Title: Everybody Lies

Rating: Gen

Genre/Relationship: General Friendship

Spoilers: None, really, but this happens in Season 5

Word Count: 3108

Whole Story Summary: How much power does one little lie—or one big one—have over someone's destiny? It's hard to know, because everybody lies.

Everybody Lies

"Everybody lies," Neal said. They were walking, or rather, they had been walking, but as the conversation had sucked more and more energy, their steps had slowed, and now they were standing, facing the park, facing off.

"Neal, that's not—that's bullshit and—"

"It's not bullshit," Neal almost shouted. "Every. Body. Lies." He glared at Peter, his throat tight, feeling like something wild and terrible was about to burst out of his chest.

Seeing his distress, Peter reached out to touch him—a hand on his shoulder, a warm grip on his elbow, but Neal moved out of the way. He had done it before. Peter had seen him do it a thousand times before, seen him move subtly out of range when it seemed like someone might touch him, but he usually made it look incidental, accidental.. Not so today. Today, he moved when Peter stretched to touch him, moved deliberately—hell, he waited for Peter to reach for him before he moved, making sure he got the message. Peter let his hand drop to his side, stung, but he wasn't done, wasn't giving up. He stepped close to Neal, got into his space.

"We're going to do this now? Really?" Neal said, trying to put the mask of indifference back in place.

"Yes, now. Yes, really. You've been festering like a boil for weeks now, ever since—"

"You don't have to tell me when!" Neal gritted. "I know when—alright?"

"Then—"

"And what about you?"

"What about me?" Peter demanded, glaring at Neal, hands on his hips, looming over Neal, but the younger man didn't back up, didn't back down.

"You talk about me festering—what about you? Huh? You've been brooding ever since—"

"I know when!" Peter practically shouted. A few passers-by looked at them, then moved on. This was New York.

Neal laughed and looked away. "Really, Peter? You're in my—"

But Peter had seen the flush on Neal's cheeks, seen the bright sheen of anger moistening those blue eyes. "I know I'm in your space," Peter said, and though Neal could here the anger in it, the intent, he could also tell that Peter had worked, had made an effort, to overlayer that anger with gentleness, to temper the fine edge of his fury and blunt it. "I know, Neal."

They stood that way for a moment, both of them counting off the seconds, daring the other one to move or speak or do something that would set the match to the wood and invite the powder keg to blow, but neither of them did. Slowly, the heat leached out of the moment, leaving them both empty, but empty of different things.

Peter's anger melted away—not his indignation, not his frustration or the maddening sense of powerlessness he felt—but the anger, and he stood close to Neal and willed him to see that, to feel it sheeting off of him like rain. Face still averted, Neal tried his con-man smile, madly uncomfortable, but refusing to move, refusing to be moved.

This time, when Peter reached for his arm, he didn't pull away. He thought Peter was going to take his elbow, thought Peter was go to take his arm and move him, propel him where he wanted him to go, back to the case, back to the office, but he didn't.

He didn't. Neal's whole body stiffened in surprise when Peter reached out, reached around him, almost, and put his hand on Neal's back. Peter spoke, but he was no longer staring at Neal, no longer searching him out with those see-everything eyes, and the relief of not having to stand up under that gaze was replaced almost instantly with...something else, something that felt heavy and warm and...Neal didn't have words for this. It was new.

"Neal. Neal, hey." The gentleness in that tone—god, the compassion—was almost unbearable.

Neal had made a career, well—two careers, a lifetime of holding it together, but Peter's hand on his back, his name on Peter's lips, damn him, the gentleness in him all but unstrung him.

But Peter (damn him) seemed to know that—too-(of course he did) and he steered Neal over to a bench. Neal walked like his legs had forgotten how to work, walked like he couldn't remember how to locomote at all without Peter's hand on his back.

They sat, but Peter kept the hand on him, moved it to his shoulder so they could both look out and not at each other.

"You're right," Peter said, the words coming with difficulty, but coming all the same. "Everybody lies. I lie, too. You were right, and I was wrong."

Neal had wanted this—at least, he thought he had, but now, hearing the words come, he didn't want it, couldn't want it—no...

"No," Neal said, his own voice sounded strained. "No, Peter. You weren't wrong. I...I did it...I did...everything. You were right. You were right about me. I was wrong. Not you. You were right about...everything."

"Neal..." There was a world of patience in that voice, a world of caring.

"Yes." The word was muffled, layered in emotion and hard to extract.

"Will you shut the hell up and let me talk?" For an instant, Peter let the knife-edge of his voice slice cleanly, and Neal subsided, nodding but not speaking.

"I'm not...I'm not talking about the kind of lies everybody says. I'm not talking about the kind of lies we tell at work, or in bed—"

That got him a look, a quick reflexive grin, but Peter squelched it with a look.

"A long time ago," he said. "And not my point. What I'm trying to say is...god, Neal, I'm sor...I said some things."

Neal said nothing.

"I'm not...I'm not going to apologize for the things that I said that were true."

Something fluttered inside Neal's chest, desperately, then subsided, broken and voiceless.

