Loyalties
Summary: Organized Crime wants to borrow Neal. Peter, still smarting over Neal's betrayal in order to go after Fowler, has no objections to Neal being out of his hair and someone else's problem for a while. Neal, on the other hand, is dragging his heels and reluctant to cooperate, but won't explain exactly why. Peter realizes Neal knows, or at least knew, this perpetrator from his life before, and seems to have a history with him, seems to feel loyal or protective towards him, but doesn't care. Peter makes sure Neal is aware of his options: doing his job and wearing an orange tie undercover, or not doing his job and wearing an orange jumpsuit for the rest of his life. (Cleaned up from a fic written for a prompt at the anonymous kink meme, which was supposed to be a short thing to break my writer's block but turned into a 30 plus page thing which is really annoying to post as comment fic so oops?
Spoilers: Somewhere post Point Blank. You may consider it AU, since I wrote it before Season 3 began.
Warnings: Lack of beta. Language. References to physical brutality, torture, or rape. Adult themes and suchlike. Rated R.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, or this universe. I am writing this for my own self-indulgent fun, and because, like Neal, I clearly covet other people's things, even as I know they will never be my own.
Comments, positive or negative, are treasured. Thanks for reading.
The case file lay between them, Haggerty's photograph on top. Neal could barely look at it.
Ruiz wanted Neal, thought Neal was the perfect undercover agent: knowledgeable, skilled—and expendable. Peter, who would normally at least try to respect Neal's wishes, try to understand—Peter, who normally resisted other units using Neal, who tried to protect Neal if necessary-Peter was pushing, pushing … and Neal didn't know how to tell him no, didn't know how to explain his reluctance, didn't know how to ask, just this once, that Peter trust him, without giving him any reason to do so.
Neal knew that after – well, after basically conning Peter and trying to kill Fowler, that Peter wasn't about to give him the time of day without a damned good reason. His credibility with Peter was now actually worse than it had been when Peter was chasing him, and that wasn't even an exaggeration.
And now, Neal badly needed for Peter to trust him.
Because he couldn't take this job. He couldn't go against Haggerty, couldn't do anything that would mean he was going against Haggerty. He'd promised, once, that he'd never disobey Haggerty (Haggerty, his voice soft and low in Neal's ear, had asked him, and so Neal had) and Neal wasn't sure that if it mattered, when it mattered, that even now he could bring himself to do anything Haggerty wouldn't like. He just … he just couldn't. He'd never been able to.
Peter had to understand. Sometimes … even though he worked on this side for now, sometimes what had occurred in the past needed to be respected. Sometimes, the past couldn't be changed just because Peter said it must.
But this time, Peter refused to understand, refused to see Neal's signals, refused to listen at all.
"You know him." Peter's voice was cold, hard. "You're the only one available right now with the right skill set and knowledge to infiltrate this gang, Neal, and yet you've all but refused to do so. Even though you know what's at stake."
"Peter ... please. I don't - " Neal tried not to panic. He knew what panic did. A good con never panicked, because that meant, essentially, it was over and it was all your own fault. You had to calculate your risk, because con artists didn't have safety nets. They couldn't afford them.
"Just admit it, Neal. You've been dropping hints all day. You're getting sloppy, and I know you. So, if you know this guy, if you've got a history, if you were friends or ran together or whatever, just admit it. Because it sure seems like you've met him before."
Trapped by Peter's sharp gaze, Neal gave up, dropping his eyes to confess, "Yeah. I ... I knew him once."
A shared cell, for half a year, six months that had seemed much longer, that had seemed to go on forever. Haggerty bragged every night-about the jobs he'd done, how he worked, how brilliant he was. Neal had listened for hours to Haggerty's voice, talking on and on and on, about the things he'd done, the things he'd seen, the things he'd procured.
Peter couldn't know. Neal needed to believe that Peter didn't know who Haggerty was, not really, and not what he'd been to Neal. Neal needed to know that Peter wouldn't make him do this, couldn't make him do this, not if Peter knew the truth about Neal's relationship with Haggerty. Neal needed to believe.
"He may not remember me," Neal said, grasping at straws.
Peter snorted disbelievingly. "Sure seems like you remember him."
Neal tried to keep his face blank, tried not to let any emotion show. Because he had tried to forget. He'd tried.
"I have a good eye for faces," Neal said, trying to flash a careless, business-as-usual grin. "You know that. Peter, I - "
"So you can help with this." Peter's voice was unyielding. Neal froze, out of tricks.
"Peter ... please. Please, I am asking you as a friend--" Neal was desperate. The day he'd learnt Haggerty was going to be transferred, that after one last night he might never see Haggerty again, he'd started shaking and couldn't stop, until the night before Haggerty was transferred and Haggerty had made him stop.
"As a friend? Right. That's ... you and I, Neal, you and I are not friends right now, get it? We're at work, and we're here because each of us have to be. But friends ... friends don't con each other. Friends don't - you know what? We are not having this conversation here. And you are not getting out of this like you do everything else. This is work, and right now, you had better understand which side of the law you are on. You don't get to do what you want when you want and protect your criminal friends here. When your contract is up, when my ass isn't on the line, do whatever you want. But for now, and after the crap you just pulled, you are going to do what I say. And for now, you are going to take this file and get out of here. No-" Peter held up a hand. "I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear why you can't do this or whatever. You will start tomorrow, and so help me, if I find out you spook him, if I find you do anything to jeopardize this case, I'll put you back in prison so fast your head will spin. You understand me?" Peter was looking at him, gaze unrelenting, but there was pain in his eyes if you knew to look.
Neal knew to look. He also knew there was no reasoning with Peter, not in this mood. And-maybe, maybe this is what he deserved. Kate was dead. Mozzie had been badly hurt. Peter hated him, Diana despised him, and Elizabeth was probably scared of him. Maybe this was what he'd earned. He backed down, and picked up the file he'd been afraid to look at. "Yeah Peter. I do. I understand."
"Well, sweetie, you can't expect him to just give up his friends like that," Elizabeth said as she poured the wine before dinner that evening.
"You know, El, I can and I do. He's working for this side of the law now, and the sooner he understands that he can't just do whatever he wants the better. He's had a lot of time to get used to his situation—I can't just let it slide all the time. You know what'll happen if he steps out of line, and frankly, I've done too much covering for him already. If Reece knew—" Peter shook his hand out as Elizabeth handed him a pot holder. The dish cover was hot.
"But honey, you know how loyal he is to his friends," Elizabeth said as she brought over the rest of their meal, setting it down on a trivet.
"He has different loyalties now. He has to." Peter sat down and began serving himself.
"Have you talked to him about it?" Elizabeth's tone was reasonable and her question fair, but Peter was having none of it.
"What's he going to say, El?" he exploded with frustration. "Some other half-truths and lies and glib smiles? Neal can make anything seem reasonable and plausible and before you know it you've agreed to letting him do whatever he wants. He has to learn he can't just—"
"Peter," Elizabeth interrupted. "Don't you think you're being too hard on him? This is Neal. You know how—"
"No. I don't. I think that's the problem, I haven't been hard enough. Maybe some time with Ruiz will fix that." Peter's voice was tired, exasperated.
"Well, then, let me ask you this—if the situation were reversed, if it were your friend you had to infiltrate and then sell out, could you do it? Would you be able to live with yourself afterwards? If it were Neal?" Hard questions, and Peter took a moment to consider his answer. Because he knew what he'd already done, for love, for his friends.
For Neal. To cover for Neal. To protect Neal.
"I don't know, El," he said finally. "I'd hope it never comes to that, but Neal's an adult, and so is Haggerty. Neal is no saint, but Haggerty doesn't even come close. This case is important—we're not even sure the extent of Haggerty's reach, but he's into some really dark stuff. Over the last few days I've wondered how Neal ever even came to know Haggerty—Haggerty may be into some of the same things Neal was, but there's not all that much overlap—Haggerty's also violent and amoral and whatever Neal may be, he has morals. Not the same ones as you and I, mind, but he has some. Haggerty's the kind of guy who'd kill his own mother and chop her into pieces without a qualm."
