NEAL
Peter stumbled, Neal reached out to steady him, and that led to both men colliding with one of those little twisty trees that looked like barber shop poles.
"Ow," complained Peter, rubbing his forehead. "Your tree bit me."
"Cowboy up, Cujo."
Peter glared. "You've been waiting all week to combine those phrases, haven't you?"
Neal took a bow. And then staggered. And Peter put out an arm to catch him, and two rather drunk, completely overstressed men ended up face to face without time to hide it.
"Neal - there's only one of you," said Peter, looking truly devastated. "There isn't a random someone else I can pick to be friends with. There's just you. One day when I forget how to be a cruel, domineering bastard, will you let me try to - be that guy you used to trust?"
Neal's eyes stung. "You have no idea how much I want to. That guy I used to trust meant a whole hell of a lot to me."
"Give me a second chance," said Peter. "When it's safe - please."
Tears. Again.
What did I do to deserve spending half my life with tears in my eyes all of a sudden? Neal wiped them away on his sleeve, and tried to blame the rum.
"I can't handle you - being cruel. I can't handle it," said Neal.
And then he felt dizzy, and wondered how on earth to say that in a way that would convey how serious he was.
"You're - the only person I've ever truly trusted. If I - let you that close again, and you break that trust, you're going to break me. I'm not tough, not emotionally. You - made me want to die. There's no way I can take that again. I'm pretty sure that would be it for me."
Peter was trying to stand still, but continually adjusting his feet to accommodate the wobble in his legs. He was also trying to maintain eye contact with Neal, and unable to do so for more than a few seconds at a time. He finally reached his arm out and planted a hand on Neal's shoulder, holding himself steady and letting his head droop.
"If there's anything I learned from this - I'm not very tough either. And - God, pain hurts," said Peter. His voice was shaky and thick with emotion.
"I swear I know the weight of what I'm asking. But I keep having this nightmare of being out in the ocean and - you're gone, and it's the most desolate thing in the world. That, and that fucking cell."
Neal gave up on fighting the tears. "I'm not sure - I'm ever going to feel that kind of trust again."
They walked inside, right to the counter. Realized they'd left their glasses outside, and Peter grabbed fresh ones while Neal tried frantically to wipe the tears away. And then Peter put that familiar soft, caring hand on his back, the way he always had steadied Neal when he was in distress.
PETER
"You said - as long as I had faith in you, you would have faith in me," said Peter. "Did you mean that?"
Do you still mean it? Or did those weeks in a cell cost me one of the most valuable things I've ever known?
"Yes," said Neal, his voice wrenchingly emphatic. "And then you lost faith in me."
He sounded beyond sad. He sounded heartbroken.
"I lost faith in the whole world, Neal," said Peter. Overwhelming grief made tears sneak into his own eyes.
I lost the world. I lost my integrity. I lost Neal. If Neal's right about DC, that I'm running away, I may have just lost a job and a team I loved.
Neal just looked small and miserable. "You lost faith in me, and your way of dealing with that was to betray and hurt someone who trusted you with -" he couldn't continue.
"Oh, Neal. I feel like I shot you."
He did. If for any incomprehensible reason he ever injured Neal, he imagined the sickening grief and pain and frantic desire to undo it would feel a lot like this.
Neal gave a low, dark laugh. "Oh, believe me, that would have been easier. I would have quietly passed out, confused as could be and figuring that when I woke up in the ICU you'd tell me why you did it, and it would all make perfect sense."
In other words, you could shoot me in the chest and still not shake my trust in you. You used what you know about me to do something worse.
He was this close to crawling into Neal's arms and crying, and pleading for forgiveness. What was stopping him was exactly what was stopping Neal from forgiving him.
Fear.
Fear of how much it could hurt if he dropped the reserve, and stopped protecting his heart against Neal. Criminals weren't sweet and fluffy. They lied, deceived, gained trust in order to exploit it, and were fond of revenge. And they could play very, very long cons and betray without remorse or pity. It would hurt too badly to even contemplate if he trusted a con artist and got what was coming to him.
