Disclaimer: The rights to White Collar belong to someone else, not to me.
Peter led Neal into the fire escape stairwell, where he was met by two officers from the detail the NYPD allotted the FBI for witness protection duty. The officers gave Neal – dressed in his vintage apparel complete with hat -- brief appraising glances, then escorted Peter and Neal up the stairwell; one leading, one following. Peter and Neal had to jostle for position in order to find the best way for two men to go up narrow stairs with only the distance of handcuffs between them. Peter had been in this position before, and tried to hug the right side of the stairwell, but Neal, smiling at the officers, managed to take the wrong position, like a dog twining his leash and Peter was forced to twirl on the third step to get Neal in place. Neal grinned at Peter's glare.
By the time they reached the ninth floor, everyone was huffing except Neal. Peter had known from the first flight that every man in the stairwell, himself included, would be comparing his fitness to the others by the time they reached the top. He decided he was in no worse shape than the NYPD officers, though Neal clearly won their unspoken competition. Perhaps he'd had nothing better to do in prison than stay in condition.
They reached the room in the center of the corridor, just where they'd asked for it. The hotel always tried to accommodate law enforcement's requests. The sergeant in charge explained that, per procedure, all the rooms around theirs were empty, and officers would be guarding the hall from the elevators, which was also standard operations, in order to not betray which room was being guarded.
"No," Peter told him. "I want you right outside our room. Remember, this is a little different. We're not concerned with keeping outsiders out; we have to keep him," he jerked the handcuffs, "in. Bring a chair. I want you right here."
"You're not preparing against a rescue attempt, then?" Usually the NYPD assisted the Organized Crime unit, where the concerns were for rescue or assassination attempts.
Peter glanced at Neal, who seemed fascinated by the hotel artwork on the corridor wall. "Not in this case," he said, "though we're still keeping agents downstairs, as usual." Peter would have preferred not to have this briefing in front of Neal, but that would have meant taking him out of the cuffs. "Have they prepared the room?"
The officer nodded. "You can go on in."
Peter used the ordinary hotel key card to unlock the door, and led Neal into the room they would live in for the next twelve hours. The entryway with closet opened to the right onto a narrow but deep room with two queen-sized beds and a window beyond the farthest bed. The bathroom branched to the left from the entry way. The most noticeable differences from most hotel rooms were the large metal coffeepot perking on the dresser, the absent drapes, and the fact that the door to the bathroom was missing.
Neal glanced at the room, then removed his hat and deftly tossed it on a protrusion near the dresser mirror. "Where's the door?" he asked of the bathroom.
"I had them take it off." Peter produced his handcuff key and unlocked them. He put the handcuffs into his coat pocket and shrugged out of the coat.
"Why?" Neal asked, incredulous, his freed right hand caressing a remaining half a hinge.
"Why? So I can keep an eye on you wherever you go." Peter would have thought that was obvious, but the appalled expression on Neal's face was almost amusing. Neal shut it off, however, and looked around the room some more.
"Which bed do you want?" Neal asked.
"Neither. I'm not sleeping." Peter said as he hung his coat up in the closet by the door. "That's what the coffee's for."
Neal nodded, one eyebrow raised, gaze roving around. "Do I get to sleep?"
Peter considered. He removed his suit jacket and draped it over one of the two chairs next to the bureau. "Possibly." Wanting to keep his options open.
"Then I call that bed." The one by the window.
"You get this bed," Peter said of the one safely not by the window. "If you sleep." With his suit jacket off, Peter's pistol and shoulder holster were exposed. He resisted the urge to pull out his gun and check it. An unnecessary intimidation move. He'd save it for when he needed it. It did remind him of something, though.
Neal sighed and sat on the farther bed, facing Peter. "All right. What do we do about dinner?"
"Pizza's on the way." Peter held out his hand. "Wallet and phone, please."
