It's been a few years since I posted my last story but White Collar keeps pulling me back in. This story would not exist without Cheride; thanks for beta reading this story and for all of your wonderful suggestions. The deadline, though I didn't meet it, helped me finish what would otherwise have been another incomplete story!
Cheride and I both wrote a story based on the same idea; the reality of being on a battery operated anklet monitor that needs to be recharged. Make sure you read Cheride's story Static Charge, I certainly enjoyed reading it! And I hope you also like what I came up with.
The story is set early season one, between the Pilot and Threads.
Disclaimer: I do not own White Collar or its characters.
Batteries Not Included
Peter took the stairs two at a time; he knocked out of courtesy but didn't wait for the acknowledgment before he opened the door and stepped into the apartment.
A cursory look around told him his consultant wasn't there, though June had just informed him otherwise.
"Caffrey?" Still nothing.
"Neal," he gritted out as he moved further into the apartment, coming to a stop in the kitchen area.
They didn't have time for this. Peter's frustration had been building steadily from the moment he'd arrived at the Riverside Drive mansion. Instead of finding Neal waiting downstairs for him, ready to hop into the car like he'd hoped, he'd had to find a parking spot and get out of the car, grumbling the entire time. It hadn't gotten any better as he quickly climbed the stairs to Neal's apartment to get his consultant personally, and with every extra minute that had passed, he could only focus on the completely unnecessary delay.
"Neal!" he barked, the anger in his tone caused in equal parts by the nuisance of not being able to locate Neal quickly so they could go, as well as the slight panic at the thought of Caffrey being in the wind.
"Oh, hey," Neal said. He seemed surprised, like he hadn't known Peter was coming over.
Peter turned to the sound of Neal's voice and finally spotted him, sitting between the couch and the bookcase. He sure blended in to the background. Ear phones were around his neck, explaining why it'd taken him so long to reply -or maybe it was just a trick to make Peter believe that- and there was a book in his lap. The nonchalance of his consultant and the relaxed mood Caffrey seemed to be in only served to fuel his annoyance.
"What are you doing on the floor?" Peter bit at his consultant.
"Why? Am I not allowed?" Neal retorted sarcastically, yet innocently, obviously picking up on the accusatory tone in his handler's question. And although he turned his head to face the agent, he didn't get up. He didn't answer the question either.
"Neal," Peter sighed as he rubbed a hand over his face, then made himself take a deep breath.
"I told you I was coming over to pick you up; why aren't you ready?" he asked. His tone had lost its sharpest edges, and he was pleased his attempt at calming down had worked. He hoped this different tactic of reasoning with the conman would yield better results, since his haste combined with anger and frustration had so far only hindered his mission of a quick departure.
"I am ready," Neal countered simply.
Peter sucked in a sharp breath; his anger flooding back in an instant, but before he could say anything, Neal held up a hand to stop his response.
Neal gestured in the direction of his left foot and clarified, "My anklet isn't."
"What are you talking about?"
Peter walked around the couch and the coffee table and stood in front of Neal. He took in Neal's anklet, the blinking green light -he'd never seen it do that before- and then when he looked closer the wire connected to it, plugged into the socket.
"It's recharging," Neal explained, though it was clear he didn't understand why the explanation was even necessary now that Peter had seen the anklet. Surely the agent would put two and two together.
"What?"
Neal sighed. Apparently not.
He closed the book and stood up. "The anklet operates on a battery, Peter," he said as if talking to a child. He placed the book on the shelf next to him and took away the ear phones, placing them on top of the book he'd been reading.
Peter furrowed his eyebrows in annoyance, pursed his lips and placed one hand on his hip.
"Why didn't you tell me when I called you twenty minutes ago?"
The words spoken may have been disguised as a question, but to Neal they sounded like an accusation, which is what triggered his defensive response.
"I did tell you."
"No, Neal, you didn't."
"Yes, I did," Neal countered firmly yet calmly, a knowing tone to his voice. "I told you I would be ready to go in two hours."
Peter opened his mouth, clearly ready to dispute whatever Neal would have said, but then closed it just as quickly. He couldn't argue with the statement, because in response to Peter telling Neal he was on his way over to pick him up, Neal had said those exact words. However, he'd dismissed them without a moment's thought or further questioning because he'd interpreted them as his consultant attempting to negotiate the schedule so it would better suit the conman's needs. Peter had refused to allow his CI such leeway and so he'd simply responded by telling Neal to be ready in fifteen minutes.
