AN: Hey, it's National Talk in an Elevator Day! I'm not sure we need much of a reason to celebrate White Collar, but we'll take one if it comes along. Also, just a tiny warning: this is set pre-series, so if you're looking for a strict adherence to canon (or maybe reality!), this might not be for you. ️
The Proof in the Pudding
Cheride
Peter Burke—currently known as Peter Billings—had a very perceptive gut. He'd learned to trust his instincts, and that rarely steered him wrong. And right now, his gut was telling him something big was about to go down.
He'd been working this case for weeks now. Peter Billings was an up-and-coming businessman, the kind with more connections than actual money, barely more money than common sense, and not enough of anything to be satisfied. He was currently dabbling in the art re-sell business, uncovering smaller works of famous artists that had been languishing in small midwestern museums or hanging in family homesteads, purchasing them at a modest price and then taking them to the big city to flip them for a tidy profit.
At least, that was the cover story within his cover story.
What he was actually doing was buying forgeries from Adam Raser and taking them back to the FBI evidence locker, but people like Raser would frown on such an admission, so he needed a reason to knowingly buy fake paintings. It was a universal truth that the bad guys were more forthcoming with other bad guys, so Peter Billings was a bad guy, willing to admit his own indiscretions to put Raser and his little gang at ease.
Peter had been buying from them long enough that he had enough evidence to arrest them a dozen times over, but what he didn't have was the forger. Until today.
Last week, Peter had threatened to take his business elsewhere unless he could meet the artist, and after all this time, he'd finally ingratiated himself enough with Raser—and spent enough money with him—that the threat carried some weight. Today was finally the day.
Peter tried to convince himself that the alarm bells going off in his gut were just excitement at finally being able to close this case. Or maybe a little bit of uneasiness that he was meeting Raser and his goons alone on the twelfth floor of an otherwise abandoned high rise, so backup was too far away to be much help if anything went sideways. Or worry that the forger and Raser and all the hired help would get away since prudence dictated Peter had to be clear of the building before the cavalry could move in.
He wanted to believe any or all of those things had him unusually on edge, but he hadn't survived in this line of work by ignoring his instincts, so Peter stayed alert, waiting for something big, even if he didn't know what it would be.
He didn't have to wait long.
Raser—a slightly paunchy, deceptively jovial looking man with dangerous eyes—met him at the elevator lobby, chattering amiably as he led Peter down the hall, alternating between glowing with pride about his artist and not so subtly warning Peter not to try poaching him to cut out the middleman. Peter made the requisite assurances, and Raser began a boisterous introduction as soon as they stepped into the first conference room. "Here's the genius now, Mikey Langello."
Peter's heart stopped when he saw the man across the room. Even from behind, he would recognize Neal Caffrey anywhere.
Worse, Caffrey would recognize him. They'd been playing their little game of hide and seek for a couple of years now, and though they'd only met once, back at the beginning before Peter had even known who he was chasing, they were the furthest thing from strangers. The only questions now were how long it would take Caffrey to blow his cover, and if there was any possibility Jones and the team could get here fast enough to keep Peter alive.
He thought the answers were not long and probably not.
But just as he opened his mouth to signal his team, Caffrey turned around, hand outstretched in greeting.
The slightest hitch in his movement toward Peter, the tiniest widening of his eyes, that was the only indication of Caffrey's surprise before he continued to close the short distance between them.
"You must be our recent benefactor," Caffrey said smoothly. "I'm Mike; very glad to meet you."
Peter took the offered hand, hoping he was schooling his features even a fraction as well as Caffrey. "Peter Billings," he answered, "and the honor is all mine."
Caffrey held the handshake a few seconds too long, studying him, and Peter wondered if the man had somehow picked up on something in his delivery of the extraction phrase. Or maybe Caffrey was trying to decide if Peter was here for him or if this was just bad luck.
But whatever was going on, Peter knew his team would be scrambling by now, trying to enter the building and make it upstairs quickly, but still discreetly enough that Raser wouldn't see them coming, though he also knew that was unlikely. And Caffrey was still the wild card.
Of course, Peter really shouldn't be surprised. Neal Caffrey was always a wild card.
