Neal woke up feeling like a very cuddly elephant was squashing him. He hated to give up the once-in-a-lifetime feeling of his hardass FBI handler sound asleep, head nestled against his shoulder and one arm tucked firm around his chest. It was sort of like snuggling with an attack dog. Cuddly Peter was adorable, and this was the best drunk night ever.
But - ow. He had to move.
He wriggled out from under Peter, trying to disturb him as little as possible, and landed on the floor with an ungainly thunk.
Neal took a spare pillow off the bed, and extra blankets from the closet. Peter gave him an unfocused, confused look that melted when Neal coaxed him into lifting up so he could slip the pillow under his head. He carefully spread the blankets over the very drunk, very sleepy FBI agent, and gave him a fond pat.
Peter's gaze was no more focused, but it had gone definitively from confused to adoring. This was such an exceptional human being. Intelligent, tough, honest, joyful, and kind. And now, trusting at great risk.
Neal gave his shoulder a final squeeze. "Good night, Cujo. You're not alone. If you need me for anything, just yell. I'm right here."
And then he crawled into his deliciously large, soft bed and closed his eyes.
Oh, OW. Peter was still snoring when Neal awoke. It was fully light outside, and thank every deity throughout history it was a Saturday. His head hurt, he was dizzy, and his mouth was dry. He crept into the bathroom, then walked into the kitchen, careful not to jar himself with his steps.
Let's see Peter pickle-juice himself out of this one.
He forced himself to gulp down way too much water, Advil, vitamins, and the contents of an electrolyte packet. He made up a similar kit for Peter, downed a couple shots of NyQuil, and left everything by the couch before crawling back into bed and passing out again.
PETER
Neal was still sprawled out in bed, sound asleep. Peter turned the anklet around in his hand. He shouldn't leave the apartment without putting it back on.
Option one, wake a hung-over Neal for the express purpose of telling him, "Hey, thanks for holding me while I fell asleep sobbing in your arms last night, but wake the hell up so I can make sure you know you're still my prisoner." That idea lacked a certain sense of...sanity?
Option two, try to quietly sneak it back on him without disturbing him too much. His leg was sticking out enticingly from under the blanket...
That wouldn't at all be an unnerving way to wake up, finding someone had snuck into your bedroom and was trying to latch a tracker around your ankle. Remembering how dearly his nose had paid last time he tried fiddling with Neal without permission cinched that one.
The textbook on Neal's nightstand caught his eye. Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Health Disorders. Now there was some light, casual reading. He snuck over and lifted it very quietly from the stand where it was open face down.
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
PTSD. That was the section Neal was studying. And the highlights were all relevant to Peter. He didn't know whether to be touched or severely unsettled.
Touched. Neal had been helping him through this with subtle but considerable skill, patience, and immense understanding, considering how badly Peter had hurt him.
Peter set the book down softly. There was an option three, thinking like a normal human being and not the FBI agent handling a prisoner. Slip out, buy them breakfast, and bring it back to the apartment.
He walked softly out to the living room, rested the anklet on the table, and - no. Human being, not FBI agent. You know, friend, compassion, sensitivity? He slipped it back under the couch, and the key with it.
An interesting test. He might return with breakfast to find Neal gone. Highly doubtful he'd flee. What was going to be more interesting was seeing if he tried slip away for some off-leash sneakery or trick Peter into forgetting it was off.
NEAL
Neal was surprised to find Peter gone and the anklet still off when he woke up. He poured himself some orange juice, added a small splash of the remaining rum, started a pot of coffee, and went anklet-hunting.
He found them on the floor in roughly the same place they'd landed the night before. But...the key was close to the anklet. Too close.
So Peter had retrieved the thing, considered putting it on him, and decided against it. Interesting.
Peter the FBI agent was remorseless. He wouldn't have hesitated to shake Neal awake and order him to put the thing on. Then his kindhearted streak would have kicked in, and he'd have patted Neal's shoulder or made some off-kilter and horribly insensitive joke, or given him an apologetic glance and a case file. And then Neal would have smiled and decided this guy could wake him up and slap anklets on him any time he wanted.
Peter the vulnerable and trusting human being from last night might actually let his friend sleep in peace.
Maybe.
Or he could be waiting outside to tail Neal in his inevitable off-anklet adventures. Neal pulled up the GPS tracker he'd covertly installed in Peter's phone, expecting it to show him located behind a nearby bush like a garden gnome with a badge and a hangover.
The agent was a half-mile away, at a deli.
Wow.
Neal tossed the anklet in his hand, closed his eyes and smiled. Then he snapped the anklet on and put the key in the center of the table. Peter would be back; his car keys and handgun were in Neal's safe.
