Archive of Our Own

Mozzie found Neal outside, leaning on the balcony in the dark. He hovered in the doorway suspiciously. "Are you pining for Kate again?"

Neal turned with a start, suavely rescuing his wineglass from the knock that for an instant had threatened to send it onto the ground below. "Mozzie," he said perspicaciously. "No — I have forgot that name, and that name's woe."

He didn't know what was more alarming, the empty bottle still perched precariously on the ledge, or the quote. "Be plain, good son," he returned sternly, "and homely in thy drift; riddling confession finds but riddling shrift."

Neal raised his glass in a smiling salute, opened his mouth, and then shook his head with a laugh. "I may be drunk, but I'm not nearly drunk enough to answer that."

"I can fix that," Mozzie pointed out, and went to uncork a Barbaresco. It smelled faintly maderised, but when he turned back around, Neal was balancing himself by the table, and setting his glass and empty bottle on top of it with careful clinks: far too drunk to waste the good stuff on. He poured, removed the surplus breakable, and made an encouraging gesture. "Drink. Spill. —Metaphorically."

"You're not going to like it," Neal warned.

Mozzie sat and crossed his arms.

Neal joined him with a resigned look. "Okay," he said grimly. He swallowed a healthy amount from his glass, took a deep breath to speak — then narrowed his eyes at the bottle. "What's with the Barbaresco?"

"I recommend finishing it while you're still drunk."

"I plan to." He took another gulp. "So it's possible that I've got Stockholm Syndrome."

"Well, duh."

"You want to hear this or not? —For the record, you don't."

"Increasing the mystery does not decrease my curiosity."

"Seriously, Mozzie—"

"Neal, seriously, you want to start keeping secrets from me now?"

"I've kept secrets from you before," Neal reminded him, and rubbed his eyes. "Look, the thing is, I don't care."

"About keeping secrets or about telling me?"

"About having Stockholm Syndrome. I know I should, but I don't. I don't care that Peter's got an inordinate amount of power over me. I— I like working for him."

Mozzie held his gaze. "Disappointing as it is to see you go over to the Dark Side, I'd kind of guessed that already."

"I'm working up to it."

He raised his hands in mock surrender and, to help Neal work up to it some more, quietly refilled the glass.

A little later Neal admitted, "Sometimes I like the tracking anklet."

Mozzie made a supreme effort and thought about it from the point of view of someone with Stockholm Syndrome. "I suppose sometimes it's come in handy?"

"Yes, but... it's like a training jacket — you know, with the bells — or... But then with a training jacket the point is to learn how to do it for real, and... Sometimes real is too big and I like having some rules to play inside. I like bending the rules," he added hastily. "I really like bending the rules. I especially like the way he looks at me when I've just bent the rules. Thank God tomorrow's Saturday," he concluded, and poured half the glass down his throat as Mozzie watched in horrified fascination. "You see where I'm going with this?"

"Unfortunately I do. Fortunately he's married."

"You would think," Neal said, pointing a finger — sloshing the remaining wine — and picked his way through the words: "that that would be the problem."

"No, I'd think that'd be just one of many, many problems."

"And yet." He set his glass down to count on his fingers. "He's not completely straight. They're not completely monogamous. And they're not completely uninterested. They're so not— Did I mention the way he looks at me? And El's smirk, you have to have seen—"

"Do I really need to hear this?"

"You're the one getting me drunk," Neal pointed out. He studied the two remaining fingers on his hand. "Not completely vanilla," he concluded after some thought: "that's important."

Mozzie shook his head desperately as if he could prevent that from sticking. "Are you sure you're not just imagining things?"

"I talked to them."

"You went to their house and said, 'Hello Suit and Mrs Suit, are you interested in kinky sexytimes with me?'"

Neal jiggled his head back and forth. "More or less."

"And they said—"

"They said yes, but." He pointed, at last, to his thumb. "Power imbalance."

"Stockholm Syndrome," Mozzie translated.

"Which I don't care about."

"But they do." He decided his respect for the Suits had just risen.

"So no kinky sexytimes until the anklet comes off, hence —" He moved his index finger to indicate the wine — "the pining."

"Speaking of which, more wine?"

"Depends, do we need to pretend we never spoke about this?"

He considered it for a moment, then in a modicum of surprise said, "I'm okay if you're okay."

