"Come on Neal, let's box it all up."
That seemed so - horrible - that Neal didn't mask his expression. Peter was going to DC, this had been their last case together, and he was talking about giving a lot of thought to Neal's new handler.
Ow.
And the whole damn office could see his expression. "All of it?" Neal asked, letting the distress come out in his voice as comedy.
"All of it," said Peter, still marching away.
The packing of the evidence surrounding Rebecca's case and arrest was slow torture. The playful comradery, the joy of working side by side with a friend, the packing away of the past. Some of it he was more than happy to stuff away in a box for good. But the most important friendship in his life - no.
They were back to it's over, get over it again. Not as cruelly, this time. But still leaving him feeling lost. Abandoned.
He kept turning away, angling his head just right so his face wasn't visible, and drawing in huge breaths to cut off the urge to sob.
The best years of his life, the deepest friendship, the most security and joy and - they were over. The man who'd flown all the way to Cape Verde to hug him and save his life was abandoning him.
Trapped in New York City on a two-mile radius with a new handler who was absolutely not going to let him leave the state to visit his old one.
No. That was a recipe for the worst kind of pain, the pain he would run anywhere to avoid. Better to be locked down in prison so he couldn't ruin his life out of grief.
Peter had given him the self-control to think and plan like that. Better to just go back now that Peter was done with him than let himself be issued like a piece of equipment to whoever wanted to rent out the FBI's handy pet criminal.
"Hey." It was Peter's voice, gentleness and compassion contained in a simple word. Neal bit the inside of his lip, hard, so that the physical pain would chase away the choking grief.
"You don't have to be here. I didn't think about how seeing all this would remind you of her."
Now that was an idea. Maybe if he tried to get upset about Rebecca, it'd distract him from this. "I'm fine. She called me last night," said Neal. "From jail."
Peter froze. "Threaten you?"
Neal made air quotes. "No threat, just a promise. I'll see you later."
"Wow. I think 'I'm coming after you and everyone you've ever cared about' would be less creepy."
"Ditto," said Neal. "So, ah - it's probably hard to escape from wherever she's at, right?"
"Most people aren't you, Neal. Generally they find breaking out of maximum security to go after an ex to be tricky."
"Most people aren't MI5 agents," Neal pointed out. "Most inmates wouldn't be able to break out of a cornfield maze, let alone a prison. It's not actually that impossible."
Peter glanced away for a moment to set his face. "Neal, she's probably in solitary. Cop killer with multiple murders to her name and MI5 training?"
Neal winced. He should have been able to make that leap, just didn't want to. "Even I wouldn't be able to break out of there."
"Me either," agreed Peter.
Now this was a depressing silence.
"Neal...tell me about it sometime, okay?
Neal tried to breeze it off. "You're just mad because there's something you can't read about me in a file."
Another silence. "I'm just sad that something awful happened to you, and I don't know about it."
Neal glanced at him. "You know I'm over it, right? Those are scars, not open wounds."
Peter nodded. "I tore them open again, though."
They worked in silence for a few more minutes, with Neal finding it harder and harder to focus his eyes on the spaces he was filling in on the evidence bags.
It's over.
He bit his lip again, so hard that he tasted blood before the pain managed to overwhelm the tears that threatened him. His legs felt weak, and he braced them against the edge of the table.
He tried to tell himself how much worse it could be. They were both alive and free - well, he wouldn't be free for much longer, but the short stay in prison wouldn't be hard.
He and Peter were still friends...friendly? Or maybe Peter truly didn't want Neal in his life any more. Regardless, he knew from bitter past experience, he would get over this even though it hurt like hell.
It didn't help.
He turned back to the table and set to work labeling another stack of bags with the case number and date. Logged in one of Rebecca's passports and sealed it into its bag.
Nobody had ever wanted him, not really.
Not his mother, who couldn't stand being reminded of James every time she looked at Neal. Not any of the wonderful Marshals who welcomed him into their homes, kept him out of foster care, and were happy to hand him over to whoever else would take him. Not Ellen, who'd sincerely loved him and cared for him. He wasn't hers.
And apparently not Peter.
Just because this terrifyingly dogged FBI agent had melted his reserve and made him sincerely trust and adore the predator who took him down didn't mean Peter was going to, what, adopt him as a lifelong friend? Set aside his own interests for the unrepentant con artist who made his life a living hell half the time?
"Neal. Neal?"
The pleasant, concerned voice was coming from his left, and Neal realized he was standing with his fists clenched, biting the inside of his lip, and staring unseeing out the window.
"Come on. Let's go to lunch."
He sucked in air. Get it together, Caffrey.
When Neal didn't respond, Peter took his elbow in a soft grip and led him out of the office. Walking and trying to count things kept him distracted until they were in the elevator, and Peter put his hand on Neal's back and patted him.
Neal sniffed, still fighting desperately against the tears flooding his eyes. He managed to vanquish them by the time they reached the car, and he sat and gripped the armrest as hard as humanly possible, staring at every tree they passed and trying to maintain a count.
He made it all the way to Peter's house and inside by pretending that Peter was Jones and they were going to interview a witness. He sat on the couch, blindly took something liquid Peter pressed into his hand, and crunched through chips and salsa.
"It's okay to grieve for what you and Rebecca could have had," said Peter.
Neal was so startled he snorted. Wow, was that ever off base.
Peter tried again. "It's also okay to feel betrayed and hurt. It's normal."