But then Caffrey was releasing his hand and flashing a smile that looked like he didn't have a care in the world. And Peter almost blew his own cover when Caffrey slung an arm around him like they were long-lost friends and steered him out of the conference room.
"So, Peter—do you mind if I call you Peter? Or do you prefer Pete? Or maybe you usually go by something else entirely?"
There was a glimmer of amusement in Caffrey's eyes; the kid always liked to play games.
"Peter's fine."
Since Caffrey had been annoyingly using his first name for months, Peter had to remind himself not to roll his eyes when Caffrey's grin became just a little bit satisfied.
But then the kid was talking again, and Peter wondered if Caffrey understood their game was almost over.
"Anyway, Peter, Adam tells me you're interested in seeing how everything comes together? Get a little peek behind the curtain, as it were."
"I'd like that very much," Peter answered with complete sincerity.
As they made their way down the hallway, one of Raser's hired hands passed them going the other direction, back toward Raser. He looked like he was on a mission, and he didn't look happy about it. That did not bode well for Peter, but he willed the tension from his body and tried to focus on Caffrey's words.
"Usually, I like to tell people the proof is in the pudding, you know? And it seems you've been satisfied with the pudding, Peter, so seeing how it's made shouldn't really matter. But, for you, I'll make an exception."
Then another of Raser's men came running down the hall, looking even more concerned than the first.
"I think you'll be more than satisfied with my process," Caffrey was saying, like he was oblivious to the rising tensions among his cohorts. But then he leaned closer and whispered quickly, "Service elevator, first left, then right. Don't try the stairs, they keep the doors locked." And then he was back to amiable chatter about the light in his studio and Peter's taste in art and looking forward to a long future working together, and Peter was beginning to think maybe he'd misunderstood the whispered warning—until he heard Raser shout from the other end of the corridor.
"Hold up a second, Mikey. I need to talk to our friend."
The arm around Peter's shoulders tensed for just a second before Caffrey released him and they turned together to face Raser.
Caffrey looked confused as he looked back at his boss, but Peter didn't miss the subtle shift in position that somehow left Caffrey between him and Raser. And Caffrey was still talking.
"I thought you wanted me to show him the studio, Adam?"
Raser's gray eyes had darkened as he squinted in their direction, moving forward slowly and deliberately, accompanied by one of his musclemen.
"That was before there was suddenly a bunch of cops swarming around the building."
Peter and Caffrey reacted with simultaneous cries of dismay. "Cops?"
"How did you let this happen, Raser?" Peter demanded.
But apparently Raser wasn't going to let himself be misled, and there was suddenly a gun in his hand which he showed no hesitation in pointing directly at Peter, even with Caffrey in the line of fire.
"I don't think you're the one who gets to ask the questions right now, Billings." Raser made a quick sideways gesture with the gun. "Mikey, get out of the way."
But Caffrey didn't move. "Adam, what're you doing?"
"Don't get in the middle of this, Mike. The way I see it, one of you two brought the cops here, maybe even is a cop. I don't think it's you, Mikey, but if you start running your mouth, I might have to reconsider."
"He's right, Mike," Peter began. "You don't—"
"You should reconsider," Caffrey interrupted, talking right over Peter. "Not about me," he added quickly, "but in general. You think this guy's a cop? Maybe he is, maybe he isn't, but either way, you can't just go shooting him. That's not the way out of this."
"Why are you protecting this guy?"
Raser took another step closer, and Caffrey backed up, pushing Peter back as he went.
"I'm not protecting him," Caffrey insisted, "I'm protecting us all.
"Look," he lifted his hands in front of him, pacifying, "just think this through a minute. First, let's just admit that no one in this building should be surprised if a cop comes looking for them, right? Including the new guy. They could be here for any one of us. But this guy's been buying stuff from you for weeks now, right? Just how much money do you think cops have to throw around? And why wouldn't they have arrested you after the first deal?"
Raser didn't look convinced, and Caffrey moved back another step, taking Peter with him, but he kept talking.
"But even if you're right, you're gonna kill a cop?"
"Damn right I am."
"That's crazy, man. Right now, maybe they've got you for some kind of forgery scam. And even if they can make it stick, you get a good lawyer, and worst case, you're looking at a few years inside. But if you kill a cop . . . Adam, you will never get out."
