When Peter last left Neal, he had fallen asleep sitting up, head tilted back and slightly to the left. But when the agent returned to his living room, he found his partner stretched out across the cushions on his stomach, one arm dangling over the side of the couch where it rested on Satchmo's soft, golden head. The dog's eyes were closed as well.
"Satch!" Peter whispered. Instantly, his loyal canine's head popped up, Neal's hand dropping clumsily onto the floor. The dog got up and walked over to his master, wagging his tail excitedly. Peter scratched behind his right ear – his favorite spot – and then poured some dry food from a large plastic container into Satchmo's bowl. The dog crunched greedily as his master approached the sleeping con man sprawled on the sofa.
Neal stirred in his sleep, letting out a low groan. Poor kid looks tired, Peter observed. His trained eyes carefully took in every aspect of his partner's appearance: the dark circles under his eyes; the wrinkles slowly beginning to etch into his handsome face; the tousled hair, matted on one side where it lay against the pillow. The agent laid his hand on the center of Neal's back, feeling it rise and fall with each breath. He rubbed back and forth gently, but the consultant remained deeply asleep.
"Neal," Peter whispered, looking for a response. When there was none, the agent decided to check on something he had been curious about for quite some time, but never gotten around to asking. Gently, he slid the leg of the sleeping man's pants up to expose the tracking anklet. Neal had mentioned once in passing that this newer model chafed less than the old one, but Peter had never heard him complain even once about the foreign object strapped against his skin. The agent had to know if it was really uncomfortable, or if it was all a con designed to let him loose. He slid Neal's sock down over his ankle bone and examined the bare flesh under the hard plastic casing. Peter was pleased not to find any open sores or cuts; however there was some faint bruising and some old, toughened-up calluses under the plastic band that indicated the anklet was definitely no diamond tennis bracelet. It had to be causing him some minor discomfort on a daily basis. This worried the agent; if Neal kept quiet about trivial matters such as this, how could Peter ever expect to get the con artist to trust him enough to talk through his post-traumatic stress?
The older man sighed. He pulled the sleeping man's sock back into place and resumed rubbing his back, with more force this time. "Neal," he spoke louder, this time with the intent to wake him up.
Neal quickly rolled over and jolted upright. "Peter!" he exclaimed, breathless. His chest was heaving.
"Hey, it's okay, Neal," the agent said soothingly, hiding his own startled fear. "Deep breaths, right?" he prompted, taking the con man's wrist under his index and middle fingers, feeling the accelerated pulse. Neal tried half-heartedly to shake loose, but Peter held on firmly. "Just calm down, alright? Nice and slow," he coached as the consultant inhaled and exhaled slowly. Gradually, he felt his partner's pulse approach a normal rhythm.
"Sorry," the consultant mumbled, too tired to be more embarrassed. "Bad dream again."
"Don't worry about apologizing to me, okay?" the older man's voice was reassuring. He let Neal's wrist drop into his lap. "You hungry? The pot roast smells ready, and El's making chocolate cake."
"For me? You shouldn't have." Neal's attempt at charm was weakened significantly by his recent performance, but nonetheless he attempted to resume the charade in front of the Burkes. The two men got up and moved towards the dining room table just as Elizabeth exited the kitchen with a large casserole dish in her oven-mittened hands.
"Oh, good, you're awake!" she greeted her husband's partner. "You look better… do you feel better?"
"Yes, thank you, Elizabeth," Neal answered with his hundred-watt smile freshly recharged. The three sat down around the table and dug into the meal hungrily. After a few minutes of eating and small talk, the plates were placed on the floor one by one so Satchmo could lick the remaining beef broth from them.
"Mmm," Peter moaned, pleasantly stuffed.
"It's true what they say about leftovers," Neal added. "They are better the second time around."
"Thanks, boys," Elizabeth smiled appreciatively. The oven timer began to ding in the kitchen, and she and Neal both moved to get up.
"Allow me, Elizabeth," Neal offered.