"Neal - I need to know." Peter drew a deep breath. "Am I the mark in the world's longest con?"
"No."
Reading Neal Caffrey wasn't all that hard. The hard part was sorting out the incredible complexity of his conflicted emotions. He was an open book, but only if you could read really fast.
Unless he was acting. When he was acting, he could channel his emotions, cross the wires, so that what he was really feeling got turned into what his mark needed to see. And that, Peter was less confident in his ability to spot.
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. Peter, what would I be conning you for, anyway? Your world-class beer collection?"
"A free pass out of prison. A pet FBI agent. Defang the one guy who's the biggest threat to your freedom, and make him care about you and cover for you? You're unstoppable with a Fed on your side. Top it off by getting revenge on the man who put you in prison by sticking a dagger in my heart?"
NEAL
If Peter didn't look so worried about what Neal's answer might be, Neal would have felt stung by the cynical question.
"No. No. No. Peter, you know me. Friendship means more than a big score, or avoiding prison, or any of it. I am what I am, but - betraying wonderful people who trust me - no. That's not me."
Peter rubbed Neal's back with his thumb gently, then let his hand fall away. The agent took a sip of his drink, using it more as a displacement behavior than recreation. He went and stood in front of an easel.
"I think you should teach me how to forge a Rafael."
"Uh - that's - complicated. You'd at least have to improve your stick figures first."
Peter dragged over a chair and sat down, staring at the blank canvas.
"You taught art classes in prison," said Peter. "You can do it."
"You're like an officially licensed stalker!" protested Neal.
But he pulled out paints, and a palette, and some brushes. Squeezed out basic colors, and doodled a stick figure. Labeled it "Peter," and then handed the brush over.
"Now you do me," said Neal, flopping down on his stomach and propping himself up with his elbows planted on the floor. The alcohol didn't seem to be doing its hoped-for part in muddling his mind, but it was making him feel most secure when braced against a solid object.
"Rafael," Peter insisted.
"Okay, paint the outline of a horse."
Peter tried, and the results were hilarious.
"Nice dogicorn," said Neal.
Peter glared. "Is this how you coach people who can shank you?"
"Absolutely not," said Neal.
"Thought so."
"For someone who could shank me, it'd be 'nice fucking dogicorn, asshole.' Better?"
"Not in the least bit. And you're cutting into my lesson time."
Neal closed his eyes, drawing a complete blank on how he might even begin to instruct someone who could be outpainted by a preschooler on how to forge a master.
They must have stayed closed for longer than he thought, because the next thing he was aware of was Peter joining him on the floor.
Peter fished the electronic key from his pocket and wiggled it at Neal. "May I?" he asked, nodding towards the anklet.
Neal nodded. Didn't really know what Peter was up to, didn't really care. Odd, though, asking permission. He was the prisoner, and as Peter made repeatedly and abundantly clear, the FBI could do whatever they pleased with him.
Peter was fumbling to align the key, but finally got it right and tugged the anklet loose. He tossed them both across the room without even looking to see where they wound up.
The anklet's evil powers were symbolic. Physically wearing it didn't bother him at all, backtalk to Peter aside. He actually kind of missed the snug contact when it was off. But it was sweet of the agent to listen and care.
Oh. Right. Taking it off was symbolic.
Okay. Mind was muddled after all. Good.
And Peter was sweet.
"Thanks."
"Looking forward to doing that for real," said Peter.
Peter drained the last of his drink, picked up the paint brush, and doodled it around on the back of Neal's hand.
"Hey!" protested Neal. "You're supposed to draw on me after I pass out drunk."
Peter painted an entire geometric framework on the back of Neal's hand in ultramarine blue while Neal stared at him in fascinated confusion. He wasn't that drunk. Was he?