"I'm not gonna get caught."
"That's what everybody thinks," Caffrey answered.
Peter didn't like the idea of being shielded by a civilian—even a criminal civilian—but he couldn't deny Caffrey was doing a good job stalling. They were approaching a branch in the corridor, the first one on the path to the service elevator, if he'd understood Caffrey's hastily whispered message earlier.
"He's right, you know," he finally spoke up. "You'd definitely get caught, and you'd never get out. But the good news for you today is I'm not here for you."
Reaching out suddenly, Peter grabbed Caffrey roughly, pulling them close together as they took another step backward. "I'm after your buddy here. You let us walk out without any trouble, you go out the other door, everybody's happy."
"Except me," Caffrey interjected. "Doesn't sound like such a great deal for me, Peter, and I thought we were becoming friends."
"Shut up," Peter hissed in his ear, only partially playing a part—though he was glad the kid wasn't trying to add any verisimilitude by pretending to struggle against him. Or actually struggling against him, come to think of it.
But Raser didn't seem to think it was such a great deal, either.
"I don't think so, cop. Me and Mikey have had a pretty good deal going for a while, and he makes me a decent chunk of dough. I don't think I'm inclined to let you mess that up."
Peter decided it was time to set the record straight. "I'm not a cop, Raser; I'm FBI. New York might've given up on the death penalty, but the feds haven't, so just how much risk are you willing to take for a dime-a-dozen forger?"
He kept dragging them backward, inch by inch.
"Listen to the man, Adam; he's not wrong," Neal told Raser. "Well, except about the dime-a-dozen part, that's just hurtful. But I'd rather take my chances with a few years than risk taking a fall as part of a federal murder beef. And, honestly, I'd really rather you quit pointing that gun at him, you know, seeing as how I'm right here."
Peter thought he had been ready for whatever play Caffrey was planning, but he had not been ready for the unexpected strength and agility that let the man suddenly wriggle out of his grasp somehow and then bolt down the corridor, leaving everyone else staring dumbly at his retreating form.
Luckily, Peter regained his senses seconds before Raser and was running after Caffrey before the bullets started flying.
He ran a slight zig-zag pattern, knowing it was little protection in the open hallway, but hoping his luck would hold. The thud of his footsteps on the carpeted floor kept time with the staccato rhythm of his heartbeat pounding in his ears as he tried to keep ahead of Raser and his hired gun.
Just as he twisted to the right to follow the next corridor, Peter's luck ran out. The force of the bullet lodged into the back of his arm was enough to spin him off his trajectory and send him stumbling against the wall, losing valuable time. But as the next shot whizzed by, cutting through the space he'd been standing a millisecond before, he thought maybe his luck hadn't deserted him after all.
Down the corridor, not even ten yards away, he saw Caffrey disappear from view, slipping into the relative safety of the promised elevator. Sucking in a harsh breath, Peter wrapped his good arm around himself, stabilizing his wounded limb as much as possible, then forced himself to run for the service elevator.
He saw Caffrey gesturing frantically, holding the door open, and he heard his pursuers make their way into the corridor, once again shooting with far too much accuracy. His arm was already screaming with pain as he forced himself the final few feet.
"Come on!" Caffrey yelled, and Peter didn't even have time to think about the absurdity of entrusting his life to the man he was trying to put in jail, or wonder if this was some sort of trap. Instead, he launched himself toward the open door just as he felt his left thigh explode with agony and collapsed onto the elevator floor. Caffrey didn't even look over, just jabbed forcefully at the buttons to get the door closed as quickly as possible.
Through the immediate haze of pain, Peter barely registered that Caffrey had opened the control panel, presumably overriding things somehow. He vaguely wanted to ask about that, but watching the con's movements, there was another, more pressing matter.
"You're going up?" Peter asked. "No. My team is downstairs."
Caffrey didn't stop what he was doing. "This may come as a surprise to you, Peter, but I'm not particularly interested in meeting your team."
Huh. When he heard it put so bluntly, Peter thought he probably should've realized that. He must be in worse shape than he thought. Still, it was foolish to avoid the people who could protect them, and he wanted Caffrey to understand that.
