Wine and Truth, Part Two

by J. Rosemary Moss

~oOo~

Peter was staying. Not only staying--he was willing to see Neal through a crying jag.

Neal stared at the agent, letting that fact seep into his brain, which, for some reason, didn't seem to be working at its usual lightening speed. That must have something to do with the excess of wine.

"Thank you," he managed. Then he smiled, relieved that his words didn't sound slurred. Or not too slurred, anyway. "So what now? When does the crying jag start?"

The agent grinned. "If it's going to come at all, it'll come on its own--don't worry."

"Oh, right." But then Neal cocked his head. "How about you? I've been plying you with dark beer all night--but you look ok."

Peter shrugged. "I'm hard-headed when it comes to alcohol."

"And it doesn't set you off on a crying jag, huh?"

He shook his head. "Like I said: I'm a mellow drunk."

Which probably meant he was a happy guy--or at least a guy who was basically satisfied with his life.

Neal, on the other hand, was discovering that he wasn't a mellow drunk; alcohol wasn't making it seem like everything was right with the world. No, it seemed to be lighting up all the dark crevices in his life instead--the places he usually avoided. It had even prompted him to confess to Peter what he had never confessed to himself: that he had no art to offer except imitations.

Damn fine imitations, he reminded himself--but that fact didn't console him. No wonder he'd always been so careful about the amount of wine he drank.

"Why are you determined to go on a crying jag?" Peter asked.

Neal realized that he was staring down at his wine glass. He forced himself to look up at the agent. "I've never been on one--I like to be open to new experiences."

"Yeah? Why not wait till your girlfriend is back in town? Why not cry on her shoulder?"

Neal shook his head. "Can't."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "You can't cry on your girlfriend's shoulder? Why not?"

"Because I take care of her."

"So? I take care of my wife--but she takes care of me too."

"It's different with Kate and me," Neal said with a shrug. "I--I can't lay this on her."

"Why not? I know you Neal--convincing people to take care of you is one of your specialties. You've got that lost-puppy look down pat."

Neal managed a smile. "It hasn't worked on you."

"I'm here, aren't I?" Peter countered. "And I'm here knowing that I'm soon going to be stuck taking care of a drunken suspect on a crying jag."

Neal's smile deepened. "Ok, it's working on you a little. But you want something in return."

"And that's a novel concept for you, is it?"

"Yeah," Neal retorted. "Most people take care of me without any thought of repayment. But you--you'll want . . ." Neal let his voice trail off, and the apartment grew quiet.

"What will I want?" Peter asked at length.

Neal stared at him. "You'll want to shape me and mould me and make me into something I'm not. And it's tempting, Peter--it is tempting. If you just wanted to reform me . . .But you're looking for an official confession, and I never confess. I'm never going to throw myself upon the mercy of the system."

He paused and gave Peter his best lost puppy look--and somehow the alcohol in his blood made that even easier than usual.

"But I'll throw myself on your mercy," Neal told him, his voice soft as he leaned toward the agent. "Reform me, Peter. Say the word, and I'll let you put me on the straight and narrow. Just let my past go. I'll give you my future in exchange."

Peter snorted, clearly not believing him.

"I will. I'll put myself in your hands." It was a wild, impulsive gesture--even Neal knew that--but that didn't make it any less true.

"I'm supposed to believe that--that if I stop investigating you, you'll turn clean?"

Neal gave him a solemn look of promise as he nodded.

Peter shook his head. "You might believe yourself right now, Neal, but you know it doesn't work that way."

"Why not? How do you know it doesn't work that way? How come we can't make it work that way? Besides, if I renege on my promise to let you reform me, you can always reopen the investigation."

The agent looked away. Neal thought he heard him swearing under his breath before he spoke up again. "I can't let your past go, Neal. At this point, I don't even have the power to stop the FBI from investigating you."

"If you were off the case, no one else would be able to make the connections--there would never be enough evidence to stick."