It was a tribute to how odd and complicated their relationship was: Peter would turn over his loaded service weapon to Neal without hesitation, yet the monumental act of trust was letting him sleep in without being monitored. Neal was grinning when he got into the shower.
PETER
Peter was starting to freak out in the way only Neal could induce. He'd been gone nearly two hours, thanks to traffic and lines and a mishap with an espresso stand.
Neal wouldn't run, not at this point. But he would slip off and do something stupid.
Then his phone buzzed, and his stomach sank. Neal had just used the tracking program he'd thought he'd hidden on Peter's phone to check his handler's whereabouts.
Damn it. If his sentimental carelessness put Neal in a cell - damn it. Giving him the opportunity to wreck his entire life wasn't kind, it was irresponsible and carried the cruelest possible consequences.
His responsibility to Neal, not just as a handler but as a friend, was to keep him under control first and worry about his feelings second.
You wake the guy up and make him put the anklet on, endure that painfully sad little waver in his expression, and poke him with sticks until the spark comes back into his eyes. Not exactly cruel and unusual. Not worth putting Neal's entire future on the line to avoid.
Peter finally made his way out of the deli and practically jumped in front of the first cab he saw. There were no traffic problems this time, and it didn't take long. But Neal had been alone for two and a half hours. Plenty of time to be far away and up to no good.
He paused outside the apartment with his hand on the door. Please, Neal. Tell me you've been smart.
Neal was sitting at the table, sipping orange juice and trying to focus his eyes on the morning paper. He greeted Peter with a bleary-eyed, hung-over, but genuinely welcoming smile.
"Good morning," said Peter cautiously.
"There better not be pickle juice in there," said Neal.
"I tried. But all they had were these teeny little jars of pickles, I would've had to buy about twenty of 'em."
He set the bags down on the table. Sitting on it like a centerpiece were his gun, his car keys, and...the key to the anklet. Neal caught the direction of his gaze, extended his leg, and tugged up his silk pajama pants. He was wearing the anklet.
Their eyes locked. "Thank you, Neal."
"Thank you, Peter." Neal gave him a knowing grin. "So just how freaked out were you?"
"Terrified," Peter admitted. The warm glow inside was making him smile like a little kid.
Pretending to check his messages, he pulled up Neal's tracking data and checked the time his anklet had been put back on. Less than two minutes after Neal had pinged his location. So Neal had checked to see if Peter was testing him, lurking outside. And when he'd seen that Peter had opted to trust him, he'd repaid that trust by putting the anklet back on.
Then he really did check his messages. El was in a meeting at the National Gallery, the neighbor kid had fed and walked Satchmo, and Marshal Tate wanted to meet his CI.
NEAL
"Agent Tate wants to meet you," said Peter.
Neal felt sick. These things had a history of turning out very badly for him. Not to mention the fact that this guy was law enforcement for law enforcement, and a psychologist.
Tate would either want to take custody of him, or tell Peter that Neal was corrupting him, or if he took a real look into their relationship, melt down in a horrified puddle of erroneous and unpleasant assumptions.
"What do you say we invite him to join us for brunch?" asked Peter.
"I'm feeling a little sick to my stomach," said Neal. "Think I'd rather just go home - oh, wait, this is my home. No stray FBI agents allowed."
"Hangover?"
"No."
Long silence.
"This one of the good guys. Truly."
Neal's head buzzed, and he was still nauseated. "I can't take this any more. I can see the guy helped you, and I like him for that. I love working with the FBI, and I hate being in prison. But if I'm asked to take one more round of this roller-coaster, I'm going to throw up. And then I'm going to go straight to Sing Sing and walk in the gate and close my eyes and wait for it to be over."
His hand shook when he picked up the bagel Peter set in front of him. "Those guys in the jail found the one thing you couldn't handle? Well, you've found the one thing I can't handle. I told you being literally tortured in prison was traumatic? It didn't hold a candle to what it felt like when you handed me that new anklet and left, or you telling me all I would ever be was a criminal, or hearing you talk to Jones about how awful it would be for him to be my handler."
He pressed his face in his hands. "You said things had to change. Then for the love of God please stop putting me through this, go enact your visions of Mister Burke Goes to Washington, and let me recover in a corner somewhere."
"Neal -" Peter sounded hurt and baffled. "What is it you think this guy's going to do you you?"
"Probably? Generously become my new handler so he can stick me undercover in every hell-pit of a prison he investigates. I know the system, right? And I'm already sentenced to be there. It'd be bloody perfect. And any time he gets mad at me, he can just leave me there a little longer than he needs to."