"They can help," he muttered. "Lots of guns." Peter dragged himself over to lean against the wall, where he could watch Caffrey more easily.
"Guns are never the solution, Peter; they cause more problems than they solve. You'd think a man who was just running for his life in a hail of bullets might appreciate that."
Trying not to be impressed with the way Caffrey was managing to lecture him without ever taking his eyes off the jumble of wires in his hands, Peter concentrated on staying mostly upright. Caffrey obviously wasn't interested in seeing him dead, but he was still a wanted felon alone in an elevator with a federal agent. The situation could get dicey.
Then, just before they reached the top floor, somewhere between eighteen and nineteen, Caffrey hit the emergency stop button, then twisted seemingly random wires together just long enough to short circuit the entire system. When he got the first spark, he quickly yanked the entire bunch of them free of the panel, leaving them stranded between floors. Only then did the young man turn around.
"Well, this is—you're bleeding!" Caffrey dropped immediately to the floor, kneeling beside Peter, eyes wide and a little panicked as he stared at the agent.
"It's a side effect of the bullets," Peter answered dryly. He straightened himself further still. "It's not as bad as it looks. Barely grazed me." He winced as he shifted again. "Hurts like a bitch, though," he conceded.
He was trying to keep pressure on his wounds, but with one arm out of commission, he seemed to be one hand short. Still, that wasn't the most important thing at the moment, and he needed to make one thing clear.
"And by the way, you're under arrest."
That seemed to break Caffrey out of whatever spell he was in, and the young man laughed lightly. "I think what you meant to say, Peter, was 'thank you.'"
"I'm pretty sure I'd know if that's what I meant."
Caffrey just shook his head as he leaned closer. "Do you think you can get out of this jacket?" he asked, gently tugging Peter away from the wall.
Peter stiffened. "What are you doing?"
"I told you; you need to get out of this jacket. We need something to stop the bleeding, and we don't have a lot of options. Besides, honestly, this suit won't be that big a loss."
Peter rolled his eyes, but he relaxed again and let Caffrey peel the jacket off of him. But even though he was obviously as careful as he could be—surprisingly so, Peter thought—Caffrey still had to bend the wounded right arm to finish removing the jacket, and Peter couldn't help the yelp of pain.
"Sorry, sorry," Caffrey muttered, helping Peter lean back against the wall.
Reaching into his pocket, Caffrey pulled out a small knife before spreading the jacket out on the floor. He made a few well-placed slices with the knife, then easily ripped the jacket in half.
"Hey!" Peter objected.
Caffrey shot him a quick glare, then went back to his destruction, ripping off each of the jacket sleeves. "Would you rather slowly bleed to death?"
"I told you, it's not as bad as it looks."
"Maybe not." Caffrey grimaced as his eyes traced back over Peter's wounds and the slowly spreading pools of blood next to him. "But it's bad enough." He folded one half of the jacket into a small pillow of fabric and handed it to Peter. "Keep this pressed tight against your arm." He repeated his actions with the other half of the jacket, then folded his legs under him and sat close to Peter, pushing the material solidly against the wounded leg. Peter grunted a little at the pressure and tried to settle more comfortably against the wall.
They were silent for a while, the only sound the distant ringing of gunshots, which Peter assumed meant his team had finally reached Raser and his men. He hated that his people were in harm's way in an attempt to rescue him, especially when he was already safely out of the line of fire. Or, relatively safely, anyway. And he didn't even know what was going on. His jaw tightened as he wondered what was happening, if they were all okay. Peter Burke was used to being in control, and being stuck here was like a circle of hell, even if he was stuck with the guy he'd been hunting for years.
"You couldn't help them, you know," Caffrey commented almost idly. "Not like this. Easier for them to do their jobs knowing you're safe."
Peter wanted to yell at him, tell Caffrey not to meddle in things that were none of his concern, that he didn't need some common criminal to console him. But the truth was, Caffrey wasn't wrong about any of it. And, as much as he'd like to deny it, Peter was grateful to hear things put into perspective when his own thoughts had been edging toward a spiral. So instead of yelling, he just heaved a sigh and said, "Yeah."