"Oh, no, no, you sit!" she insisted a little too enthusiastically. A red flag went up in his mind; however, he trusted Elizabeth, so he dismissed it as no more than an artifact from his conning days. She grabbed the oven mitts from the table and went into the kitchen.
"Care for an after-dinner drink?" Peter asked.
"What are my choices?" the con man inquired.
"Umm… beer or merlot," the older man answered. "I'll get the wine glasses."
"You're a smart man, Peter," Neal said as Peter disappeared into the kitchen.
The scene was entirely different inside the kitchen. Elizabeth was using the sound of the garbage disposal to mask the noise she was making by grinding up two of the sleeping pills into a fine powder. She had already uncorked the 2004 merlot and poured a glass for herself and Neal.
When Peter entered, he grabbed his favorite brew from the fridge and popped the cap off. Then he turned his attention to the chocolate cake, inhaling the delicious fragrance. "That smells fantastic, El," he complimented.
"It is fantastic," she retorted, about to sprinkle a handful of the sleeping powder over a slice.
"Wait a minute," he stopped her. "He'll be expecting the cake, and he'll see the powder on it. It's too obvious."
"The wine!" she whispered. "It'll dissolve completely!"
"I married the most beautiful, smartest woman in the world," Peter grinned, kissing his wife on the cheek. "Go serve the decoy cake."
A moment later, they emerged with three slices of cake, two glasses of red wine, and a beer, distributing them around the table. Neal took his glass and sipped it delicately as Peter and Elizabeth began to sink their forks into the cake.
"Interesting bouquet on this one, Elizabeth," the consultant commented. "Where was it produced?"
"Sonoma Valley, California," she replied.
"Sonoma is the new Napa," Neal quipped, taking another sip.
"Try the cake, Neal," Peter urged. "El makes the best flourless chocolate cake I have ever tasted."
"Thanks, Peter, but I know you dosed it somehow, so I'm gonna have to pass… no hard feelings, Elizabeth," he smiled at her.
"If you don't trust us-" Peter began.
"Oh, don't be silly. Here, have mine," Elizabeth swapped her plate with Neal's. "I've only had a bite of it, and I'm fine."
Neal took a bite of her cake and nodded in approval. "Mmm, this is really good," he affirmed.
"I'm told the wine complements it perfectly," Peter commented dryly, taking another swig of his beer.
"You were told correctly," Neal replied with a grin, drinking the final sip from his glass of wine. The trio rapidly finished off their dessert and drinks and chatted for a few more minutes before deciding to clean up. Elizabeth began to gather the plates and silverware. Neal, drawing upon his manners, rose to help. The next moment, he swayed and nearly fell over into Peter's grasp.
"You… drugged me!" Neal accused. "How?" he demanded. "Cake was too obvious… not the wine!" His mouth dropped open in exaggerated horror.
"I'm sorry, Neal, but you really need your rest," Elizabeth apologized.
"Come on, let's get you to bed before you pass out at the table," Peter urged, placing Neal's arm over his shoulder and grabbing the drowsy man around his waist.
"Maybe the wine was a bad idea, sweetie," his wife said with concern as they prepared to climb the stairs. "Are you supposed to mix it with alcohol? It kicked in pretty fast."
"He wouldn't have taken it otherwise," her husband answered. "He'll be fine." He helped Neal slowly up the stairs and sat him down on the guest bed. Peter pointed to a small bag sitting on the dresser. "June sent some of your things over so you could get changed," he informed his partner.
"Thanks, Peter," Neal mumbled as he removed his jacket and tie. Peter left the room, closing the door behind him so the con man could change in private.
He entered the master bedroom, where his wife had changed into an FBI t-shirt and pajama bottoms for the night. "Looks good on you," he flirted.
"Let me guess, it'll look better on the floor, right?" she retorted. "I've heard that one before, honey. Not tonight, though, okay? I thought we needed to keep an eye on Neal."
Peter sighed. "You're right. Let's get some rest, then." He crawled into bed next to his wife and shut off the lights.
Within a few minutes, the house was silent except for a faint whimper barely heard through the walls.