Inspired by Neal's Menagerie by kriadydragon and Neal's canon statement about the van, "I get anxious."
Easter eggs that this site's formatting won't allow are available over on An Archive of Our Own, where this is also posted.
Also: If I ever get ferrets again, one of them is going to have to be named Neal.
Neal shifted uncomfortably for the hundredth time in the last three hours. Back in the old days, when it was watching him, he'd felt sorry for the agents inside, thinking it couldn't be fun in there.
He'd been right. Really, really right. He was trying not to let anxiety build up, trying not to be bored out of his mind, trying to comprehend how Peter could be relatively content in here.
"My prison cell was nicer," complained Neal.
"I can arrange for you to have it back, if you like," said Peter predictably.
"You should come up with a new threat," said Neal. "That one's getting a bit stale."
"I still like it," said Peter.
"Of course you do," muttered Neal. "Says the man who volunteered us for a twelve hour stakeout."
"Take a nap. Read a book."
Neal held up his phone. "I have the Kindle app. I am reading a book. Lots of books."
Peter perked up. "Ohh? Lemme see."
Neal handed him the phone, and Peter scrolled around with great interest, a strange expression building on his face. "No wonder you're bored. Monitoring for Gaseous Pollutants in Museum Environments? Chinese Sculpture From the Fifth to the Fourteenth Century? The Poetry of Robert Frost? Read a real book."
"And what's a real book in Peter Burke's world?" asked Neal, snarky but actually curious. "101 Ways to Handcuff Someone? Advances in Tracking Anklet Technology? Connect the Dots?"
"Actually..." Peter's face picked up and Neal tried not to groan when Peter pointed at the anklet. "Reason you're wearing that and not your clunky old one is a paper I read. That's an experimental advanced tracker that set the FBI back six grand. First one that was actually designed for comfort, I might add."
"Awwww, thanks, Peter. It's touching, knowing my gilded cage was expensive, too," said Neal sarcastically. He was, actually, a little touched. This thing was a lot nicer to wear than the first one. "Can I have my phone back?"
"With pleasure," said Peter, handing it back to him. "Try fiction. You know, entertainment?"
"To me, these are entertaining," said Neal.
"You're weird," said Peter. "Grab some trashy novel, sit back, and space out for a while."
"You telling me to read Twilight?" asked Neal.
"I don't judge," said Peter.
Neal sat up straight, grinning. "You've read Twilight, haven't you?"
"Nope. Did read The DaVinci Code, though. That's enough shame, right there."
"Ah, but the real question is, did you read the prequel?"
Peter's cheeks reddened a little. "Ahem. Maybe?"
"You're adorable."
There was movement on the monitor, and both of them sat upright, riveted. It was a pizza delivery, not a co-conspirator. They sat back in disappointment, but watched anyway. The pizza vanished inside, and they were silent again.
Neal tried to focus on reading, tried not to fidget too much, tried to ignore his heart pounding. Envied Peter's ability to just sit and relax. A car door slammed nearby, and he flinched despite himself.
"Are you claustrophobic?" asked Peter after a bit.
"What? No."
"It really does remind you of your prison cell, doesn't it?"
Neal shook his head. "I liked my cell. And we weren't really locked in much, except at night."
Peter turned back to his own book. Priceless: How I Went Undercover to Rescue the World's Stolen Treasures. Of course, Peter would be reading a book by an FBI agent.
Neal tried to focus on a detailed essay on the methods of removing iron oxide staining from gem crystal formations. What had it been, three and a half hours? He closed his eyes and tried to quash the anxiety rising up inside.
He knew and believed without a doubt that he wasn't stuck in here, that the door was unlocked and he was here voluntarily with a friend. It was a friendly place with fond memories. It did not, in any way, remind him of solitary confinement.
It just reminded his subconscious of it, and his subconscious was flipping out at being stuck in a closed box with metal doors and metal grates and steel shelving. And it was hot in here. He took off his coat, walked back and forth to stretch his legs, looked at the monitor, and sat down again.
"I've seen your prison records," said Peter, his voice gentle. "I know you wound up in solitary a few times. And has a really hard time coping with it."
Neal froze. It wasn't the first time he'd been convinced his handler was secretly a mind reader. "You try being locked in a concrete and metal box the size of your bathroom around the clock sometime. It's fun."
"I'm sure," said Peter, his voice still soft and caring. "Especially if you're Neal Caffrey and have the personality of a hyperactive kitten."
