09 HOME


"We'll get through this. Okay? We'll get through." Peter tapped Neal's shoulder.

The 'we' was all Neal needed, all he'd ever needed.

Peter stood up and put a hand out to Neal.

Neal took the proffered hand, never taking his eyes from Peter's.

Peter pulled Neal up. Damn if the man didn't have one hell of a grip.

"Let's sort this painting thing out." Peter patiently guided Neal back to the White Collar Unit.


Jones was on the phone when Peter returned with Neal. He hoped Peter would forgive him the momentary lapse, even though it was Peter who suggested he put his head down. He should have stayed awake as back-up for Peter, especially when it came to Neal.

Peter stopped at his desk.

Jones couldn't help himself. "You really are the only one that can catch Caffrey."

Peter gave him a sly smile. Neal rolled his eyes.

"Would you grab some water? Then we'll see about getting something to eat."

"How about a couple more power drinks? Puts the electrolytes up."

Peter nodded, then picked up the army blanket and headed to the conference room with Neal in tow.

Peter managed to settle Neal into a conference room chair, the blanket tossed over his shoulders.

Neal leaned forward and nestled his head into his arms. His body seemed overwhelmingly heavy. Then a firm hand found its way onto his back, rubbing between his shoulder blades. The tension eased. His muscles relaxed. He fought to keep his eyes open but the light kept fading.

Jones half bounded into the conference room with three power drinks gripped in one hand and a couple of bars in the other.

"What, I keep them for workouts and stakeouts," he responded to Peter's questioning look.

"Did he tell you about...?"

"About Ruiz? About Zantele? About the painting?"

Jones seemed surprised at the painting. "No, about the ..."

"Beating." Neal finished, not lifting his head, Peter's hand still resting on his shoulder.

Peter 'd been so preoccupied with Ruiz and his own anger that he hadn't focused much attention on Neal himself.

Peter spun Neal around in his chair to face him. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Surprised, Neal grabbed at the table to steady himself. Oh, great, the angry Peter was back.

"You cuffed me to Hughes' couch before I could say anything!"

"I ... You broke into Hughes' office! You fell asleep on his couch! How was I supposed to ask you anything? And ..." Peter put his hands on his hips. "And, it was Hughes who insisted on the cuffs until we got a new tracker back."

Personally, Peter figured Hughes thought the cuffs were a small reminder for Neal as to exactly whose couch he'd been sleeping on. Hughes knew full well a standard set of cuffs would do nothing to hold Neal.

Neal beamed. An effervescent Neal Caffrey smile.

Peter glowered at Neal. Then looked at Jones. Jones shrugged.

"Hughes? Hughes cuffed me to the couch?"

Peter nodded.

"You're not mad at me?"

Peter shook his head "How many times, how many ways do I have to say NO?"

"You weren't yelling at me all night?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "No."

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I'm not sure. Everything. Nothing. But whatever it is, I'm sorry."

Peter shook his head, "How hard did you get knocked on the head?"

Neal pulled his head back, questioning. "I... I didn't. I don't think I did. Nothing there hurts."

There. What other 'theres' existed? Peter pulled a chair up to Neal. "Time to talk, Neal."

Neal looked up at Jones.

Jones nodded, "Told ya he wasn't mad at you."

Neal smiled again as Jones exited.


Neal told Peter about the bistro. The setting sun. He really should have come with him. Then Maury spoiling his respite by "kidnapping" him. About the Zazze Club. About Zantele. About Zantele beating him. Ruiz arresting him. Ruiz asking over and over again why he met with Zantele. Neal repeating over and over that he wouldn't talk with him. He'd talk with Peter, but not him. Asking over and over for Ruiz to get Peter. Ruiz hadn't touched him, save for the initial "arrest" and slamming the cuffs on.

Neal absently rubbed at his wrists at the mention.

"Neal."

Neal stopped mid-sentence to meet Peter's very intent gaze.

"I do this for a living." Peter's voice was soft, melodic.

"What?"

"Interview. Not just the perps but the witnesses, the victims."

"I'm not..."

"Neal. It's not just about what you've told me but what you haven't."

"But, I..."

"Neal."

