"Three weeks."
The abrupt and unwelcomed interruption in an otherwise quiet Monday morning has Peter dropping his head into his hands. He can't have this conversation - not again.
"It's been three weeks Peter." Neal tells him undeterred. Jaw clenched he steps purposefully through the open office door and stares Peter down. "I'm not spending one more day chained to my desk. And you can't make me."
Sliding tiredly back in his chair, Peter's hands drop to rest flat on his desk. "You,"he barks, gaining attention from down in the bullpen, "will do as I say. This isn't a democracy. I'm the handler, remember?"
Neal says nothing, just stands ridged, piercing gaze fixed on him, refusing to back down.
Fine. Two can play at that game.
When their staring contest reaches the thirty second mark the pressure cooker which is quintessentially Caffrey in full blown snit boils over. Losing all measure of control and decorum Neal dissolves into what Peter will later describe to El as a teenage worthy tantrum.
"Come on Peter," Neal stamps, stamps his foot, creating the perfect picture of insolence and unrestrained youth as he dances out his frustration in the doorway. "I'm going crazy stuck here looking at stupid mortgage fraud!"
Peter smile smugly and returns his focus to the pile of weekend reports laid out before him. "Agent Blake doesn't seem to mind." He hums, picking up a pen, declining to feed the juvenile behaviour any further.
"Agent Blake is new and will do anything you tell him." Neal snaps back, dragging his feet sulkily across the floor and dropping boneless into the chair opposite, giving the desk leg a soft kick for good measure. "Least he can go out and get a decent cup of coffee whenever he wants. I can't even go to the bathroom without someone holding my hand."
Peter falters, doesn't restrain from the instinctive eyeroll, but manages to resist looking up. "That's a bit of an exaggeration, don't you think?"
Neal's outrage burns with intensity, noticeable through his words. "No, actually, I don't. Do you know what Diana did last week?"
"No," Peter gives in with a frustrated sigh and sits back, meeting his gaze. "What did Diana do last week?"
"You told her to watch me, while you went to investigate the break in at the Rubin Gallery with Jones, remember?" His being passed over for the case is going to be a sticking point between them for a while so Peter doesn't comment, "and while you were gone, she put me in time out!"
Peter clamps down on his desire to laugh, fighting hard against the eyebrow that wants to jump into his hairline. "She put you-"
"In time out." Neal repeats, tone unwavering.
Lips quivering, a snort manages to escape. "Why exactly?"
"Does it matter?"
"Does if you want me to do anything about it." Peter throws back, willingly engaging in another staring contest, daring Neal to break first.
Which he does within seconds.
"Fine." Neal groans and slumps back in his chair, turning slightly to face the side wall, avoiding eye contact altogether. "I'll stay at my desk and work the Mortenson real estate scandal." He rumbles sullenly, adding a little louder, and with much more bite, "happy?"
"Happy would be stretching it." Peter says smoothly, trying like hell to keep the amusement off his face. "I'm certainly less mad."
Shaking his head Neal stands and leaves in a huff. Peter pretends to go back to reading the reports, but his eyes don't stray from the ridged figure all but jogging down the mezzanine stairs. Despite successfully winning yet another round, with the increasingly challenging behaviour that's built up over the past three weeks Peter can't ignore that tingling sensation in his stomach, the one telling him this isn't over. Not by a long shot.
…
Leaving Peter's office defeated beyond measure, Neal canters down the stairs infusing his usual grace into every step. Keeping his head held high, he feels the importance of putting up a front like a second skin. Nothing is wrong and he's getting everything he wants, everything he deserves, because he is Neal Caffrey and there is nothing he has to want for!
Throwing himself into his chair, Neal hitches both feet up on the corner of his desk and gives Peter, who he knows is still watching and pretending not to, a face splitting grin. Several Agents pass him by, rubbing their freedom to come and go as they please in his face. Neal politely nods at every single one of them without losing his line of sight, not one has the slightest inkling of the annoyance simmering beneath his surface and that's exactly how he likes it. Eventually activity in the office settles down, and after another full minute of doing nothing but glaring into the upper-level offices, Neal feels a sense of boredom creep up on him.