Peter realized now that Neal had attempted to protest. It had started with him saying Peter's name, but the agent had cut him off quickly and after a stern reminder, "This is a time sensitive issue," followed by another nonnegotiable demand, "Make sure you're ready to go when I get there," Peter had hung up.
"You didn't say it was because of this," Peter admitted. His anger was substantially diminished, the sting no longer present in his words, now that he realized it wasn't Neal trying to con him into getting his own way.
Neal put his hands in his pockets and pulled up his shoulders. "You didn't give me much of a chance."
His tone indicated he didn't blame the agent's reaction nor had he really been bothered by it. But he refrained from voicing the question that was on his mind, "Would it have mattered?" Because what he would really be asking was, "Would you have believed me?" And he already knew the answer to that; clearly that would be a no.
Peter closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled loudly in frustration. It was no longer directed at Neal's actions to cause the delay - he realized his consultant wasn't really to blame - but because of the situation in general.
"Why didn't you tell me before?" Peter asked, less accusing and more considerate.
"I thought you knew," Neal replied, pulling up his shoulders while tilting his head slightly to one side. "The marshals explained it to me when they put the anklet on at the prison, I figured they'd informed you too."
It was a reasonable assumption.
Peter opened his mouth to reply, then stopped himself. He'd wanted to say no one had told him and thus claim he couldn't have known. But now that he thought about it, it might have been in the paperwork. It must have been. And yes, he'd read over every detail of the agreement that dealt with the benefits and possible fallout of having Neal as the bureau's CI. He'd checked for loopholes that Neal could and would exploit. But he had to admit he hadn't been as diligent about the details surrounding the actual anklet nor the technology behind it. He knew the radius, how to keep track of his CI and the procedure for pulling the anklet for an undercover operation; he'd figured that was enough. He'd thought wrong.
"I should have known, even if no one told me," Peter said, taking responsibility though it sounded a bit weak even to himself. He looked contrite; it seemed careless he hadn't known. Or worse, it seemed like he didn't care.
"I didn't think it'd be a big deal," Neal said, placating. Though he also hadn't brought it up because when he'd voiced his concerns about the cheap motel the FBI had arranged for him, and when he'd asked how he was supposed to see to his basic need of being clothed, Peter had responded harshly and dismissively. Like the agent had no patience for it and believed Neal should just be grateful not to be in jail.
Neal had interpreted it as his handler's way of reminding him the deal he'd made had consequences, stipulations that were not up for renegotiating now that he was out. And so, Neal hadn't thought complaining about the restrictions of the anklet, which he'd initially proposed himself, would have gone over very well with the agent. He'd kept it to himself instead.
Though now that he understood Peter had been completely unaware of this particular and mostly technical restriction, it made it easier to voice his complaint of what a hassle it was to charge the anklet.
"I just didn't realize it needs to recharge every other day, and that it takes more than two hours," he muttered, remembering the night a few weeks earlier when he'd recharged the anklet for the first time.
It had been the same night he'd first been reunited with his mentor and friend. Mozzie had asked to see the anklet, but to Neal's disappointment he'd been informed his friend couldn't pick it. After getting to the important matters, asking Moz to help him find Kate and to figure out who the Dutchman was, they'd shared a glass of wine and remembered the good old days, making it a point to avoid the interval of prison. It'd felt good to reconnect.
It hadn't been long after Mozzie had left that the anklet bleeped once in warning and when Neal looked down at the device, he'd seen the light that had been green before was now red. He knew what that signaled; the battery was nearly empty. He'd continued to stare at it, daring it to die on him, waiting to see who'd blink first. Another bleep sounded, another warning. He'd gotten up then, getting the charger, plugging it in, but he'd continued to stare at the anklet. Just when he thought about how much longer it'd be before the battery actually died, the device bleeped again. The sound held on a bit longer this time in what was perhaps a final warning. He wasn't sure, but realizing he was being stupid challenging an inanimate object, he attached the charger to the anklet. The red light had changed to a blinking green one, but there was no indication how long the anklet needed to fully charge. He hadn't thought to ask either, and so he'd sat downstairs in June's living room, nothing to do but wait, and thankful everyone had gone to bed already. It'd been a long wait.
Neal pushed aside the memory and focused his attention back on the present.