"No. Neal's not like that. Not at all." Elizabeth sounded worried.
"I have no idea how Neal feels he would owe any loyalty to anyone like that at all." Now doubt was creeping in, because as he said the words, Peter realized that it was unlike Neal to be friends with that kind of man. And as he spoke, he realized that he hadn't let Neal explain—and that in the past, Neal's history with his fellow criminals, particularly violent ones, wasn't as friendly as all that.
"Then, sweetie," said Elizabeth wisely, "don't you think you owe it to him to find out?"
"You're an idiot," said Mozzie. "Seriously, Neal, you need to re-consider what you're doing." Mozzie played with the controls on the hospital bed. There was a position that allowed him to still see Neal without feeling like everything was straining too – there.
"It won't be so bad, Moz. Remember, I'll have the entire FBI watching out for me." Neal had been pacing, but eventually plopped himself down—well, gracefully, Neal was nothing if not always ostentatiously graceful—in the hard plastic chair by the bed.
"You think I trust a bunch of Suits with anything, least-wise ensuring you, a criminal need I remind you, are kept safe and secure? Neal, I am not joking. You need to talk to the Suit." Mozzie tried to look Neal in the eye, but Neal wasn't looking at him and Mozzie didn't exactly have a good angle for it.
"He didn't want to hear it, Moz." Neal sounded upset, but only barely, and only if you really knew Neal.
"Did you tell him who Haggerty is?" Mozzie knew how Neal could be.
"He knows who Haggerty is." Neal smiled, then, rueful yet bright.
"Neal. Don't be dense. Did you tell him what Haggerty is to you?" Sometimes, Mozzie agreed with Alex-he wanted to just shake Neal.
"He's someone I shared a cell with. Don't read more into this than it – " Neal was now trying that old lie again.
"Neal, come on. I was there that year, remember? I visited you at the prison and in the infirmary. I worked on your transfer application. Kate used to come to me, crying, after visiting with you there. I remember, Neal." Mozzie tried to make his voice gentle. He remembered that year, where Neal had seemed to grow thinner, less able to hide the marks and bruises, week by week. He wondered that Neal would have thought he could forget.
"Kate used to cry? She never—" Neal raised startled blue eyes to Mozzie, his eyes flashing with grief and pain, as they often did whenever he mentioned Kate, he remembered Kate, something reminded him (so many things reminded him) of Kate.
"There was nothing she could do, and she didn't want you to know that she knew, she didn't want you to worry you were upsetting her," Mozzie said, still very gently. "You had enough to deal with. Neal, you really can't do this."
"Peter's right, Moz. I've had it pretty easy until now, and I've screwed up big-time. He wants to know if I can play the game, if I can do as I'm told rather than picking and choosing. You know he's right-it's time I earned my keep. And what am I going to tell him, anyway, huh? I can't talk to him, Moz. Not about this." Neal had turned his head away, and from his hospital bed, Mozzie ached to reach out to him, to turn his focus back to the issue, to not allow Neal to run from this. He couldn't run from this.
"You have to talk to him, Neal, exactly about this. Have you even been able to read the file?" Neal's issue—a large part of it, anyway—was that he'd never been able to admit what had happened to him in those months he'd shared a cell with Haggerty. Even at the time, getting him to cooperate with the transfer application, no matter Neal's desperation to get back into a cell of his own, had been frustrating.
"I'll read it." Neal was smiling now, his broad and brilliant deflecting grin.
But Mozzie had known him too long and too well to allow Neal to evade him so easily. "Neal. Neal, my friend, you—"
"Moz. It'll be fine." And now Neal's voice had that stubborn don't-push-me edge that Mozzie recognized meant that there was no reasoning with him, not anymore. "I've got to go. I'll see you later, Moz."
And Mozzie was protesting, and calling Neal's name, but he was stuck in a hospital bed and there was nothing he could do as Neal walked out of the room and back to his own personal hell.
Neal couldn't sleep. Much as he tried to tell himself that it had been years ago, that Haggerty couldn't, wouldn't touch him now, that Haggerty was nothing more than yet another mark—he couldn't. He couldn't stop his mind from its image of Haggerty as someone who symbolized fear and terror, who had haunted his nights for months even after Haggerty's release, after Neal's transfer back to supermax and a solitary cell (thank you, Moz!) and even after Peter had sprung him. He tried to tell himself that Haggerty wouldn't even remember him, wouldn't even recognize him now—strong and healthy and well-dressed, a far cry from the sniveling, weak wreck he'd been in those days.
The case file lay untouched on his dining table. He would open it, read it, study it in the morning, he told himself. He would. Everything was fine—just another op. He was part of the Bureau now—protected, part of the team, an asset. He wasn't someone society wanted to forget, not anymore.
But he kind of was, right now. He hadn't heard from Elizabeth in weeks, not that she'd ever really been the one to initiate contact with him anyway, but Peter never mentioned her either, never passed on any wishes from her. Peter actually looked at him like he wanted to forget he existed, sometimes, nowadays. Neal caught himself wondering, more and more frequently, if Peter wished he could rescind their agreement, and wasn't sure if there was anything he could do to make Peter want him again. Diana just made it known he was angry with Neal, and whereas before Jones had treated him like a friend and colleague, now he was treated with little more than professional indifference. As for his crew-Mozzie was laid up in a hospital bed, and that was entirely Neal's fault. Alex had spooked and fled. And as for Kate, his Kate-Kate was gone, and the world had moved on right past her. Sometimes he felt like he was the only one who remembered her laugh, the way her hair fell in her eyes when she got up in the morning, her perfect little grin when she hacked into yet another supposedly secure system. Kate wasn't waiting for him anymore, she didn't love him anymore. She wasn't coming back, either.
His mind kept turning in circles, but he wasn't finding any answers. So when he got a call from Jones at a little past three in the morning, telling him that Ruiz had wanted his ass down at the Federal Plaza before yesterday, he was wide awake and more than ready to get the show on the road.
Just before he walked out the door, he remembered the file, and stuffed it in his bag. He'd tell them he hadn't had time to read it. Preparation was everything, but he hadn't had time, he'd say, and hopefully this time, it didn't matter. He'd ask Jones or Ruiz would brief him on the pertinent info when he got there, and before they asked him to do whatever it was they were going to ask him to do.
Because it wasn't like Neal didn't already know more than he'd ever wanted to about Thomas Joseph Haggerty.
When Peter arrived at the office the next morning, a little later than usual (he'd had a dentist appointment, and Elizabeth would have given him more grief than it was worth if he'd cancelled again), he arrived to chaos. They were working with Organized Crime for this op, and Agent Ruiz—who was technically the agent in charge-had already contacted Neal. What that meant was that Neal had already been wired and set up and sent out, hours ago. They'd had a break in the case in the early morning hours, and since Peter had so efficiently sent in the paperwork authorizing Neal's assistance last night—well, Ruiz hadn't wanted to waste time.
Peter couldn't blame him, exactly. It was what he would have done, had he been the lead on a case as sensitive as this. It was what he would have done, had he learned what Ruiz had learned last night.
At the same time, Peter was extremely frustrated—Neal had been sent out without a thorough briefing, and without the precautions Peter himself always took with any agent going out into the field. Had Peter been in charge, he would have would have checked out the intel first, would have made sure the risk to his people—any of his people-would be minimal.
Besides, after considering El's words the night before, he had wanted a chance to talk to Neal before he'd gone out. He'd wanted to hear the explanation, find out why exactly Neal had been so reluctant to participate in this case, find out what exactly Neal's history had been with Haggerty. Had Neal just done some freelance work for him—a few forgeries, a couple of thefts? Or had Neal done anything more? What kind of relationship did they have, why did Neal feel he owed this scumbag anything at all? Did Haggerty have—and a cold thread of fear worked its way in here, past the anger that had been clouding his judgment regarding Neal the last few days—any kind of hold over Neal? Should he be, as El had suggested, worried for Neal's safety any more than he normally was?
