Peter Burke hated Kate Moreau.
Hate was a strong word, but it was definitely what he felt when she showed up on his radar. He equated her with words like 'trouble,' 'selfish,' and 'cruel.' She had never done a thing to him, good or bad, but he still had a good reason for his loathing.
Peter Burke hated Kate Moreau because Peter Burke really liked Neal Caffrey.
He hated her because he had to sit back and watch as Neal made the same, stupid mistake over and over and over again. Sure, the first time around, it had worked in Peter's favor. Neal's senses had gone out the window as soon as Kate was involved, and as a result, Peter made an arrest.
But Peter had used Kate to get to Neal. Kate hadn't actually done anything. He couldn't really blame her for that.
But then she dumped Neal in prison. She dumped him when he had less than half a year to go. She dumped him, and she walked away while he called out for her, knowing he couldn't follow without busting out of a supermax facility.
Peter didn't have to imagine the look on Neal's face when she left him. Peter had seen that face. He had seen those desperate eyes, that helpless fear, that running-out-of-air panic, and he couldn't imagine slamming a door in that face.
Neal busted out, of course, and earned himself another four years, cutting a deal shortly thereafter. Peter spent more time with Neal than he ever had before, and he began to realize how much he had underestimated Kate's control over Neal. Peter saw it eating Neal alive, and it killed him.
Neal was one of the most intelligent people Peter knew.
Until he heard Kate's name. Until he saw her face. Until he thought, for a moment, there might be a whisper of her in the wind.
Then Neal became the poster boy for puberty—hormones and stupidity, caution thrown to the wind with no regard for consequences. He stopped calculating, stopped reading people.
Interpol agent he had never met knew who was holding Kate? Neal bought it.
Fowler, the prime suspect, said Peter was the one who had Kate? Neal bought it.
Peter spoke to Kate and didn't see any care for Neal in her behavior? Nope.
More than nope, Neal decided to go off the deep end in a frantic effort to explain the discrepancy. He cut his tracker and ran, he presumably left his radius, and three days later he returned to the FBI building and turned himself in.
Peter didn't know for sure Neal had found Kate during those three days—Neal hadn't said a word since he returned—but Peter couldn't imagine anything less making Neal put himself back on a leash.
Needless to say, when the prison called to report Neal wasn't eating, Peter wasn't exactly surprised. If Neal was silent, severe damage had been done, and Peter didn't imagine he would want to eat in that state, either.
But it was okay. Peter was going to take care of everything.
Peter might not have known the cause of Neal's sudden change in behavior, but he could guess, and as much as it hurt him to know Neal was in pain, he felt a spark of hope. If Neal had finally swallowed a reality pill and come to his senses, maybe Peter could get their old arrangement to work.
Peter bargained and connived and, with Hughes, outright pleaded for Neal to be given his old deal. He brought up the fact that Neal had turned himself in, that it showed a sign of change, that it showed a lack of desire to run. He reminded them of the increased success rate Neal brought with him—increased success meant increased funds, and politicians loved money. He drew their attention to Neal's non-violent nature and downplayed the severity of Neal's crime. Peter might have known what Neal was responsible for, but all the higherups saw was implications that were never proven and one bond forgery conviction with a small sentence.
It took a little while and a few personal favors, but Peter won.
So, Peter scheduled a meeting with Neal.
Neal refused to see him.
Peter tried again.
Neal refused again.
Peter told the prison to continue putting the request through every day until Neal agreed.
It took forty-seven days, but Neal finally said he would see Peter. Peter showed up, and Neal changed his mind at the last minute. Peter left.
Twelve days later, Neal said he would see Peter. Peter showed up, and Neal once again changed his mind. Peter left again.
Twelve more days, the cycle repeated.
Seventeen days.
Twenty-three days.
Thirteen days.
Peter started getting questions from fellow agents and friends. They wanted to know why he kept going back, and more than that, they wanted to know why he wasn't angry.
Elizabeth never asked. Elizabeth already knew.
She knew what Peter knew: that Neal had to be sure. He had to be sure that Peter really cared. He had to confirm the idea of trust; that he could make the same mistake over and over, that he could be selfish, that he could be emotional and unpredictable and afraid, and Peter wouldn't hate him for it.
So, Peter went every time, and Peter was never angry when he left. Discouraged, yes. Saddened, very often. Frustrated, only when he stopped to ask himself what Neal had done to deserve abandonment from anyone.
Fifteen days.
Twenty-six days.
Sixteen days.
Four days.
Twelve days.
One day.
One day.
One day.