"I've put you through a lot," said Peter, setting the brush aside. "And you stick around for it, when all you have to do is move your hand. What makes it worthwhile?"
"Having a friend to sit on the floor drinking mojitos with, while he inexplicably starts painting on me," said Neal. "You've felt what alone is like. This is heaven. I don't care how weird it is."
Peter smiled, and Neal stood up and took their glasses for a refill. When he returned, he sat down beside Peter and held his drink up, watching the mint leaves float around and bump into miniature icebergs.
"Plato wrote that according to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with 4 arms, 4 legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves. I think I was split into a lot more than just two halves," said Neal.
"You didn't wash the paint off."
"Nope."
And they lay on the floor, watching ice cubes melt.
They were slumped on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, enjoying the reassuring warmth of human contact. Neal relaxed against the agent's side, and Peter put his arm across Neal's shoulders and pulled him close.
It was a blissful state to be in, drunk and warm with a true friend. Whatever trust issues there were, this was still a deeply caring friendship. Being firmpl - firmly against Peter's side helped get rid of the wobbly.
Peter picked up the remote and punched buttons for a while. "You need to see this."
Neal groaned at the picture on screen. "Baseball?"
"Just the last few innings of this game. This one of the most - incredible last-minute turnarounds you'll ever see. Dare you not to be just a little in awe."
Neal struggled to keep his eyes open. When it was finally over, he stood up and went over to the bookshelf to find a certain special DVD.
"My turn," said Neal, slipping it into the player and skipping ahead a few chapters. "This is every bit as riveting as that game."
He sat back down and leaned against Peter's side again, missing that contact. Peter put his arm back around Neal's shoulders, and Neal tried not to melt.
The DVD was playing. "The pleochroism or lack thereof will help identify a specimen as uniaxial (singly refractive) or biaxial (doubly refractive) as seen in plane polarized light. The differential selective absorption present in both iolite and zoicite may cause initial confusion. While both iolite and unheated zoicite are trichroic, the more common treated zoicite will appear biaxial. However, the absorption spectra of these stones is readily distinguishable. Furthermore, a refractive index of 1.53-1.55 in iolite versus 1.685-1.707 in zoicite should aid in making a rapid distinction between the two materials. In the event that a refractometer is not available-"
"Stop!" protested Peter. "I give up. And how the hell is this riveting to you? I can't even tell what field they're talking about!"
Neal grinned. "I didn't say it was riveting to me, I said it was as riveting to me as baseball."
"You - if I wasn't so comfy right now, I'd punch you."
"Raincheck?" suggested Neal. This was comfy. "And if you ever buy El a nice Tanzanite that turns out to be iolite, don't say I didn't try to educate you."
Neal didn't realize he'd started to doze off until Peter spoke again. His voice was quiet and open, unreserved.
"Neal...Yeah. I - was treated badly. And - there's trauma. But...it's superficial. I'd have been the same devastated wreck under house arrest. When those cuffs went on, my world imploded. That's my nightmare. That's - what I'm not sure I'm going back from."
Neal shifted and tried to wiggle his arm between Peter's back and the couch. It didn't really work, but it was the thought that counted, right?
"I know the feeling," said Neal. "It happened to me when I was three. And when I was eight, and eighteen, and when I was sentenced to Sing Sing. You do come back from it. A little warped, but more or less in one piece."
Peter twisted sideways and looked at him with one of the most vulnerable, sweetest expressions he'd ever seen. "You said - to give in and let myself be comforted."
And a minute later, Peter Burke, FBI agent, was in Neal's arms, his face pressed against Neal's shoulder.
So this was what he'd been drinking all evening to work up the courage and lack of inhibition to do. Consciously or not.
Neal knew what it was like to be alone in a cell for a long time, scared and in pain. It was the fantasy of moments like this that kept one sane.
He just didn't know exactly how to react.