Calm down, Peter, he told himself. This is just another job. Neal's done these kinds of things—both before the Bureau and since—hundreds of times. You're over-thinking things.
And then his cell phone rang. The caller I.D. read 'M. Diaz'. He didn't recognize the name.
"Suit," came Haversham's voice over the phone. "This is not a secure line. But we had a deal, and as I've been lowered to stealing from my caretakers, and as there is no telling if Big Brother is listening, I must be brief."
"Or you could just get on with it, Haversham. Aren't you in the hospital? And what's Caffrey done now?" Why did Haversham always have the very worst timing?
"Caffrey is it? What happened to Neal your friend? And you should give me some credit—sneaking a phone from a sweet, over-worked medical staff person is scarcely an adequate test of my skill. And what makes you think that Neal has done anything at all?" Haversham's pedantic voice was seriously grating on Peter's nerves.
Distracted as some probie handed him coffee, and Diana gestured with a case file, Peter walked and talked. "Why else would you be calling me? So what is it this time? And you know, she might have just leant you the phone if you'd asked."
Haversham ignored him, saying instead, "A wise man once said that three may keep a secret if two of them are dead." Diana grinned as Peter rolled his eyes. He waved her off, indicating that he needed a minute.
"Are we back to that quote thing, again? Who is it this time, Emerson? Listen, if you're going to give me information, just give me information. Or are you going to try to argue about the honour amongst thieves thing again?" The man had been badly injured, and so Peter tried to be patient with Neal's little friend, he really did.
"No, and Franklin—Benjamin, of course, not Thomas. My point, Suit, is far more literal. Namely, that in this case, certain information may in fact remain a secret when two of the three involved may end up dead. Or worse." Peter wondered how hard Haversham had to work at always being so cryptic. Or at being so damned irritating.
"Haversham, I don't have time for this. What happened to brief?" Diana was gesturing more urgently in front of Peter's office.
"Maybe I should just get to the point," Haverhsam stated.
"That would be fantastic," muttered Peter.
Haversham ignored him again, as Haversham was often wont to do. "Suit, do you know how Haggerty and Neal met?" Haversham's tone was that of painstakingly casual inquiry. It made Peter want to grind his teeth.
"No, and why should I care?" he managed to bite out instead, squelching the urge to hang up on the little man. He knew that if Haversham had bothered to contact him—from the hospital, when fairly badly injured and on an unsecured line, no less—it must have been important.
"They met in prison, Suit, when Neal was downgraded—briefly—to close security. Haggerty was in for six months for tax evasion; it's all they could get him on."
Peter was confused. Neal had been downgraded, and he hadn't even tried to escape? Had he been running a con from prison? "I didn't know about-"
"They shared a cell, Suit." Haversham's tone was flat.
Peter's blood ran cold. "They what—I didn't know about—what exactly are you saying, Haversham?" Doesn't need to mean anything, Peter thought. Please don't let it mean anything.
"I'm telling you that that's how they met. They shared a cell." Haverhsam's voice remained calm. How could he be so calm? Peter's mind was racing.
"So they were roommates. Shared war stories. They probably had a lot in common, both being, you know, criminals. Doesn't need to mean anything." I put him there, thought Peter. I put Neal there.
"Maybe not, Suit. Maybe not. Maybe they are just business associates. And maybe the five times that Neal ended up in the infirmary during those six months were just a coincidence, too."
"Boss."
"What is it, Diana?" asked Peter, trying not to be curt. Meanwhile, his mind was racing. Damn it all, he should have asked! He should have known—ever since the whole incident with Fowler, ever since Mozzie had been shot, Neal hadn't been the same. He'd been—before, if revenge had kept Neal going, now nothing seemed to. He went through the motions, but it was like he was drifting. Everyone noticed. Even Mozzie coming to and trying to get Neal interested in the music box again—while Neal was profoundly relieved that his friend was recovering, he only appeared half-heartedly interested while Mozzie explained that the music box code was—
"This is important. Peter, you need to hear this." Diana's expression was grim.
"Peter, it's Jones." Jones was not an alarmist, but right now, Jones sounded downright worried. Peter reminded himself to stay calm, to breathe, not to panic. Neal was fine. If he wasn't, he'd have heard.
"Jones," Peter acknowledged, trying to sound composed, unconcerned.
"I joined the team surveilling Caffrey. We sent him in with the GPS and transmitter in the watch. I …" Peter closed his eyes. Thank god for Jones. Peter was fairly sure that the only reason the surveillance van was out there at all was because Jones insisted on it. Quiet Jones may be, but if he was your friend, he had your back.
Jones considered Neal a friend.
"… have been watching him the last few hours. We had him go in as an investor—Organized Crime had the alias set up already, and all Caffrey had to do was slip in. He was already pretty close to Haggerty—we knew he'd want to meet him, at the point that he invited him down, but Caffrey's been—off. He's been avoiding the meet, but now they've got a lunch date firmed up and he's moving."
"When?" demanded Peter, already donning his coat.
"In about an hour."
"Off how?" Diana followed him out the door.
"I'm not sure. Maybe you want to come down here. We're at the corner of fifth and Broadway right now, but-"
"I'm on my way. Keep a close eye on him. And Jones—"
Thanks, thought Peter gratefully, hoping Jones understood what he was trying to say, willing the elevator to hurry, while the rest of his mind kept up a never-ending litany of Neal, Neal, what did you not tell me? You better not get into more trouble. You better not do anything to mess this up.
You better be okay.
"Will do," said Jones, rock-solid, and his words were a promise. Grateful to Jones, Diana seated beside him, Peter took a deep breath and started the car.
Jones knew something was off the minute Haggerty's name was mentioned. There was something a little too casual, a little too forced, in Caffrey's voice. It wasn't like Caffrey, who was always, always smoother than silk. Jones hated that they didn't have visual anywhere on Caffrey, and wouldn't.
Jones tensed, and mentioned it to the team. Naturally, Ruiz—who was his AIC for this particular op, dismissed his opinion, making a dig that "Burke worrying like a woman was rubbing off on his team" while he was at it. Jones ground his teeth. He hadn't worked much with Ruiz in the past, but he was starting to dislike him almost as much as Peter did.
After a few hours of listening to Caffrey dance his way around the meeting with Haggerty, he heard the meet being made, and the first note of fear enter into Caffrey's voice. He called Ruiz, letting him know, and then he called Peter, but Peter didn't answer, and so he called Diana.
Diana went and got Peter.
The meet was less than an hour away, Ruiz and Peter were on their way, and Caffrey needed to be on top of his game. And from what Jones could tell, he was anything but.
"Don't I know you?" Haggerty was not a tall man, but he was broad and, Neal knew, packed with solid muscle. His demeanour was intimidating, and he appeared to be a man who commanded power.
Except this man did command power. Great power. Neal knew it.
Neal hadn't expected Haggerty to be in the limo. He'd imagined he'd meet Haggerty at the warehouse, or wherever their lunch date was supposed to be. He imagined he'd have a little more time to prepare. He didn't expect to ride there with Haggerty. Hadn't expected to be trapped in a car with Haggerty. Hadn't expected to see Haggerty yet, if at all. It threw him off.
Having no choice, Neal reluctantly, but trying not to seem reluctant, climbed into the back of the limo. "George. George Danvary. I don't believe we've had the pleasure." Neal knew his grin was just a little too wide, a little too forced, but he couldn't manage to do better. He tried to tell himself that Haggerty was smart—he was cunning, and he was perceptive, and he was smart. He reminded himself that keeping others off-balance was part of the way Haggerty held his power, part of the way Haggerty tested the loyalties of those around him, part of the way Haggerty ensured his own safety. He reminded himself of the stakes—Ruiz was convinced Haggerty was trafficking in human flesh, hurting helpless people, children.
It wasn't helping. Neal knew he was panicking, and the panic was taking over, but try as he might, he just couldn't manage to find his footing and get himself together.