"But I said some things." He stopped and cleared his throat. "I said one thing," he said, his voice tight with...something.

Neal glanced over at him and was surprised to see Peter at the point of tears, saw him grasping at composure like a drowning man.

"Peter..."

"Shut up, Neal—damn it. If I don't get this out it won't...I can't ever be..." Savagely, he pressed his lips together, breathing through his nose, trying to master himself.

Neal watched him, wanting to look away, wanting to give Peter privacy but unable to. He stared, not knowing what he was looking at, but wanting it, needing it. The broken thing inside his chest stirred.

"When...when I got out of prison—and I'm not going to talk to you about that now, because...because I can't, and because that's not what I'm trying to say."

"What are you trying to say, Peter?" Neal asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"I...when I got out of prison, and everything was so...and you were so...sitting in my office with that damned rubber ball, and...and I didn't even have time to catch my breath before they were pushing on me, pushing me about Washington...I...Neal..."

Neal was afraid to speak, afraid to touch him, but he relaxed beneath the weight of that warm hand, let his shoulders unclench, stand down, welcome the touch instead of resisting it. Feeling it, Peter laughed, and he wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand.

"Neal, I was so worried about what I was supposed to be, about what I was supposed to do, that I tried to...damn it. I'm terrible at this stuff."

"You really are," Neal said, and Peter laughed again, a less mournful sound, and squeezed Neal's shoulder.

"Neal, you're not a criminal—" Peter began.

"I am," Neal countered, his voice dry.

"No, you're—"

"Peter. I'm pretty sure I've engaged in a lot of criminal activity lately." It occurred to him that he might go back to jail, that he might lose his freedom, but nothing mattered right now—nothing mattered ever—if he lost this, this moment.

"I don't want to hear it," Peter snapped, and his anger touched off Neal's own.

"I know! Damn it, Peter—I know. You want me to be...something I'm not, something I can't ever—"

"Hush. Just listen for a—"

"No—you listen! For once, could you just hear me out? For once, could you just...let me explain, let me tell you. Could you just...hear me and not try to pretend I'm not saying what I'm saying?"

Peter would have had to be made of stone to ignore the need in that voice, but he was not, and he did not. "I'm listening," he said, and looked at Neal.

"Look, I—I don't know if I can ever be what you want me to be—"

"What I want you to—sorry. Sorry." Peter held his hand up and shut up, his brown eyes fastened on Neal's face. There was so much uncertainty on his face, so much...hope. Peter rubbed Neal's shoulder gently, just a single move back and forth to let him know he was listening, was hearing him.

"I...you were right. She was right. I'm just...a criminal, and that's all I'll ever be."

Peter was quiet for a long moment, and when he spoke, his voice was sad. "When we first met, when I first started looking at your file, I knew you were more than you seemed. You were brilliant, inventive, reckless...cocky."

"Um, thank you?"

"Shut up."

"Shutting up."

"But you were never just anything. I knew that even before I met you. It's why I wanted to meet you."

"Why you wanted to catch me."

"Why I wanted to catch you," Peter acknowledged.

"You did catch me," Neal said, "so I obviously wasn't all that brilliant."

"Are you done?"

"I..."

"Cause I'm kind of trying to have a moment here, I'm trying to say how...stupid I've been, how I let my fear and my ambition and...it doesn't matter what—whatever—I let myself put you in a box, in a category because it made me feel...safer? More in control."

"You felt out of control? Peter Burke felt out of control?" Neal could not stop the incredulity from tinging his voice.

"When...when my emotions are in play, I feel out of control. You should know that by now." He gave Neal a baleful look. "You do know that by now."

"I...yes," Neal admitted. Peter had never been good at the emotional parts, had been even worse about talking about the emotional parts.

"I was so damn afraid I had ruined everything, damaged everything...hell, Neal. I'm not just supposed to be your handler. I'm supposed to be a role model."

"You are, Peter—you are a—"

"And instead of showing you the way to go, I tried to play the system. I meant well—my reasons were good, but my behavior..." He looked at Neal, who was looking at him uncertainly. "How can I go on and on about "Trust the System" when I don't trust it myself?"

"It's not the system," Neal said. Although it had been a sticking point from the beginning, the thought that Peter would lose faith in justice was...unthinkable. Neal could hardly stand it, could only imagine how hard it had been for Peter to think it, to say it. "It's not the system," Neal said. "It's...it's the people. People are corrupt. People lie."

"Everybody lies?" Peter's tone was light, but his eyes were bleak.

"Yes," Neal admitted reluctantly, hating the way his own words were being use against him, against Peter. "But that doesn't mean...it doesn't mean you...throw the baby out with the bathwater." Neal did a mental headslap—what was he, a walking cliché? But Peter was listening—Peter was listening!–and he was looking to Neal for help, for understanding. The thought humbled him, made his gaze drop to his hands. He was used to Peter looking to him for guidance—in a case, in the field, in romance or dress or other things, but to have Peter look to him like a moral compass was terrifying.

