Being drafted was like being told by your dad that you had to go play with your siblings so they didn't feel left out. Except in Neal's case, he didn't know his dad and he didn't have any siblings so he couldn't understand that line of thinking.

It was hard. He wasn't used to all this sweat and labor and being yelled at 24/7 by a big man with a hard attitude and way too much time on his hands. They'd shaved his head, given him new clothes, and slowly, they'd begun to take away the Neal Caffrey everyone knew. He was a soldier now. Soldiers were not delicate flowers who painted sunsets and gave lilies to beautiful women. No, soldiers were animals, trained for the fight and nothing but the fight.

He was good at running, right from the start, but he wasn't exactly the strongest person there. He certainly wasn't the weakest either, but it took some work to grow accustomed to the gruelling schedule.

They liked Neal because he could use guns. He told them he didn't like guns, and he asked if maybe he could be put on a med team or something so he didn't have to kill anyone. They told him to shove it. Medical was the highest sought after position for wimps like him. He should have asked earlier.

And then training ended and it was time for the real deal. Iraq, that's where they were being shipped off to, Neal heard. He sent a few quick letters, one to Moz, one to Sara, one to Ellen. He sent two to her, actually. He told her to give the other to his mom if anyone ever found her again.

He wondered if she was even still alive, and if she was, did she care? Did she care that her son was here in this place, about to get on a plane to fly across the ocean? He liked to think that she would be proud. He hoped someone was because he couldn't bring himself to be proud. He was too scared.

-)()(-

War was brutal. It was chaotic and terrifying, and no matter where you turned, death awaited you with open arms, ready to strike you down after one wrong move.

To someone like Neal, it was the worst thing to be a part of, but he didn't really have a choice in the matter, so he fought, and he did his best not to get killed. He didn't shoot his gun, but he carried it with him as he ran, avoiding enemy fire while his feet sank into the mud. It had been raining, and the sky was still dark with clouds.

All around, the air was filled with deafening noise. The sound of gunfire, explosions, screams from the soldiers on both sides. Those screams were chilling. Neal had never heard anyone make noise like that, and it would haunt his dreams, he knew, for years to come. If he survived, that is.

Dirt sprayed up to his left, and he leaped away from it instinctively, eyes wild as he tried to avoid the line of fire while also moving forward with the rest of the soldiers.

That was really all Neal remembered before waking up alone, cold, lying at the bottom of a trench among countless dead bodies. He tried not to look at them, at the gore and the blood. He whimpered breathlessly, struggling to free himself from them, and once he was standing, legs shaking, he pressed himself against the side of the trench, tears tracking through the dirt and blood on his face.

He stayed that way until someone else was suddenly there, dropping down into the trench beside him.

Neal flinched, throwing his arms in front of his face, but he recognized the uniform as one of his own.

"Hey," the man said, his voice loud in the silence. "Hey, what's your name?"

"Ca-Caffrey..." He swallowed and tried again. "Caffrey, sir. Neal."

"I'm Peter," the other soldier replied, and he placed a hand on Neal's shoulder. "It's okay, Neal. It's over. You're done."

Neal looked closely at Peter, the words not really making sense. It was over? He'd survived? At what cost?

Peter gave him a small smile, patting his shoulder gently, and Neal practically fell into him, face crumpling. Dignity be damned. He was alive. That was all he could think about.

-)()(-

"Neal."

Peter's voice startled him, and he spun around quickly, on alert.

Peter raised his hands. "Hey, it's just me."

Neal nodded, kicking himself for reacting in such a way. Those days were long behind him now. He didn't have to worry. "Yeah, I know. What's up?"

"You're coming over for dinner, right?"

"Of course," Neal replied with a smile. He'd become good friends with Peter over the last couple years, and he'd even moved to New York after the war. Peter and his wife had welcomed him as part of their family almost right away, which was both unbelievable and touching. Neal had never had what one would call a normal home life, so it was nice to finally experience it, if only secondhand.

"You don't have to come if you're not up for it this time," Peter said, and Neal smiled a bit.

"Is it that obvious?"

"No, but I know you. What's up?"

Neal shrugged, unable to help but look away as he replied, "Nothing. Just having some sleep issues again, that's all. I'm fine. I'll be there."

Thankfully, Peter didn't press. If anything, he encouraged the idea more, and when Neal got to the Burkes' place around five, he understood why.

"I've got the guest room made up for you," Elizabeth said while she put dinner on the table.

Neal glanced at Peter knowingly, but went along, secretly grateful for his friend's insight and understanding. "Thanks, El."

That night, as he crawled under the covers, he felt safe and warm, far away from the nightmares that had been plaguing him, like he'd left them behind in his own bed and now all the love, peace, and comfort of his new family was surrounding him, protecting him from any and all harm.

He'd be sure to thank Peter in the morning.