"Threaten to send me back a few more times, I'm sure that'll help," said Neal.
Peter looked back at him steadily. "Actually, desensitization and counterconditioning are the best ways to get past mild phobias. Safe exposure to the triggers, paired with things that're enjoyable. So yes, it helps."
Neal blinked, not having expected such a concrete and calculating response. Peter was right, in theory and in practice. When he'd first gotten out, he'd been terrified of pissing Peter off and getting sent back, and humiliated by the anklet.
Neither of those things were true any more.
Peter's constant threats to send him back, the remorseless badgering with the anklet...they'd seemed borderline sadistic. Just like repeatedly forcing him into the van he hated. Now, he interpreted threats of imprisonment as affectionate shorthand, and the anklet didn't bother him in the slightest.
Peter picked up a handheld radio, stood, and rubbed Neal affectionately on the shoulder. It was a move that always melted Neal inside, and Peter knew it.
"Be back in fifteen. Call me if you see movement or hear anything."
"Hey! Where are you going?" protested Neal.
"To borrow something," said Peter.
"Can I come?"
"No. Watch our suspect."
Fifteen minutes later, Peter walked into the van carrying a sparkly mylar and feather cat toy, the kind that dangled a string from the end of a stick and had the feline equivalent of a fishing lure at the end. He was carrying a paper bag, too, which he set down casually on a chair.
Neal raised his eyebrows and pretended to read. Peter had his pure mischief expression on, the one that accompanied treasure hunts and surprises and particularly good arrests.
Peter dangled the cat toy in front of Neal's face, and Neal tried to ignore it, even when Peter tickled his nose with it. And then made it dance around on top of Neal's phone.
"Peter..." growled Neal in his best warning tone of voice, which even he had to admit was distinctly short of menacing.
"What?" asked Peter, all innocence.
"Not a kitten."
"You have the attention span of one," said Peter, swinging the toy so that it batted Neal on the ear.
He jerked his head away in annoyance. "You told me to read, I'm reading."
"Oh, but this is more fun," said Peter, his eyes still twinkling.
"Oh, so I'm the weird one?" asked Neal, rolling his eyes. "You make a special trip out of the van in the middle of a criminal investigation to buy a feathered cat toy specifically to torment your CI with, and I'm weird?"
"Oh, I didn't get it to entertain you," said Peter.
"Clearly," said Neal.
Peter opened the paper bag, and withdrew a small cardboard pet carrier. "I got it to entertain this little guy," he said, opening the carrier and pulling out a bewildered-looking ferret.
"You - got us a van-ferret?" asked Neal dubiously.
"I borrowed us a ferret," corrected Peter, looking inordinately proud of himself and plunking the bright-eyed little creature down in front of Neal.
"You got bored and stole a ferret?" asked Neal. "Wow, I am a bad influence."
"Borrowed! Borrowed! Can't I even use words without - oh, forget it." Peter sat heavily.
He'd never actually met a ferret before, but Neal almost instantly liked this one. He had a brown-masked face like a little bandit, and his first move was to grasp Neal's pinkie in his teeth and try to run off with it.
Neal chuckled. "It's attached, little guy. You gotta borrow stuff that's not tied down." He petted it and was met with indifference. This little creature weighed all of about six ounces, and was not the least bit awed by two giant, unfamilar humans or by having been stuffed into a cardboard box and deposited into a strange FBI van.
"And watch out for pressure sensors," warned Neal, lifting his arm. The ferret chased it and grabbed the cuff of his shirt firmly in its teeth.
"Oh," said Peter. "Of course. Now you're corrupting our ferret. Whose name is, unfortunately, Bandit. He's four months old, and they said he was bored."
Neal grinned as the junior weasel dedicated himself to burrowing his way into Neal's shirt sleeve. "All that, and you didn't see how this was going to end?"
To Neal's surprise, Bandit made it inside the shirt sleeve, and started wiggle-crawling up his arm. Neal suppressed the twin urges to flinch away and yelp, and Peter burst out laughing.
"Claws - sharp!" complained Neal, clawing at his collar and tie to open his shirt so he could fish out the ferret that'd made it's way up and now felt like it was trying to perform surgery on his collarbone. He stuffed his hand down his shirt and snatched out the tiny bundle of fur, which dangled limply from his grip in complete and utter innocent relaxation.