"Okay. Then no, because as Barbarescos go that's a really terrible madeira."

"I'll pour the rest down the sink," Mozzie said, and did.

*

He returned the next morning — quietly, but Neal was on the balcony with breakfast and a pair of truly horrible sunglasses.

"Headache?" he asked unsympathetically, setting his briefcase by his chair as he sat.

"I can't believe you made me drink that stuff."

"It was à propos," he replied. "Like you, it had spent so long in a hot environment it'd turned all treacly."

"I do still hate the surveillance van," Neal said, which was slightly reassuring. He ruined it by opening his mouth again to qualify that, but seeing Mozzie's expression had the sense to convert it into, "What's with the briefcase, Haversham?"

"All in good time." He crossed his arms and fixed Neal with a hard look. "Are you sure about this?"

"Do we—" Neal gestured back and forth between them — "have to do the eye contact thing? Because you'll have to give me a moment."

Neal could do the eye contact thing while swearing he had brown eyes and people would believe him. "Just answer the question."

"I'm sure. Peter and El are sure. We just have to wait for the anklet to come off. In the—"

"Neal," he chided.

"—meantime, don't worry, everything's business as usual."

"Neal, Neal. We're cons. We don't wait for the things we want. We go out and convince people to give them to us."

Neal tipped his sunglasses up after all and squinted at him. "Mozzie, we're talking about Peter and El."

"Which is helpful." He withdrew Exhibit A from his briefcase. "FBI regulations. Inconveniently strict as regards a relationship between a CI and his supervisory agent, conveniently silent as regards a relationship between a CI and his supervisory agent's wife."

"Okay," Neal objected, "firstly that argument misses exactly half the point, secondly don't even get Peter started on the spirit of the law."

"Oh, the spirit of the law," he repeated with scorn and air quotes. So much for his next couple of cunningly crafted sophistries. "Fine. Option four: you get a new supervisory agent."

"No." When Mozzie raised his eyebrows at that decisiveness he expanded: "If someone else was monitoring the anklet I couldn't even get to their house."

"We'd find a way."

Neal tipped his sunglasses back down and busied himself buttering a croissant. Like that wasn't at all shifty. Mozzie narrowed his eyes and waited until he sighed and said, "Whoever has the anklet key owns me. I don't want to belong to some random FBI agent, I want—"

"Say no more," he interrupted hastily and drilled his fingers on the table top. "I was hoping it wouldn't come to this. Option Z. We create a spiritual fiction—"

"A what?"

Neal couldn't possibly still be that drunk. Patiently he explained: "People who follow the law get a legal fiction; people who—"

"Spirit of the law, got it." He hesitated. "What fiction?"

The Document was in a secret pocket in the briefcase. Mozzie angled the lid so Neal couldn't watch, then glanced behind himself for mirrors or cameras before he retrieved it. "Sign this," he said, sliding it across the table. "That's between you and me, none of the Suit's business. Then I deal with Suit and Mrs Suit, and that's none of your business."

"Uh," Neal said with eloquent scepticism.

"This is Option Z, Neal. At least read it."

Neal read it and, to his credit, only made a few quiet noises of protest in his throat. "Option Z?" he said at last.

"That's right."

"Fiction."

"Trust me, Neal, no-one wants this less than I do."

He took a breath. "Okay," he said, and made space on the breakfast table. Mozzie handed him a pen, which he promptly used to deface the Document with a codicil: Nothing in this Contract obliges the Signatory to commit, aid, or abet in any Act contrary to any law or bylaw of any jurisdiction in which the Signatory or the Beneficiary may be located. Nothing in this Contract obliges the Signatory to neglect any duty legally attending from the Signatory's employment.

"Neal!" he complained.

"Peter's got to pretend to accept that it's real, and he's not going to accept anything that doesn't say that." He squeezed his signature into the remaining space and added, "Shall I backdate it?"

"Good call. Two months?" That done, he gathered Document and pen back into his briefcase and made a phone call as he stood up. "Mrs Suit. I need to meet you in half an hour in the park south-west of your house. Come alone." He paused for her question, then conceded, "You may bring the dog."

When he'd hung up he added to Neal, "No talking to either of them until I've got this sorted out."

"Aye aye, Cap'n," Neal agreed with a cheery salute.

"Hmm," Mozzie said, and went to the park.