"You know, you look very much like someone I once knew," said Haggerty with the air of someone considering a puzzle that has vaguely caught their interest. Neal, for his part, was trying not to visibly show any sign of discomfort. He reminded himself that in the months he'd shared a cell with Haggerty, he'd worn a jumpsuit, grown a beard, lost weight, and lost any interest in his appearance or (and he'd tried for years to block it out of his memory) personal hygiene. He reminded himself that he looked very different now, and that as long as he played it cool, the differences were enough to throw Haggerty off.
People believed what they wanted to believe; what it was easiest to believe. So you needed to make it easy for them to believe what you wanted. It was the first rule of the con.
"I must have one of those faces," said Neal easily. "Helps, in my business." Neal kept grinning as if he hadn't a care in the world.
"And what business, exactly, is that?" Haggerty's voice was slightly too sharp—then again, he was a mobster, not a fluffy bunny. Neal kept his voice and manner relaxed.
"Oh, you know, I do a little of this, a little of that. I hear you are looking for a partner. I hear you have a wide profit margin, but have some … security issues."
"Well, my men did say you told them I'd want to meet you. I did. I admit I'm intrigued, Mr. Danvary, is it?"
Meanwhile, back at the van, Peter walked in (well before Ruiz) and heard no more than fifteen seconds of feed before turning to Jones. "Something's wrong."
"I know," replied Jones, the anxiety in his dark eyes mirroring the worry in Peter's own.
Peter had been arguing with Ruiz for the past thirty minutes. Thank God, thought Jones, that the van is sound-proofed.
"I know Neal," said Peter, and he only sounded angry if you knew him. "And something's wrong."
"How can you tell?" asked Ruiz. "My men haven't …"
Peter didn't dignify that with an answer, cutting Ruiz off. "Your men don't know Neal. They don't know how he works. He's good. He's better than good. This isn't—"
"Now, Peter. The whole department knows how you think your boy walks on water, despite the fact he's a convicted criminal –"
"Ruiz, I'm telling you, you need to pull the plug—"
"Not yet, Burke. You know what's at stake. We need that warehouse. We need the location. Word is he's just got a shipment—"
"Neal might be in danger, Ruiz. You can't just-"
"Caffrey's not an innocent bystander, Pete! Besides, he's got an activation phrase if he needs it."
"He's not an expendable, either, Ruiz!"
"I thought we were supposed to be saving the innocent, Burke! What's got into you? You toying with the other side, now?"
"Goddamn it, Ruiz—"
"Relax, Petey. Your boy's fine. Your little convict is hobnobbing with his like—the only difference is that right now, he's being paid to do it. What's got your panties in a twist anyway, huh?"
Peter took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. "Look, I'm telling you, something's not right. And don't call me Petey."
"Just give it some more time, Burke. Just a while longer. He might have as many as five kids in this latest shipment. I can't pull the plug yet. And anyway, he hasn't used the activation phrase—"
"You're right," said Peter. "You're right." Peter sighed, defeated. "What's the phrase, then, Rick?" When are you guys supposed to move in?"
"The best caviar, and when he - "
"Jesus Christ, Ruiz!" exploded Peter. "How's he supposed to work caviar into a conversation?"
"Well, there's no mistaking it, is there? And I thought you said your little convict was so damned clever. He didn't say anything about it when I gave it to him, didn't argue it or suggest anything else. In fact, he didn't say much at all-"
"Did you give him any choice?"
"He's a felon Petey, or did you forget? You don't give felons choices!"
"Goddamn it Ruiz! You know how dangerous—"
"Burke, this is my op! I'm running it, and you got a problem with that, take it up with Hughes. Until then, this is Organized Crime's show, and you interfere, it'll be your head on the line. I've got a guy suspected of trafficking in innocent women and children, and you are more concerned with playing with your pretty little pet con than – "
"Peter," said Jones loudly, and both men turned. "They're moving out of range. What do you want to do?"
"Move!" roared Peter. "For God's sake, move! You can't—" The van lurched forward, but stopped almost immediately.
"What the—" started Peter.
"Light change," explained Jones tersely.
"We can't blow cover," said Ruiz. "There's no—"
On the feed, Caffrey's voice was cutting in and out, and his voice sounded higher than usual, stressed. It was difficult to make out the words. The GPS dot with his location, which had been moving steadily along Broadway toward the river into the Bronx suddenly veered left and then started blipping.
"Burke," said Ruiz. "Just relax. That's just electrical interference. We'll move closer …"
" … over caviar …" Neal's voice crackled through the feed, and Peter's blood ran cold.
And then the blip went out completely.
They combed the area where Neal's signal had been lost for hours, but there were no leads.
They managed to amplify the feed, in twice the time it would have taken Haversham Peter bet, but Haversham was laid up in a hospital bed and could be of little help. When I.T. eventually got it back to him, it didn't help. Peter listened to it, at his kitchen table (while El pretended to work, waiting for him, before she finally gave up, kissing him and going to bed and he promised he'd be right up even as they both knew he was lying) for hours.
"I hadn't ever thought to see you again, Neal. Miss me?" Haggerty's crackling voice, sounding mechanical and hollow through the amplified feed, sent a chill up Peter's spine. There was something about his tone that was downright creepy. Neal's response was uncharacteristically floundering, fearful, inadequate for the role he was supposed to be playing. The role he could normally play in his sleep.
"I don't know who you – " Clumsy, Caffrey, thought Peter, closing his eyes. The Neal he knew was never clumsy.
Then again, he didn't really know Neal, not really He wondered if even Kate ever had.
It made anger burn in him that the one that seemed to know Neal best—the one who'd been unable to unravel him—was this, this vicious thug. Because Haggerty appeared to have gotten under Neal's skin with only a few simple words, and Neal, Neal was falling entirely apart.
"I would recognize you anywhere, you think I would forget?" came Haggerty's voice again. "You have so little faith—or, I think maybe you just have faith in the wrong things-even if you do clean up right pretty. I knew you from the feed as soon as you made contact with my boys, but it was entertaining to watch you try to fool us, wasn't it boys? Oh, Caffrey. We are going to have so much fun together! I have special plans for you. It'll be just like old times." Haggerty was laughing, and in the background, there was a sound that sounded like nothing so much as the click of a gun being cocked.
"Listen, you can't do this. I am – " And now Neal just sounded desperate and so, so terrified. Peter clenched his teeth and resisted the urge to throw something, to scream, to stop thinking about how he could have stopped this, why he sent Neal down when he didn't want to go, why he hesitated on pulling the plug no matter what Ruiz said, no matter the stakes, no matter that Ruiz was willing to pay for one life with another Peter should have tried harder to stop him, owed it to Neal to protect him and keep him safe.
The feed was still running. "Yes, of course, Thomas. I—" and the feed crackled, too distorted to hear, until Neal said, "I never really liked caviar, but I know you always did."
"And you know how much I enjoy broadening your horizons, baby. You never know what you'll enjoy until you try, or what you'll learn to enjoy, although you were always so reluctant. Don't you remember? But maybe that's changed, now that you're older."
The feed cut out, although Peter thought he could hear Neal's voice indistinctly at one point, but he couldn't be sure, until Haggerty's voice cut back in.
"I taught you so much in the short time we had together. But don't worry. This time, we'll have all the time in the world to re-educate you." Haggerty's voice was neither cultured nor educated—he had, in fact, a very marked Jersey accent—but it was dangerous.
Peter eventually went to bed, but he didn't sleep. He lay awake, watching the sky slowly lighten as the sun rose. Neal had been gone almost 18 hours. Anything could be happening to him. Peter's imagination conjured up all kinds of horrifying scenarios—Haversham had not been able to provide any further details about Neal and Haggerty's relationship, but given what Peter now knew, he could take a guess. The speculation didn't help.
Peter prided himself on his instincts. Generally speaking, his instincts and intellect, along with an educated guess or two, had rarely steered him wrong. For the first time in his life, however, Peter prayed his instincts in this instance were dead, dead wrong.