"Set him on the floor," said Peter.
"Gladly," said Neal, putting him down and watching him bound off.
Peter had the cat toy again, and wiggled it enticingly in front of Bandit, who charged after it like a kitten. The ferret chased it in circles, and when Peter let him catch it, tugged fiercely.
"Watch this," said Peter, carefully raising the toy into the air. Bandit held on, dangling in mid-air from his teeth. Peter swung the toy and its attached ferret in a circle, and the unfazed creature didn't even think about letting go.
"Wow," said Neal. "That thing's more tenacious than a pitbull."
Peter sent the ferret flying onto Neal's lap with a flick of his wrist and handed the toy to Neal. Neal managed to coax Bandit to let go by greatly embarrassing him with head-scratches and mutterings about how adorable he was, and then led him on a seemingly endless chase after it.
"Why a ferret?" asked Neal.
Peter was grinning, watching them. "Pet store had a sign in the window. I had a pair when I was a kid. They're awesome, they're like kittens that never grow up. They steal your insoles and hide 'em under the mattress."
Bandit illustrated his point by arching his back like a scared cat might, only with a fiendish expression on his face, and skitter-bouncing sideways all the way across the floor of the van. Neal tossed the toy back to Peter.
"So, you've always liked keeping mischievous creatures that steal things as caged pets. Suddenly I understand you," said Neal.
Peter grinned and slapped him with the cat toy.
Neal feigned his very best suddenly worried expression. "Did you beat your ferrets?"
Peter snorted in laughter, but something serious flickered across his face and he wrapped an arm around Neal's shoulders and hugged him firmly against his side. Neal wanted to give him a hard time about it, but he was too busy grinning like an idiot.
"No, but I did pet them an awful lot. I think they found it a bit annoying."
The tip of a ferret-tail disappeared under the driver's seat, and Peter went after him. "And you're always having to chase them so they don't get into trouble."
Bandit stole Peter's pen, tried to hide it in Neal's shoe, unplugged the headphone cord from the surveillance array, climbed on top of Peter's head, tried to fit into Neal's back pocket, knocked over both their drinks and took the straws, scattered evidence bags all over the floor and rolled around in them, tried to undo Peter's shoulder holster, dragged Neal's hat on top of the microwave, and spent fifteen minutes jumping and leaping and tumbling across the floor with a sandwich wrapper.
After two solid hours of activity, Neal was looking at their new best friend with a certain amount of desperation. "Does it come with an off button?"
"Nope," said Peter with a twinkle in his eyes that suggested he was still talking about Neal. "They require infinite patience. And sometimes a sturdy cage for when you just can't take it any more."
Neal leveled a glare at him. "I bet sometimes they turn on their owners."
"That's why it's better to borrow one. Conditionally."
"So somewhere tonight, some pet store clerk is going to be telling the story of how the FBI walked in to borrow a ferret. Because they were bored."
"Worse stories have been told about us," said Peter mildly.
"J. Edgar would have loved that cat toy of yours," agreed Neal.
Bandit romped across the shelf the monitors and their elbows rested on, but he looked sleepy. Peter pulled a foil packet out of the paper bag and ripped it open.
"Ferret treats?" asked Neal. "Someone, somewhere out there manufactures ferret treats for a living?"
"Could be you," said Peter, tapping treats into his palm. Bandit sniffed, even his whiskers conveying excitement, and munched them down.
"Uh - not my calling," said Neal.
"I'd give you a good reference?"
"No."
The ferret finished off the treats in Peter's palm and sagged sleepily, resting his chin on Peter's hand and closing his eyes. Bandit wiggled around until his back was pressed against Neal's arm, and went limp with a contented sigh.
"You know, Neal...I think we've found your spirit animal," said Peter with a grin.
"My spirit animal's a ferret? Gee, thanks, but I picture myself more as a - tiger, or a wolf or something."
"Nope," said Peter firmly. "Maybe, like...a mink or something. Those are pretty much ferrets."
"A wolverine, maybe," conceded Neal. "Or a honey badger. Have you seen that video of the one that keeps escaping from a zoo in Australia or someplace like that?"
"No, no, no, no," said Peter, looking downright thrilled. "I'm a honey badger."
Neal cocked his head to the left and studied Peter. "You're right. You are a honey badger."
Peter smirked. The ferret let out another contented sigh and snuggled closer to Neal's arm.
Sometimes, the van could be awesome.