"No," Peter said. There was a depressing finality in his voice. "You're my case, Neal, and my responsibility. You've caused a lot of harm, and you'll have to do some time." He paused, looking Neal over. Neal kept still, determined not to squirm under the agent's measuring gaze.

"But I can still get you a deal," Peter continued. "If you'll confess to the least of your forgeries, I'll go to bat for you."

Neal sighed. He should have known Peter was too hidebound by rules and regulations. "No, Peter," he said, leaning back in his chair again. "But at least tell me you were tempted by my offer."

There was another long moment of silence before Peter answered. "I was tempted," he confessed.

Neal nodded and wondered if he should just start the crying now. He could cry on command--a talent he used judiciously, as it led to mixed results. Still, Peter seemed mellow enough to allow him to cry; he was still here, after all. And maybe he would interpret the tears as genuine remorse on Neal's part and rethink his refusal. That was a long shot, but Neal had nothing to lose.

The tears started slowly, but Neal found he couldn't control them the way he usually did. It wasn't just a trickle of tears, indicating an embarrassed guy trying to hold back, which was the most effective way of garnering sympathy. No, he was getting what he wanted instead: a genuine crying jag, complete with a torrent of tears. He stood up, figuring he should turn away from Peter for form's sake--that would still make him look like an embarrassed guy trying to hide it. But his body betrayed him; for some reason, he lost his sense of balance.

But that was ok, because Peter was somehow at his side, grabbing hold of his arm and steadying him. Neal managed to turn his body into the agent's, leaning against the man so he didn't have to balance himself at all.

~oOo~

Peter swore under his breath as Neal collapsed against him, sobbing. The kid was a spoiled brat who expected everyone else in the world to take care of him. And he was so damn charming that everyone else in the world complied . . . including, apparently, Peter himself.

"Easy, Neal," Peter said. "Here, put your hands up on my shoulders--I can't have them near my gun." Neal made no effort to obey, so Peter moved his hands for him. Not that the kid would have touched his gun anyway; he wasn't that kind of foolish.

Now that Neal's hands were better situated, Peter risked putting his arms loosely around him, even patting and rubbing his back. He would rather have slugged Neal on the arm and told him to cowboy up, but that wouldn't work when the conman was three sheets to the wind. Peter would have to let him cry himself out and then bundle him into bed.

Peter sighed as he tried to comfort Neal, listening to his choking sobs and almost incoherent words. He was still babbling about letting Peter reform him--how typical. Neal wouldn't even take responsibility for reforming himself.

Well, at least he had learned more about this conman. No wonder Neal came up with such creative schemes and no wonder it was so damn hard to pin anything on him. That child-like quality of his allowed him to think far outside the box. Neal wasn't limited by the boundaries of what other people thought was possible. Peter smiled despite himself. Maybe there was something to be said for that child-like quality. Neal just needed to learn how to put it to better use.

Funny how the kid had found and latched onto a girl who was even more needy than he was. Well, maybe Neal realized he had to play the grown up sometimes.

Neal's sobs were subsiding now, so Peter led him to the bed. He got the kid's socks and shoes off and pulled the covers over him.

"Will you stay?" Neal asked, through half-closed and presumably tear-blurred eyes.

"No," Peter answered. "I need to go home. But if you want to talk sensibly about turning yourself in, I'll come back in the morning."

Neal sighed. "I want to talk," he said.

That wasn't quite the promise Peter wanted, but it would have to do.

"Take a key," Neal continued, his words surprisingly coherenent now. "You can let yourself in--there's an extra over on that table."

Peter looked in the general direction that Neal was pointing. There was, indeed, a key there. He turned back to the conman in disbelief. "Neal, I'm not your friend or your buddy. I intend to put you behind bars--do you understand that?"

Neal shrugged as he pulled the blankets more tightly around himself. "Just take it."

"Ok," Peter said, returning his shrug. "I'll see you in the morning."

To be continued . . .