"No," said Peter firmly. "No, no, and no. As godawful as it was to hand you over to Siegel, as angry and screwed up as I was when I did it - did you think that he'd force you into any situation you weren't okay with?"
Neal looked down. "No. But bring that up one more time and I'll either punch you or throw up all over your shoes. No idea which."
And then he realized he wasn't kidding about the throwing up, doubled over, and fled for the bathroom. He vomited over and over again until his stomach and throat hurt so badly he wanted to cry out. The tears in his eyes this time weren't emotion, they were from physical pain and nausea.
He pulled the flush lever and buried his head in his arms, realizing he'd just made a decision. It was overwhelmingly sad, but it was the only direction that didn't make him throw up or cry.
"Neal? Are you all right? Neal?" Peter's voice gradually made it through, gentle and concerned. The voice that always steadied him and made him melt a little inside. "Remember you drowned recently. Should I be taking you to the doctor?"
Neal ran his fingers through his hair. As wrecked as he felt, his voice came out calm. It was the right decision. "I have an appointment with a lawyer to see if there's any way I can get released early. But if not, I need you to send me back to prison when you leave. I can't take another handler."
"Neal -"
"I don't dread it, and I don't have much time left. It's okay." He made himself meet Peter's gaze. It was soft and caring and horrified, and it instantly softened Neal's voice. "I mean that. It's what I want, and it's okay."
"Was - Siegel that bad?"
Neal shook his head. "Being handed over to him was. I put myself in your hands. I'm not the FBI's pet felon on a leash, and I'm not some child you can toss around from house to house when you get bored with him, I'm n-" he closed his mouth and bit his tongue to keep from saying something about Hagen.
Hagen, who could erase all of this. Who could put the anger and betrayal right back on Peter's face in a heartbeat. He was sick and tired of having his life be a toy for other people to play with.
He almost screamed at Peter. "I'm a human being!"
PETER
Peter eyed the toilet, close to wanting to throw up himself. The damage he'd done to Neal, confident, smartass, trusting Neal Caffrey, was horrifying.
"When you're done with that chapter on PTSD, can I read it?" Peter asked, almost timidly.
It must have been the right thing to say, because Neal started laughing. It was genuine laughter, too.
Before he lost his nerve, Peter knelt down to Neal's eye level. "You're a wonderful human being. I respect you, I care about you."
And then he ran. Figuratively.
If this was what he was now, a man capable of inflicting that much damage, no wonder his wife was in Washington DC right now without him.
I'm not some child you can toss around from house to house when you get bored with him? Where had that come from?
Throwing up was a pretty extreme reaction for Neal. And given the horror show that the longed-for reunion with his father had turned into, this would be exactly the time for childhood traumas to be surfacing.
And even more chilling, what was it Neal had stopped himself in mid-sentence from blurting out? What was it that had made Neal's eyes go flat in two seconds?
There was a knock on the door, and he invited Marshal Tate in.
NEAL
Fantastic. Peter invited the guy to his apartment. Without asking. Well, he could wait. Neal shaved, did his hair, and put on a suit.
I'm not some child you can toss around from house to house when you get bored with him? Where had that come from?
The adventure of staying with different families had helped distract him from the reason he wasn't at home. Even at age eight, he'd known it was a million times better than spending six months in the foster system.
He looked at himself in the mirror and flashed a bright smile. Better. Less emotional wreck vomiting and begging to go back to prison, more dashing head-turner.
He introduced himself to Tate and sat down with a cheery expression plastered on his face.
Marshal Tate was a pretty endearing guy. Relaxed, non-threatening, and smart without brandishing it. He was bantering back and forth with Peter, who seemed genuinely at ease around the other agent.
Being able to set people at ease quickly was Week One at the Podunk Chevy and Tractor Dealership. Free shotgun with every pickup purchased, don't forget your complimentary ball cap.
Neal flashed his most brilliant smile. "So, you've met me and you're still here. What is it you want from me?"
Tate didn't seem threatened. "I admit, I wasn't expecting you to hate me on sight."
"Neal's had some bad experiences with other agents trying to get custody of him, and the last psychologist he saw spiked his drink and tried to mess with his head," said Peter.
Tate stared at Neal and glanced back and forth between them, wondering if he was being messed with. And clearly hoping he was.
"The agent who shot me doesn't rate a mention?" asked Neal wryly. "Or how about the one who got me kidnapped, or the one who sent me undercover wearing an anklet that could have gotten me killed?"
"Well, that'd about do it," said Tate, wide-eyed despite himself. He shivered and glanced at Neal, curious and sympathetic. "How 'bout I promise to respect you as a human being, and you try not to hate me for things I didn't do?"
