Summer Night
It was after midnight and Neal Caffrey couldn't sleep even though the mechanical roar of the traffic below usually proved a reliable antidote to his frequent insomnia. The sticky humid heat of the New York summer night felt stifling as he tossed restlessly on top his rumpled ivory silk sheets, his antique bed squeaking under the strain of his weight shifting constantly. Neal's taut, damp, muscular body was dressed only in the lightest cotton pajama bottoms; his exposed smooth skin glistened under a fine mist of sweet-smelling sweat sparkling in the green sliver of light radiating from the tracking device locked onto his left ankle. The thick anklet provided the only illumination in the room and it reflected itself ominously in Neal's wide open blue eyes shining feverish black in his stuffy upstairs apartment.
Peter would not take his phone calls, would not allow him back in the FBI offices, would not respond to his anguished, heartfelt apologies, even those sent humbly through his wife Elizabeth. El, at least still spoke to him, but Neal heard the pity in her voice and the sound made his skin crawl with embarrassment. For the thousandth time he cursed himself for his mindless, selfish, stupidity. He could not forgive his actions in betraying Peter's trust and apparently neither could the furious FBI agent. For a week Neal waited anxiously for a pounding on his door signaling their deal was over, waited for the NYPD to rush into his apartment, lock him into handcuffs and haul his ass back to prison.
Yet the only person to knock on his door was Elizabeth holding a pot of warm chicken soup, as though he were just suffering from the flu and all would soon be well. Neal could barely look Elizabeth in the face and their visit consisted of him staring down at his hands, nervously twisting in his lap, as they talked softly, seated on his brown leather sofa next to his bookcase. It was only when El reached out with a comforting palm and cupped his thin face in her hand that he dared glance into her concerned eyes, even then he did not feel the hot tears flowing down his stubbled cheeks onto her fingers.
"Peter is a fair man," Elizabeth assured him confidently. "He'll get over it. Give him time, Neal."
How much time? He yearned for the warmth of their friendship so acutely it was a physical pain in his chest that never eased. Kate was gone - and now Peter as well. Would he ever look at another FBI case file? Would he and Peter ever plan another con to con the con? Would his life ever return to his new normal of the past year? Or had he totally screwed everything up this time? Was there no way back?
As Neal's digital clock turned to 1:00 a.m., his FBI Blackberry rang for the first time in a week, causing him to jump. He reached over to his night table and plucked the dancing device up quickly, studying the unfamiliar phone number with anxious consternation. Who could be calling him this time of the night?
"Hello?"
"Mozzie just woke up, thank God. He's asking for you." It was Peter's tired voice, husky and low, laced with immense relief mingled with clip, lingering anger. But he called. That was everything.
"Can I see him, Peter? Please, I beg you. The hospital is outside my radius…" Neal's former pleas to go outside his two-mile zone to visit his oldest friend in the hospital had fallen on deaf ears. Even his plaintive pleas to Elizabeth to intercede for him had not moved Peter to grant him the dispensation.
"Get here as quick as you can. I've called the marshals and okayed it. Diana will pick you up in 15 minutes. Be waiting outside."
"Thank you, Peter," Neal replied gratefully. But the connection was already dead. Peter seldom bothered with a 'good-bye' in the best of circumstances and Neal had grown accustomed to this FBI quirk. He jumped out of bed, reaching to turn on his bedside lamp, flooding the room with soft yellow light. Quickly Neal yanked a clean white t-shirt from a nearby open drawer, pulled it over his tousled head and then snatched a pair of worn blue jeans off the floor, absentmindedly pulling them on over his pajama bottoms. The annoying anklet was forgotten in his rush to get ready and in a matter of minutes he was taking the stairs two at a time down June's ornate staircase then pulling the heavy front door open as harsh traffic noise flooded his ears.
Waiting in front of June's house for Diana to drive up, Neal paced back and forth impatiently. The hopeless fog engulfing his mind the past week was lifted and he faced the imminent arrival of the stern Diana with blissful calm. Neal knew the young agent's personality well, her anger was explosive while Peter's simmered. A good tongue-lashing from her and they'd be friends again. It'd be a small price to pay for a relationship restored. Peter would take much longer, his emotions ran deep and Neal knew the FBI agent was acutely hurt. Mozzie was awake. Peter called him. All would be well. It was only a matter of time.