neal, my arms crossed.
He slouched down in the sofa, the ice pack over his face, looking like a teenager in front of a displeased mother.
"Did you do that?" I asked in the voice I reserved for Peter when he had done something really, really bad. Behind me, I sensed my husband stiffening. Oh, yes, he knew that tone.
Neal's head finally came up, wide eyes feigning innocence and confusion. "There was so much happening, and I got caught in the middle, and everyone had guns, and Peter won't let me have a gun –"
"You hate guns," I pulled my arms tighter around my torso, hating that he had reminded me about the fact that my husband carried a gun. "And it would be disastrous to give you one. No, don't you dare feel sorry for yourself."
Neal had begun to look down, but he yanked his gaze back up at my sharp tone.
"Do you want to explain why you acted so foolishly?" I demanded.
Neal glanced at Peter for help, but I shook my head.
"All right, he's safe now, honey," Peter intervened. "The medics looked at him and we got ice and medicine. No permanent damage."
Neal relaxed, but I wasn't about to let it go, "We'll see about that. Why do you have an ice pack on your side?"
"It's nothing," Neal said hastily.
I knew that look, too – the one Peter wore when he had gotten hurt and he was trying to hide it from me. I leaned over and pulled up Neal's pajama top.
"Hey!" Neal objected, wearing his outraged expression as if he were being violated.
"Don't you think that's a little inappropriate?" Peter began, but I saw the huge bruise on Neal's side: ugly, reddish black, looking so painful I flinched.
"Peter, it's all black and red! He could have broken ribs or internal bleeding!"
"The doctor said he was okay."
Just like a man, taking the doctor's words and not insisting they examine closer. But I didn't want to get in an argument about how Peter ignored his health and everyone's and thought people could just be all right. I lowered Neal's shirt and gave him a trusty smile.
"Don't worry, Neal. We'll take care of you. I don't know when Peter's work got so violent, but we'll see to it that you don't have to put yourself in harm's way again."
"It's all right. This isn't the first time I've . . ." Neal trailed off as he looked over my shoulder at Peter behind me. Neal swallowed and said nothing.
Peter looked at me kindly. "Honey, what do you want to do about dinner? Let me go pick something up."
"That might be a good idea. I'm getting him some water," I abruptly went into the kitchen. Like a good husband, Peter followed a moment later. I began breaking pieces of ice into glasses, keeping my back to him.
"Baby," he sighed.
I refused to turn around. "White collar, Peter, white collar."
"I know," he sighed even heavier.
"You told me the white collar division of the Bureau was practically the safest job you could have in the FBI, next to the autopsy people! And yes, I knew you carried a gun, but I thought it was just FBI protocol. You were going to be cooped up in an office looking at shipping reports for smugglers and accounts for fraud – not chasing thugs through warehouses with guns and flipping over trucks."
"It was going to be safe. I take every precaution, El. I do everything in my power to keep my team protected, but everyone has to follow orders. When they don't, they get hurt."
I turned around and he looked so tired and worried and drained that I dropped the ice and ran over to him. I hugged him tight, pulling in his warm, strong body like I never wanted to let it go.
"It's so dangerous," I said into his shoulder.
"I know, I know. Believe me, once Neal heals up, we're going to have a talk about this. I promise you he will never be so reckless again, I swear it."
"Keep both of you safe," I squeezed him hard and then let go.
When I went back into the living room, Neal seemed jumpy and on edge. Ever since the case when my friend's husband was accused of stealing gold from Iraq, Neal has been wary of fights between Peter and me. We have to wait until we're alone to have a disagreement. Sometimes I feel like we're parents who take extra care not to fight in front of the kid because it will scar him for life.
But I gave him the ice and sat down on the sofa and talked to them about other cases that they were working on. Neal finally leaned back against the sofa, interchanging sips of water and cold pressure on his face.