They sat in silence for several more minutes after that before Peter finally turned his full attention to Caffrey and said, "Mike Langello? You don't think that's a little on the nose?"
Caffrey grinned. "Raser doesn't know anything about art; got himself involved where he's got no business being."
"So you get your kicks tweaking him a little with your ridiculous name because you're . . . what? Offended on behalf of all the real art crooks?" Caffrey answered with only a tilt of his head, so Peter finished his thought. "But not so offended you won't take his money."
"Hypothetically speaking, if I took money from a criminal, Peter, it would be because a guy's gotta live. But that doesn't mean I can't have some fun." Caffrey's expression grew thoughtful. "But maybe I should've been less focused on fun, more focused on the job. I didn't know you were so close this time."
"I didn't know it was you," Peter admitted. "I wasn't expecting to walk in on someone who could've blown my cover in about two seconds." He took a deep breath before adding, "And then I certainly wasn't expecting you to protect me."
"Ah. More almost gratitude." Caffrey gave a small smile and shrugged very slightly, his hands never moving. "What was I gonna do, let him kill you? You're my best chaser, Peter."
Chuckling, Peter answered, "You get that the chasing is over now, right?"
Caffrey's smile spread. "The day is young."
"My team will get this thing moving again pretty quickly, you know."
"I hope so."
Peter raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"You need more medical treatment than the Brooks Brothers can provide," Caffrey told him.
"You've done a pretty good job making do with what we've got."
"You're just lucky I already decided to help you before you called me a dime-a-dozen forger."
"I didn't figure it would do either of us any good to tell Raser your skills have had you at the top of my list for a couple of years now."
"Peter! I'm at the top of your list? I'm touched."
"We'll see how you feel once the cuffs are on."
Caffrey pouted. "Always with the threats. You're ruining a perfectly good moment, Peter."
Peter just rolled his eyes and huffed a short laugh, then let silence settle over them again.
After another few minutes, Caffrey shifted a bit and slowly lifted the edge of the fabric from Peter's leg to examine the wound, then pushed it back down, once again holding it as tightly as he could. He winced and mumbled another apology when Peter hissed a sharp intake of breath at the renewed pressure, but he stayed focused on his task.
Peter watched him closely, seeing the determination on the young man's face, along with something that looked remarkably like genuine concern.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked quietly.
Caffrey looked surprised at the question, then appeared to consider it for several long seconds before he finally grinned a little and said, "Told ya; you're my favorite chaser."
But Peter shook his head. "Not this now." He waved his good arm around, trying to indicate Caffrey's entire life. "This. Working with Raser, the forgeries, the cons. All of it. Why?"
"The proof is in the pudding, remember, Peter? I'm good at what I do."
"Don't read into this, Caffrey, but I think it's possible you'd be good at anything you do. You've got so much more to offer than all of this. Why are you wasting your life?"
Again Caffrey took his time with an answer, but there was no cocky grin this time, just a somber expression as he stared fixedly at the fabric under his hands, his eyes not rising to meet Peter's.
"You know why you're my favorite, Peter?" he said softly. "Because you think there's more to me than there is."
Before Peter could even begin to know what to say to that, Caffrey raised his head and the honest emotion disappeared as Peter watched the youthful face morph back into Neal Caffrey, Con Man Extraordinaire, the most-wanted felon with a grin firmly in place.
"For instance, you seem intent on believing that I'm a forger and a thief. It keeps life interesting."
He couldn't help it; Peter laughed, and after a moment, Caffrey joined in.
Not long after, Caffrey lifted the fabric from Peter's leg, and this time seemed much more satisfied with what he found. "This is starting to clot. You were right; looks like mostly a graze. But how's the limb with the projectile doing?"
Peter looked at Caffrey sharply, managing to bite back a surprised imprecation.
"What?" Caffrey demanded. "You think I didn't notice there's only one hole up there? I'm not sure why you needed to play the big, strong special agent and keep that tidbit to yourself, but how is it? Clotting?"
Ignoring yet another mild lecture from the criminal who should be his prisoner, Peter peered at the arm he'd been cradling. "Yeah. Bleeding has slowed way down."
"Okay, good. Hang on a sec."