*

Mrs Suit and the dog had almost reached the bench he was waiting at when he saw a shadow detach itself from a tree at the edge of the park and resolve itself into the Suit. He jumped up, ready to run for the backup cab he'd ordered.

"He's not coming any closer," Mrs Suit said quickly.

"I said come alone."

"Just a precaution, since you were so mysterious over the phone."

He narrowed his eyes. "Are you wired?"

"No."

Possibly the dog was wired. "I'll assume you are," he decided. "Your husband may stay, since he's involved."

"Thank you. What's he involved in, exactly?"

"Let me begin at the beginning. I am in possession of a certain item which I have no interest in, uh... making use of — but which I wish to keep safe."

"Sentimental value?" she asked.

"Something like that. I have recently been made aware that you and your husband may have an interest in this item, so I am willing to allow you to hold it in trust for a certain period of time and under certain specific conditions."

"I see," Mrs Suit said slowly. "What item would this be?"

"You understand this offer is in complete confidence."

"Between you, me, and my husband."

"Precisely."

"Understood."

"Good." His eyes flicked to the Suit watching from the shadows. "Tell the Suit I'm about to take an envelope out of my left jacket pocket." He waited while she dialled on her cellphone and solemnly relayed the message. When she hung up — or at least pretended to hang up — he gave her the Document. "This identifies the item and certifies my ownership of it."

She pulled the Document from its envelope and unfolded it. After reading the first few lines her eyebrows shot up. She glanced at Mozzie, then quickly turned away and kept reading. She read either very slowly or very thoroughly — Mozzie approved — and when she turned back she wore a perfect pokerface. "Do I understand that you're offering us the use of this item until the expiration of this contract?"

"Or until any moment I choose to revoke our agreement. For any reason."

"If Neal was unhappy, for instance," she suggested.

"If I am unhappy. Neal's opinion is not germane."

"You would be in a better position to be objective," she agreed. "It's only that we had a conversation with him last night that... might be considered germane. Given the timing of your offer."

"You will have noted the Document was signed two months ago. Your conversation last night was unauthorised."

"That sounds like the sort of behaviour that should be punished," she said with worrying nonchalance.

"It has been," he said, thinking of the maderised wine, then thought of what she might be thinking of, then tried to stop thinking. Hastily he continued, "In any case, that is how I learned of your interest in the item."

"I see." She let him take back the Document. "I'll need to discuss your offer with my husband."

"I'll await your call," he said, and made his escape in as dignified a manner as he dared.

*

He got back to June's house in time to hear Neal's phone ring. Neal looked at its screen, gave Mozzie a speculative glance, then answered it with, "Hey, Peter. Is this work-related?"

A pause.

"I'm pretty sure I'm not legally obliged to answer that."

Another pause and his eyes widened. He covered the mouthpiece and whispered, "Am I allowed to listen?" At the shake of Mozzie's head he pulled a face, but dutifully told the phone, "Peter—"

"Peter—"

"Peter, I've got to hang up now." He slid the phone back into his pocket with a grin. "So you saw El?"

"Yep. How's he taking it?"

"He's furious. I'm hopeful." His phone rang again. He checked the screen and tossed it to Mozzie.

"Neal Caffrey's phone, may I take a message?"

There was a very long silence at the other end, then the Suit gritted, "Mozzie."

"Suit," he acknowledged.

"Let me talk to Caffrey."

"If this is about my offer then I'm the person you need to talk to."

"Oh, you don't want to hear what I have to say about human trafficking."

Mozzie rapidly considered several very good retorts, and decided on the more satisfying method of turning off the phone. "Now," he told Neal, "we wait. With Tiles of Fire and popcorn."

*

They were halfway through the day's third movie when his own phone rang. He waited until Neal had paused the DVD to answer: "Yes?"

"Mozzie?"

"Mrs Suit."

"We've discussed your offer. We have some further questions—"

In the background he heard the Suit saying, "I want to talk to Neal."

Mrs Suit continued smoothly: "And we'd appreciate it if you could bring the item for our inspection."

"I can do that," Mozzie said.

"Four o'clock?"

He checked the time left on the DVD. "Let's make it four thirty-five."

"Four thirty-five," she agreed.

Neal was waiting impatiently when he hung up. "What did she say?"