The rest of the evening passed quickly. We kept the mood light, laughing over dinner and pushing food on Neal. He seemed relaxed and at ease, smiling despite his hurt face, and he told us several funny stories about friends he had known who committed crimes which turned out badly. Peter looked at me in the middle of the first story, clearly realizing that the "friend" was Neal, but the stories were so amusing that Peter had to laugh along.
However, at certain times, during a pause in the conversation, Peter would look at me or the food or reach for a bottle of wine, and from the corner of my eye, I saw Neal's face. He looked apprehensive, concerned, those pretty eyes darting around, and I knew he was watching for any sign of Peter getting fed up.
Men. I wanted to roll my eyes right there at the table. Neal had screwed up big time, and Peter knew he knew it, but both of them skirted around the issue.
It was absurd sometimes, the fact that this criminal had become such a big part of our lives. Peter had chased him for three years, and for three years, I had nearly gone crazy watching Peter during those days as he kept after Neal. And once they got him, Peter had been worried the evidence wouldn't stick. They finally got the bonds to stick enough to convict him, but Peter said four years in prison was a drop in the bucket to all the trouble Neal had caused.
It had made me angry, too, especially when Neal escaped and Peter had to go after him. I can't understand how my husband takes it – working so hard to stop bad guys only to have the courts toss out the evidence or the prisons let people escape or the lawyers make plea bargains so the criminals get out because they give information about other bad guys.
I had fully expected to hate Neal when I first met him, but I found myself swayed by his charm and ease and sweet nature. I do not sympathize with most criminals, but Neal won me over quickly, and I loved his romantic nature and his growing friendship with Peter. Peter doesn't get to work with people who are as brilliant and quick-minded and clever as Neal, and it's good for him to find his match and challenge himself even more.
As the night grew later, I insisted that Neal spend the night with us. "After all," I pointed out, "you're already in pajamas, and it's too cold for you to wander New York in pajamas."
Neal smiled, but agreed. He kept watching Peter, almost if he expected Peter to blow up any minute, but my husband stayed pleasant and even-toned throughout the evening. We watched a little TV, and around ten we all went up to bed, Neal nearly dozing off on the sofa.
I got ready for bed and went to the guest room where Peter was making sure Neal was down for the night.
"I'm going to get up every few hours and wake you," Peter said as Neal pulled the covers over him and settled down in the queen-sized bed.
"I don't have a concussion."
"Just in case. You need us in the night, just call out. I'm a light sleeper."
"You're going to make a great dad," I teased as Peter came out, leaving the door cracked an inch.
Peter shook his head and sighed. "More trouble than he's worth."
"Shh," I giggled pulling him into our bedroom, "he'll hear you."
Peter grumbled, but I started kissing him hard, crushing my body up against his, having to stand on tiptoes to reach his mouth. He kissed me back and then pulled back a little.
"Honey, what – what's going on?"
It's a habit of mine; every time his work gets dangerous, I have to make love to him that night. It's a desperate urge I have, one that makes me want to cry and to have sex with him all night long. His job terrifies me, and I fight against that hysteria that rises inside me every time he goes on a dangerous mission. I feel better knowing Neal is with him, but now that Neal was acting like a lunatic –
"Whoa, whoa, El," Peter grabbed me by the arms. "I just saw about fifteen different emotions flash over your face. What's going on in there?"
"Just worried," I leaned my head on his shoulder.
He hugged me tight and then we moved to the bed together.
------
The next week, I was busy with planning a fund-raiser event and I was away from home so much that I only saw Peter at night. He said work was going fine and we were so sleep deprived that we didn't talk. No more dangerous jobs had come in, just a few cases of fraud, so I could rest easy.
But everything came to a head Saturday morning. Satchmo was making noise downstairs, and I got out of bed around nine to let him out, edging off the mattress as softly as possible to not wake Peter up. He didn't move, my poor tired man, and I put on a robe to go downstairs.
I found Neal in our living room, sitting on the sofa, one hand patting the dog.
"How did you get in?" I asked in surprise.
"Front door," he nodded his head in that direction.
"And the alarm?"
"I know the code. It's the same as Peter's pin number for his debit card."
"Peter's not up yet. Are you two working on a case?"