Neal had been missing for almost 72 hours before they finally found him.
They found him via one of Haggerty's cronies, who sang like a bird when they arrested him, when they told him that they'd heard his voice and his name over the feed, when they explained that Neal was working for the FBI and that if Neal was harmed—well, everyone knew how the courts treated someone who had injured or killed an officer. After both internal and external haggling that took far too long, in Peter's opinion, they got a location and a warehouse listing for a plea bargain on a lesser charge, a non-custodial sentence, and the promise of protection. It was a damned good deal, and Rivera knew it.
It was near dark on the third day when they found Neal, in one of the warehouses that Haggerty apparently used as an office rather than a holding facility. Haggerty had spooked and fled, apparently, because except for Neal, the rest of the place had been emptied and wiped clean. Neal was in a small dark office—exactly as Rivera had described, because apparently Haggerty liked to keep his playthings close-chained to an honest to god ring in the wall near a boring wooden desk. The room smelled like human waste and sweat and fear. Neal winced and turned away when Peter hit the lights.
"Neal?" Peter's voice was clipped as he scanned the room. Except for Neal's presence, the rest of the room was very prosaic—it could have belonged to a small time accountant, or a lawyer. The ring in the wall seemed extremely idiosyncratic, unless it was to be used for a pet.
And then, Peter realized, it kind of had been.
"Peter! How are you?" Neal's voice was hollow and gravelly, as if he'd spent his day eating ground glass, but his tone was as casual as if Peter was just dropping by for a chat.
"More to the point, how are you?" Peter asked gently as he holstered his gun. He glanced around the room, looking for threats. "Diana, would you …"
Neal shrank back abruptly, jerking painfully as his chain stopped him. In the light, Peter was able to get a better look at him. One eye was bruised and swollen, with a dark bruise marring that cheek. There was blood at the left corner of his mouth. He was sitting on the floor, slightly hunched over, but he looked like he was in pain. His hair was messy, his clothes were stained and in disarray. He was shivering constantly.
Diana glanced at Peter before taking a step toward Neal. "Neal, I'm just going to take off the handcuffs. All right?"
"Do you have the key?" Neal's tone remained even and casual, but he still kept well back.
Diana smiled. "Even better. Wire cutters."
Neal smiled, or it looked like it. "Nah, it's okay. Maybe if you had a hair pin, you could give me five minutes? I'll just … "
"Neal, why don't you let us …" Peter began.
"Peter, I've got it. Really. Just give me … " There was something not quite right about the tone of Caffrey's voice, and when Peter looked more closely, he noticed that Neal's gaze wasn't exactly focused, his eyes darting around the room.
Peter gestured at Diana, who cast a worried look at Neal but obediently left the room. "All right, Neal. I've got a set of lockpicks. Here."
"You could go. I'll come out when I'm done." The words weren't a suggestion. Neal's hands were shaking so badly he could barely open the case. Peter didn't move.
"Neal?" asked Peter gently.
"I'll be fine, Peter. I'm good at this, remember?" The words were right, and his voice didn't shake, but Peter knew Neal too well to be fooled.
"I know you are, Neal," said Peter, still so gently. He knew better, he knew he knew better, but found himself blurting out anyway, "Neal, what happened?"
"Nothing. Haggerty … Tom, Tom and I, we're old friends. That's all. He didn't want me to get in trouble, so he put me here. It was so I wouldn't … I … I'm fine, Peter. I just have to get out of these cuffs." Neal wasn't able to get the pick to fit into the keyhole, although he was trying, utterly focused on the cuffs. He wouldn't look at Peter.
"Neal, I'm just going to wait here, all right? Is that okay?"
"Don't you … aren't there things you should be … I mean, Diana and …" Now Neal's voice was fracturing, and he was still shaking badly.
"No. I'm not busy right now. I'm just going to wait here. You need something, you tell me, all right?" Peter kept his voice calm and unthreatening, not allowing the rage he was feeling to show.
"I'm fine, Peter," Neal repeated. "I just have to get out of these cuffs." At the rate Neal was going, he was never getting out of the cuffs, Peter thought, but he didn't say anything.
Watching Neal carefully, but not moving any closer, and careful not to crowd him, Peter sat down on the floor and waited silently. After a good ten minutes of watching Neal struggle and fail, Peter said quietly, "Maybe I could try."
"I just … I almost had it. Peter, why don't you …" Neal sounded utterly focused and in control, but Peter caught the shake in it. Peter moved towards Neal and when he was in reach, he put an arm out, slowly, before placing his hand lightly on Neal's wrist. There were dark bruises on the skin there, where it wasn't swollen and bleeding sluggishly. Neal flinched violently at the contact. Frightened blue eyes flicked up to Peter's face before looking back down, hidden again by the unkempt hair.
"Neal. Let me help," said Peter.
After a tense moment, Neal's shoulders finally slumped slightly and he nodded, holding out the lockpick. He smiled slightly, trying to tease, but it was painfully forced. "You're always so impatient."
"I know," said Peter, teasing back, slowly working the lock. "Elizabeth is always saying I should be more patient. Peter, she'll say …"
"That Peter, he should be more patient." And Neal smiled, slightly, and it was less forced, and then the cuffs fell away.
"Neal," asked Peter, "what happened? What did he do?" He couldn't help the note of urgency in his voice, a small hint of his desperation to know.
But Neal's eyes flicked away from his own. "I told you Peter. I'm fine. Can we go?"
And sensing that he shouldn't push Neal, not right now, seeing the tenuous hold on his emotions that Neal was so desperately trying to maintain, Peter let it go. "Sure, Neal. Sure. Can you stand?"
"Of course. Don't be silly. I'll just …" Neal struggled, but when Peter offered a hand, he refused to take it. "I've got it," he gritted out. "I just need a moment."
"Neal," Peter tried, "the EMT's are on their way. Diana radioed for them. Why don't we just wait a couple minutes until …."
"No! Peter, no. I am fine. I don't want …" Neal's voice was rising.
"Neal … Neal, be reasonable," Peter cajoled. "You—"
"I'm being reasonable! I am -" Neal put one hand on the wall and levered himself violently up. His face went gray and he swayed, listing badly to the right. Peter was over at his side in a flash, propping him up with one arm and drawing the other over his shoulders. Neal went stiff and tried to pull away, but Peter wouldn't let him go.
"Neal, Neal, just take it easy. I'm right here, all right? It's just me. Peter. Just you and me." Peter kept his voice low and soothing, kept repeating the words until he felt Neal relax a little into the hold.
"Peter?" Neal's voice was strained, tired and filled with pain.
"Yeah, Neal. We're going to walk out of here, all right? Nice and slow. If you need to stop, you just tell me."
Neal nodded. "Ok." His forehead was beaded with sweat, and his lips were bloodless.
Outside the room, it was chaos, but when Peter and Neal emerged, everyone went still. Peter waved them all off with a look, and they quickly began finishing up what they were doing and filing out of the room.
"Boss?" said Diana. "The EMT's will be here in five. Maybe Neal could sit down over there until they get here."
Neal, to his credit, tried to smile. "It's ok. I'll just take a cab home. I – "
"Neal, you need to get checked out," Peter said patiently.
"No, Peter, I'm—" Peter had no idea where he was getting the energy to argue.
"Neal, you really—" started Diana.
"No! I don't want to. You can't make—" Neal was getting more agitated.
"Neal," said Peter, feeling like a monster, "after this kind of incident, you need to have medical clearance before you can go back into the field. And since this was an official op, they need the medical for evidence. And given your status, if you refuse to have the medical—"
"I can't get clearance, I'm non-cooperative, and I can't go back to work," said Neal wearily. "And I'm on work release, where the only rights I have—" he bit off the words, and paused, and then said, out of the blue. "Peter, I haven't done anything wrong."
"That's not the point," said Peter, confused. Who'd ever said he'd done anything wrong? Peter hated this situation, hated putting Neal in this situation, almost as much as Neal did. Didn't Neal know that?
