11 WAITING

PREVIOUSLY: It's still the weekend and Peter is still trying to get Neal to give up the details on the Rembrandt. Peter has promised to consider the information as just part of a story and not as an admission; well, at least Neal hopes he has promised.

"How does Zantele tie into this?"

"His father, John Adam Ames."

"Ames? He was one of the first targets for the Art Crimes Unit."

"He really did appreciate art. He just liked shopping for the pieces hanging in museums."

"And you offered him Rembrandt's 'Storm'."

"His favorite. He'd have died a happy man with an extremely good forgery. He had the original authenticated and provided us cash and bearer bonds. Ironic that some of those bonds turned out to be of my own making." Neal spoke wistfully, then quickly continued, allowing Peter no time to formulate any questions about the bonds. "Then you showed up. You spoiled a perfectly-good plot. Great characters. The hero was just about to execute a well-orchestrated plot twist aka switch the real for the forgery. Well, that kinda happened anyway, but the point is—"

"The point is, how did the Rembrandt end up on the wall in the New York Art Crimes Unit without being noticed?" Peter interjected.

"The point is," Neal continued, "the whole thing got derailed. I managed to miss being hit from all sides. Still, your boys picked me up for questioning before the original was secured. It's dangerous to change a plot halfway through; it can be very stressful on the character development."

"Stressful! For which character, you or me?"

"Peter, you came so close, my heart felt like it was pounding out of my chest. I didn't know what info you had at the time. I thought for sure you were going to arrest me that night. And there I was, sitting with a Rembrandt wrapped around my leg in an FBI interview room. Waiting to be questioned. Arrested. To be strip searched. Then it would have been game over. Instead, I started to get little bits of info, together with my walk-in to the unit, I had everything I needed."

Neal paused, intently checking Satchmo's repositioning efforts.

Peter had questions but held them back and waved his hand for Neal to continue.

'To continue burying myself,' Neal thought.

"The interview room was in the newly-created Art Crimes Unit. Not very big at the time but lots of renovation going on; lots of things—photographs, paintings—packed in boxes and stacked here and there. Early enough in the day that some trades were still in working on the reno. Idle hands, Peter. You left me waiting. I couldn't bear the wait. I'd heard enough to let me know that you'd be at least an hour or two. No one else seemed interested in me, so..."

"You got yourself out of the interview room, found a frame for the painting, and weeks later when the reno was finished, the painting gets hung with no one the wiser. What happened to your partner?"

Neal shrugged.

"Really helpful."

"Really. I don't know. I do know that the forgery was seized when the FBI raided Ames's properties and your tipster hinted that the forgery was one of mine. That Ames died eight months later before any charges went to the grand jury for the other works he had acquired."

"I know this part of the story; tell me something I don't know."

"The sequel? The antagonist, Ames's son, Zantele, wants the painting that his father coveted. He blames his father's obsession with the painting, and hence me, for his father's demise. Peter." Neal paused. Realization flooded into a now-anxious voice, "It's possible he blames the FBI—you—as well."

Peter narrowed his eyes, breathing slow and steady, finally letting a long breath out.

"Neal, this story's fast coming back to reality. Zantele gave you two weeks, right? I need to make some calls."

With that Peter stood and walked out of Neal's earshot. He talked on his cell, never taking his eyes from Neal at the dining room table. Neal fidgeted, his features slowly belying his increasing apprehension.

Peter completed his calls and returned to Neal.

"Jones will have the new tracker for you by six, certified bug-free. He confirmed the cut one had already been scrapped, so no, we don't know if it was bugged. Diana's finishing up with the last of the history from Ruiz's operation. We're going to have to work with Ruiz on this one, like it or not. Diane's secured the Rembrandt, too. That leaves pulling everyone together to figure out how to resolve this without you getting locked up, or killed."

Neal shivered.

"I'm considering a safe house."

Neal wrinkled his nose. "He gave me two weeks; it wouldn't make sense for Zantele to kill me before I got him his father's painting."

"Ummm, it's not to protect you from Zantele, not now anyway, but from yourself."

"We're back to the trust thing. I haven't run. I've answered all your stupid questions. I've suffered through your deviled ham."

Neal caught himself. "Sorry."
He closed his eyes. "Your questions weren't stupid."
He sighed. "Peter, I'm still not... I'm not used to anyone, you know. I'm not..."

Neal hesitated.

"What?"

"You promise. You promise, right?"

Neal sunk his head between his arms. His knuckles turning white as he tried to keep the sudden thought of being locked away indefinitely from invading his consciousness. His fear of Zantele's death threats, equally fighting for prominence, brought an overwhelming sense of despair to him.

So many exhausting memories swept over him.

He remembered sitting in the interview room with the clock counting the seconds away endlessly. The smell of drywall and fresh paint. The urge to run. The necessity of remaining calm. Then being dragged to Zantele's, the smell of stale beer and Maury Trenton's fingers digging into his arms. Then...

Neal jumped, swiftly rising and backing out of the chair he had been straddling. He might have remained standing, except for his ever-present dog escort, who had sprawled himself next to the chair.

Neal's sudden movement had startled both Satchmo and Peter.

Satchmo responded faithfully, trying to rise from his slumber to ensure Neal would be greeted appropriately. He instead caught Neal across the back of his legs, throwing Neal backwards.