"Play," he said, and when Neal spread his hands in frustration, added beatifically, "We don't want to be late."

*

Their cab dropped them off at four thirty-four. As they walked up to the door, Mozzie said, "So you're here for display purposes only."

"Got it," Neal said, bouncing along beside him with the briefcase.

"No talking without permission. And when you do, assume they're recording."

"Got it."

"No bouncing."

"I don't bounce," he objected.

"Neal, you look like a five-year-old on Christmas morning. You know they can still cancel Christmas, right?"

"Yeah, okay," he said, slightly more soberly.

Mozzie checked his watch and knocked on the door. He listened for footsteps and said, "And call me Master," at the last moment before the door opened.

Mrs Suit put her hand out to shake. "Thank you for coming," she said, all business. "I see you've brought the item as requested. Please come in." She ushered him in to the dining table. The Suit sat watching them enter; Mrs Suit sat next to him; and Mozzie took the chair opposite them while Neal stationed himself quietly at his elbow.

The Suit fixed him with a hard stare. "First things first. I want to see the document you showed my wife."

"Certainly, Suit. Neal, the Document."

Neal took it out of the briefcase and handed it to him; he passed it to the Suit.

The Suit read it grimly and looked at Mrs Suit. "Is this it?"

"That's the one," she said.

He looked up again. "Neal, is this your signature?"

"Yes," Neal said.

"Neal," Mozzie murmured without taking his eyes off the Suits: "manners."

The Suit's eyes widened fractionally while Mrs Suit sucked in her lips. Neal was right, she did have an amazing smirk.

"Yes, sir," Neal corrected himself smoothly. "That's my signature."

"You signed this of your own free will, with no coercion or incentive?"

"Yes, sir."

"Two months ago?"

"I believe the date I signed was two months five days ago, sir."

The Suit's eyes narrowed at that scrupulous ambiguity. Mozzie quickly said, "If you're satisfied that the item in question does legitimately belong to me—"

The Suit put up a hand. "I'm satisfied that you've been authorised to make an offer on behalf of— Well, to make an offer."

"Hmm," Mozzie said: not good enough. "So you are satisfied that I have the authority to offer you the use of the item in question."

"No! That's not—" He stopped, his eyes flicking to Mrs Suit, though if she'd just kicked him under the table she was staying very still above it. "Okay," he said grudgingly, "I'm satisfied that you have the authority to make whatever offer you're about to make, but—"

"Mrs Suit?" he interrupted.

"Stipulated," she said, "but—" And gestured back to her husband.

"But," he repeated, "that doesn't mean we'll agree to your conditions."

"We shall see," Mozzie said, relaxing. It was like a game of pick-a-card: force the right card on your mark and everything else fell into place. The Suit mightn't know it yet, but he'd already lost. "Condition One: the period of our agreement shall not extend beyond the period during which the item belongs to me."

"Can we stop saying 'the item'?"

Mrs Suit murmured apologetically, "I don't think we can, honey."

"After that time," Mozzie said — when Neal's tracker came off for good — "you'll have to make your own arrangements."

"Obviously," the Suit said.

"So you agree."

Suspicious and not sure why, he glanced at Mrs Suit. She shrugged back at him and told Mozzie, "We agree to Condition One."

"Condition Two," he said: "you will not injure, hurt, brainwash, or otherwise harm the item, or allow the item to be injured, hurt, brainwashed, or otherwise harmed."

"You can't brainwash an item," the Suit pointed out in exasperation.

"Then my condition won't be a problem for you," he said smugly.

"Of course it's not a problem."

Mrs Suit said thoughtfully, "Define 'harm'."

"'Harm' means if in my judgement the item has been harmed," he replied promptly.

"Well, that's an elegant definition," she said. "Agreed."

"Condition Three," he said: "I don't want to hear any details."

"Oh, so agreed," said the Suit, while Mrs Suit nodded beside him.

"Condition Four: if I'm ever at all unhappy with anything about this, I reserve the right at any time for any reason to render our entire agreement null and void."

"I think we all reserve that right," Mrs Suit said.

"Hmm," Mozzie said as if hesitating. "Suit?"

"What she said."

"Very well. Then we're agreed. Neal, give them the Other Document and a pen."

"Wait a minute," the Suit protested, finally seeing the trap, "we haven't even agreed what this is. And we're not going to: you can't just give some--"

"What do you think I am?" Mozzie interrupted with all the haughtiness of the moral high ground. "Read it."