Now Diana was glaring, but at Peter. To Neal she said gently, "No, Neal, you haven't done anything wrong. Nothing. Would you prefer to go to your own doctor?"
Peter could see Neal listen intently to Diana's words, as if he'd really needed to hear them. "No, I don't want—" he paused, and cut himself off, before saying, "Yeah. Yeah, I'll go tomorrow. Would that be okay?"
"I'm sorry, Neal. You can't. You were possibly injured on the job. You need to get medical clearance, and an incident report needs to be completed. Your clothes, your face, it's all evidence and needs to be documented. The forensic team needs to preserve it. I'm sorry, Neal." Diana was making her unhappiness with Peter known, but he was still, technically, superior to her. He had a department to run, and procedures to follow. And if Neal hadn't been a criminal, he probably could have gotten away with not having a forensic medical exam—but as it was, when he testified his criminal background would be thrown in his face, and so the independent evidence was necessary. As much as Peter might have wanted to let Neal get away with whatever he wanted this time, especially given the circumstances-he couldn't allow it, ironically in large part because of those same circumstances that made him want to give in.
Although truth be told, Peter didn't really want to allow it. He had no doubt that Neal could and would, given half the chance, forge a medical report if need be, and not think anything of it. But Neal was moving stiffly, and was clearly in pain. Whatever else was going on, he needed medical attention. Peter couldn't stand this, couldn't stand seeing Neal looking like he did. Peter needed to make sure Neal was okay. He needed someone to tell him that Neal was and would be okay.
"Boss, if he wants, why don't you just take him to the nearest hospital? They can do the exam there," Diana suggested, giving Peter an out, a reason to leave. "I'll clean up here."
"Thanks, Diana." Peter tried to put his gratitude into his voice; he couldn't bring himself to smile. "Neal, you okay with that?"
"Yeah, Peter, sure." Neal sounded like he was barely paying attention. When Peter looked at him, he did his best mock-surprised innocent look and said, "It's fine."
Diana looked as unconvinced as Peter did. Peter was still holding Neal up, and Neal looked more and more like he was going to collapse at any second, but all she said was, "Go. I'll meet you there."
It was difficult getting Neal in the car. As was his habit, Peter opened the car door and put a hand on Neal's head and started to push him in, but Neal made a pained sound and Peter stopped immediately. He could hear Neal panting.
"Neal?" he asked, concerned. Maybe he should have forced Neal to go with the EMT's.
"It's fine, Peter. Just give me a second. I must have pulled a muscle." Neal's voice was strained, and Peter forced himself not to say anything, not to call Neal on his bullshit. Not now.
It took a long time—or at least those few minutes seemed long—for Neal to manage to force his long body to bend into the car seat. Once seated, he leaned his head back on the headrest and went silent.
"Neal?" Peter asked, still holding the car door.
"Yeah, Peter. I'm fine. Let's go." Neal's voice was barely above a whisper. "But we really don't need to do this. You could just take me home; I promise I'll get checked out by tomorrow. Please, Peter, I just need to sleep for a bit, I – "
Peter cut off the babble. "You buckled in?"
"Yeah, Peter—"
"Then let's go." Peter closed the door.
Peter didn't waste time. He drove like a mad man to the nearest E.R. Neal was uncharacteristically silent as he drove, although his eyes never closed, until Peter slowed his car in front of the entrance and Neal seemed to rouse slightly.
"Why don't you just drop me off and I can take a cab back? You know how those wait times can be, Peter. What time is it, 6? Elizabeth's probably waiting on dinner for you. There's no point in – "
"It's after 8, Neal, and Elizabeth would have my head if I left you. I'm staying. The forensic team is on its way too."
"Right. Of course." Neal sounded anything but thrilled, and Peter smiled just slightly, but there was no amusement in it.
"Is it Tuesday?" Neal asked, suddenly, apropos of nothing.
"No, Neal. It's Thursday. Why do you ask?"
"Oh. I missed cinnamon bagels. Cindy visits on Wednesdays; she likes cinnamon."
"Right," said Peter, at a loss, then realizing. "Are you hungry, Neal? We can get you something if – "
"It's okay. I just missed breakfast. Tomorrow, right? Is tomorrow Thursday?"
"Friday, Neal. Tomorrow will be Friday." Peter tried not to sound worried.
Inside, Peter flashed his badge at the receptionist and explained the situation. They waited for a bit, in the uncomfortable waiting room, filled with a crying child and a woman moaning in pain and holding her stomach. They sat for a while, before Neal asked, "So, does the report just get filed?"
"Which report?" Neal gestured around them, and Peter said, "Oh, the medical? It gets sent to me, and I have to prepare an incident report. It's procedure, Neal." Peter was starting to hate saying those words.
"Do you have to read it?" Neal asked. He was clearly going for casual, but his voice to Peter's ears seemed small and scared.
"Yeah, Neal. I'm your handler. But only me, and Hughes." Peter paused. "If you want, Neal, I won't read it until after you've seen it first. Do you want me to wait? They usually give us a verbal, but I can wait until I get the written report, most probably on Monday. Do you want me to do that?"
"Is there any way you don't have to read it?" Neal asked, and the look in his eyes was pleading.
"No, Neal. The only other option is Ruiz, because it was technically his op, but if you'd rather—"
"No! No, in that case, I'd rather it be you. No one else?" Neal reminded Peter of Satchmo, at the shelter, when they'd first seen him. An animal cornered and scared but wanting so badly to trust someone not to hurt him more than he'd already suffered.
Peter wanted to scream, to fight, to throw up. It was so wrong to see Caffrey, of all people, reduced to this.
"No one else, Neal, except Hughes. It'll be classified. All right?" He forced his voice to remain gentle, not to betray any of the anger boiling inside.
"All right." And Neal lapsed back to silence, and Peter didn't know what to say.
It wasn't long before forensics arrived and they were shown to a small private room. Neal was fading, and Peter was getting increasingly worried. The agent they'd sent asked Neal to remove his clothing and put each item in a separate plastic bags before donning the hospital gown.
"Kinky," said Neal, almost in the same flirtatious tone that he had used a thousand times around the office, to tease him or Cruz or even Jones or Diana. (Not Reece, though. Neal was leery enough of Reece to be careful – well, he was always careful, but office respectful, maybe, was the better term – about what he said around the man.) But this time the delivery might have have been more effective if Neal didn't look like a stiff breeze would knock him over, if his eye hadn't completely swollen shut by now, if his voice had been just a little stronger.
"Will I get it back?"
But the agent they'd sent from forensics—Gupta he'd said his name was-smiled broadly as if it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "You have no idea," he responded, "and yes, if you want, although that shirt looks ruined," before adding, "You can use the smaller bags for items like your tie and underwear."
"They want my underwear?" Neal seemed upset by this.
"Yeah. We need everything. Sorry, it's procedure." The man seemed truly apologetic.
"Peter?" Neal raised his eyes to Peter, begging for help, but Peter just shrugged helplessly.
"I'll wait out here, Neal. Let me know if you need anything, okay?" Peter felt like an ass for abandoning Neal, whose eyes still begged him-for protection, rescue, he didn't even know what—but he couldn't help Neal, and so he couldn't stay and watch this.
Neal, damn him, understood the gesture for what it was. Another betrayal. "You really don't have to wait," said Neal. "I'll be fine." I don't need you.
"I'm waiting out here." To the other agent he said, "Let me know if there are any problems, okay? And send me your report as soon as you have it."
"Will do," said Gupta, cheerfully. Peter wondered how he could do the work he did and still remain so upbeat.
It was a long wait. He had no idea what was going on with Neal inside, but was hesitant to leave, not wanting Neal to come out and think Peter had left. After an hour, he did go to the vending machine for a minute to get coffee, but changed his mind when he got there. He came back, and he waited.
Neal came out, dressed in a set of scrubs, a little over two hours later. It was midnight. Neal looked terrible.