The reality is no one gives a damn whether he's chained to a desk or not, so long as Special Agent Peter Burke is happy, they're happy. What happens to him is none of their concern. And special Agent Burke is currently so focused on whatever he's brought up on his computer screen that Neal's frustrations are probably furthest from his mind. So, bored with torturing Peter, convincing himself he's made his point anyway, Neal decides to focus on work. Dropping his feet back to the floor, a smooth move that looks almost natural under the circumstances, he pulls a fresh cold-case file towards him and delves in as if it were a novel written purely for his entertainment.
"This sucks," he announces when nothing he reads makes it into his brain.
Five pages deep and he concludes its Peter's blatant distrust in his abilities which hurts the most, the humiliation factor being a close second. Unable to have even a moment of privacy thanks to Peter's hypervigilance is ruining the reputation he's worked so hard to maintain. Instead of being seen as the ingenious and talented criminal who successfully evaded the FBI for four years, the White Collar team are one move away from patting him on the head and offering to cut up his lunch for him.
Muttering stupid Peter, stupid mortgage fraud, under his breath, Neal slams the file shut and skims it over the edge of his desk. Watching it fall into the bin gives him a seconds' unfettered pleasure before he remembers why he sent it flying in the first place. The extortion case he went undercover for has all but closed to violent crimes, arrests have been made, Benedict's earning Agent Ruiz a great deal of praise from Washington. The sticking point with Peter is that nobody's confessed to his kidnapping, or the murders of Alan DuPont and the four other young men to whom he holds a startling resemblance. Officially their murders have been transferred to another division within the FBI, a group of Agents who specialise in that sort of thing, but unless there's evidence to suggest someone's in immediate danger, Neal knows the files and evidence will be put into storage, labelled cold and those boys will be forgotten like so many others.
He feels a brief pang of remorse. He didn't really get to know the kid who introduced himself as Alan, but there's something tragic about the idea it's only the difference of having a Peter Burke in his life that he and Alan aren't lying side by side in the morgue right now. The image of having neighbouring slabs with matching body bags conjures up feelings Neal isn't comfortable with and he quickly decides there's no time for rumination on 'what ifs' and 'could have beens'. Bottom line is, he isn't in the morgue. He's here, he's alive and wasting his time on mortgage fraud when there's real White Collar criminals to catch. With Benedict and his associates in jail, and thankfully no more of his doppelgangers being pulled out of the East River, Neal feels its high time things got back to normal.
Diana agrees. Jones agrees. Even Hughes agrees.
Peter does not agree.
Peter is still keeping him a virtual prisoner during the day, an actual one at night. When at work, despite their return to active cases two weeks ago, Peter has somehow manged to consistently pick just enough of a boring crime that's not only time consuming, but keeps him at his desk most of the day. Last week, when he chose Jones to join him on the gallery robbery over him that was the last straw, marking the start of his plotting to get Peter to ease up on the reins a bit. So far, it's been a major fail. He's tried appealing to Hughes, working the angle that the FBI bosses surely couldn't be happy that their best asset is being so underutilised, but that fell flat. The man proving to be infuriately stubborn and a loyal supporter of Peter. It briefly crossed his mind to call Bancroft, but Neal nixed that idea immediately, mainly since his recent circumventing of Peter and Hughes like that ended up with him concussed, drugged and more than a little traumatised by the whole ordeal.
Mozzie had been visiting him regularly at the Burke's home and might have been able to help, but recently decided to flee to locations unknown on unknown business, claiming prolonged exposure to suits has damaged his disposition. Before leaving he made it very clear, despite his aversion to anything related to the man, he fully supported Peter's efforts to keep him safe and requested that he does as he's told for a change. Unfortunately, he fared no better when approaching June with his Peter shaped dilemma. And Alex is still refusing to respond to his calls. In all it's like some weird back to front universe, his usual avenues of felonious support suddenly on the side of the law, whereas the law - other than Peter of course - is suddenly siding with him.
Heart-warming sentiments aside, because he is Neal Caffrey and he cannot be wrong, Neal listens to his own inner voice telling him the danger is nil, and not the united chorus of those that care about him. He wants to get out, needs to get out even if just for a short while. The anklet will show where he's gone so it's not as if no one will know where to find him, not like he's risking his deal or anything important. It's just Peter being overprotective as usual, no one else will give a damn.