Neal nodded. He looked much better – his face was nearly healed and he was wearing a collared shirt and dark pants. "Maybe I should go," he suggested though he didn't move from the sofa.
My lips twitched, and I fought not to smile. For all his charm and sleek attitude, Neal is shamelessly easy to read sometimes. He obviously wanted me to ask him what was wrong, but didn't want to tell me without being asked first. I considered calling his bluff by showing him the door, but I'm not heartless so I played along.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he ran a hand over Satchmo's head, looking so lost it tugged on my heart strings.
"Oh, now, I'm sure it's all going to work out," I took a seat on the sofa. "Is it Peter?"
"Kind of," his face fell another fraction of an inch.
"Were you two having problems at work? Is he still upset about the whole warehouse thing?"
"I don't know. It's been weird between us since then. Hughes was furious – I got chewed out by him in front of Jones and Lauren. I had to swear never to do something that reckless ever again. And then everything just went back to normal."
"And that's not good?" I questioned, intently watching his face.
"It is, but . . . Peter's different now."
"In what way?"
"He doesn't – oh forget it."
Neal leaned forward to stand up, but I put a hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him back.
"No, it was important enough for you to come all the way here. Is he being short with you? Is he cutting you down or making you feel bad about yourself?" I didn't believe Peter would do any of those things, but I've found that asking extremes about a problem often helps a person open up. It worked now because Neal answered,
"Oh, no, nothing like that. He's just extra professional now. I mean, he was professional before, but now . . . before we used to joke sometimes. I would rag him about his clothes and tastes, and he would retort things about sending me back to prison or how he was always watching me. It was fun, just things we say to each other to get on each other's nerves, but in a good way, you know?"
"It's how you guys relate to each other," I nodded. "I always thought you balanced each other out. You lighten him up, and he gets you to concentrate on the jobs."
"And it was good until –" Neal kicked out a foot restlessly. It didn't hit anything, but it was the most frustrated thing I had ever seen him do.
"Until you didn't listen and got hurt and flipped a truck?" I supplied.
He gave me a side look, clearly unwilling to admit his blame.
"So you want things to return to the way they were before?" I went on. "You want to be able to act anyway you choose and have your behavior not affect the people around you?"
"That's not fair," he protested.
"But that's what you're saying. You want to be able to do whatever you want and never reap any consequences of your decisions. You can't have it both ways, Neal. You can't have people who care about you and the freedom to do whatever you like whenever you like."
"But aren't friends supposed to support your decisions? Aren't they supposed to forgive you when you do something wrong?"
"To an extent. Like with Peter – he says something flippant and cold without meaning to, and I call him on it. He apologizes, I forgive him, and we put the matter behind us."
"Exactly. I want him to do that with me. Forgive me and move on."
"That's saying something. If I knew Peter had ignored protocol and rules at his job and put himself in danger and then he came home to me hurt –" my expression finished the rest of my thoughts.
Neal drew back a little. "I'm guessing you'd have a little more than a nice talk. Probably a yelling match."
"To say the least," I added dryly.
"Well, why can't he yell? He shouts at me for a while, I snarl back, and then we're done. Or if he's that mad at me, swear at me or punch me or kick me out of the car while it's going, but don't be polite to me. I can't stand people being polite when they're furious."
This time I had to raise my hand to cover my smile. Neal was too adorable, sitting there and grousing about Peter punishing him with politeness. "It can't be that bad."
"But it is. All day long, 'Neal, please make a copy of this.' 'Neal, we're going to lunch in five minutes. Please get your coat.' 'Neal, please don't touch the radio in my car. Thank you.' All this without a smile. When did he take the whole Agent Burke thing so seriously?"
"All right," I stood up, "I'm going to talk to him. You stay here and entertain Satchmo."
"I should leave," Neal looked at the door, but made no movement again.
"Even if you leave, Peter can find you anywhere," I reminded him.
Neal reached over and petted the dog's head.
I went upstairs to find that Peter had rolled over on his side. "Hey," I climbed onto the bed beside him.