And then, on the fourth day, Peter stepped into a visiting room, and Neal was there. All in all, it took about seven months, and then Neal was finally sitting in front of him.
Neal had definitely lost weight. His eyes were tired and underlined with shadowed skin, perpetually vacant, and his expression was completely blank. It was clear his mind was a thousand miles away.
Oh, Neal…
Peter sat down across from Neal and looked at him long and hard.
"They tell me you haven't been eating, and you still haven't said a word."
It garnered no response. Peter continued to try and make conversation, but Neal wouldn't have it. They spent fifteen minutes like that, and then Peter decided there had to be some limit on their meetings.
Because he knew what Neal was doing. He was testing Peter's patience again. He was still trying to find out how much Peter cared. He wanted to know how many times he could fail to meet an expectation before Peter would turn on him.
"Okay, Neal." Peter pulled his phone out and started scrolling through his tools. "I am going to set a timer for… five minutes… there we go." He put the phone on the table. "If you don't talk in five minutes, I'm going to leave, and we'll have to try this again some other time."
There was a faint flicker of surprise—or was that hope?—but it was immediately drowned out by the glassy nature of the dead-eyed gaze.
Those five minutes went by, and Peter left.
Two days, another visit, another timer, nothing.
"You really need to try and eat something."
Three days, another visit, another timer, nothing.
"I never realized how much I hated orange until now."
Two days, another visit, nothing.
"El is making cookies today, and she said I had to make you promise to eat some.
One day, another visit, nothing.
"C'mon, do you really wanna get me in trouble with El?"
Three days, nothing.
"I gained four pounds eating all those cookies. I hope you're happy."
Two days, nothing.
"Your desk is untouched, by the way, and your tie drawer is considered sacred."
Five days, the longest gap there had been since Neal started showing up, and finally, something.
Neal lifted a hand to wave when Peter entered the room, though he kept his eyes forward.
Unlike his previous visits, Peter sat down beside Neal rather than across. He put his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together, lowering his head slightly to get a look at the eyes Neal was dropping to the ground.
"It's been a little while. I missed you."
Neal stared at the tabletop, hands clasped together in his lap, jaw clenched tightly.
"You look a little different today. You gonna tell me what happened when you ran last year?"
Neal swallowed, little bits of his mask chipping away. He started shaking.
This is what the tests were for. He needed to know he could trust me before he would tell me, but he's still afraid.
No, Neal wasn't afraid. He was terrified. He was frozen in horror. He was one blow away from shattering.
"Neal…"
Hearing his name seemed to do something, pain contorting his features before he got himself under control.
Fickle, fragile control.
"Tell me what happened."
Neal stared dead ahead, his entire body tense, little shivers racking his body. He was breathing a little faster, and his eyes were misting up.
"Keller." Neal spat the word between clenched teeth. "Kate." He barely got the sound out.
Peter nodded slowly, grateful to finally have an answer even if he didn't fully understand it. "Okay… Kate and Keller." He didn't know who Keller was, but he could guess.
Rival. Male. With Kate, apparently.
Neal sniffed hard, trying to get air without opening his mouth. "Bed."
Peter slowly closed his eyes, a pained expression crossing his face. He actually caught them in the act? He couldn't even begin to imagine what that had done to Neal.
"Say it," Neal spat, saliva on his lips. His body was still rigid, and despite the saline leaking out the corners of his eyes, he wasn't crying audibly.
Peter shook his head, moving his leg so he was straddling the bench facing Neal. "No, Neal. Maybe someday, but not today." He paused and reached out, placing a gentle hand on Neal's shoulder. "Is that what you were afraid of?"
Neal shuddered, his mask cracking again, bigger pieces falling away. He sobbed once, reeled himself in, and he allowed his eyes to wander toward Peter.
Peter shook his head again, squeezing Neal's shoulder. "I wish I could do something. I wish I could make this better." He pressed his lips into a thin line. "I know that doesn't help, but…"
But what could he say? Neal had dedicated years of his life and all of his heart to Kate, and he had discovered her betrayal in the most jarring, vivid way possible.
Neal stared at Peter's stomach, breathing loudly but slowly, hands curling through the fabric of his prison scrubs. "Say it."
Peter stared, confusion twisting his features. "I don't understand. Why do you want me to say it?"
Neal kept his lips together, another shudder racking his frame.
"Neal, you have to talk to me. You have to work with me here."
"Just say it." Neal could only speak in bursts, as if keeping his mouth open for too long would let all of his pain and anger and fear come flying out.
"Why?"
"Say it!"
"I'm not going t—"
"Tell me I was wrong!"
