Author's note: Thank you all for your support. I'm thrilled that there is still so much interest in White Collar stories.

Peter may have disappeared from the story, but rest assured this is temporary. My stories are always about both characters and the friendship between them.

Subterfuge Ch 3

Car doors slammed, headlights flashed briefly and the purr of expensive engines receded into the distance. The stillness and silence that resumed were emptier than usual, as chilling and bereft of comfort as the night air that blew in the open doorway. The temperature inside plummeted, but El made no attempt to close the door. She seemed frozen in place, an alabaster statue, tragic and desolate, the stark line of her back a bow against the doorframe, the blades of her shoulders too pronounced beneath the thin blue cotton of her shirt and the only movement created by air currents stirring some wisps in her hair.

Neal felt like an interloper witnessing a grief that wasn't meant for his or anyone else's eyes. A small, craven part of him was tempted to slink out the back door, but Peter's rallying cry of, 'cowboy up' rang challengingly in his ears. There was a certain irony in that, considering Peter's own avoidance of crying women. El didn't react as he approached, and it occurred to him that she might well wish to be alone to grieve in privacy. He wanted to close the door, but from the way she was gripping it, it could be the only thing keeping her upright.

"I think we've contributed enough to global warming," he said gently. He was ready for anything as he touched her back supportively - to catch her if she collapsed, to hold her if she cried, or to gracefully accept rejection once she realised that it was the wrong man left in her house. To his surprise, the face that turned up to meet his held no animosity, only an expression of open and quiet devastation. Blue eyes begged silently for reassurance, and Neal, understanding and even sharing that emptiness of loss, wanted to say something that would comfort and ward off the shadows that lurked hauntingly in the darkness of the room. He was a conman, trained to think on his feet, but his verbal tap dancing had slowed to a stagnant stagger. Words flopped around uselessly in his brain, but nothing he could think of sounded like more than an empty platitude. El deserved better.

A slink of movement in the corner of his eye offered inspiration. "Let's take Satchmo for a walk." He knew from experience that action, or at least a combination of movement and distraction, could improve one's mood, preventing the mind from spiralling further into a depressive morass. It had the additional benefit of offering an excuse to wrap Elizabeth in the warmest clothes possible. Standing in the open doorway had left her chilled from head to toe, and he was fairly sure that allowing El to succumb to pneumonia minutes after Peter's departure would be seen as dereliction of his new duties as her caretaker. Of course, the chill that enveloped her was more than physical, and it would take more than several layers of toasty clothing to banish it. Not satisfied with her down-lined coat, he retrieved the Russian hat that Mozzie had given her the previous Christmas and the warmest gloves and scarf he could find. El accepted each item, thanking him mechanically for his assistance, but the shivering that continuously stuttered through her body did not noticeably abate.

Neal had never felt less like talking, but as they walked, he gamely maintained a patter of undemanding comments regarding such innocuous topics as the local architecture, the level of light pollution in Brooklyn and Satchmo's favoring of his front left paw. El's contribution to the conversation consisted mostly of monosyllables at first, but as their feet fell into a brisk rhythm, broken only by Satchmo's search for interesting smells and his urge to overlay his scent on top of possible rivals, the normality of a mundane chore eased her worries. It was impossible for worst case scenarios to maintain their credibility under such pedestrian circumstances, their structural integrity withering with every fire hydrant watered by the golden lab. The culmination of this process was Satchmo's decision to defecate, an irony of synonyms that didn't escape Neal. He politely turned away to allow them both the polite fiction that nothing bowel related was occurring in their immediate neighborhood. He admired the blinking lights of a far-off airplane until the dog returned to brush against his leg. Starting to move on, he realised that El hadn't resumed the walk and he looked back.

"You have to pick it up," she explained.

"I have to...what?" He cast the briefest of glances in the direction she was indicating in the vague hope that she was referring to a fallen handkerchief. His eyes did their best to skate over the dark pile faintly steaming in the cold night air.

"You have to scoop the poop," El elaborated helpfully.