Peter gaped at his revelation. "That's just stupid," Peter responded, unreserved.
Neal cocked his head and eyed the agent warily, fearing for a moment he was the subject of the outspoken judgment instead of his anklet.
"Why on earth should it have to take that long?" Peter added. Neal smiled at the agent's candidness, relieved and grateful Peter wasn't telling him to just cowboy up. "It's ridiculous." Peter declared.
"Apparently it was too much to ask for one that generates its own energy from me walking around," Neal quipped, raising his eyebrows and pulling up his shoulders in a what-can-you-do-manner.
Neal shifted his weight and took a small step forward with his left foot; he pulled up his pant leg a few inches and bent down to take a look at the anklet's progress. Although he was aware that based on his experience of charging the anklet and knowing the time it would take, there was no way he could hope, much less expect, to see anything else but the still blinking green light. Nonetheless, he was disappointed to see he was right, and he sighed as he straightened up again.
Neal's limited movement suddenly struck the agent as he realized that apart from getting up off the floor, Neal hadn't left the small alcove between the couch and the bookcase the entire time they'd been speaking. Although Peter could obviously see why, it was strange to see the younger man so stationary. It also pointed out the exact problem; they still hadn't left Neal's apartment.
"Neal, we really do have to go," Peter said, leveling with the younger man for the first time since he came over. "And surely, it's been charged long enough," Peter concluded matter of factly. Though if he were honest, his conclusion was mostly based on wishful thinking rather than any specific knowledge of the anklet recharging process.
Neal cocked his head and saw right through him. "Oh yeah, how can you tell?"
"Well, it'll have to be enough," Peter dismissed Neal's questioning, getting back to his original mission.
"We were supposed to be at the Tysonian gallery five minutes ago, they think they've discovered a forgery in their collection," Peter said, already moving to the still open door, fully expecting Neal to follow him now that he'd explained their need for haste.
"Why the rush?" Neal asked. Apparently it wasn't as clear as Peter thought it was.
"Can't it wait until tomorrow? Or at least another hour and a half, I think, until the anklet is fully charged?" Neal asked. He hadn't moved yet nor had he removed the charger from the socket.
Peter turned back. "No, it can't," he said curtly. "The mayor is involved in a charity event the gallery is hosting tomorrow and the painting that they suspect is a forgery is the main attraction," Peter explained in one breath, making it obvious why there was no chance a delay could be suggested and it sure as hell wouldn't be accepted.
Even if Peter wasn't particularly happy about being called in late for what felt an awful lot like currying favors, the agent was surprised he had to sell his art loving consultant on visiting a high end art gallery that was out of the CI's range.
"But what if the anklet dies while we're there?" Neal asked, still stalling, putting forth a hypothetical scenario that made him nervous.
But Peter, too focused on the pressure from higher up and not understanding why Neal was now purposely delaying their departure when he'd clearly explained there was no time for that, didn't pick up on his consultant's genuine concern.
Peter sighed heavily, "It'll be fine," he said, reassuring automatically. By this point, saying anything to get them moving.
Neal was looking at his handler in disbelief.
"Can we go now?" Peter asked, though it was more directive than question as he gestured broadly to the exit. He had been considerate and calm, but it hadn't gotten them closer to actually leaving the apartment, and by this point, he was running low on patience.
Neal looked down at his anklet again, but like before, he only saw a blinking green light. He hesitated.
"God, Neal, since when are you a stickler for the rules?" Peter burst out harshly. His patience had run out.
"Since I'm supposed to be reformed, remember?" Neal bit back sarcastically, facetiously.
"Caffrey." A warning, don't mess with me.
"Let's just say I've very recently been reminded of the necessity and importance of keeping the anklet charged, all right," Neal said angrily, his voice firm.
"What are you talking about? When?"
Neal crossed his arms over his chest in defiance and pointedly sat down on the arm of the couch. Peter, realizing Neal wasn't going to help provide him with the answer, thought fast.
"Wait, you mean when I was on vacation?"
Neal adjusted his position, raised his eyebrows, but didn't verbally respond.
"I thought that was just an error," Peter said in confusion while shaking his head. He'd read the report from the marshals stating there'd been an administrative error with the anklet during the week he'd been in Belize with Elizabeth. He'd quickly scanned the concise report of the events but he hadn't read anything that he found particularly alarming nor did it require him to follow up, so he'd put the report on the pile for filing.