"Peter."

"Oh, don't you start switching this around." Peter raised his voice up an octave.

"I'm trying to be honest here." Neal put on the indignant, hurt look.

"I know that." Peter nodded his head, reassuring. "But! You and I both know you've been editing. You spent more time telling me about the bistro where Maury picked you up and Ruiz arresting you than what Zantele did to you. Moreover, you haven't once said why."

Neal was rubbing his eyes. His head bent forward. Then he pushed his head into the back of the chair. His eyes closed; he took a long, deep breath.

"Not here."

"What?"

"Not here." Neal took in another deep breath. "I can't."

"Can't what? Can't tell me or ..." Peter paused until Neal opened his eyes, "... or, won't tell me?"

"Will. Not here."

"What's wrong with here?" Peter almost sounded hurt.

"Seriously?"

Neal pushed forward in his chair.

"I'm in an FBI building, sitting across from an FBI Special Agent, and you seriously want me to talk openly, candidly?" Neal scoffed. He held his hands up, wrists together. "Why not take me back to prison now, if that's what you're seriously asking me to do."

"Come on?" Peter grumbled, pulling back.

"No, you come on." Neal moved even closer. "Not so long ago your house was bugged; OPR had info beyond what most people, what most FBI agents, can access. Zantele knows virtually all my history, everything, where I live, our agreement, where I go for coffee. Do you really think someone couldn't be listening right now."

Peter opened his mouth in protest, then closed it in resignation.

Neal tipped his head, victorious.

"You sound as paranoid as Mozzie."

"Well, Mozzie's still alive, has never been to jail, and the only time he's been hurt is, well, is ... when he's helping me." Neal looked a little rueful with the last part.

"Okay, fine." Peter stood. "But first, I think we should get you checked out."

"Oh, no. No, no, no. No doctors, no hospitals."

"Oh, yes. Yes, yes, yes." Peter mocked.

"No. No, they take way too long. Ask too many questions. They have needles. People die."

"You really do sound like Mozzie."

"Not going." Neal settled himself into his chair. "Been through way worse. No blood loss. No fever. Bruises are already there. What can they do for me?"

Peter studied Neal for a moment, his lips curling up. "I could think of a few things they could do."

Neal scowled.

"Okay. One, you're exhausted. Two, you've been traumatized. Don't give me that look. Three, they'll give me a medical report."

Neal sat bolt up right. "Report. No, uh-uh, no way."

"You know damn well it will be harder to go after Zantele without one."

"I suppose you want photographs too?" Neal stood, his face inches from Peter's. "There is no way in hell I'll ever testify as to what Zantele did. He knew that. Not going to happen."

Peter started to open his mouth.

"No, Peter, it's not because of what he did, its because of how everything will be twisted around in court. Everything will be thrown back on me. Lock me up, please; it will be so much easier."

Peter grasped Neal's shoulders.

"There's a lot more to this than the obvious?"

Neal nodded his head ever so slightly. Intense crystal blue eyes conveyed far more than mere words.

"Okay, no reports, no photographs, I'd still like... Okay, no doctors either. But ... we are going to talk. We are going to eat. You are going to have another of Jones' power drinks." I'm going to go home to my wife. Put my feet up. Forget that I ever met... No, life would never be the same without Neal Caffrey in it.

"Those things taste awful."

"Electrolytes. Or we're back to..."

"Fine."


Peter sent Jones home to get some much-needed rest. Peter patted him on the shoulder, thanking him for the efforts. Peter also suggested he stop playing around on the elevators and stick to just pressing one button. Jones shot him a dirty look with a sly wink attached; Peter never missed much.

Peter was set to head for his place. Neal, however, refused to go anywhere, particularly Peter's, unless he could get cleaned up first.

Peter requested Diana pick up the tracker from the Marshals, who had been taking their sweet time, and swing by Neal's with it.

An hour plus later, Neal contentedly tossed on a pair of dark gray slacks, a navy turtle neck, pushing the sleeves up to just below the elbows, and slipped on black loafers. He grabbed a jacket, ran his hands through his hair and caught Peter's gaze.

"What?"

Peter just shook his head.