This was definitely not in his job description. He looked at her plaintively, hoping for a reprieve of the 'April Fool' variety, but there was no pity in her expectant gaze. He glanced around frantically for a method of relocation, preferably something that operated remotely like a Star Trek transporter or a wand. He contemplated called Mozzie to see if his Russian surplus supply carried anything for such emergencies - maybe along the lines of a miniature flame thrower. No inspiration presented itself, not even a convenient stick, so he turned to El with a rueful shrug only to find that she was holding out a tiny green bag clearly just removed from a pocket-size, tight roll of such supplies.

Backing away, he held his hands out in front of him as if repelling something demonic. "I would need the proverbial 40-ft pole to go near that. Don't you have a…" A pantomime of jaws opening and closing from afar illustrated his point.

"You mean a pooper-scooper," El articulated with mock clarity. "No, it's no fun carrying one of those around and trying to keep it clean. Disposal is the way to go."

Neal eyed the tiny bag with extreme disfavor. "How's that supposed to work?"

Unsure if he was serious or not, El regarded him uncertainly. "You turn it inside out, stick your hand in, then scoop it up."

Putting on his most innocent expression, Neal asked, "Could you show me?"

It took a moment, but then the twinkle of a smile broke over El's face like a dancing ray of sunshine from behind a particularly low-lying, gray cloud. "Are you trying to con me, Neal Caffrey?" she asked with delight as if he'd offered her an invitation to an exclusive club.

He had been, but it had nothing to do with the task at hand, but rather an attempt to elicit that very reaction. Not willing to lose the ground he'd gained by admitting to a play of any kind, he affected a slight pout. "I have no idea what you're talking about, but for the record, is there any reason you can't clean up after your own dog?"

She tilted her head away slightly, sadness reclaiming her features. "Peter always does it," she admitted softly.

Neal's heart sank at the sight, regretting that he'd pushed the issue, the mention of Peter's name nudging his own sense of loss. He shuffled closer to the coiled mess on the ground, taking the bag in penance, but something in her body language, maybe the slight shake to her shoulders, stopped him and he peered at her suspiciously. "Elizabeth Burke," he said admiringly, "are you trying to con a conman?"

She relaxed her forlorn position. "Trying? I'd say I succeeded there for a moment."

He acknowledged her achievement with a slight bow. "Welcome to the dark side, my lady. Your mastery of our craft is humbling."

"However, I spoke nothing but the truth."

"That is the essence of an excellent con," he confirmed.

"I think you're missing the point. Peter always picks up the poop - after all it is the law."

"Of course. The perils of being partnered to the world's most law-abiding man."

In the orange glow of the streetlight, Neal could see the fond reminiscence in her expression. "He even looks sexy doing it."

"I accept your challenge," Neal responded promptly. He was renowned for his sleight of hand - how hard could it be? Taking a deep breath, he swooped in gracefully and in seconds the bag was tied and held at arm's length by the barest of two fingernails. "Ta-da," he uttered triumphantly.

El pretended to consider his performance. "Full marks for technical merit, but you lose points for artistic impression, especially on your finish. Peter somehow embraces his inner dog owner and owns the necessity of his actions while still maintaining his ruggedly handsome stance."

Neal pointed his free hand at her. "I'm sensing bias in the judge from Brooklyn."

"Guilty as charged. Come on, let's head home. I can't walk any further with you looking like a defective windmill." She gestured at his still outstretched arm. "I'll make you some supper to reward you for your inestimable courage."

They walked back mostly in companionable silence, Neal dropping off his burden with an exaggerated sigh of relief in the nearest trash can. The outing had been beneficial for both of them. It had reset El's self-possession, and it had done more to reassure Neal. Infected by Peter's concern for his wife, he had forgotten just how capable, steadfast and strong she was. This was the woman who meticulously planned parties for hundreds, escaped from captivity without any help from concerned parties and smuggled wanted fugitives past government officials with a sweet smile and home-baked cookies. She would miss her husband desperately, but as long as he came home eventually, she would cope.