Oh, lord. Neal caught himself in a dark smile, but it faded instantly. It didn't even occur to Peter that Neal might be emotionally affected by his leaving. He thought it meant so little that -
"Neal, let me help. It's me. Tell me."
Neal, for reasons beyond his own comprehension, burst out in hysterical laughter.
Peter squirmed in discomfort at his inability to understand what was going on, and then he sat forward, clearly giving up and deciding to change the subject. Neal braced himself.
"Listen. You're exceptional. You can be so, so much more than a criminal. You have the heart and soul and brain of someone who could do so much good, and be so happy doing it."
Neal closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. This was going to end with him in tears. The best he could do was delay them as long as possible, endure this, and move on with his life.
Peter waited for Neal to respond, but Neal just kept his head down, his eyes closed, and his nails digging into the palms of his clenched fists. Peter was fishing aimlessly, either genuinely blind to the real issues here or trying desperately to be.
"I'm an FBI agent. It's not just my job, it's my identity. My job is to keep you under control. That's often - not a very nice thing. But when it comes to you - you're not my job, you're the best friend I've ever had. I'll risk my career to keep you safe - but when happens I really am putting my entire identity at risk. It messes me up."
Neal opened his eyes and looked up, looked at Peter, looked at him as an FBI agent. Shoulder holster, gun, badge, handcuffs - he normally never looked at Peter and saw those things. He just saw Peter. He was an FBI agent. He had a shoulder holster like some people had red hair.
And he had risked that for Neal, time and time again. Neal had always loved him for that, never taken it for granted that the man was willing to risk his job for someone who was essentially his prisoner. But he'd never looked at it like this.
It was Peter's identity. To lose that, or risk it...he shivered. In jail, charged with murder, that had been taken from him. No wonder it had messed him up so badly. No wonder he came out barely able to look at Neal without seeing another threat to his entire existence.
Neal shivered again, and made himself look Peter in the eyes. "I understand."
"I'm not sure I'll survive if I keep doing that, Neal. But I'm not just an FBI agent. I'm a person, with a heart and a conscience and a friend I would lay down my life for. And there is nothing I can do about it."
Neal looked away, immensely sad. He might not have a fully formed identity, but he had bits and pieces of one, and he was fond of them. Taken together, they made this life of his worth living.
"Look at me. Neal, look at me. I'm not trying to hurt you."
Neal managed it, barely.
"There is something I can do about it. I can go straight," said Neal.
Peter touched him softly on the shoulder, clearly moved. "I've always wanted you to. I didn't know the enormity of what I was asking of you, I do now. And I'll understand if you can't."
Neal nodded, his chest too tight to breathe right, clinging to handfulls of the couch, fighting tears. His heart was pounding and he was sad and terrified and confused, and it was on the edge of being completely too much, and he struggled to keep his face blank.
"I mean that," said Peter. "If you can't, if you end up in prison again - the FBI agent probably won't protect you. But that guy with a heart will care about you unconditionally. You have my friendship and support no matter what. You're my friend, you're my partner, and I will always be here for you to run towards."
Neal gulped. Could he possibly mean that? Why couldn't he have said these things months ago?
Because he's Peter. The same Peter who came for you in prison months after you talked to him. It takes him time, to let his heart override the stick shoved up his ass. Because he was broken, professionally and horribly. Because he lost his entire identity and had to rebuild it.
"Hey," said Peter, his voice soft and gentle. "I know I'm fishing around in an open wound here, so stay calm. Yes, I am looking for a new handler for you."
Neal froze, and Peter held up his finger with a stern expression.
"It's my job. It's what I do. I'm not abandoning you. If early release doesn't happen, if you were to prefer coming to DC over working with a new handler here or going back to prison, that option's open."
Peter hesitated, looking acutely uncomfortable and shifting around on the couch before pulling out a much-refolded brochure from his pocket. He seemed cautious, almost timid.
"Listen - I wouldn't dream of tearing you away from New York and June and Mozzie and your home. I don't wanna make you feel trapped, or obligated, or tied to me."
Peter looked away, his cheeks reddening, and handed the brochure over. It was a real estate flyer for a house in Georgetown. Pretty looking place, with a lawn.
Neal unfolded it to look at the interior photos and floor plan diagrams. Peter and El had scribbled all over it with notes about bedrooms and home offices and dog doors and where the couches would go.
And then blue lettering in El's handwriting caught his eye. Neal's apartment. An arrow led to an honest-to-God freaking treehouse. A beautifully finished, spiral-staircased, one bed, one bath treehouse that was quite possibly the coolest thing he'd seen in his life.
His jaw dropped, and he realized somewhere in the back of his mind that he wasn't breathing. Something felt dizzy.
"You'd have to work with a new handler, but you'd be a member of our family. I don't know if you'd prefer that to prison, but it's there."
"I -" Neal couldn't get his voice to work.
"If you do decide to go back - it'll be there when you get out. I know, chances of your wanting to see us and be reminded of this ordeal are pretty much zero. But just in case, it's there. Always will be."
...care about you unconditionally.
I'm not abandoning you.
You'd be a member of our family.
There was no stopping the hot tears overflowing his eyes, or the desperate sob that wrenched him and left him almost doubled over. All the breathing he hadn't been able to do before, all the emotions he'd contained, unleashed in an instant.
Author's Note: Google "grown up treehouses" if you want a treat. Pinterest has lots of them.