Back to the fluff after a heart-wrenching couple of chapters. I should mention I'm not trying to do these in order, just according to whatever muse strikes me. Reviews and comments are always greeted gleefully with hugs and kittens.

Peter didn't take the handcuffs off, just grinned and wrapped his arm around Neal's shoulders as they walked away together. Probably a good thing, because Neal would have hugged him again, in front of Dobbs and the Agent of Evil and everyone.

His leg hurt like hell, he was going back to New York a prisoner, and he was so far beyond happy he couldn't do anything but limp along with that stupid grin on his face. He'd missed it all so much, even being chained up and snarked at by his best friend.

I've got you. We're going home. Your crazy, complicated, beloved, absurd world is going back to normal.

It was a little unnerving to actually enjoy being in handcuffs. Usually his emotions ran the spectrum from resigned to feeling like a kicked puppy.

Great. I really am developing Stockholm Syndrome. Or Cape Verde Syndrome, as the case may be.

Peter removed the cuffs on the plane, once they were airborne, tossing them aside on the adjacent seat. "And here El was teasing me for bringing a handcuff key to a country where I couldn't arrest anyone."

Peter's fingers found the bruised lines around his wrists where Collins' deliberately painful application of handcuffs and zip ties had left their mark. He inspected Neal's wrists gently, but his eyes were on the leg wound.

"Okay, we're safe. Time to answer questions," said Peter.

Neal had been blowing off his attempts to delve more deeply into what happened at Dobbs' place. The island had been a place for capers, cocktails, and trying to stay alive.

"There's a lot to tell," said Neal. "There's the part where he aimed, the part where he pulled the trigger, and my favorite part, where a piece of burning-hot metal got shoved into my leg really fast. It was a thrilling tale."

"Let's start with why he shot you."

"He'd left me gagged and handcuffed in a cell, and -"

"Wait - gagged? An FBI agent gagged you?" Peter looked like someone had just told him the Empire State Building had been built out of TNT and kittens.

Neal grinned. "Come on, Peter. Is is so hard to understand? Don't try to tell me you haven't been tempted more than once."

"I've also been tempted to shoot you in the leg more than once," Peter retorted.

The little plane hit an air pocket and dropped sharply, making both of them yelp, startled. The plane leveled out, their eyes met, and they started laughing with a hint of hysteria.

"See, you understand the guy," said Neal. He was flooded with joy, and not sure how to read the deathly serious way Peter seemed to be taking the whole Collins business.

He'd encountered worse violence on any of a half dozen of their cases. Hell, after Keller had knocked him out and later beaten him with a priceless artifact, he'd barely been able to stand for a week.

"There's no fucking reason to gag a prisoner, not ever," said Peter.

Peter swearing? Now that was unusual.

Okay.

Neal made himself focus. He might be close to euphoric, but Peter was seriously distressed. Time to tend the angsty FBI agent so they could get on with proper enjoyment of the flight.

"Okay. There was no reason. He gagged me because it was unpleasant and humiliating."

Peter winced, and rubbed Neal's wrists softly. It was as though by finding all the marks left by cruelty, he could antidote the psychological damage with gentleness. Neal couldn't help but be touched. He'd forgotten just how darn sweet the guy could be.

There were plenty of nice people in the world, and plenty more who thought they were nice. And then there was this hardass FBI agent who cared with such open, un-calculating sincerity that it disarmed him every time.

"The bullet in the leg?" asked Peter, not letting him off the hook.

"Well - given the circumstances, I didn't exactly feel safe in his custody. I used a nail to pick the handcuffs, then started taking the cell apart. Dobbs and Collins came back before I finished, so I sat back down, but they figured things out when the front wall of the cage came crashing down in front of them."

"Observant," said Peter in a dry tone that almost approached a drawl.

"So - I forget his exact words, but Collins decided that since he couldn't keep me from escaping the other way, he was going to shoot me in the leg. He looked me right in the eyes and pulled the trigger."

Peter inhaled sharply. His expression was horrified, and when he met Neal's eyes he could swear the stoic agent wanted to cry.

"You realize I'm okay, right?" Neal asked. "I'm not traumatized. I'm happy. We've been through worse."

"Neal, this isn't - shouldn't be a violent kidnapper we're talking about here. It's an FBI agent."

Ah.

"You're an FBI agent," said Neal firmly. "Collins, whatever he calls himself, is a violent kidnapper. A Pinto and a Ducati are both cars, but it doesn't make them the same. Ducati doesn't get upset when a Pinto erupts into a ball of flame and shoots someone."

Peter closed his eyes, and Neal decided to do what Peter was always doing for him. Pulled him into a firm hug and held on.