Although still a little subdued, Elizabeth chatted readily enough as they threw together a salad, the conversation morphing naturally from food to her upcoming events with Neal offering his opinion on the cuisine and wine selections. It should have been relaxing, but despite El's acceptance, it felt strange for Neal to be in Peter's house without his friend being present. The warmth of the home lovingly established by the married couple remained, but there was also emptiness, a yawning space into which Neal's comments dropped before echoing back unanswered by familiar snark. It left him strangely adrift, his one true anchor torn away.

Despite his attempts to concentrate on the conversation with Elizabeth, his thoughts kept swinging back to Peter with the inevitability of a magnet to true North. Unanswered questions about the assignment swarmed through his brain, agitating the worry that had taken up residence there since Peter had first announced the possibility of going under cover. He wasn't alone in this preoccupation. Despite both he and Elizabeth possessing professional level conversation skills, both capable of polite chit-chat and more profound discussion, the dialogue between them literally petered out.

Neal tried to think of a way to offer to stay the night without sounding presumptuous or condescending, but resigned himself to a certain level of awkwardness. "Look, I know it's been a difficult day for you and I know I don't feel like being alone, so if you'd like me to stay in the guestroom tonight…"

El's face was always expressive, mirroring her feelings, and polite rejection of the idea was obvious, so Neal didn't bother to finish his sentence. A moment later, there was a flash of regretful guilt and remembered duty. "That's not necessary," she said hurriedly, "But I'd really like your company tomorrow night."

Peter's coaching was so obviously behind that proposal that Neal couldn't help retorting, "I'm not sure I've got time between the diamond heist I have scheduled in the evening and the bank job I'm masterminding at night."

El's lips twitched and she responded in kind. "Whereas I will fall into a consumptive decline and fade away if left alone for a night."

Having both acknowledged the absurdity of extreme assumptions between Peter's instructions, the pressure behind their interaction relented. "He really didn't intend it like that," El commented ruefully. "It's just his way of taking care of us while he's gone. It's not that he doesn't trust you. It's just...you do have a tendency to find trouble, or trouble finds you, and it would kill him to come back and find you gone or, worse, in jail."

Neal couldn't in all honesty deny that, and as much as he'd like to believe he was a completely independent operator, he had to admit to the influence of his two best friends, one a stabilizing voice of conscience, the other an imp of mischief, urging him to continue the way of life that was exciting and fun but had landed him in prison. Rather than confess to the validity of Peter's concerns, he decided to focus on El's side of the equation. "He called keeping me out of trouble a side-benefit to spending time with you. It wasn't that he thought you weren't capable of taking care of yourself, he just didn't want you to be lonely."

"I know. He was just looking out for us as usual." She tucked her legs up beside her on the sofa. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I wish that you weren't here."

Before Neal could work out the puzzle of feeling anything but offence at the concept, she continued. "It's not that I want to put you in danger too, but I know I'd feel better about this whole thing if I knew you were there too, watching his back."

A curl of warmth unfurled inside, but the honesty he'd decided on as a policy that evening forced him to admit, "It's usually the other way round. In fact, I always thought you held me responsible for bringing so much trouble to his doorstep."

El did him the courtesy of considering the comment, not dismissing it in a knee jerk, polite reaction. "Maybe occasionally," she acknowledged. "But I know two things. Firstly, since you became his partner, he's been happier, more fulfilled. He enjoys his job, and it doesn't take such a hard toll. Secondly…" she broke off to take a sip of wine, clearly marshalling her thoughts. "I know that if anything happened to him, you would move heaven and earth, do anything legal or illegal to get him back, and that is more reassuring than all the law-abiding good intentions in the world. I should have told you before how much I appreciate that."

Neal dropped his eyes to stare at the amber tones of his own drink. What she said was true and lay as an unspoken trust between him and Peter. Neither man would ever have thought of putting it into words, yet in the secret depths of his heart where no words were needed, Neal knew it was a privilege and treasured it. His father had betrayed him as a child and an adult. His mother had been physically present for most of his childhood, but she was a broken reed, too weak to provide the support and guidance that an active boy needed. Ellen had tried her best, but her life had also been shredded by James' actions, and she was busy providing for them all. The only friend who had ever stuck around was Mozzie, who was endlessly loyal but not exactly dependable.