"Matter of perspective, I guess. Agent Winston called it a misunderstanding," Neal said.
"The agent in charge of the Stillersand case, I know. Hughes told me they'd put in a request to have your expertise on the case and that you helped them crack it quickly."
Neal wasn't sure if he was imagining the touch of pride in Peter's voice, but he was certain it'd been more like a directive than a request. Hughes had all but told Neal he wasn't at all pleased about it and if there'd been any way he could have denied the request without it causing a backlash, he would have. The older man hadn't gone into specifics, but he had voiced his reluctance at sending the consultant to work a case outside of the white collar division so quickly after the deal had been signed off on, and especially when Peter wasn't there. If Hughes had told Neal this, surely Peter knew too.
"I think it was more like they commandeered my expertise," Neal couldn't help but say.
"Neal," Peter scolded, his voice low in warning. Neal closed his mouth and dropped his head, casting his eyes to the floor for a moment as if properly chastised.
"Right, yeah, that agent," Neal said, getting the conversation back on track. "And it was even an interesting case." He hadn't actually expected it to be, but he'd been pleasantly surprised at the challenge it had provided. Although honestly, he'd appreciated it mostly for the welcome respite it offered from being cooped up inside every day of that week so far, on house arrest, while Peter enjoyed his vacation. Still, even that could have been worse; they could have put him in a holding cell until Peter returned instead of allowing him to stay confined to his own luxurious apartment. However, when he'd voiced such sentiments towards the suits, Mozzie, ever the optimist, had felt the need to remind him a gilded cage was still a cage.
"But then what was the misunderstanding with the anklet?" Peter wondered out loud in confusion.
Neal shook his head. "That was just what Agent Winston called it when the marshals showed up at the office. They were there to take me into custody, since according to them the signal of my anklet had cut out," Neal told Peter, pausing for effect, "because the battery had died."
Peter looked shocked at the revelation, and he instantly understood Neal's continuous stalling that evening and his hesitancy to leave before the anklet had been charged fully. Point taken.
Neal didn't mention the battery hadn't died instantly. At the office that day, though he'd been tired from working at a relentless pace for a great many hours and he was completely engrossed in the case, he had actually heard the anklet's warning sound on one occasion. At the alert, he had attempted to come up with a way to get a charger for his anklet since his was still at home, while trying to avoid the humiliation of having to ask permission to get it himself or have someone else make the trip. He hadn't known what would be worse. But before he could come up with an acceptable solution, there'd been a sudden break in the case and his anklet problem took a back seat to a more pressing issue. He'd failed to register the following warning sounds in the bustle of the office and hadn't given the anklet another thought until he'd been face to face with the two marshals.
"I tried to tell them I'd been there the entire time working a case," Neal said, "but it didn't make a difference."
Neal purposely left out that he'd been too shocked to respond to the matter-of-fact way that they'd conveyed the message. The marshals had proceeded simply by turning him around, none too gently, and cuffing his hands securely behind his back. And it had only been after they took up position, one marshal on each side grasping an arm, that he finally found his voice. His appeal to stall, asking them to wait, hadn't made an impact and they'd started pulling him in the direction of the exit. Luckily, before they'd reached the glass doors, the senior agent had noticed and intervened.
"Agent Winston vouched for me," Neal explained matter of factly. "He didn't want to be responsible for losing white collar's asset over something so stupid." Neal had a mask of indifference firmly in place, sticking to recounting what had been said, to cover up the pang of hurt he'd felt as he stood by in cuffs while he listened to the agent explaining the situation to the marshals.
"He managed to convince the marshals it was a misunderstanding; he called it an unfortunate oversight."
Neal left out the details of how the relief he'd felt when the marshals backed down and removed the cuffs had been short-lived, quickly replaced by humiliation. A charger compatible with his anklet had been dug up and Agent Winston had directed him to the conference room where he could recharge the anklet while he continued to work on the case. He'd discussed hypotheticals with the agents he'd only met that morning - and who'd looked at him differently once his criminal status was so clearly on display - while tethered to the electrical socket for over two hours. He'd felt like they might as well have stamped convicted felon on his forehead. The conman personified had smiled and joked about the situation in an attempt to both alleviate the awkwardness and also to beat them to it so they'd feel less inclined to make their own smart remarks and hurtful digs.