"Hey," he opened his eyes to squint. "What's going on?"
"Neal's here," I told him.
He groaned and burrowed down into the pillow. "Tell him I'm asleep."
"Honey, he's upset. He said everything is different with you at work."
"Man," Peter scowled even with his eyes shut, "there is no pleasing him. I'm sending him back to prison."
"Honey, wake up and tell me what's going on."
Peter sighed and rolled on his back, rubbing his hand over his face. I love that he wears his wedding ring to bed, the flash of gold which reminds me that he's mine.
"Nothing is wrong. After the little incident that nearly blew up in our faces, I thought maybe a formal response was in order."
"Meaning?"
"Well, Neal seemed to be getting a little too lax with rules and I thought maybe that was my fault," Peter looked at me, and I could see the worry in his eyes. "I'm the leader of the team, I set the tone and the rules. I'm a little looser than some agents so I thought maybe Neal was taking his cues from me. The first time he tried this trick with the Dutchman, I was so happy to close the case I didn't warn him about protocol or going off on his own. It was dangerous then, but I didn't lecture him. So this time, maybe it is my fault that he doesn't have any respect for the rules."
I pulled close to him, rubbing my hand through his hair.
"I thought," Peter continued, "if I treated him more like a consultant than Neal, it might help him focus. So I've been a little formal with him."
"Oh, honey," I hugged him tight, "you are absolutely awful at relationships."
"What?" he pulled away from me.
"Sweetie, of everything you have seen from Neal so far, what does he need the most?"
"A kick in the ass," Peter grumbled.
"Consistency. Above everything, he needs consistency. He is always changing – he's cool and suave, he's in love with Kate, he's flirting with every woman in shouting distance, he's being honest with you, he's sneaking around behind your back, he's lying, he's honest. Always changing. He's drawn to you because you are consistent."
"I'm not that consistent. I can be spontaneous."
"Yes, but for the most part you are steady and reliable and honest and everything that Neal needs in a leader. You lead by example, and he's always watching you, watching you at work, at home with me, out in the world. You have to be steady and dependable."
"I am!"
"But the problem," I continued, "is that you are two people to him. You are Peter and Agent Burke. He knows you as those two people."
Peter looked skeptical so I continued.
"Think about it, honey. Agent Burke is the man who caught him twice, Peter is the one who agreed to get him out of prison. Agent Burke cares about winning cases, Peter cares about him as a person. Agent Burke wants him to leave his problems at home and concentrate on work, Peter lectures him about his mistakes and life choices. Agent Burke wants him to do the right thing so he can continue working for the Bureau, Peter wants him to do the right thing because he should do the right thing and live a happy life. It's the switching back and forth that kills Neal – he doesn't know who he's getting each time he sees you."
"Well, I have to be those two people. And at work, I'm Agent Burke."
I recognized that stubborn glint in my husband's eye, but I refused to give up yet. "A few weeks ago, when he stole your car and you punished him, who were you? Agent Burke or Peter?"
"Peter," he mumbled, obviously not wanting to admit being wrong.
"And what would Agent Burke have done?"
"Told the Bureau and let Neal suffer the due consequences. Probably get him on some kind of stricter probation."
"When he got sick the other week, who took care of him? Agent Burke or Peter?"
"Peter. Really, El –"
"What should Agent Burke have done?" I asked.
"Counted it as a sick day and told him to come back to work when he was better."
"All right, I see a pattern here. When you realized that Neal had taken off against your orders, who acted then? Agent Burke or Peter?"
"Peter, by covering up. Agent Burke would have informed Hughes."
"And after it was over, you were Peter by bringing him here and taking care of him. But who have you been for the last week, to him?" I pushed harder.
"Agent Burke," Peter said reluctantly.
"See, I think Neal's confused because he doesn't know who he's going to have to face at the end. He admits he was wrong."
"He does?"
"Well, as much as Neal admits to anything. But still, now he's not sure what to do because you've become someone different."