Caffrey set to work, cutting one of the suit sleeves into two long pieces, and wrapped one firmly around the wound on Peter's leg. Then he unfolded the pile of fabric he'd been using on the leg, cut a few strips into it, and wrapped it back around the cleaner makeshift bandage, finally tying the strips together to hold it all in place.
"Sorry we don't have anything to clean these up a little," he commented as he repeated the entire process to dress the arm wound. "But you'll be at the ER before there's much chance of infection."
"I'm sure it'll be fine," Peter agreed, though the throbbing pain was increasing. It wouldn't bother him at all if Jones got to them sooner rather than later.
"Can you get your belt off?" Caffrey asked, breaking into his thoughts.
"Why?"
Caffrey stopped what he was doing and gave the agent a hard stare. "Could you just, for like two minutes, forget I'm the guy you're trying to arrest and maybe think of me as the guy who's trying to help you? What possible criminal usage would I have for your belt? Now, can you get it off by yourself or not?"
He didn't like the way Caffrey kept making him feel ashamed of perfectly reasonable suspicion, but he answered the question, anyway. "I think I can get it. Wish I still had my jacket, though. It's getting kinda chilly in here."
It took some doing, but Peter managed to get his belt out of its loops without too much wiggling and straining, but not without the occasional grunt of pain. And though Caffrey kept busy with whatever he was doing with the remaining jacket sleeve, Peter could see the worry that crept back into the other man's features, which only made him feel worse for his suspicion.
When he finished, Caffrey scooted back closer to Peter. "We're going to put your arm in here," he said, holding up the mangled sleeve. He had cut the bottom part a bit, leaving a little more room to account for the swelling that had started.
"I know it's going to hurt to move it, but I think it'll give you some relief if you don't have to keep holding it in place yourself. A little more mobility, too. You know, in case you need to reach for handcuffs or anything."
Caffrey gave him a little wink, and Peter laughed again, grateful for the distraction from the discomfort as Caffrey slid the sleeve around his arm, then helped reposition it back against Peter's chest, making slight adjustments until they found the least painful position. Once that was done, he slid the belt through the sleeve and pulled it up to fasten around the back of Peter's neck, completing the improvised sling. Peter sighed at the tiniest bit of relief.
"God, that's much better." He glanced up at Caffrey. "For a guy who usually seems to keep himself pretty far away from the gun-toting crowd, you seem to have a pretty good grasp of the basics."
Seeming satisfied with his first aid, Caffrey sat down again and finally scooted away from the agent, leaning against the opposite wall. "Closer, but still not quite a thank you. You might want to work on that, Peter."
Peter just chuckled and leaned his head back, closing his eyes.
"You okay over there?" Caffrey asked after a few moments of silence.
Peter grunted an affirmative, but didn't move.
"I haven't heard any shooting for a while now," Caffrey went on. "Your team should get you out of here soon."
"Us," Peter corrected. "They'll get us out soon." When there was no answer, he finally opened an eye to look across and see Caffrey sitting calmly, watching him intently, but with a small smile on his face.
"Caffrey . . . You know this doesn't change anything. I'm still planning to take you in."
"I know you are." Whatever Caffrey may have been thinking about that, he didn't say any more about it, but just rolled his head slightly until he was looking at Peter more directly. "Can they talk to you, or are you on one-way communication?"
Peter raised an eyebrow, though he supposed by now he shouldn't be surprised by anything Caffrey knew.
Smiling, Caffrey pointed toward the gold watch Peter wore. "You're not the kind of guy who'd try to impress people with a fake Rolex."
"Glad to hear it," Peter muttered.
Caffrey raised his voice a bit. "Agent Jones? Is that you out there?"
That was something Peter couldn't focus on fully right now, but once he got Caffrey in an interrogation room—sometime after the ER, he reminded himself—he'd definitely have to ask how the guy knew so much about his team. But for right now, Caffrey was still delivering his message.
"If you've got the bad guys out of the way, you might want to think about getting this service elevator down, or sending someone up here to break in. Peter's mostly okay, but he's starting to fade a little. He's lost some blood and fatigue is setting in, maybe shock. He needs a doctor. If you can't get the thing moving, it'll be easier to lift him down from eighteen than up from nineteen."