"It doesn't matter, Neal." Peter took hold of Neal's other shoulder, squeezing both and giving him a slight shake. "Do you hear me? It doesn't matter. You want me to say it, fine. I told you so. I was right, you were wrong. But it doesn't matter, because that's life." He softened his voice, rubbing Neal's upper arms before taking his shoulders again. "Being wrong doesn't make your pain any less. Being right doesn't give me any grounds or desire to withhold sympathy." He squeezed the shoulders again. "I told you so, and now I am telling you it doesn't matter."
Neal looked at Peter's arms for a long time, completely silent. He started to lean forward, slowly closing the distance between them until his forehead was on Peter's shoulder. Peter kept rubbing Neal's shoulders, not knowing what else to do, and when he opened his mouth, he had no idea what was going to come out.
"Neal, it's time to stop hiding."
Neal's shoulders started to shake as soon as the last syllable left Peter's lips, slightly at first and then more violently. His hand wandered, tentatively curling around Peter's lapel, and Peter realized Neal needed permission.
He's a conman. He can't break on his own, or he'll never forgive himself.
"Go ahead," Peter encouraged, pulling Neal a little closer and rubbing circles on Neal's back. "I would be crying, too, bud."
Neal uttered a heart-wrenching cry, his body instinctively moving closer to Peter as the sobs increased in volume. He started crying harder, his hand inching away from Peter's lapel to his sleeve, and then under his arm.
"Neal, just give me a hug. Just hug me, it's okay."
Neal didn't need any further excuse.
He threw his arms around Peter, shrinking in on himself and pressing his face into Peter's shoulder. Peter put his arms around Neal and held him tight, and that was when the floodgates opened.
No boundaries of any kind were left, and Neal started to dissolve in Peter's arms. He cried harder, faster, tears soaking into Peter's jacket. He clutched the back of Peter's jacket, sobbing loudly, open-mouthed and wet, gasps for air breaking up the constant wails.
Peter kept his arms around Neal and rocked him slightly, hushing him gently, surprised by his own calm control. If he had been asked a month or even a week earlier to comfort a hysterical Neal Caffrey, he wouldn't have known what to do. But sitting on the bench with Neal nestled tightly against his chest, it came to him naturally.
"Instincts, Burke. You can read every book, practice every move, and calculate every outcome, but at the end of the day, always go with your gut."
It was Hughes who had said that to him, so long ago Peter couldn't even remember where or why the advice was given.
Peter sighed heavily, trying to rub some of the tension out of Neal's shoulders and back, vaguely aware that Neal had turned his head and was now getting tears on Peter's neck and shirt collar. Neal whimpered but cut himself off halfway through.
"Hey, don't do that."
Neal inhaled a few times and sobbed the air back out, hands falling from Peter's jacket as the last of his energy drained out. "Peter…"
"Don't start putting yourself back together yet."
Neal let out another whimper—a whine, almost—but he didn't argue, and he did let out a few more cries. His body went slack, all of his weight leaning on Peter while he gave no resistance.
Neal drew a jagged breath and shook his head, his hair rubbing the underside of Peter's chin. "It still hurts." He coughed and cleared his throat, trying to remove the crackling edge. "It still hurts, Peter."
"Hey." Peter gave him something like a shake, though it was difficult, given their positions. "I told you to stop that."
"I don't know how." Neal cleared his throat again. "I don't… do this, Peter. I don't know… how to not… check my voice and expressions and body language."
"I know you don't." But that's a problem for another day. Peter sighed, wondering if Neal was getting tired of having his back rubbed and body held. "It's gonna be okay, Neal."
"It doesn't feel like it," Neal whispered, resituating his body but not moving away in the slightest.
"I know. I know, but you gotta believe me. It's gonna be okay."
Peter fell silent then, still rubbing Neal's back and neck and shoulders, still holding on. Neal melted into his arms, also silent, save for a few sniffs and coughs. Seconds passed, and then they turned into minutes, nothing transpiring in the room except breathing.
"Are we…" Neal cleared his throat. "Are we done?"
Peter glanced down even though he couldn't see Neal's face. "Do you want to be?"
Neal was quiet for a moment, and then he shook his head, relaxing again.
"There you go then. We're done when you feel like it. I can sit here all day." His aching back and arms might have disagreed, but Peter didn't really care what they had to say.
"Just a few more seconds," Neal whispered.
"Okay." Peter nodded his head and left it at that, determined to let Neal pull back first.