"I really think," said the doctor loudly enough for Peter to hear, "that you should allow us to check you in overnight. I don't like the look of – "
"No," said Neal abruptly, all his charm gone. "I'm leaving. Peter?"
"You should at least follow up with your own doctor tomorrow. I'm also going to give you a prescription for Percoset, but if it doesn't help with the pain, then you should come back here immediately, understand?"
Peter scrambled up. "I'm his partner. Neal, maybe you should—"
"No." Neal said angrily. Peter exchanged a look with the doctor. "I want to go home. I want to go now." He sounded like a little boy. Under different circumstances, it would have made Peter smile.
Another look exchanged with the doctor, and Peter said, "Why don't you come and stay with me and El for a few days, huh, until you get back on your feet? It's the weekend, and I know that El had insisted I invite you over for —" Peter needed Neal in view. And this way, he could make sure he saw a real doctor the following day. He had no doubt that Neal could and would, given half the chance, forge a medical report if need be, and not think anything of it.
"No! Please, Peter, I'm just not very good company right now. I don't – I'll come over another time, all right? Please tell Elizabeth I'm very sorry." He sounded lost and pleading, as if he would somehow be blamed for not going, blamed for doing something else wrong.
Helplessly, Peter said, "It's okay, Neal. You don't have to. Another time. Why don't I drive you home?"
On the way home, Neal lay as still as marble in the passenger seat, except to cry out in pain when Peter slammed the brakes on because of a kid that ran into the street. When they arrived at June's, Peter undid Neal's belt, and then put a hand on Neal's shoulder. Neal startled under his hand before blinking awake. "Neal? We're here. I'll take you upstairs, but is there anyone else you'd like me to call?"
"Why would you call anyone? I'm fine, Peter; you don't need to come in. You are seriously acting very weird. I'll just …" Neal gasped in pain as he turned to open the car door, going very still and very pale. His breathing was harsh, and his knuckles were white on the door handle.
Peter couldn't stand it, couldn't stand the pretence any more. "Okay, that's it. I'm taking you to my place, and I don't want to hear it Neal. No. You are hurt, and just for once, you are going to listen to me."
"No! Please Peter, no, please. I … " his voice caught, faded to a whisper. "I don't want Elizabeth to see me like this. Please, Peter. Don't do that. Just—please just help me upstairs."
And when Neal asked like that, Peter couldn't, couldn't bring himself to refuse. And so he did as Neal asked. He helped him upstairs, refused to leave, waited (and called El) while Neal took a shower, and waited until Neal emerged, wearing long pyjama pants as he usually did for bed and a t-shirt for Peter's benefit, to cover the bruises. Waited while Neal settled himself in bed, told Peter yet again that he could leave because he was fine fine fine, closed his eyes, and appeared to sleep.
And when the sky started to lighten over the city in the eastern sky, beautifully pictured through the French doors, when Neal didn't move or speak even though he wasn't asleep, (because Peter knew to tell the difference) when the ticking of the clock and of Neal's too even breathing somehow seemed too stifling and all he wanted was his bed and his wife and his dog and the comfort of his own home, Peter got up and closed the door quietly behind him and left.
Because he knew that Neal didn't want him there and didn't want his help. But more than that, Peter knew that it was over and done. There was nothing he could do. And the time for offering help had long past.
Peter had been staring at the report on his desk for the past hour. The words blurred.
… thirty-two year old male who presented at the E.R. for a forensic examination after being reportedly held against his will … clothing surrendered to forensic team … patient appeared in good health …
… moderately dehydrated, and admitted to having very limited food or liquid intake during that period …low blood pressure … patient complained of thirst and displayed some generalized weakness and fatigue …
… patient initially appeared compliant, but became increasingly resistant during the examination, and required persuasion to remove his covering …
… large lesion on left side of face, as well as a laceration measuring approximately 0.5 inches over the left eye … stitches were required to …
…pupils reactive, but patient complained of headache … difficult to ascertain any other symptoms as patient denied feeling confused and indicated he could not recall being hit on the head … unclear whether patient's report indicates any memory loss or rather a refusal to provide information …
…patient refused a CAT scan …
… patient refused any examination below the waist, although he permitted palpitation of abdomen, and denied any traumatic or inflicted injury …
… patient had several lacerations and contusions, as well as small circular burn marks, across his back, including upper and lower back … the contusions were of various sizes … patient would not permit even a visual exam of the entirety of the lumbar region …
… patient had marks measuring approximately 2.5 inches long on his arms and upper torso consistent with the shape of fingers … query sexual assault …when questioned, patient emphatically denied any sexual assault …
… patient had apparent fractures of the fourth and fifth ribs, and was referred for x-rays, to which patient did consent after some persuasion …
… patient could provide no clear explanation for the injuries …
…patient was encouraged to attend at his family doctor for follow-up and monitoring …
…results inconclusive, as examination was incomplete, please see attached …
Peter stopped reading. He didn't look at the photographs. He didn't look at the report from forensics. He stared out the window at the cityscape before him. He was still staring when Diana knocked on his door an hour later.
"Yeah Diana?" Peter asked distractedly, not really looking up.
"Everything ok, boss?" Diana's gaze was kind, concerned, polite.
Peter pulled himself together, looking at her now. "Yup. Just fine. What do you have?"
Diana's expression didn't change. "Forensics came back with the report on Neal, didn't they?"
She'd always been perceptive, and he really wanted to share this, to discuss his concern and his worry and his uncertainty about how to deal with this latest Neal development, but at the very least he owed Neal his privacy, and that at least he could do. It was the least he could do. "That's classified, Diana. You know that."
"I'm not asking, boss. But I hope he's okay."
"Yeah, Diana, me too."
"Have you spoken to him yet?"
"No, he's not answering his phone."
"He's at his desk, Peter," replied Diana wryly. "You could just walk over."
"What?" asked Peter, startled.
Peter had told Neal to take the week off. He had stayed until late into Friday morning, but had left when Neal remained in bed and unresponsive; he had tried to call Neal over the weekend, but Neal didn't answer. He'd even gone over there Saturday evening—Elizabeth had driven him, when Peter's worry had started driving her mad, even though he couldn't give her details about why, wouldn't tell her what wasn't his place to tell-but June wasn't home to let him in, and Neal wasn't responding to calls or door bells. So he'd called Haversham, and told him to keep an eye on Neal, but Haversham told him Neal was being elusive, which was code for Neal was hiding from him too. Alex he had had no way to contact at the present time and couldn't justify using Bureau resources to track her down, and Sara hadn't even known that Neal was injured—when he'd called her, she'd explained her believe that Neal had been on a stakeout or something and was tired, but had still had some work to catch up on over the weekend, which worked out fine for her as she'd needed to work all weekend anyway.
Still, Peter had expected that Neal would at least take advantage of the offered time away.
But when Peter looked down, there Neal was, strolling over to the coffee-maker in the office, slightly more stiffly than usual perhaps, but with a fair approximation of his trademark swagger. He was dressed to the nines, and was smiling as if nothing worse than a hangnail had ever occurred to him in his life.
Peter did the double finger point when he saw him. "Neal! Get in here."
He watched Neal walk towards his office, the hint of a bounce in his step. His manner and expression almost distracted from his unhealthy pallor, the slight limp to his gait that wasn't just from the newly attached anklet. Had Peter not known of Neal's ordeal, even he might have missed it.
"Yeah, Peter?" smiled Neal brightly.
"How are you?" Peter's voice was measured and serious, countering Caffrey's breezy attitude.
"Just fine. You wanted to see me?" Neal made no move to sit down; instead, he hovered by the door.
"Get in here, and shut the door."
"Whatever it is, I didn't do it. I was good all week, I promise." Neal's grin was blinding and utterly, utterly false.
"I called you," said Peter.
"I was sleeping," said Neal, and his tone was just a tad defensive, although he tried to hide it.
"Five times." Peter kept his tone mild.
"I was busy. You said I was off work, and it was the weekend." And now Neal definitely sounded defensive and almost a little sulky. "You said I could have a few days, just like a real agent." And now he definitely sounded put out, before he visibly collected himself, taking a breath and smiling broadly, all calm and breezy again. "Did you need something?"