The Suit folded his arms and ignored the Other Document Neal had slid across the table. Mrs Suit turned her neck a little to scan it and found the relevant qualification: "The Owner hereby authorises the Suits to hold the Item in trust.... The Suits agree there shall be no transfer of title and no transfer of contractual—"

The Suit winced as she moved the pen out of the way. "Honey, fingerprints."

"It's just a pen," she pointed out, then looked closer. "Actually, it's my pen." While the Suit aimed an exasperated glare at Neal, she added to Mozzie, "But he's right, we can't sign anything. You'll just have to accept our word and rely on Condition Four."

He insisted, "If I'm going to authorise you to hold the item in trust, I need a guarantee."

"We're not signing," the Suit returned.

"It won't be that incriminating if you do," Neal put in.

"Neal," Mozzie said.

"Sir," he added, which wasn't the point. "Everyone knows I can forge your signature, so you could just say—"

"Nine out of ten handwriting experts can identify your forgery for purposes of testifying at a human trafficking trial," the Suit retorted.

"Hey," Mozzie objected, "I'm not trafficking anything. There is no trade. There is no transfer."

"Not the point," the Suit gritted.

Neal offered, "I could forge—"

"Neal!" Mozzie said.

"I'm just—"

"Neal — kneel."

The bugs wouldn't hear the silent k, but everyone else did. Neal flashed a grin as if that was exactly what he'd wanted, and maybe it had been. "Yes, Master," he said, and for a moment the only sound in the room was the soft scuff of his shoe and brush of his cotton suit against the floor. Mrs Suit clasped her hands in front of her mouth and for a moment the Suit seemed to forget to breathe.

Mrs Suit broke the silence. "How about a pledge instead?" she suggested from behind her fingers. "Something you can hold in safekeeping."

"Hmm," he said. "The acceptability of your counteroffer will depend on the value of your proposed pledge."

"My wife and I need to confer," the Suit said in a slightly strained voice, and tipped his head at her towards the back porch. She countered by tipping her chin at the stairs, and he opened his palms in eloquent Wherever.

"Please excuse us a moment," Mrs Suit said, and they went upstairs.

When their footsteps had faded and the bedroom door closed, he got up and rearranged the chairs so he could sit with his back to the wall. Neal stayed where he was kneeling — he'd picked a spot with a good view of both sides of the table — and whispered, "You don't need a guarantee."

"I'm not leaving you with them without one."

"They're not going to hurt me."

"Says the guy with Stockholm Syndrome."

Neal grimaced a concession and was silent for a while. Mozzie leaned back in his chair and began meditating on the treachery of desire, but after just a few minutes Neal interrupted with another whisper: "Can I stretch my legs while we're waiting?"

"Cross your toes."

"...What?"

"It relieves pressure and allows unimpeded circulation."

That gained him another moment's silence before Neal whispered, "That's not helping. And besides," he added in a more normal speaking tone — the bedroom door upstairs had just opened — "I don't think Peter really gets the whole method acting thing."

"Oh, I get the method acting thing," the Suit drawled, coming down the stairs with a box in his hands and Mrs Suit by his side. "And I know exactly whose idea it was."

"Wait, no—"

"Shut up, Neal," Mozzie said, not minding in the slightest if the Suit thought he was just going along with Neal's idea.

"I think it's time to be seen and not heard," the Suit advised Neal in a stage whisper. His eyes judged Mozzie's rearrangement of the furniture, but he put the box on the table and sat down with Mrs Suit without any verbal comment.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm all in favour—"

"Do I need to gag you with your own tie?" Mozzie demanded. Concern for his clothing, if not his pride, shut Neal's mouth, and Mozzie turned back to the Suit, who was watching with a cool detachment. Method acting, hah.

"You recognise the box," Mrs Suit said.

Last time he'd seen it, it had held the evidence of the Suit's surveillance-of-dubious-legality of his wife-to-be. "Appropriate," he said, ignoring Neal's questioning look. "Of course I'll have to verify the contents."

"Go ahead," she said.

As he did, the Suit said, "We would be willing to entrust you with this box and its contents as a pledge that we'll uphold our side of the agreement. But we'll also need a guarantee that, absent a clear breach of Condition Two, this agreement will remain strictly confidential so that — shall we say, there won't be any unfortunate misunderstandings about our intentions or our relation to the item in question."