Peter was the first person who really had his back in every way that counted and, perhaps more importantly, who'd held a line, moral conduct tempered by justice and understanding. There were many things about his relationship with Peter he wasn't sure he truly comprehended himself, and he had no desire to discuss it with anybody, least of all someone so close to Peter.

He offered her a slightly guarded smile. "I can't say I wouldn't much rather it was me out there instead of Peter, and I tried, Elizabeth, I really tried to persuade him. But from what little he was able to share with me, it's clear that this is an important assignment, so I'm sure he'll have excellent backup. Besides, he's really good - resourceful and intuitive. Most of all, he's motivated. He'll do what he has to to come back to you. I'm convinced of that."

Her head dipped down, a curtain of glossy brown hair concealing her expression, so he pushed on, following a different tangent. "I know you have plenty of other friends, and don't need me to prevent you from being lonely, but I would like to come over sometimes, and not just because I'd like to keep my word to Peter. Spending time with you could never be a hardship, and I think it would help me feel more...grounded. However, I don't want you to feel obligated, so I give you my word that I will commit no crimes that could land me in jail until Peter comes back."

He wished he himself knew how much of that was true and how much he was saying for her sake. Before he'd finished the speech, she raised her head, gazing at him intently. Her blue eyes, so different in shape and color from Peter's, were equally discerning, but he accepted and held the gaze, inviting her to read what she could in his expression. The crease in her lips and the relenting of the frown in her forehead told him that she had liked what she discerned and that maybe it was more than he intended.

"Thank you, Neal. Why don't you come over tomorrow night and bring Mozzie if he's free. We can have a three-way game of Scrabble. Just try to make sure he doesn't bring any movies."

"Which conspiracy flick did he try to foist on you?"

"I don't mind those so much. They can be fairly entertaining and lead to interesting discussions. No, last time he brought a bizarre movie about Chinese domino-playing gangsters, and he promised to bring the sequel the next time."

"Tiles of Fire." Neal gave a not-altogether-feigned shudder. "Mozzie's idea of cult classics is a conspiracy by itself. Never fear, I will make sure his questionable taste in movies is not inflicted on either of us."

After exacting a last promise that El would call if she needed anything, Neal left, catching a taxi back to his place. It wasn't exactly a surprise to arrive home to find Mozzie violating the privacy of his room and the sanctity of his wine collection. Despite his quirks and his paranoia, Mozzie had a surprisingly social soul. He only let a few people close, but he liked company. However, Neal was in no mood for conversation. He understood why El had declined his offer to stay. He just wanted time to consider the events of the day, to reflect on his conversation with Peter, and he was also unsure how much of that conversation he wanted to share with Mozzie. While he would trust his friend with his own life, Mozzie's anti-government stance made him reluctant to share too many details about Peter's assignment.

Mozzie looked up as Neal entered and after observing his expression, quoted, "Show a fair presence and put off these frowns."

Removing his coat and hat, Neal hung them up before throwing himself into a comfortable chair opposite his friend. "It's not been the best of days," he admitted.

"The daily oppression of life in government servitude," Mozzie stated knowledgeably.

"You might be right," Neal conceded, "but not for me exactly."

Looking positively gleeful at this admission, happy that his suspicions were confirmed, the little man asked, "Then who?"

"Peter," was the short response.

All thoughts of schadenfreude were instantly wiped from Mozzie's face, the concern that replaced it also giving way in its turn to a forced indifference. The pretence that he wasn't fond of Peter was an automatic defence and one that fooled no one. He shrugged, "Well, you lay down with dogs…"

"You get up with fleas. Not your most original observation."

"I was going to say, you get up with bugs and other surveillance devices," Mozzie said with a wounded air. Seeing that Neal was in no mood to appreciate his prickly humour, he continued, "So, what's up with the Suit?"

"Three higher up suits…" He cocked an eyebrow at this friend. "Tuxedos?" A frown squelched his attempt to copy his friend's nomenclature and he shrugged good naturedly. "One of them being the Deputy Director, came in and dragged him off, ostensibly to temporarily head an office elsewhere."

