"As usual, thank you for the call Diana," El said into the phone, before bidding the agent farewell and hanging up. A sigh escaped her lips and she sank down onto a bar stool in their kitchen, a smile brightening her face. The case with the Pink Panthers was finished; Diana had called her as soon as they had taken every last one of them into her custody. Including, of course, her husband. It marked the end of his most dangerous stint undercover to date, and Elizabeth felt like she could finally breath again.
"Daddy's safe," she said, leaning back and resting her hands on her gently rounding stomach. That had been the first thing out of Diana's mouth: 'It's over, Peter is unhurt.' As if sensing her next question, it had been followed closely by a quick 'so is Caffrey.'
The fact that everybody had made it out unscathed (even the conmen) was not only a relief but also a bit of a shock. Peter hadn't sugar coated it when he described to her how dangerous the Pink Panthers were as a group, and that was before adding Matthew Keller to the mix.
Neal had promised her he would keep Peter safe as he descended into the trenches of the conman's territory. He'd kept up his bargain.
She'd have to make him a Cornish Hen. And maybe some Crème brûlée, too. A multi-course dinner was probably in store just to hear the full story.
Humming her contentment, El made herself busy as she waited for Peter to come home. She didn't expect him too early; there would be a fake police booking to keep his cover in tact, preliminary field reports, and probably a lot of other details that would suck up more time than they really needed.
Still, this knowledge didn't squash her anxiousness to see him. She did some cleaning, she managed her work calendar, she read a little; and before she knew it, it was getting dark. Peter still hadn't called. She mulled over dinner options for a little while, and then it was actually dark. Peter had to be, at the very least, back to the office by now.
She called him. It rang, rang, rang, and went straight to voicemail.
She frowned, but fought off the tinge of worry that nipped at the corner of her mind like a feral dog.
Peter was just caught in the moment, she told herself. This was not only a big win for him, but the White Collar division and FBI as a whole. El imagined that they'd pulled some champagne from the evidence locker, likely under Neal's suggestion and charming white smile.
So she started to make dinner, something easy and comforting for Peter after a long day. She was just pulling it from the oven when she heard the door open and close.
"Peter, is that you?" She called, voice bright. There was no response, so she set the casserole dish down on the stove and pulled the oven mitts from her hands. Setting them down, she made her way out of the kitchen. "Hon?"
She rounded into the living room, a smile on her face. She saw him standing by the door in gray coveralls, his back to her. One hand still rested on the door where he had shut it, and his head was bowed forward.
"Peter?" She said immediately, her tone suddenly sharper. She started towards him, her brows furrowed. Something was wrong. His body screamed of tension. He turned towards her just as she reached him, and she couldn't see his face as he wrapped his arms abruptly around her in a tight grip that quickly became bone-crushing.
She slid her hands up his back, fingers pressing tightly against him in response.
"Peter?" She repeated, alarm evident in her voice this time. She felt as though every hair on her body was suddenly standing on end; her stomach was churning, and it wasn't the baby. Something was so very wrong, and Peter's silence was terrifying her as much as his death grip.
He pulled back a few moments later, not enough to release her but enough so that he could look down into her face. Elizabeth looked back and saw sorrow etched into every tense line of his face. He wasn't trying to hide it. His eyes were dry but red-rimmed, the corners of his lips etched downward.
She opened her mouth to speak, but words became lost to her as cold dread broke over the crown of her head and dripped down her spine.
"Neal's gone, hon," he said, his voice incredibly soft and somehow steady. His grip tightened around her.
"What do you mean, gone? He ran again?" She asked, but even as the words left her lips she knew they were incorrect. But 'gone' and 'Neal' being in the same sentence was practically synonymous with 'Goddamnit, El, he slipped his anklet again!'
Peter's lips tightened, and he maintained her gaze, but he didn't try to correct her. He could see the realization in her eyes, and he swallowed.
El felt him tremble, and she did too. She curled her fingers into the back of his shirt and then pressed herself against his chest. Her chin puckered and her grip tightened into one to match her husband's.
Suddenly all she could hear in her mind was Diana's voice on the phone, telling her that all was well. What had happened? What had gone so wrong? How? A million thoughts ran through her head by means of self preservation to keep the horror away for just a second longer.
Peter ran his hand down her back and she broke into a sob, but quickly turned her face into his chest to muffle it.
Neal was dead.
She tightened her grip on her husband, and he held her closer, chin resting on top of her head. She felt his shoulders shake, too, although his tears were silent.
"I'm so sorry, Hon," she whispered, when she could find her voice again, and they were still standing in the entry.
She heard him draw a breath. "Me too," he whispered. "Me too."