Though as humiliating as the scene had been, he knew he'd been lucky the anklet had died while being at the office. If it'd happened anywhere else, Neal was sure he'd be back in jail right now.
As he relived the scene, he couldn't suppress the shiver that went up his spine as he remembered how frightening it had been to realize the utter ease with which the marshals had been ready and able to take away his freedom. Especially when Peter hadn't been there.
Peter released a deep breath in relief, feeling like they'd dodged a bullet and he hadn't even realized it. "Jeez," he exhaled, putting a hand on his head momentarily then letting it drop back to his side.
Peter sighed and looked at his consultant who was still sitting on the arm of the couch with his left leg stuck out far to the side so it was close to the socket. Peter noticed Neal was slightly hunched forward, almost like recounting the particular scene had physically brought him down, and Peter could understand why. "Look, Neal, I'm sorry," he said, feeling like he needed to apologize. Although he wasn't really to blame, he felt responsible nonetheless.
Neal drew up and looked at the agent, surprised at getting an apology when he'd expected a telling off instead. "It's not your fault," Neal said.
"Still, I'm sorry it happened," Peter said again. "And you don't have to worry about that tonight."
"The marshals promised me they'd be back if it happened again," Neal said, his eyes wide and focused as he remembered their warning before they'd finally left.
"If the anklet does die while we're there, I'll take care of it, and I'll take care of the marshals all right?"
Neal looked up at his handler and met his eyes. He didn't trust the marshals to listen to his reasoning, they hadn't before and they surely wouldn't be so forgiving if it happened a second time so quickly after the first. Although he hadn't been working together with Peter for very long, he did trust the agent.
"Besides," Peter began, seeing Neal's hesitance and wanting to lighten the mood, "do you think I'd let another agent, especially one of the marshals, get even remotely close to my excellent and unprecedented track record of 2-0?"
Neal smiled at the running joke and nodded in response, sarcasm in his tone of voice. "There is that, of course."
The next moment he eyed the agent in all seriousness and then nodded. "All right, let's go," he said, accepting Peter's promise as he stood up and unplugged the charger.
Peter smiled and watched Neal get his coat before he finally led the way out of the apartment.
They descended the first flight of stairs quickly and without speaking. As they crossed the landing and took the corner to the second flight of stairs, Neal piped up.
"You said the Tysonian gallery, right?"
Peter smiled and briefly looked back over his shoulder to the younger man, relieved to see the worried frown he'd seen before had been replaced by a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Yeah."
"It's a very exclusive gallery, they have extremely high standards when it comes to the artists whose work they display and the clientele they allow in for a viewing," Neal told him. It sounded like appreciation for its operation but Peter didn't understand how that excluding attitude could be a positive thing.
"They really do have some great pieces," Neal added as an afterthought.
Although Peter was glad to see Neal was back to being his enthusiastic and lively self, when Neal's words sunk in, he stopped suddenly and turned around at the bottom of the stairs without warning, almost making Neal run into him. "How do you know?" Peter asked, straightforward, suspicious, searching Neal's face for clues.
"I hear things," Neal swallowed at the sudden change and answered evasively, his gaze shifting from left to right and back quickly. "Besides it's part of my job to know these things, isn't it?"
"Depends," Peter said quickly, "previous or current job?"
Neal smiled one of his innocent-without-a care-in-the-world toothy grins before replying, "Current job of course. I'm reformed remember?"
"Sure," Peter said, the suspicion not gone completely, but he didn't have time to get into it and so he turned around, crossed the hallway to hurry down the final flight of stairs.
"I thought you might enjoy this," Peter said instead, though he worried his consultant might enjoy it a little too much.
Neal nodded giddy at the prospect, the anklet issue pushed to the background, and he hoped he'd get the chance to look around a bit after he'd finished his job there.
"But we're there to authenticate a painting, and since we're already late, I doubt they'll stop to give us a tour," Peter reminded Neal of the delicate situation, not to mention it was time sensitive. It had been even before their late arrival; their delay certainly wouldn't help.
A little taken aback Peter had commented on a thought he hadn't voiced aloud, Neal huffed but didn't say anything.
Peter could sense Neal's disappointment and could practically feel the younger man sulking behind him as they reached the foyer of the mansion. Normally Peter probably would have told Neal to cowboy up and reminded him he was there to do a job instead of serving another four years in prison. However, after their earlier conversation, it didn't feel right going with his natural reaction.