"Can these dress suits…" Mozzie paused in modest expectation for Neal to wave a hand in acknowledgement of his superior suit classification system. "Can they just waltz in and commandeer him like that?"

"Fundamentally, they need Peter's consent, but by appealing to his sense of duty and loyalty…"

Mozzie whispered something that sounded suspiciously like 'sucker' before asking more belligerently, "What about Mrs. Suit? Doesn't she get a say in this?"

"She understands and supports him. Talking of El - she's invited us both around tomorrow night."

Mozzie brightened instantly, "Great, I'm going to bring…"

Neal, remembering his promise, hastily cut him off. "For a meal and a quiet game of Scrabble."

Mozzie's anticipation was not too deflated by the concept. While his fondness for Peter was tempered by his suspicion of his position, his affection for El was uncomplicated and wholehearted. "So, with the Suit gone, who's holding your leash?"

"Diana's my handler until Peter comes back." Noticing the cunningly contemplative expression that crossed his friend's face, Neal quickly added, "No, this does not mean it's a perfect opportunity for any of the perfect heists you have on your bucket list. She might not be as brilliant as Peter, but she's still good. Moreover, she's far less forgiving. If she even suspected I was up to anything, I would be lucky to escape with moderate evisceration. And don't think she wouldn't come hunting for you."

"The female of the species is more deadly," Mozzie acknowledged.

Glad that he had derailed Mozzie's immediately larcenous impulses, Neal threw him a bone in the form of a peek at a conspiracy. He knew how best to get his friend's help in the situation. "The interesting thing about Peter's departure is that all is not what it seems. Before he was taken away, he got word to me that he's actually being sent under cover."

He probably couldn't have provoked Mozzie's interest more if he'd confessed to being both an alien and the second shooter on the grassy knoll. Shrewd eyes gleamed with interest, but being Mozzie, he didn't ask the obvious questions like, 'what was the job?' or 'what was Peter's cover?' With a mieu of puzzlement he commented, "Isn't that supposed to be your shtick?"

Neal shrugged. "It's complicated, and I don't really know the details," he commented.

Observing his friend's disgruntled expression, Mozzie exclaimed, "You volunteered to go in his place, didn't you?"

To admit to such a rash act, would be to invite the little man's ire, so Neal dodged and weaved past the interrogation. "My actions are entirely irrelevant to the situation. The powers-that-be have this one locked up tight, and that's why I need your help."

He ejected the SD card from his phone and handed it to Mozzie. "There are three men in the picture. One is the deputy director of the FBI, but I don't know the others. If you can help me identify them, I would have a better idea as to what is going on."

"You really don't know what's going on." It was a statement, not a question.

"Peter dropped some very vague hints...Look Mozz, you've got to handle this delicately. I don't want to do anything that might endanger Peter." He ignored Mozzie's offended expression which eloquently spoke of hordes of grandmothers and their egg-sucking experience. "I'm serious, Mozz. This whole situation stinks. This is deep cover, not our usual quick in-and-out with the team as back-up scenario. Just keep your ear to the ground for anything...big."

"Yeah, I got it." There was still an edge of pique in Mozzie's voice. "The bad guys are out to get us, the government is out to get us, the aliens are out to get us. Trust no one. Somehow I think I can handle the concept."

He had a point. Mozzie was 25 percent DNA and 75 percent paranoia. He would take the necessary precautions and be discreet.

Mozzie waved the bottle of wine invitingly in his direction. "Here, drown yourself a little."

The idea contained temptation, but Neal wanted to keep a clear head. "I'll pass. At the moment, my bed is more attractive than the bottle."

Mozzie drained his glass. "I recognize a dismissal when I hear one. I'll leave you to your pining."

"Worrying for Peter is not the same thing as pining," Neal protested tiredly.

"Your pining is so epic it has its own zip code," was Mozzie's parting shot, the door closing smartly behind him.

Neal heaved a sigh. This wasn't going to be easy.