"Neal, I took you on, took your deal, and with that came responsibility. I shouldn't have taken you on at all if I wasn't willing to...it shouldn't be about using you."

Neal looked at him askance. "Um, Peter—I'm pretty sure that that's exactly what it's about. C.I.'s are used in exchange for...a degree of freedom. Everybody uses everybody else."

Peter sighed and sat back. Neal was afraid he was going to remove his hand, but he didn't. He leaned back against the park bench and pulled Neal back with him, his hand still resting on Neal's far shoulder. Neal found he'd been holding his breath and let it out slowly.

"Neal, did you ever wonder why I never took on a C.I. Before?"

"Cause we're a pain in the ass?"

"Well, there's that," Peter grumbled, but there was a smile in his voice. "Because it's...it's complicated. Do you know how many C.I.'s the FBI uses?" Neal started to answer, but Peter held up his hand. "It was a rhetorical question," Peter said, and sighed. "Do you know how many of those...work out?"

This was not a rhetorical question, but Neal said nothing. Peter waited, but Neal waited him out, and eventually he spoke again. "So when you hit me with your offer...I was...reluctant."

Neal might have snorted, but when Peter shot him an annoyed look he covered it with a cough.

"But I was intrigued. You were...so smart, so...there was so much there, and the thought of..." Peter trailed off, uncomfortable.

"Helping me change?" Neal asked. His tone was gentle, not mocking at all. Peter rolled his eyes—caught in the unfortunate truth—but finally nodded.

"Yes," he admitted.

"I can...understand how that might appeal to you, while on the other hand, riding herd on a criminal—"

"Neal." Peter was calling him on it, not allowing the label to pass. The broken thing inside Neal stood up and took a cautious breath.

"I knew that when you took me on, it was at least partly because you thought you could..." Now he trailed off, uncomfortable. "I, um, might have helped that idea along a little," he muttered, nervous about how this revelation might be received. But it was Peter's turn to snort.

"You think, Sherlock?" Peter said. "I knew you were hoping to play me, knew you wanted out for your own reasons." He turned and looked at Neal, his expression tinged with sadness. "I knew you had to know about Kate—had to find out for yourself."

Neal nodded. Thinking of Kate was like touching an old scar, healed over but still tender, still pulling on him.

"But I also thought..." He paused, and Neal could practically feel Peter's desire to say "think: as well, but he didn't. "I thought I had something to offer you, something for you to..."

"Look up to—Peter, you did. It's why I stayed, why everything changed, why I changed."

Peter turned to look at him so suddenly that Neal's whole body tensed, not sure what to expect, but when he recovered, Peter was looking at him with that look—that look that Peter got whenever he said something that tipped off the case, solved the mystery, snapped everything into focus.

"Bingo," said Peter, triumph on his face.

Neal looked at him, not sure what had just happened, but he felt happiness and hope pouring off of Peter, pouring through him. His face must have registered his confusion, but Peter had pity on him and explained.

"Neal—you said it. You just said it. You. Changed." Peter's hand moved to the back of his neck, squeezing, shaking him gently. Neal had a sudden, overpowering memory of walking beside his father, of his father's hand—just so—against his neck. Neal wondered how many times he had felt Peter's hand, warm and comforting and solid, guiding him on the right path, guiding him home.

"I..." Neal didn't know what to say, was beyond speech at the moment. His throat felt clogged with tears, with promise, with possibility. He scrambled, trying to get his mask back in place. "Peter, don't—"

"Stop. Stop right there. You can't un-say it. And I'm not going to pretend I un-heard it."

"Is that even a word?" Neal said. His voice seemed to be working, but sounded broken, shattered. But it was okay to be broken, okay to be shattered—here—here with Peter. It was okay to be what he was, here with Peter.

"I don't know," Peter said, but he sounded jubilant, smug. "I made it a word."

"Actually," Neal said, "I think Diana used it first, the time Mozzie and Sally—"

Peter waved him away. "Thanks for bringing that up," he muttered, but he cast a careful look at Neal's face, apparently satisfied with what he saw there.

Neals composure was coming back, but his equilibrium—he didn't know when the world would stop tilting.

"Neal...now that...everything's out..." He stopped, trying to figure out if he had to say this next, but apparently he did. "It is all out now, isn't it? Hagan? Siegel? Rebec—"

"It's all out," Neal said. He groped around desperately in his brain for something that he had not yet confessed to Peter, but came up empty.

Peter nodded, looking out at the park. "So," he said, "the question is, what are you going to do about it?"

Neal looked at him, overwhelmed at the thought of having the reins in his hands. "What am I going to do about it? I...I think it depends on what you're going to do about it." He swallowed. "Doesn't it?"

"You're my C.I., Neal, but that's just your job. You're also my partner, and my friend. What I'm going to do is whatever it takes to try to protect the last two, because those are the things that are important."

"Peter, I—" Sometimes the absence of pain is a pain itself, but Neal was tough, and he did his best to stand up under it.

Peter gave him time. They sat on the park bench for as long as it took, then they stood up, slowly, together and headed back to the office.

-Finite-