Bolstered by his own arrogance, the second Peter leaves the floor heading only he knows where to do who knows what as has been the norm recently, Neal sees his opening and slips out too. Hopefully everyone will think they've gone somewhere together and as long as he's quick no one will need to question it. Making his way in the elevator, watching the numbers slowly count down the floors he can already feel nervous excitement stirring in his belly, can imagine the feeling of the sun on his face and the warmth of the air around him as he glides along the busy midday sidewalk. The city enticing him with its plethora of riches all ripe for the taking.
The sensation's so intense, when reality meets his expectations Neal doesn't see the trouble he's invited until it's too late. In the end he's left with no recourse but to ride the storm and piece back together his fragile self, because there is no way in hell he'll ever admit to it, even now, that Peter was right all along.
…
"Caffrey!" Jones shouts from across the street, having pulled up at the busy crime scene.
He flashes his FBI badge at the NYPD street cop standing behind the yellow tape and charges through. Spying Neal sitting at the back of an ambulance, as he gets closer Jones can see the bloody cloth clutched in the younger man's right hand and held to his forehead.
"It's only superficial, but you need to get it stitched. Do you have anyone who can take you to the ER?" The female medic with him asks.
Neal's eyes catch his approach and stays quiet, allowing him to answer. "He's with me."
"You got him?" She nods, giving his badge a cursory once over before quickly moving off to treat her next patient.
"You okay Neal?" Jones takes her place, leaning over to inspect the damage for himself.
Neal maintains the hold he has to his forehead, the bleedings clearly stopped, but there's a hell of a lot of it.
"Yeah, yeah I'm good." He slowly stands and starts walking away.
Following Jones points in the direction of the car, guiding him with a hand to the small of his back. "What the hell happened?"
"I don't know, I was just following up a cold case like Peter told me to." He takes a hesitant breath, "the car came out of nowhere, straight through the lights."
Jones takes in the destruction of the few cars standing stationary around them, a messy scene with multiple injuries, witnesses and damages. Not at all the kind of hit like he'd expect from a major criminal enterprise such as Benedict's.
"Were you hit?"
Neal shakes his head. "Saw it coming, jumped out of the way. Hit my head on the sidewalk when I fell." He chuckles. "I've just got over my last head injury. Really didn't need another."
"You have a hard head, I think you're good."
Reaching the bureau issue Taurus Neal climbs in the passenger seat with practiced ease. "Peter mad?"
Jones copies the move, sliding behind the wheel and buckles his seat belt. "He doesn't know yet." At Neal's questioning glance he explains. "Captain Shaddock called Peter direct to give him a heads up, but he was still in a meeting with Hughes, so I took the call."
"He's going to freak out." Caffrey says slowly, following a moment's deep contemplation.
"Most likely."
"Any chance we can keep this between you and me? You know how he's been lately."
"Caffrey," He starts in a tone of recrimination, despite how tempting that idea is.
"Surely Peter not having extra stress right now would be better."
"I'm not lying to Peter. Don't bother." Jones tells him straight. "And besides, you know it's pointless, he'll find out eventually. You'll get in trouble like usual, only this time you'd be dragging me down with you."
They complete the drive to the nearest clinic in relative silence after he insists Neal gets stitches like instructed. His FBI creds get them seen pretty quickly, aided by Neal's bright smile, and they're back at White Collar a little over ninety minutes after he took the call. In all Caffrey had kept up his usual happy go lucky attitude, making cracks about Peter's over bearing nature and trying to convince him to keep his secret along the way. But the second they reach the 21st floor, Peter is there waiting by the elevator doors. Jones has to push Caffrey forward, because in the face of their boss's clear displeasure, his companion had suddenly lost his nerve.
"Thanks for fetching him Jones." Peter addresses him directly.
Clinton knows a dismissal when he hears one, and gladly leaves Neal in Peter's care. Caffrey gives him an accusing look that slides right off as he breaks away from the pair, taking up a defensive position behind his own desk. He sees Neal attempt a similar move, but he makes it no more than a step before Burke's hand clamps down on his arm and Caffrey's pulled by the elbow to stand between the file bookcases. Since it's lunch time the office is mostly deserted and he can still hear the terse conversation going on mere feet away.