Peter initially pulled back, then realized Satchmo's precarious placement behind Neal. He reached out, grabbing at Neal's right arm and catching him at the elbow. It wasn't enough to stop Neal's descent, until he felt fingers wrapping around his forearm. Unfortunately, Satchmo's efforts to extract himself from the melee didn't allow for Peter to step forward to maintain his own balance.

Neal thumped down on his butt, one leg raised over Satchmo, the other shifting between Peter's feet. Neal released Peter's forearm in an attempt to stop himself from falling back further. The momentum, however, had been created, and Peter was coming on the trip to earth with him. They both landed in a heap on the floor with Satchmo grumbling as he pulled himself away from the two men. Peter pushed himself up from Neal. Neal gawked at him in utter surprise.

"Seriously?" Neal quipped.

"Seriously what?" Peter snorted. He could feel the ache in both knees, as they had taken most of his weight.

Neal glared up at him; he started to snicker, then burst into a fit of laughter. Suddenly rolling to his side, he knocked Peter over and onto his side. Peter glared back at him, only to have a smile slowly creep across his face, until he gave into Neal's contagious laughter.

"You're a pain, Caffrey," Peter finally managed.

"Me?" Neal mocked, "You're the one with the bizarre interviewing techniques."

Peter sat up and brushed at the knees of his jeans. He twisted back towards Neal, who had his head propped up in his hand. The floor appeared to have captured his attention. Peter whacked him on the lower leg.

"Ow!" Neal yelped, more surprised than hurt. "What was that for?"

"Laying around studying my floor might be interesting to you, but we still have work to do."

"Work?"

"Yes, I consider saving your sorry ass work."

Peter got up to his feet; standing over Neal, he extended a hand to him. Neal took it.

"Well, Peter, your work saving my ass has been piss poor of late."

Peter's loosened his grip.

Neal felt Peter's grip slide as he thumped back down on his butt. He let out a groan, wincing in pain. He looked up, catching Peter's disapproving glower turn to concern. Two hands shot towards him.

"Damn, I..."

"Peter."

Neal's calmness cut through Peter.

"No, I ... I didn't think."

"Peter."

Neal's calm insistence finally stopped Peter's efforts to right him and dust him off. Peter's brown eyes reflected reassuring, soft blue eyes.

"Peter, it's okay, really." Neal nodded.

Then the mischief crept back in. "I know how important my ass is to you."

Peter rubbed his hand across his eyes.

"The story really does end with the FBI agent killing his consultant."

Neal smiled. "Guess I just thought you'd skipped ahead to the ending when you put your hand on my shoulder."

"Yeah, I'll remember to give you advance warning in future. Or get a long pole."

"Funny, ha ha. Now, I'm hungry."

Neal never skipped a beat, moving from one thought, one action, to another effortlessly. 'ADHD,' Peter thought.

Neal, however, headed to the front door instead of the kitchen.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"We're going." Neal corrected.

Peter raised an eyebrow.

"Come on, Peter, other than really awesome pancakes, I've had nothing but take-out since Friday."

Peter plunked his hands onto his hips, and cocked his head to the side. "How did I ever get talked into all this?" He shook his head solemnly. "Fine, where are we going?"

Neal beamed like a kid heading out for ice cream.

"You can wipe that supercilious smile off your face," Peter admonished. "You're not out of the woods yet."

"We can eat first, right?"

"Yes."

"My choice?"

"YES."

"Can we go now?"

"Lead the way."

Nearly two hours later they had returned to Peter's.

Neal, satiated with his perfectly-prepared barrimundi and truffle pommes frites, had tried in vain to explain to Peter that their meal was not fish and chips. Peter suggested that if it walked like a duck and quacked like a duck, no matter what name it went by, it was still fish and chips. Peter naturally balked at the price, suggesting he was paying for a fancy soubriquet. Neal immediately challenged Peter to spell 'soubriquet'. Peter agreed only if Neal conceded in defeat to call the meal fish and chips. Neal thanked Peter for his fish and chips.

It was now late afternoon. Peter yawned. An exhausting week, an even more exhausting start to the weekend, then trying to keep pace with Neal over the weekend, was starting to exact a toll on him. Neal on the other hand seemed to have rebounded completely. Peter expected at any minute to find him bouncing on the furniture. Peter stopped his rambling thoughts when he met Neal's intense blue eyes running across his face. He tried to stifle another yawn.

"Yawning is an effort to stay engaged with the speaker, even though you desperately need sleep."

"Huh?"

"I really wouldn't mind if you had a nap, Peter."

"A nap? Buddy boy, if you ever ask me if I need a nap again..."

Peter's stern tone brought Neal's hands quickly up into submission.

"I wasn't suggesting. I just thought... You were yawning."

Peter continued to glare at Neal.

"Peter, everyone needs sleep. If you're tired you should—"

"What I should do, is get you a shovel for the hole you're digging yourself."

Neal sucked his breath in and retreated to the couch, muttering something about never being able to get out of the hole he had already dug. He sunk into the couch, only to find himself covered with a spray of glass.

O O O

My kids keep asking, "What ya writing mom?", "Ah, just some fun.", "Can we read it?" "Ah, hahahahhahha. NO."