Neal's head shot up.

"You understand," the Suit said, holding Mozzie's eyes, "if we were dealing with Caffrey we might be able to take that as read. But we're not, are we?"

"Well played, Suit," he said admiringly.

Only a ghost of a smile acknowledged his concession before the Suit leaned forward over folded arms. "Mozzie, I want the bear."

From long practice, he held himself calm and still. It was Neal who objected, "Peter, you can't—"

"Excuse me one moment," Mozzie said calmly. Calmly he got up, dodged Neal's warding hand, loosened his tie from his collar, and brought it up to tighten the knot in his mouth instead.

Neal pulled it out with his off-hand. "Mozzie, call it off. You don't—"

He tightened the tie again and caught both Neal's wrists up to bind them against the knot in a manoeuvre that wouldn't have been nearly as successful without the element of surprise. "Stop flexing your muscles," he said, and gave him a meaningful look: "I'm not stupid." He kept fiddling with the ends of the tie until Neal settled and gave him a small, tense nod.

Then he calmly went back to his seat. Suit and Mrs Suit watched him fixedly, which meant they were trying very hard not to be distracted by the sight of Neal kneeling with his hands bound praying mantis-style in front of his face. Good, albeit disturbing. From another secret compartment in his briefcase he withdrew a yellow envelope and slid it across the table. "You chose your pledge, I choose mine."

The Suit opened it and looked back up at him. "This is two photographs."

"And the negatives."

"Oh, my mistake." He passed the photos to El — thoughtfully angled so Neal wouldn't see them — and tipped the two squares of negative onto the table to check them. He looked closer at a spot: "You develop your own film?"

"Of course," Mozzie said. When the Suit continued to scrutinise the negatives, he added, "If you want, I could stuff the envelope with meaningless receipts and menus too."

"Oh, that won't be necessary," the Suit said abstractedly. He held the two negatives up in front of him. "Hmm," he said, a smirk of his own slowly growing, and Mozzie realised with horror that he'd cut these copies, supposedly taken years apart, from the same roll of film. "Hmm," the Suit repeated, flicking his eyes up to meet Mozzie's stare as he put the negatives back on the table, side by side, and fit them together. "Honey, what do you think?"

She looked at where he pointed and her eyebrows rose. After a moment of consideration, she said neutrally, "I can see why he chose to offer us these."

When Neal found out how sloppy he'd been, he'd never live this down. He struggled briefly, then opened his mouth to promise them the originals — only to be stopped by the Suit's index finger flicking up.

"We'll accept your pledge," the Suit said. While Mozzie boggled, he clarified: "As long as our agreement remains confidential, so will these." Two fingers, one on each negative — and a brief flick of his eyes sideways to Neal.

Mozzie cleared his throat silently and gathered himself. "Understood," he said. "Then we have an agreement."

"We do," said the Suit, and Mrs Suit echoed him with a smile.

"Always a pleasure doing business," he said, snapping his briefcase locked and setting it on the floor while he untied Neal's hands. Neal flexed them briefly but looked more rueful about the sodden knot in his tie.

Behind him the Suit said, "Carry that box out to the cab, won't you, Neal?"

Neal grinned. "I can carry boxes."

"I'll remember that," the Suit said in a tone that impelled Mozzie to pick up his briefcase and head to the door before someone violated Condition Three.

Neal hurried after him with the box. Outside, he said, "Moz, thank you. I owe you one."

"Several," he corrected.

"Several," Neal agreed. He waved the driver back into his seat and walked Mozzie to the cab, only pausing with his hand on the door to say, "What was with those photos?"

"Just a couple of keepsakes," he said casually. "Copies, of course. The originals are safe." As Neal smiled conspiratorially he added, "So you can still make a run for it if you want."

Neal laughed and opened the cab door for him. "But you know," he said, watching Mozzie get in, "he had that look on his face...."

"Um," he said with emphasis, "ew."

"Ew, no! I just mean..." He handed the box in. "Well, he was probably just messing with you."

"He's a suit, duh," Mozzie said. "In or out, Neal."

Neal grinned. "Thanks, Moz," he said again, shut the door, and with a wave to the driver bounced back up to the Suits' house.