"We can give it a try," said Neal, relaxing a bit. "But the first time you shoot me, all bets are off."
"Don't forget the agent who framed you," Peter reminded him. He was getting as much of a kick out of the expressions of shock on Tate's face as Neal was.
Tate studied both of them for a long, silent minute. "Neal, you know any back-room doctor who can get your friend here on antidepressants without the FBI ever finding out?"
Neal raised his eyebrows. Now that was...not what he'd been expecting.
"Not some unlicensed mob doctor operating out of a vet's office," Tate clarified, grinning at Neal's shock. "It needs to be a legal prescription. But it's an irony of modern law enforcement that mental stability is such a primary requirement that some of the most frequently traumatized people in the country are afraid to seek treatment."
"I don't keep a list of licensed doctors with questionable ethics and poor record-keeping skills in my back pocket, but I can track one down," said Neal.
"Did I miss where someone asked me if I wanted to take antidepressants?" asked Peter.
"Did I miss where you said you wanted to give this the best possible chance at destroying your life?" asked Tate.
Neal raised his eyebrows and grinned. "Wow. Nice one. I'm starting to like you after all."
"And I'm starting to revise my prior positive opinion," muttered Peter, picking up his coffee and sulking.
Marshal looked directly at Neal. "The real reason I wanted to meet you? I spent four hours with Burke last evening, and it was blatantly obvious that he cares a great deal about you. I know what the fallout from trauma does to relationships, and I wanted to ask you to give this guy a chance. He's been through hell, and it shouldn't cost him his friendship with you."
Neal blinked, and Peter's eyes widened. That was...one bold move for a casual brunch guest. He'd been expecting Tate to horn in on his and Peter's relationship. It was like shrink catnip. But within five minutes?
"Exactly how much did Peter tell you about me?" asked Neal cautiously.
"So little that I could tell you were desperately important to him."
"And you just go around inviting yourself to people's homes every weekend to dispense unsolicited relationship advice? You're like some FBI Santa Claus bearing gifts absolutely nobody wants?"
Tate grinned with what looked like genuine good humor. "Exactly. I'm working on the sleigh, but reindeer are oddly hard to train."
Neal nodded slowly. "It's almost like they think it's weird when you ask them to fly."
"I just wouldn't want to spend all that time in court fighting trespassing charges," said Peter. His phone buzzed, and he checked it. "I need to go to the office."
"Do I need to go to the office?" asked Neal hopefully.
"No. You don't," said Peter.
Neal sighed. "Fine. Have fun, Cujo."
"Okay, how long you planning on keeping up with this Cujo business?"
"I don't know. How long have I been enduring dog on a leash jokes?"
"Most of them not from me," Peter reminded him.
"Uh-huh."
Peter shrugged. "Okay, Rover, see you later. I got a warrant to serve."
"Uh...you do realize nobody's named a dog Rover since 1965?"
"Okay, I see your point. Seeya, Spot."
Neal grinned and slapped at his departing handler's arm. He didn't want Peter leaving feeling guilty about the meltdown in the bathroom. Their eyes met for a split second.
We're good.
Neal and Marshal Tate eyed each other with a certain amount of discomfort after Peter left. It was actually Tate's discomfort that won Neal over. It was nonthreatening and implied a lack of agenda.
Marshal gave him a gently questioning look. "I get the impression from investigating him, and meeting you, and talking to him, that the Peter Burke you knew before this happened was a very sweet man with a joyful personality."
Neal nodded. "Peter is, was - this is going to sound like I'm in love with him, but you'd look into his eyes and see the softest, most caring soul. That coming from one of the smartest, most competent, badass FBI agents in the country."
Tate smiled. "Neal, there's a misconception in this society that true love always has to be either familial or sexual."
"Tell me about it," said Neal sarcastically. He did have to give the guy a few points for understanding that, though.
"The thing is, the most fundamentally decent people tend to be the ones who take things like this the hardest."
Neal closed his eyes. "Listen. I know what PTSD is. I know what it does, and I know Peter has it. I am very familiar with people covering fear and pain with anger. I know solitary confinement and being humiliated and abused and restrained. I understand and I will support him and will always count him as a friend. Okay?"
Tate stood, well aware that he was being dismissed. "Okay," he said gently.
Neal opened his eyes, relenting. This agent was nice, and he was being mean to the guy. "Thank you for helping Peter. Very much. Justice means the world to him."
Tate smiled and tapped his knuckles on the table. "You don't want me here, I'll get out. But with all you've clearly been through, you need someone to care about you just as much as he does. Let him do that for you. His type needs to take care of others. It's more therapeutic for him to be able to do that than any amount of sympathy and understanding could ever be."