The only creatures he was used to holding and comforting were pets, kids, and occasionally, women. Not rigidly tough, always in-charge FBI agents.
He tried to formulate words, but no. That was the Neal way of doing things. This was a time for the Peter way of doing things. Neal relaxed and just held him and cared, cautiously stroking the back of his head, patting his shoulder.
It made Neal remember vividly the things he forgot, tuned out, and overlooked about being in prison. The things that made his stomach flip upside down.
The sound of metal cell doors slamming shut behind him.
Being on lockdown and listening to the violence of a cell extraction, yelling and screaming and slamming echoing down the hall while Neal wondered if he knew the prisoner or the guards involved, if someone he cared about was getting hurt. There were people on both sides he adored and every single cry took his breath away.
Being cavity searched. It'd been done with respect and professionalism, and was nowhere near the horror that the term implied. And it always left him wanting to crawl into a dark corner and vanish.
He held onto Peter with all his strength. One thing could ease the sting. Compassion. Humanity, friendship, caring...it all came back to the need for compassion when its existence was questioned. Peter had been denied that.
Neal hugged him, rested his chin on Peter's shoulder, found the left hand that wasn't wrapped around Neal's back, and stroked it. Rubbed the wrist where he'd been cuffed, and found two tiny white scars on the inside of his wrist. Almost invisible. Impossible to imagine the intensity of the pain those marks represented unless you'd experienced it.
Peter tensed when Neal's thumb paused over the scars, and Neal was going to let go when he realized Peter wasn't shrinking away, he was holding on even tighter.
Neal stroked the skin softly for a minute, then just wrapped his hand around Peter's wrist and held on. It hadn't been the most traumatic event in the agent's captivity, he'd made that plain enough.
Blinding pain and the constant threat of it didn't match the verbal cruelty he'd been met with every single time he saw another human being, or the complete humiliation and vulnerability of being strapped down naked and abandoned in a cell.
It didn't hold a candle to the fear of going to prison or being executed for a crime he didn't commit. Or, apparently, watching Neal walk out of the visitor's room and leave him behind.
Those tiny white spots were just the only thing Neal could access physically.
No. They weren't.
Peter would never tell his wife these things had happened to him. Neal was the only person who was going to hold him and comfort him and understand why.
His shoulder felt damp, and the agent's shoulders were...sort of twitching now and then. Peter was crying. Silently and without drama.
"You were cared about," said Neal softly. "Every minute. I know how abandoned and hated and worthless you were made to feel, but you were loved and worried about and believed in. Intensely."
"Yeah?"
Neal just pressed his face against the side of Peter's head and held him as tight as he could. The FBI agent in his arms might be crying, but he felt big warm and solid and even relaxed.
This wasn't the Peter Burke shivering in a wrecked car, looking aged and small and lost. This wasn't the Peter Burke in a suit who looked him in the eyes, cold and hard, and devastated him. This wasn't Peter broken and running scared.
This was Peter healing, and regaining the ability to trust and risk being vulnerable. It was a deliberate act of courage, letting Neal see him like this. It was abandoning all pretense of authority and putting himself in the hands of a friend, literally.
Neal relaxed, letting Peter's weight press him back on the couch, dizzy in a way that couldn't be entirely attributed to the alcohol.
Peter trusted him.
Not to refrain from breaking the law, a dance they might be performing until the end of time. But in a far deeper sense Neal hadn't even imagined him capable of.
It took his breath away. Well, that, and the fact that Peter was heavy. And warm. And Neal was squished, and sleepy. He closed his eyes, just for a minute.
Peter wasn't crying any longer, just lying there with his head on Neal's shoulder and an arm securely wrapped around his chest. Breathing...very steadily. Very evenly. As in sound asleep.
Neal tugged the throw off the back of the couch and over Peter, and tried to wiggle into a more comfortable position. Then he closed his eyes and let the world spin deliciously out of focus, dozing into a comfortable haze and much-needed sleep.