"How about we wrap up whatever they want quickly, so I can get home before my wife is asleep and I'll ask about getting you a different anklet," Peter said, suggesting a mutually beneficial option as compensation while opening the front door. He headed for his car while waiting for Neal's reply.
"Different how?" Neal wanted to know.
"A different model," Peter answered, looking sideways at Neal as they crossed the street together, "one that doesn't need recharging at all, or if that's not possible, not as often."
"Or not as slowly," Neal added.
Peter unlocked the car and walked around to the driver's side, then nodded in response to Neal's request.
"All right," Neal said, accepting Peter's quid pro quo.
Peter, thinking the matter had been settled, started to open the car door to get in, but stopped when Neal reached the passenger side and spoke up, "Or at the very least ask for a charger with a longer power cord."
Peter stared at him over the roof of his car, not understanding the request.
"It seems like the marshals have the same manufacturer as Apple does," Neal muttered in displeasure.
"What are you talking about?" Peter asked, utterly confused.
"The power cord to the charger is barely two feet long," Neal explained, a duh-isn't-it-obvious tone to his voice at the reference.
Peter shook his head, still not sure why it mattered all that much. He also thought Neal was probably exaggerating.
Neal sighed. "Between the few sockets in the apartment that are easily accessible and the shortness of the cord, there's not many places to comfortably recharge the anklet," Neal explained, even though this time Peter hadn't voiced his question out loud.
Then he added, "Or did you think I'd willingly sit on the floor in this suit?"
Peter opened his mouth, and voiced a quiet "oh," in understanding. Now that he thought about it maybe the cord had indeed been quite short.
"I'll see what I can do about that," Peter promised, then opened the door and got in as he asked, "Though why don't you just wear jeans and a t-shirt?" Although he didn't add like a normal person to his question, he couldn't keep the insinuation from his tone.
Neal followed his lead, seating himself in the passenger's side while sputtering at Peter's suggestion.
"When I can wear a Devore instead?" Neal asked rhetorically, like the thought was ludicrous to him. Peter didn't understand, couldn't understand, how much of his confidence came from the clothes he wore. Besides, Peter hadn't spent the past four years in bright orange coveralls which had felt like pajamas. Neal would much rather overdress than dress down, to avoid it feeling too similar to prison.
Peter sighed and shook his head, putting the key in the ignition and reaching for his seatbelt, as he grumbled, "I don't see what all the fuss is about; it's just a suit."
Neal halted in his own movement to put on his seatbelt and twisted sideways to stare at the agent, his eyes wide. "What?" he asked dumbfounded.
Peter shrugged. "A suit is a suit."
Neal's mouth dropped open, astonished and insulted. "How can you say that?"
Peter shrugged again. He wasn't going to apologize for his opinion, even if Neal obviously disagreed.
"Next you'll be telling me the same about art," Neal said, half-joking, emulating Peter's tone when he said what was to him an extreme example, "That a painting is a painting."
"Well yeah, it kind of is," Peter answered quickly. He then realized he'd said it to the wrong person.
Neal sat back with a huff, shaking his head.
"Oh come," Peter appealed. "You of all people should know a painting is only as valuable as whatever amount any random nutter wants to pay for it."
Neal folded his arms across his chest. "Well, if you really think that, why don't we just tell the mayor it doesn't matter if the gallery is displaying a forgery or not? A painting is a painting," Neal said smugly.
Peter narrowed his eyes at his consultant as Neal just stared back at him with a barely suppressed smile of amusement.
"Caffrey," Peter growled, annoyed he'd been unwittingly herded into a corner. Neal just smiled in response.
"Fine," Neal acknowledged a second later, holding up his hands in a peace offering, backing down. Though he knew Peter got the point he'd been trying to make, he also knew that the frustration he'd heard when Peter said his name was as close to an acknowledgement of that as he was going to get from the agent.
And Neal accepted that, putting on his seatbelt as he looked at Peter. "I thought we were in a hurry," Neal reminded him purposely, knowingly, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
Peter nodded tersely, bit back his instinctive response, then finally broke eye contact and started the car.
Neal was quiet for a few blocks, but then he couldn't help himself. When they stopped at a red light, he turned to Peter, a picture of innocence and said,
"So if my Devore is just a suit, then surely Babe Ruth was just a baseball player."
The End
