This is part serious story, part commentary on White Collar's adorably awkward and inept product placement. I wanted to see how much branding I could pack into a few pages and actually make it induce some sort of affection.
I love this car.
Neal's heart was beating a little too fast, his breathing something he was regulating instead of doing automatically. He was acutely self-conscious, hearing and seeing and evaluating his every movement no matter how slight.
He was nervous, alone for the first time in a car with this agent he knew so well and not at all.
A little sad from all of the goodbyes, rather like when someone he didn't care for died and he was reminded of all the good things about them.
He'd said farewell to inmates he was sad to leave behind in there, who were better people than he'd ever be and yet faced futures much bleaker than his. He'd spoken for the last time to guards who'd cared for him and about him, who'd been kind and patient and supportive and everything no caricature of a prison guard would ever touch. Been hugged and wished well so much he almost regretted leaving.
Elated, emerging from the dullness of prison into the world of color and light and change and beauty.
Relieved, that he'd have some ability to look for Kate, and worried that she was in trouble.
Excited at the prospect of relative freedom, and being able to work with the FBI and befriend the agent he'd secretly adored before the guy even arrested him.
Scared to death. He'd mess it up. He'd go back to prison after getting spoiled by the joys of real life, and endure that soul-crushing adjustment to captivity for a second time. Peter would turn out to be an asshole or a creep Neal had put on a pedestal.
And he loved this car. Peter's car. An FBI car.
A plain Ford Taurus that seemed so much more. Relatively new, very clean, but very comfortable and very used. Homey, not sterile. Safe and friendly and wonderful, with a baseball rolling around on the floor by his feet and cups in the cup holders and the smell of leather and car and pine and fresh air. And it was driving him away from prison in the custody of someone his life felt curiously bound to. Peter put him there, Peter pulled him out and was giving him access to this blessed normalcy.
He. Loved. This. Car.
He'd driven Ferraris and Porsches and Lamborghinis and a NASCAR race car, and flown in private jets. And prison transport buses. But never had a vehicle felt this cozy and wonderful, or given him the sensation of coming home the minute he fastened the seat belt.
He didn't want the drive to be over. Peter was giving him his space to adjust, not making small talk. It was, in the end, Peter who broke the silence though.
"It's past lunchtime. Hungry?"
Was he hungry? He was so on edge and preoccupied that food hadn't even entered his mind. Prison food sucked, in the boring sort of way that made eating something he did only on demand from his body, not as a ritual to look forward to. There were only so many times a person could eat canned food-service chili before losing interest in life.
"Yes?" he said, uncertain as to the correct answer.
Peter clicked on the turn signal and took the next off-ramp, exiting onto a strip of fast food joints and gas stations and hotels.
He glanced at Neal with a sweet-natured smile, the first crack in the crisp reserve. "First meal out of prison. What you want?"
Something dormant came awake in delight. Oh, this was fun. He got to order food again, and eat out of a paper bag. "What do you like?" Neal asked.
"I'm gonna be bossing you around plenty," said Peter. "But this one's all you. I eat anything."
"Ooh," said Neal, pointing. "Five Guys. Let's go there. We can throw peanuts at each other."
Peter grinned and flicked on the turn signal. "Good choice. Any choice where I can throw food at you, really."
"I apologize for not picking Uncle Herbert's Rotten Tomato Emporium, then," retorted Neal.
"But then you'd be too tomato-y to be allowed in my car, and I'd have to toss you in the trunk for the rest of the trip," Peter pointed out.
Neal caught himself grinning too, elated. Free, roaming the world of good burgers, and Peter was as awesome as he remembered. "But you'd have rotten tomatoes in your hair, and we can't both ride in the trunk."
"I can dodge anything you throw at me," said Peter. There was a hint of...significance behind that.
Oh, wow, did this place ever smell wonderful. And it was bright white and red and noisy, a cheerful, sizzling noisy which didn't exist in prison.
They were in line before Neal remembered he didn't have any money, and this wasn't the prison commissary. He would get money. There had been a provision for a stipend check from the FBI, doubtless laughably insufficient, and he had liquifiable assets of less legitimate origin. But he didn't have a cent on him.
Neal froze, his heart pounding and the anklet feeling like a hundred-pound weight tearing at him. He glanced around at the other patrons, looking for open purses or bulging back pockets. No, Peter would catch him.
Damn.
He decided on acute food poisoning. "Something I ate in prison." That'd be believable.
They were at the counter, and he glanced around frantically for the bathroom. He was about to bolt for it when Peter's voice stopped him.
"Geez, Neal." The agent was frowning, a mix of concern and frustration. He took a credit card from his wallet and showed it to Neal. "I have this awesome thing called an FBI expense account. It covers taking my new consultant out for lunch."