Neal looked for a moment like he'd like to object, but he stifled anything he was going to say and handed both items over. He kept his own suit jacket on. "I'm afraid to ask what you put on pizza."
Peter opened the wallet. He was dismayed to see that Neal had not one but three credit cards, all in his own name. He said nothing, not wanting to admit his flags out on Neal Caffrey's financial activities hadn't reported the other two. He noted the companies. In the billfold was ten dollars. Neal wouldn't get far on that. "One is sausage and onion, the other's pepperoni," he said, going to the closet to put the phone and wallet in his coat.
Neal made no protest about the violation of his privacy. Not to say he didn't have any protest. "I don't get a say in what goes on at least one of the pizzas?"
"No. Be happy you're getting fed. When you buy the pizza, you can choose."
"You bought the pizza with your money." Neal's skepticism was warranted; he'd been cuffed to Peter for the last hour and would have heard him make the call.
"It's a standing order for these protective cases."
"So it's the FBI buying it for us both. I think I should have been consulted." Neal leaned down to untie his shoes.
"Hey, you are the felon, here."
Neal sat up and spoke with surprising bitterness. "As if I could forget. I can't eat decent food, I don't get to sleep, I'm under 24 hour guard and I can't even take a piss without being watched. Could we at least put the door back on the bathroom?"
"You can always go back to prison."
"Go ahead," Neal snapped, then halted. He and Peter regarded each other, while Neal considered whether he dared risk an ultimatum. Without Peter saying a thing, Neal backed down, swallowed his angry words, and looked appealing. "Peter, it's inhuman," he pleaded, sounding as reasonable as ever. "I was treated this way for four years and I was just getting a taste of human dignity again. Forget the rest of it. What do you say to just the door? A little decent privacy?"
Peter decided he probably wouldn't have called Neal's bluff, but Neal couldn't be sure of that. Pleased to be in charge, Peter said, "Boo hoo. You're trying to play me with shame. The door stays off. Nice try."
Neal gave him an exasperated look. "What is it you're afraid I'll do in there that you can't see?"
"There's a window."
"It's tiny. And we're nine stories up." All innocence and astonishment.
"I haven't forgotten Chicago, when I was chasing you. We were eleven stories up and the window was no bigger than that."
Neal stood and wandered to stand in the opening to the bathroom. "How do you know I went out the window?" he asked over his shoulder.
What? Stupid question. "It was broken and your fingerprints were everywhere."
Neal turned and gave him a smirk. "Well, I must have, then."
Peter's thoughts swirled. He knew Neal meant to get him off-balance, and, well, he'd succeeded for the moment. Peter had always wondered how Neal Caffrey had shrunk himself enough to fit through that window, but he'd clearly done so. He couldn't stop himself from examining his memories of another city, another hotel, another time his prey had slipped away . . .
Meanwhile, Neal slunk into the bathroom. "Look, Peter, have you considered there might be things I want to do in the bathroom that you don't want to see?"
Peter snapped back to the present. "Oh, like what?"
"Do I have to spell it out? Like jerk off. You get to go home to your wife, you know." He gestured at the bare tub. "You've even had them take down the shower curtain."
"I had them take down all curtains. And take out the towels. You aren't crude, Caffrey, not even when it's just the guys around. Now you're trying to embarrass me into putting the door back on. Not going to happen."
"So you'll just watch me, then?" Said with distaste and disdain.
"I'm not going to stop you, so yeah, that means I'll watch. You're not going to get me to take my eyes off you for a second. Somehow I think you can go one night without jerking off, though."
Scowling, Neal walked out of the bathroom, looked around like the trapped animal he was, and settled back on the bed. The wrong bed. He mumbled something under his breath. All Peter caught was ". . . old."
"What's that?" Peter demanded.
"Nothing." It was entirely possible that Neal Caffrey, con man, could make himself blush. Whether he could or not, he was definitely blushing as he looked away from Peter.
"So, are we done about the bathroom door?" Peter asked.
"We're done," Neal allowed.