"I thought we agreed you wouldn't go out into the field without direct supervision." Peter speaks first.
"It wasn't the field. It was coffee. And I told you Peter, it's been three weeks!"
"Three weeks of being safe."
"This is nothing." Neal shakes his head, and judging by the immediate wince, instantly regrets it.
"Doesn't look like nothing." Peter taps him just above the plaster covering the dissolvable stiches under his hairline.
Neal shrugs, "I'm fine. They said I won't even have a scar." He sounds confident but there's a definite quiver to his voice.
This isn't the Caffrey Jones picked up and argued with all the way to and from the clinic. Since being faced with Peter he's gone from confidently cocky to utterly chastised, and it isn't long before Peter emerges from between the racks, Neal trailing behind eyes cast to the floor, looking like he's waiting to be whipped.
"Grab your things." Burke points at the fedora adorning the Socrates bust as he marches towards the doors. "You're done here for the day."
…
Hesitantly complying with Peter's instruction Neal collects his hat and giving the office one last sweep to confirm witnesses, follows Peter out the door. He manages to keep quiet in elevator, walk to the car and most of the ride across town, right up to until the moment they pull up outside what looks like an abandoned building in the warehouse district. It's at this point he decides to ask what they are doing there when he spots the van out the corner of his eye.
Dread consumes him. "Peter, you wouldn't?"
Peter of course, says nothing and slips out of the car, quickly walking around to open Neal's door when he doesn't immediately get out.
"Neal." He utters the one-word command, pointing at the sidewalk.
"You said I was done for the day." Neal looks up, but stays sitting, making no move to get out.
"I said you were done here, meaning the office." Peter leans in and drags him out without qualm. "I've got work to do and there's no one spare at the office to babysit," hand firmly wrapped around Neal's elbow, he marches them across the street, "so I'm taking you to someone who can."
"But I hate the van." Neal whines and tries to free himself, but only puts in a token effort.
"Should have thought about that before you disobeyed me." Peter sings as if he predicted this would happen and is enjoying getting to put this back up plan into action.
"But Peter-"
Neal is abruptly cut off when Peter's hold tightens and he's yanked back, forcing them to an abrupt holt. "No but Peters," he hisses, using his extra couple of inches height to full effect, "no excuses, you've used your last lifeline. You will sit in the van and Diana will watch you. No coffees, no stretching legs, no unescorted bathroom breaks. You will do as she tells you or face the consequences. Got it?"
"Consequences?" Neal swallows with dread, not liking the spark of glee in Peter's eyes.
"I'm not ruling out anything at this point Neal, I swear," Peter tugs him an inch closer, practically whispering in his ear. "Do not push me."
Terrifying images of what consequences mean to a man like Peter Burke invade his mind, making him cringe. "Not pushing."
Resuming their path down the street, a subdued Neal keeps his mouth shut and tries to rationalise with himself that it could be a lot worse. That is until the smell of stale coffee and donuts hits him the second the van doors open. He attempts to turn and walk back out again, but Peter's iron grip propels him inside.
"Did you get lost?" Diana asks without turning around.
Peter stares at him, making Neal feel incredibly uncomfortable. "Had a little something to deal with."
Neal has the good sense not to comment and quickly slips into the nearest seat. Peter however isn't satisfied with that.
"Oh no you don't. Move." he drags him up and pushes him further along, down onto the chair in front of Diana. "I want you where she can see you and you don't have clear access to the door."
Neal's face flushes but he doesn't fight. Avoiding looking anywhere but down at his lap, he jumps when the plain notepad and boxes of brand-new Faber-Castell pencil and pastel crayons are dropped on the surface before him.
Neal dares to look up, wide eyes demanding answers.
"To keep you occupied." Peter responds. To Diana he says, "I'll be by at 6 to pick him up."
The door slams with a loud bang. Staring at it forlornly Neal hears the snigger at his side.
"It's not funny." He says sullenly, completely humiliated once again.
"Oh," Diana breathes in-between chuckles. "It so is."