Neal looked at the card, impressed. Federal Bureau of Investigation. Peter Burke.
"What can I get you, sir? Sir?" asked a cheery young man behind the register.
Peter ordered a hot dog and fries and a drink. Neal ordered a double cheeseburger with enough toppings to make it resemble a small skyscraper, fries, and a drink, and shied away from Peter's gaze.
He'd forgotten just how good this guy was at reading him. Neal wasn't used to being read easily, and it freaked him out.
No, everything about this freaked him out.
Neal walked over to the soda fountain, and started filling his Diet Coke.
Noticed with a sideways glance that Peter had gotten root beer, and wished he'd gotten the same thing. Then wondered when he'd started thinking like an insecure teenager trying to impress a girl.
He managed to avoid Peter by focusing on collecting napkins and ketchup and straws, and was wondering which one of them was going to pick a table, or if they were going to eat on the road.
"Over here, Neal." Peter's pleasant voice sounded even gentler than usual. He'd put his stuff down at a table near the window while Neal'd been too busy cringing inside to notice.
Neal looked at him with a bright smile, but caught himself still avoiding Peter's gaze. That wasn't good; one had to make eye contact to be convincing, but he was fairly certain this guy would be able to see right into his soul.
He sucked frantically on the straw, drinking being the only displacement activity available to him.
Peter threw a peanut at him.
He startled, throwing himself back in his chair and almost spitting Diet Coke. Peter pelted him with another one. And another, and just like that Neal's smile was real.
"Hey! No fair!" Neal hadn't thought to get any peanuts, and Peter was keeping a protective hand over his stash like a dog hovering over a bone.
"Don't bring a napkin to a peanut fight and expect it to go your way, son," Peter said in an exaggerated drawl.
Neal jumped up from the chair and dashed for the counter, meeting the eyes of the cook behind it as he scooped at the open box of peanuts. "I apologize in advance for any - uh - peanut related mess. If there are any damages -" he pointed at Peter, "- he started it."
Neal dashed back towards the table and drew back for a really, really good direct hit, and just like that Peter ducked under the table and the peanut bounced sadly off the window.
Peter popped up again and scored a direct hit on Neal's chest. Neal retaliated, and Peter blocked it with his cup.
"Told you I could dodge anything you threw at me."
"I'm not used to being outmatched," muttered Neal, sitting back down at the table. "My pride is nursing an ulcer."
What he really wanted to say was, Peter, you're awesome.
Really, how many people would ever in a million years snap him out of a mini-panic by throwing a peanut at him?
Peter looked at him steadily, and Neal met his gaze this time, and as feared the agent did look right into his soul.
With a gentle Hi, Neal.
Neal hadn't realized until that moment how unbearably tense he was. He'd been looking forward to freedom and realized that instead, he'd put himself at the complete mercy of a virtual stranger who had his number, and holy shit was that terrifying. Neal made himself breathe.
Hi, Neal. The agent's soft brown eyes held immense gentleness and joy and intelligent compassion. That look was everything Neal trusted and loved and longed to take shelter in.
Hi, Peter. Please put up with me. I'm trying.
Their order was called, and they both jumped to their feet and almost collided.
"You get it," said Peter. Neal walked up to the counter, grateful for the breathing room.
The witness to the peanut fight handed over their order and grinned at him. "Thanks for the entertainment."
Neal grinned back. "Thanks for not booting us out." And for not noticing the giant tracker locked to my ankle.
"So, those FBI credit cards. Do I get one?" asked Neal, setting Peter's tray down in front of him.
Peter snorted. "Last I checked, you were charging stuff to the warden's credit card. No."
Neal grimaced, for real, and shivered involuntarily. "Yeah, I kinda got thrown in solitary for that. And for a few other little things, like escaping. Not an experience I care to repeat."
"Do you ever look before you leap?" asked Peter.
Neal fell silent, nibbling on a fry. "Only to see if I can make the jump," he said finally.
"Worry about the landing later, huh?"
Neal nodded.
"I hear landings are softer if you relax when you hit the net," said Peter quietly. "That'd take a hell of a lot of faith, though."
When they made it back out to the car, Neal's stomach was protesting an ill-advised but heavenly cheeseburger extravaganza, and he and Peter were walking just a shade closer to each other in a companionable silence that was growing less awkward and uncertain by the moment.
Neal sat down and buckled in, relaxing into the comfortable seat and closing his eyes.
"I love this car."
"Planning to steal it?" asked Peter.
"Nah," said Neal. He wiggled down, making himself even more blissfully comfortable. "I like having a driver."
A peanut smacked Neal on the nose.