"You were scared, weren't you?" Neal teased. "You were scared for me, admit it."

With good reason. Neal tried not to shiver at the thought of what sort of shape he'd be in now if Peter hadn't come for him.

Peter wiggled loose and pretended to slap at him. "You have a smart, dangerous guy take out a dead or alive bounty on your best friend sometime."

"I'm sure I'd be thrilled."

"Make sure that guy also defiles everything your profession stands for. In case you haven't gathered as much from hanging out with me, gagging suspects, maiming them, and cutting their wrists are all pretty unacceptable forms of restraint."

"I don't know why, but this isn't going down on my list of nightmares," said Neal. "It's on my favorite memories list. Me, being led away in handcuffs from a tropical paradise by a friend who flew thousands of miles to save me."

"That's gotta be the endorphins talking," said Peter with a fond smile. He gave Neal a theatrical frown of sudden concern that was layered with the real thing. "Are you running a fever?"

Neal grimaced. His leg was throbbing in an unpleasant sort of way. "I might want to get some antibiotics in me at some point. When the doctor pulled that bullet out of me, her anesthesia technique was 'look at the pretty boats,' and I get the sneaking feeling sterile in her world might mean she wiped the forceps really carefully on her sleeve."

Peter recoiled. Again with the horrified stare. "They pulled a bullet out and stitched the wound without anesthetic? What sort of island paradise hell was this?"

"One where Dobbs had enough humanity to call in a doctor and make the Agent of Evil wait while she treated me. Mister Twirly-Mustache was going to force me to walk with a bullet in my leg. I guess I made enough pitiful whimpering noises that Dobbs drew the line there."

"Oh. That's nice," said Peter sarcastically. "The poor kid's in pain, let's do the right thing and operate on him without anesthesia."

Neal had to smile. "It actually was a humane thing to do, the doctor was nice, and it didn't hurt that bad."

Peter sighed and leaned back in his seat. "You're really all right?"

"Yes," said Neal firmly. He meant it. "But I think as a form of therapy, you should be required to serve me foofy drinks until this plane lands."

Peter shook his head. "My bar-tending days are over."

"What, people didn't tip well enough?"

"The outfit was too hot."

"Save that boast for El and get me a mojito," said Neal.

Peter watched Jones put the anklet back on, enjoying the goofy welcome-back award ceremony, then headed back up to his office.

He hadn't enjoyed watching the conflicted, bare cascade of emotion in Neal's wrenchingly expressive eyes.

Neal had frozen at Jones' sarcastic, "Oh, you do get a medal," before Jones had even produced the anklet. An unmistakable flash of fear. Masked in an instant by playful affection, but it was the response of someone who'd had too recent an encounter with a sadist.

When Jones put the device on, Neal had been as gracious as ever about it. Watched with his usual playful expression. Winced and contained the urge to pull away. Smiled. Gulped. Looked genuinely happy.

Reading too much into it? Neal never had been overly enthusiastic about the anklet, who would be? Here, remember you're a prisoner was a heck of a comedown from a life of luxury and freedom in the tropics.

Neal strolled into his office, grinning and limping. "Any word on our first case back?"

"I'm still adjusting my chair," said Peter. "You're like a five year old." He cocked his head sideways. "Bit of a letdown from island paradise?"

Neal glanced away. "I didn't miss being a prisoner."

Peter didn't know how to respond. The most compassionate part of his soul ached for this guy, the FBI agent who knew he was lucky to be alive and out of prison wanted to tell him to suck it up.

Which, come to think of it, was probably the basic thought process behind all those conflicted expressions of Neal's. They were both complex human beings and allowed to be.

But fear didn't belong there. The look of misgiving he'd given Jones had been - too deeply real. "Sit down."

Neal sat, trying not to wince.

"I think that was fear I saw down there. I think the Agent of Evil got to you."

"I'm not entirely superhuman," said Neal softly, letting Peter see the vulnerability he so often hid. "It's possible I may need some time to recover from the shock of being shot while I was standing in a cage with my hands up in surrender pleading with him not to."

"And of another agent more or less trying to make you his indentured servant?"

"That too."

They looked at each other for a minute, compassion and understanding on both sides.

"Why don't you join me and El for dinner tonight," Peter suggested.

There was no conflict in the content look Neal gave him in return. "I'll be there."

Peter stood up. "One other thing. I couldn't find those cuffs I took off you on the plane."

Neal grinned.

"You stole Collins's handcuffs?"

"I'm big on having the last word."

"Taking trophies is what serial killers do," said Peter, trying not to laugh.

"Now you're giving me ideas," retorted Neal. "They'll be stuffed and mounted over the fireplace next time you come over."