"What?" Neal asked again, his arms parted, questioning.

"You get kidnapped, take a beating, get arrested, held for hours without food or drink, and with just a shower and change of clothing you look like you walked out of a photo shoot."

Neal beamed, his blue eyes twinkling like electric blue jewels.
If Peter had ever described those eyes to Neal, Neal would have asked if he referred to Paraiba Tourmaline gems or 'Santa Maria' Aquamarine gems, of course accompanied by a history of the gemstones and their rarest settings.

Peter shook his head again while motioning Neal out the door.

They met Diana in June's entryway. She spun the new tracker around her fingers. With a coy smile she asked Neal if he missed it.

Neal never skipped a beat. Plucking the tracker from her hands, he leaned in close to her, and suggested she had an ulterior motive in wanting to track his every move. His eyes danced with mischief.

Diana snorted and gave Peter her condolences for having to spend his weekend with Neal.

Neal had then requested, pleaded with, Peter not to activate the tracker until after they spoke. Peter stared at Neal for a long while, his eyes narrowing. Neal's eyes only held a simple unwavering honesty. Peter relented.

Peter finally found himself where he wanted to be, home. He'd plunked Neal on the couch, waved a finger in his face and threatened him that if he even moved a muscle, he'd personally lock-him-up-and-throw-away-the-key. He wanted, needed, to get cleaned up as much as Neal had done. Although, he doubted he'd look like he just stepped out of some photo shoot.


"You still sound like Mozzie."

"If you can put a microphone in the tip of a pen, why not into a tracker?"

Neal had a point.

"So, why do you think my home's 'safe'?"

Neal looked abashed.

"Spill it."

"Um, well. Mozzie. He, uh, he..."

"Now."

"... at my request... Weputasystemin."

"A wha ... a system?"

"It tracks all your known electronic signatures; anything unusual sets an alarm off."

Peter let out a long sigh. Calm, calm, breathe, nice slow breath. "Who gets the alarm?"

"You do."

"Me?"

"A text and cell message to contact 'Dante Inc. ASAP'."

How could you want to strangle someone and thank them all in the same instant?

Peter sighed.

"Okay. I'll get the tracker checked, suffice for now we're 'safe'."

Neal relaxed a bit. He must have rearranged every object on the bookshelf while he stood talking to Peter.

Elizabeth returned just then from the kitchen with the take-out she had reheated.

"You okay, Neal? Peter's being good to you, isn't he?" She shot a reproving glance at Peter.

"What makes you think I've done anything to him?" Peter griped mockingly.

"Oh, I don't know." She planted a playful kiss on his forehead "You made him stay on the couch for 45 minutes while you got washed up."

"He stayed?"

"Peter," El admonished. "And, yes he did, apologizing profusely at not being able to help me in the kitchen. But he looked more and more uncomfortable as he sat there."

Peter glanced at Neal, apologetic.

They ate, talking to El about her day and giving her bits and pieces of what had happened with Neal.

El held Neal's hand, rubbing her thumb gently across the bruises on his wrists. When he flinched, she flipped his hand and was prepared to go after the man who had so brutally hurt him.

Peter stood, held her shoulders and kissed her, telling Neal he was lucky to have such a champion in Elizabeth.

Neal, had of course, insisted he was fine and Peter had things under control.

Elizabeth cleared the table. She refused to let Peter or Neal help. She was going to finish up in the kitchen and head to bed. She knew they needed to talk; the tracker had sat ominously on the table throughout their late dinner.


Neal provided further details about Maury Trenton.

Then about Emile Zantele.

Then what Zantele had done to him in detail.

Neal was sitting, his arms pressed together between his knees, often rocking slowly forward then back.

Peter had rearranged his coffee mug, turning the handle one way then the other.

Peter was seething more with each word.

Neal finally paused. He put his hand over Peter's cup.

"Peter, I'm sorry."

"Why should you be sorry?" Peter narrowed his eyes. "Zantele's the one who should be, will be, sorry."

Neal took a deep breath. "No. Peter, uhm, the rest, I ..."

"Neal, I can't help you unless I know what we're up against."

'We.' How much longer would we be a reality?