"He scared me. He could have gotten shot or killed. This is not a game, El. The criminals we chase are dangerous and he needs to learn to follow the chain of command."
"So that's Agent Burke's take on it. What does Peter think? What does Peter want to do?"
"I want to beat his ass into shape," Peter sat up, clearly mad. "I want him to listen to me and promise he won't ever, ever go off on his own again."
"And then you'll feel better and things will get back to normal."
"Don't count on it," Peter yanked himself out of bed and started grabbing clothes. "I'm keeping such a close eye on him, he'll think he was a bug under a microscope. He was reckless and fool-hearty, and we haven't even touched on the whole getting-sick matter. Anymore shenanigans, and I'm shortening that tracker to a hundred feet."
I watched him get dressed, pulling on clothes while lecturing.
"As for consistency, oh, he's in for a world of consistency. I'll be so consistent that by the end of the week, he'll be begging me for the smallest bit of change."
"Oh, honey, I didn't mean –"
"And you're going to help me, El," Peter snapped his belt together and pulled up his fly. "You're good at getting to the root of the problem with Neal's nonsense. I'll be sure he knows that we're on to him."
"I don't think we need to mention my part –"
Peter grabbed me by the hand and we went towards the stairs. Peter is so sweet to me that I forget sometimes what he can get like when he's all worked up. He has told me that he is an unchallenged leader at work and people do what he says immediately, but I always thought that was him bragging and trying to be the man and the big shot. Now I felt like I had awakened the beast.
"Neal!" Peter said as we came down the stairs, me following by the hand as if we were some kind of parental team.
"Peter," Neal stood, "I didn't want to interrupt your weekend. I just wanted to tell you –"
"Over to the table," Peter pointed.
"What?" Neal's eyes opened wide.
"El, go get me the wooden board from the kitchen. Neal, over the table, hands down like last time. You know the drill. El?"
I quickly went to the kitchen, not wanting to see Peter now that I had got him riled up. I took the board off the wall, worried at how heavy it was. Surely Peter didn't swing it too hard. I wondered if I could convince him to use something small and lighter, like a wooden spoon. Or did we have any thin rulers? Maybe a flimsy hairbrush.
"Honey?" Peter called.
"I'm coming," I nearly dropped the wooden board in panic. It had been bad enough last time just watching – now I was involved. I could not believe how shaken up I felt; I was almost as nervous as Neal must feel and I wasn't even the one getting punished.
"I have it," I came out of the kitchen and handed it to my husband, unable to meet Neal's eyes. "Maybe I'll just go upstairs and take a shower . . ."
"Please take the dog into the other room," Peter requested. "We'll wait for you."
My heart was hammering in my chest as I got the dog out of the way. I dragged my feet back into the dining room, wishing I had never gotten mixed up in any of this. When Neal broke into the house with all his sad looks, I should have told him to speak to Peter directly.
"No, this isn't fair," Neal objected. "I'm not getting paddled now. We dealt with it at work and I was reprimanded there. I'm not getting punished."
"You weren't reprimanded. Any normal consultant would have found himself looking for a job if he had done something that outrageous. I'm not sending you back to prison, but I'm not giving you any special treatment either. So bend over and let's get this over with."
"You can't make me," Neal drew himself up tall. "You have no right to punish me like a child when I solved the case. And I got punched and kicked – I was punished enough already."
"The injuries you suffered were a direct result of showing yourself to the thugs when I said to stay hidden. Those were consequences of not thinking before you acted. This is a consequence of not following orders. So over you go."
"That's double jeopardy!"
I watched them argue back and forth, my eyes darting back and forth. The dynamic was certainly interesting, neither of them willing to back down.
"Neal," I finally spoke, "I think you better go along with him."
Neal turned to me, betrayed. "You're taking his side?"
"What you did was dangerous, thoughtless, and foolish. You said you wanted things to go back to normal between the two of you. Let him punish you, and then we can put this entire mess behind us."
Neal glanced from me back to Peter and then to the board in his hand and then back to me. The room was ominously silent as we waited for him to make his decision.
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