Peter couldn't argue with any of that, even if Caffrey did keep surprising him.
"Bring handcuffs," Peter mumbled, and Caffrey chuckled.
"But no guns," Caffrey added.
Peter nodded slowly, eyes drifting shut. "Yeah, probably don't need guns; Caffrey doesn't like 'em." He heard the young man chuckling again, and then heard him talking again, too, pestering.
"Hey, Peter. Hey! No sleeping, okay?"
"Okay." Peter forced his eyes open. Then, "I'm feeling pretty bad."
"I know you are. Jones knows, too. I'm sure it won't be much longer."
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than they heard a hollow voice echoing from the shaft below them. "All secure, boss. We're gonna bring you down." The elevator gave a shudder as it came slowly back to life.
Caffrey pushed himself to his feet. "That's my cue. You take care of yourself, Peter."
"Where are you going?" Peter demanded with as much force as possible. Which wasn't much at all, but he tried anyway. He also tried to follow Caffrey's lead and get to his feet, but he couldn't find the right combination of pressure and support that would get him off the floor.
Caffrey crossed the small space and put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Peter, stop. I didn't keep you alive just to have you hurt yourself chasing me."
Peter wrapped a weak hand around Caffrey's wrist. "No chasing, already caught you."
Smiling almost affectionately, Caffrey gently loosened the fingers from his wrist and stepped back. "Maybe next time, Peter."
Groggily, Peter watched incredulously as Caffrey nimbly swung himself up to perch precariously on the handrail, balancing himself against the wall as he reached up with a small tool and jiggled the lock on the top hatch. In a matter of seconds, he had the hatch opened and was pulling himself through the small opening.
"Caffrey! Wait!" Peter called after him, though he wasn't sure if the guy could even hear his weak attempt at a shout, and Caffrey would have no reason to stop even if he could. But he tried again anyway. "Caffrey!"
He took a deep breath and shouted one last time. "Neal!"
A face reappeared in the escape hatch just as the car began its descent. "Peter. Are you all right?"
Peter breathed a sigh of relief. "Yeah, yes. Just . . ."
They were already at the fifteenth floor. "Peter, I have to go."
He'd slowed Caffrey down now; Peter should dispatch someone to the roof. That would be the logical thing to do. But Peter Burke was used to following his gut.
He willed his eyes to remain open and let them meet the blue pair looking back from the ceiling.
"Listen, Caffrey, this doesn't have to be your life."
"Peter—"
"No, listen. I can help you, get you a deal." Peter waved a trembling hand at the objection he saw forming on Caffrey's lips, refused to let his eyes flutter closed.
But even as foggy as he was feeling now, Peter knew he wouldn't win this argument today, so he drew in another shaky breath and said the thing he really wanted the young man to hear.
"There's more to you than you think, Neal; you proved that today. Thank you."
A soft, surprised smile was the last thing Peter saw before Neal Caffrey disappeared. He closed his eyes and let the elevator carry him down to his team.
Two days later, while Peter was anxiously—and loudly—counting the hours until the doctor would agree to discharge him from the hospital, and his usually unflappable wife was considering some kind of jailbreak against all medical advice if she could just get him to quit complaining, a candy striper brought a small gift bag into Peter's room.
The grumpy patient gave her a disinterested wave of assent, and Elizabeth peeked down inside the bag. First, she pulled out a chocolate pudding cup.
"Snack for later, I guess," she said quizzically as she set it on the bed table.
"Pudding?" Peter sat up a little straighter in bed, suddenly more interested. "Anything else?"
"Just a card," El answered, passing it to him.
Grinning, Peter looked at the drawing on the postcard-sized piece of cardstock-a standard elevator, completely typical except for the recreation of the Sistine Chapel frescos that adorned the roof of the car. Peter just laughed as he flipped the card over to read the printed message on the other side.
DEAR PETER,
THINGS WON'T BE THE SAME WITHOUT YOU. GET WELL SOON!
XOXO
Mikey L (AKA NC)
~END~
Was there a little more hand-waving here than normal? Probably. Creative license and all that. :-)
Thanks for reading, and be sure to check out the rest of the White Collar Elevators collection on that other archive! I'm looking forward to seeing what else shows up. #WCElevators