Neal waited another thirty seconds, and then he did pull back, immediately turning away to hide his face until it was more acceptable. He ran his hands through his hair a few times, inhaled deeply, cleared his sinuses, and wiped his face.
Peter got up and pat Neal on the shoulder as he passed, going over to the door and sticking his head out. "Hey, do you have the—?"
Charlie—one of seven guards Peter had come to know over the months—held out the tracking anklet with a smile.
Peter smiled back and took the device. "Thanks."
Charlie gave a mock salute, and he was kind enough not to say anything about the ruckus he may or may not have heard or the tearstains on Peter's jacket and shirt.
Peter closed the door and turned around, keeping both hands behind his back as he walked back over to the table. "How you feeling?"
Neal laughed softly, a pale replica of the Lady-Killing Caffrey Smile™ painted on his lips. "I'll be alright. Just had to get it out of my system, I guess."
Peter rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I guess." He looked at Neal for a moment, wondering if Neal would ask about his sentence now that he was speaking again.
"Um, Peter?" Neal rubbed his eyes a few more times. "Could you stay for a bit? If you leave, I go back to my cell, and I'd like to clean up a bit before anyone sees me. This is…" He trailed off and laughed nervously, shaking his head and pressing the back of his arm to his eyes. "Well, you know."
Peter nodded and moved to his usual seat across from Neal, setting the anklet on his lap. "Yeah, I can stay. It would really suck if you had to go back to your cell looking like this."
Neal swallowed hard and nodded a few times, a smile flickering across his features. "Yeah, I figure I'm gonna be here for a while." His eyes dropped down to the floor, and then wandered sideways. "Don't need to give anyone a reason to go after me."
Peter pursed his lips and nodded slowly. "Well, I've never been in prison, but yeah, I would agree with that."
Neal laughed briefly—more like a snort—and sighed. "I don't suppose my old deal is on the table." His tone made it obvious he was being sarcastic, trying to lighten the mood and pretend he didn't want his old life back as much as he did.
Peter shook his head. "No." He plopped the tracking anklet down between them. "But this is."
Neal blinked, confused, and looked to Peter for an explanation. "So… what is this, then?"
"You wear a tracking anklet. You have a two-mile radius. You help me with cases, and in exchange, you stay out of prison. You would be my CI."
Neal shook his head a few times. "You said my old deal wasn't on the table."
Peter gestured to the tabletop. "It's not. Do you see any paperwork?"
Neal stared for another nanosecond, and then he grinned, and Peter caught a glimpse of the old Neal Caffrey; the Neal Caffrey who now seemed almost… fake. No, not fake. It was a forgery of himself. Neal Caffrey made a second Neal Caffrey—a Neal Caffrey who was more an idea than a person—and he tried to pass it off as the real thing. But if you knew what you were looking for, you would see the inconsistencies. You would see all the little imperfections that made the original so precious, and you would recognize the fake for what it was.
Neal would continue to show the world Neal Caffrey™, and the world would continue to admire the forgery as if it were the genuine article.
Meanwhile, Peter would know the Neal Caffrey Original was somewhere inside, and he would look for any opportunity to pull it out and blow the dust off.
"You ready to go home, Neal?"
Neal nodded a few times and pulled his foot up onto the bench, rolling up his pant leg and waiting for Peter to put the tracker on.
Peter stood up and grabbed the anklet, walking around the table and ceremoniously bestowing upon his charge the black ring of electronical locating.
"Come on." Peter got back to his feet and put his hands on his hips. "You're spending the night at my house, and you're gonna be one pampered pooch. El has months of coddling to make up for, and she's determined to get your weight up in two months, tops." He opened the door and stepped into the hall, giving Charlie a smile, and then he started down the corridor.
Neal fell in step beside him, putting his hands in his pockets, already slipping into the typical Caffrey Mannerisms™ of confidence and ease.
"The only reason El didn't visit," Peter continued, pulling his car keys from his pockets, "is because I told her you and I were having a battle of endurance and she wasn't allowed to intervene."
Neal let out a soft laugh, but he didn't have a witty comeback.
That was okay. It would take a little time to reassemble Neal Caffrey™. Some things would come naturally, and some would not.
In the end, Peter supposed, he had to thank Kate for leading him to the original. He still hated her—if she ever showed her face again, he would have quite a bit to say—but Peter enjoyed Neal Caffrey just as much as, if not more than, Neal Caffrey™.
Kate Moreau had broken Neal Caffrey™, but not Neal Caffrey.
Peter Burke still hated Kate Moreau.
Because whether it was the trademark mask or the man behind the con, Neal Caffrey was Peter Burke's boy.
Period.