John unwrapped a few squares of toilet paper, wiped up the hairs littering his sink, tossed it in the wastebasket, and let the water wash the rest out of sight. He looked up at the mirror to inspect his appearance. It had been a while since he'd trimmed his beard, and tonight seemed like the right time to do so. He'd almost run out and bought a razor, remembering he'd been a clean-shaven man when he'd been plucked from the ocean. It was the clean-shaven man Peter had called Neal, the man Peter expected to meet over dinner. The man Peter expected him to be. But he didn't know that man and remembered staring in the mirror at a stranger's face. The face he saw now was the face he had grown accustomed to. It was the face of John Thomas, a crew member of the Lonely Mariner who preferred wine to beer, chicken to lobster, and loved to paint.
"Maybe you have a wife, kids, a home to return to," Captain Devaine had said as they approached the dock. "There's as good a chance you're going to like what you find out as there is that you won't."
"You know where I was found," John replied, eyeing the approaching dock with wariness. "And what shape I was in. I don't think my odds are as good as that." He paused. "And surely, if I had a wife, I'd have remembered her name and not this Peter fellow's."
The Captain let out a bark of laughter and clapped him on the back. "Depends on the wife, I reckon," he said. "Some men might be glad for a bit of memory loss, if you know what I mean."
John knew the man's mirth was an effort to cut his tension, and he appreciated it. "But not you, sir," he chuckled. "You'd be lost without Tilly, and she'd be lost without you."
"True enough," the Captain admitted. "Just remember what she told you this mornin', John. Hope is a good thing. And no matter how things go, you know you have a place here as long as you want it."
"Thanks, Captain," he'd managed past the tightness in his chest. "It makes it easier, knowing that."
It did in some ways, but a part of John knew that he was like a tightrope walker: once he looked down, he'd never be the same. He'd know. No matter what, he was sure this was his last day as John Thomas, coming to port after a long day fishing. Tomorrow, whether he wanted to or not, he'd be someone else.
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Peter and Elizabeth sat at the same table Peter had used the afternoon before. Again, the room wasn't empty, nor was it packed. The customers, again, were mostly locals, which Mrs. Devaine and the serving girls addressed by name. She'd also greeted Elizabeth, and him by default, with familiarity which caused the patrons' expressions to shift from curious suspicion to marginally accepting. The Mariner had already docked by the time he and Elizabeth arrived and now they waited with a plate of Crab cakes between them, both too anxious to sample the fare.
"He didn't sleep much last night," Elizabeth noted, nodding at the mural of the Mariner at sunrise. "He's added a good bit to that since we saw it yesterday."
Peter studied the mural. At least Neal had had an outlet; he'd just be stuck flipping channels with the sound on mute. "Neither did we."
In the next few minutes, he would come face-to-face with Neal. He still didn't know what to say to him. How to be. It would be so much easier if Neal's memory came back-Elizabeth's father had said it could happen. But what would it be like for Neal to have the truth of things suddenly revealed? How would he feel to realize the person he'd thought would help him was going to haul him back into Federal Custody and strap a tracking device on his ankle? He'd been looking for a brother when he'd called, and instead, he was getting a jailer.
Neal didn't know who he was and Peter felt equally unsettled about who he was to him. Sure, he was Neal Caffrey's handler, but all those months when he'd thought Neal was dead, he hadn't mourned the loss of an asset. He'd mourned a man who tested his patience but brightened his days. He'd mourned a friend. It wasn't a simple relationship, and Peter was at sixes and sevens about how to present it in terms Neal, in his amnesic state, could understand. Hell, even he didn't understand it most days.
Wisdom told him to start as he meant to go on. To keep to the basic facts and leave the complications for another day. Maybe, once Neal was back in New York, his memory would return and fill in all the awkward stuff. Elizabeth's dad had said familiar faces and surroundings could well prompt a return if there had been no physical damage to the brain. Had there been? Had he bashed his head as he went overboard? Had he been hit by a passing boat? There was no way of knowing until they spoke, until they drug him back to New York and had him examined.
And what if he didn't want to go back to New York? What if he rejected the story altogether? What if he wanted to stay where he was, working on a fishing boat, living above the Fish House? That caused a wave of panic. What would he do if Neal refused? Drag him out? Call the Marshal's? He had to take him back-he had no choice. Or did he?
Elizabeth's sharp intake of breath pulled him from his thoughts. He followed her gaze to the door. Neal had arrived. After a brief exchange with Mrs. Devaine and a burly gentleman standing at the counter, he began to scan the room.
When Neal's gaze slipped past but rapidly returned to meet his, Peter felt a jolt travel throughout his entire body. Even though he'd seen Neal pass this very window yesterday, somehow, when their eyes met and held, it all became real. It meant something to Neal, too. What exactly did Peter not know. He abruptly stopped and stood there, stock still as the activity of the restaurant moved around him. Peter tried to read his expression, to see if there was a spark of recognition in his blue eyes, but with the beard, it was harder than it used to be. At least, that was what he told himself. It was strange to feel like this man, the man he'd researched and studied for years, was somehow now a stranger. Remembering the journal entry from Sunday night and fearful Neal might turn and run, Peter started to rise when a hand on his arm stilled him.
"Be patient, Peter," Elizabeth said quietly, tearing her eyes from their frozen friend across the room. "Let him come to us."
That advice went against everything he was, but Peter recognized the wisdom of it and relaxed into his seat. Her movement had caught Neal's attention and Peter saw his eyes shift to her, his brow furrowing, no doubt remembering his contact with her the afternoon before. When he again met Peter's eyes, there was no missing the expression this time. Doubt.
Damn, Peter thought to himself. Trickery and subterfuge were not the way to put this version of Neal Caffrey at ease, but in his defense, he hadn't known that at the time.
It seemed like hours instead of seconds that Neal stood there in indecision before he took a visible breath and started across the room.
When he was close, both Peter and Elizabeth rose to greet him. Neal had never been easy to read, but over time, Peter had gotten better at seeing the small signs that signaled his unease, stress, and even fear. But as he stood before him now, there was no artifice. His emotions were on full display in his blue eyes.
"Peter." Neal's voice was hoarse and unsteady. He was nervous. Agitated. Afraid. And when he ran a hand through his hair, Peter's heart melted at the familiar gesture. "So what now?"
It happened before Peter could consider it. One minute, he was standing in front of Neal; the next minute, he had the man in his arms, holding the stiff frame tightly as tears stung his eyes. Every concern, every thought, left his mind. What Neal remembered or what he didn't. If he remembered or if he didn't. How he'd explain things. What to tell him, what not to tell him.
Their relationship. Their work release agreement. The Bureau. The Marshals Service. If he wanted to come home or if he wanted to stay in Jonesport.
Neal was alive. He was safe, And that was all that mattered.