"No, I was just – I received your medical report." And Neal's smile vanished.
"And?" Neal's voice was decidedly uneasy.
Peter could have whitewashed. He could have eased into the conversation. He could have cut Neal some slack. But this was Neal. And the one thing that Peter had learnt was that when dealing with Neal, any slack would be hauled up and somehow made into five more ropes. So he dove right in.
"And you don't provide an explanation. You didn't let them complete a full exam."
And now Neal was definitely shaken, but to his credit, he tried. "I got roughed up a bit, Peter. They didn't exactly treat me gently, but it was no more than usual. The doctor was annoying me, and I didn't like it. I don't have to submit to that, Peter." Ah, that card. Neal knew where to hit.
But Peter wasn't giving either. Neal talked the talk, knew all the right things to say, and used this knowledge to his advantage; the problem, Peter realized, was that Neal didn't really believe the words. Peter didn't know, refused to think about, the kinds of things Neal might submit to, given sufficient inducement. Or perceived lack of choice.
"No, you don't," Peter said forcefully, hoping Neal believed him. Hoping Neal understood that Peter meant it. "But Neal—"
Neal rushed in, cutting Peter off. "And there was nothing in there that said I couldn't be at work, and here I am and I'm ready to do whatever you want, so there's no problem, is there?" So that was why Neal was here. He was trying to protect himself, trying to make sure that there was no reason to inquire further, no reason to doubt him. And to be fair, another agent, even Hughes, wouldn't have bothered to delve any deeper. Neal was their consultant, and he was doing his job, and that was all that would have mattered.
It wasn't all that mattered to Peter. "No, but—"
"So are we done?" And Neal was all but squirming, clearly ready to escape as soon as an opening presented itself.
"I'm sorry, Neal," said Peter, because it had to be said, because Peter knew he could never forgive himself. "I'm sorry. For what it's worth. I should have trusted you."
"It's all right," said Neal, too quickly. "I didn't give you any reason to think there was a problem, really. So no harm, no foul. We done?"
Peter blinked at him. How could Neal just let it go? But … there didn't seem to be anything else to say. Helplessly, he told him, "They're going to add forcible confinement to the list of potential charges. Assault, whatever else, if you give a statement. Will you?"
"Whatever you want, Peter." Neal's smile was open and guileless, and almost, almost completely free of the resentment and bitterness that had flashed momentarily in his eyes. He knew he had no choice, even if Peter had asked. "Does this mean you've caught him?" Neal asked the question casually, but there was a tension to his frame that betrayed his anxiety over the response.
"Not yet," said Peter. "We will." Peter's voice was a promise, but Neal looked away and out the window-in an effort, Peter realized, to hide the guilty relief that flooded his face. In a sudden flash of insight, Peter understood why, although his resolve didn't change. Neal, who was gentle as a lamb, had served four long years. This monster deserved far, far worse.
He wondered, then, if he should, if he could, tell Neal it was okay. Okay not to want to testify. Okay not to want to relive it.
Okay to feel guilty that this meant that Haggerty was still out on the street.
Even as Peter wondered why Neal wasn't indicating any fear at the fact that Haggerty was still running loose. Peter didn't know what that meant, either. But Peter couldn't help the feeling that this meant something was deeply, deeply wrong with his younger friend. But Neal's expression had closed off, and gone blank, and he was still looking out the window. Peter wasn't fooled. Neal was fighting for control.
Peter looked up, and waited until Neal was forced to look back at him. He held Neal's gaze. "You know, the FBI has a counseling service. As our consultant, and for a work-related incident, you qualify. It's also completely confidential. That means, Neal, even if you tell them you stole the Mona Lisa they wouldn't tell me. No," Peter held up a hand, when Neal once again opened his mouth to interrupt, "don't say anything. I'm just letting you know it exists. Go, don't go, but just so you know it's there. And Neal?"
"Yeah, Peter?" There was wariness in Neal's tone. Neal's stunned look had faded, and now he just looked freaked. Neal, Peter knew, hated being found out. Hated anyone to see him vulnerable. Hated to be understood. Peter was slow, but he was learning about Neal—not Neal the unsub, Neal the perp, or Neal the conman—but Neal. And learning about Neal was a painstaking process, filled with unexpected pitfalls.
And for all his effort, it wasn't like Peter even liked what he was learning. Because it made him ache for Neal, blurred the lines between action and motive and consequence, and made Peter wish, really wish, that he hadn't been the one to catch Neal. That they weren't in this uneasy position, that he didn't need to dance this dance with Neal, especially now.
That Neal could really trust him, and that he could allow it.
Screw it. "And Neal, I'm here too. Not as Agent Burke, but just as Peter. If you need me. Anytime. Just so you know."
Neal didn't say anything, but by the shocked expression and the immediately dropped eyes, and the way he wouldn't meet Peter's gaze, Peter knew that the message had been, at least to some extent, received.
And that was the best he could do.
He dismissed Neal, and stared out at the city, which still moved and breathed and lived. Whatever happened, New York City marched on. He thought about Neal, and Elizabeth, and Haggerty's victims, three little foreign girls they'd pulled from one of the other warehouses, before they'd found Neal. He thought about the realization on their faces when they realized they'd been rescued. He thought about the tears in their eyes, the hollow look in Neal's, and how life wasn't fair, and how he couldn't fix it.
Suddenly, suddenly he missed Elizabeth with a pang, and needed to speak to her, to hear her voice, to just know that she existed and she loved him and he would see her when he got home. He thought about Kate, and whether she loved Neal like he loved Elizabeth, like Elizabeth loved him, and if so, how Neal couldn't tell her about his cache, couldn't trust her completely. Couldn't call her when he was tired and heartsick, and especially not now, when it was her loss he mourned, when he needed her most.
He thought about those girls, alone in a cold city that didn't speak their language and had no place for them.
He thought about all these things, and he didn't call his wife. Instead, he stared at the photo of her in Greece, the wind in her hair and the smile lighting up her face, and thought about how he could tell her anything.
He watched Neal smile at Diana, who was clearly teasing him about who knew what. It looked almost normal, until he saw Neal's flinch of pain at a sudden movement that he immediately tried to cover, until he saw the protective, concerned look flit across Diana's face before being wiped clean.
He watched his team bustle around the office: Jones calling to Eto, Morgan annoyed about someone putting a used coffee mug on his desk, Chan diligently working at her desk. He saw Jones glance over at Neal, from time to time, offering casually to get him a coffee, to bring him a file, suggesting lunch.
On impulse, he sent Neal an e-mail, telling him he was taking him to lunch at Monte Bello, and it was work, so he better not be planning to goof off with Jones. He saw Neal turn towards his office and smile. To Peter, it seemed a shadow of the brilliant enthusiasm Neal usually displayed, but underneath it all he thought he saw a genuine Neal smile, and Peter couldn't help but smile back. It seemed like such a small thing to do, completely inadequate, completely ridiculous.
But then he wondered if Neal should be eating that kind of food yet. He wondered if Neal even wanted to. Neal had been – if he drew the logical conclusion, Neal had been tortured for three days. It seemed incongruous with the Neal laughing at his desk, tossing a rubber band ball, still chatting with Diana.
Peter wondered if he would be able to tell what Neal really wanted, without Neal saying anything, and whether he could ever believe him if he did. Because if he believed what Neal wanted him to believe, just because it wasn't illegal, just because it didn't matter to a case, just because it was far more convenient-did that make it all okay? Even if it was what Neal seemed to want?
The low hum of chatter, Hughes barking at someone the next office over, the frenetic pace of the city at work below him. Everything might have changed, and nothing really had.
His office was quiet, there were files across his desk—other criminal to be caught, other thieves and vandals and defrauders to be brought to justice, like Neal, like Haggerty-and he had accomplished nothing all morning. Peter reached for the closest file on his desk, opened it, and started reading about the next case.
End.