I'm not quite sure what this is but it was sitting in my notes app for a while and I liked it enough to finish and post it.

I really need to do the same thing to like seven more fics that deserve to see the light of day but tbh I need encouragement because they're just sitting there.

Set in early canon, a few S4 spoilers concerning Neal's past.

Originally posted on AO3

Neal being a drama queen when faced with food that was apparently beneath his delicate pallet was nothing new whatsoever. In the past four or so months since they made their deal, Peter's food had been mocked, frowned at, eye rolled, gasped at, and had been the subject of many a jab no less than 26 times. Not that Peter was counting.

He didn't actually care that much, it was rather entertaining to watch his CI get so worked up over food, and he wasn't a teenager, about to be shamed into liking and disliking what was and wasn't "cool".

Even so, Caffrey's exceedingly dramatic stifled gag when Peter brought out his bologna sandwich as they sat in the car an hour or so into a stakeout was, in Peter's opinion, a very unnecessary performance. He glared at Neal, somewhat stung.

"I suppose bologna falls in the same category as deviled ham?" He asked sarcastically, a bit tired of Neal's food snobbishness and ready to pick a semi-good-natured fight. He was bored, Neal had started it, why not have a good old fashioned debate?

To his surprise Neal didn't take the bate but merely shrugged and didn't answer with his usual rant on the horrors of Peter's eating habits. He looked, in fact, almost on the verge of vomiting, his jaw clenched and lips tightly sealed, turning away from Peter's food.

Peter frowned at the uncharacteristic reaction.

Sure, Neal was dramatic, but this was over the top even for him, and passing up an opportunity to needle his handler? That screamed Something's wrong, Peter!

"Have you been feeling sick or something today?" Peter pressed, "you know if you're actually sick you can let me know." Neal shook his head,

"I'm fine." He rolled down the window and took a deep breath of fresh air. He noticed Peter staring at him and rolled his eyes, "Peter really, stop reading into everything." He turned and fiddle with the radio, bringing a swat from Peter,

"Stop touching sticky fingers, my car, my radio." Neal sulked and began pointedly folding the report forms (the ones that he was supposed to be filling out) into intricate origami figures as passive aggressively as one could possibly fold oragami figures. Peter sighed, decided that he had to pick his battles, and turned back to his sandwich.

It wasn't until about an hour later, as he wrapped up a particularly amusing story about a case and grinned as Neal snorted with laughter, his expression open and light in a way that most people rarely saw, that Peter recognized the unease that had been niggling in the back of his brain.

He frowned slightly as he thought back earlier in the evening. The bologna sandwich...there was something off about the whole interaction...

He recognized it suddenly for what it was—a con.

The more Peter thought about it, the more convinced he became that Neal had done exactly what Neal did best, redirected and turned the conversation to exactly the place he wanted it— away from the place it was going.

But why Neal would want to avoid a conversation about bologna (and also pass up a chance to mock Peter's eating habits, a subject that the con adored) Peter couldn't figure out.

Sure, bologna wasn't the most delicate of meats and Peter definitely could have predicted that it would offend Caffrey's cultured pallet, but the legitimately sickened reaction was over the top even considering.

Peter's thoughts drifted as a comfortable silence settled over the car and he found himself wondering how—why Neal Caffrey had come into being.

Neal Caffrey was made, not born, that much was obvious to Peter. Little as he knew about the CI's life before eighteen, enough had slipped through to know that Neal hadn't started off as the educated, sauve, expensive-suit-wearing-wine-connoisseur, and artist that he was today. Neal's was a humble childhood and certainly not a happy one, Peter was astute enough to read that. He didn't know specifics but he observed enough to know that Neal's childhood had been something that had turned him far, far away from the average food, clothing, and lifestyle that most people lived and enjoyed happily. Something had caused a sweet young boy to rebuild himself, piece by glossy piece, until he was something else entirely: something special, different, quality—something far beyond the ordinary.

Neal Caffrey, a man intentionally uncommon.

When Peter really thought about it, his heart broke for the young boy who had really never stopped running from his past.

But no matter how hard he wanted to, even Neal Caffrey couldn't erase his past entirely. He could hide it, buried deep beneath a hardened shell, a shiny mask that few bothered to look past, but sometimes all it took was the smell of bologna to bring it all crashing back, if only for a moment.

All this Peter thought through as he sat gazing out the car window. It was a hypothesis, yes, but one that Peter was fairly confident of. He looked over at Neal sitting in the passenger seat and companionably folding more origami figures, the traces of a smile left on his face from Peter's story, tie slightly crooked and hair a bit mussed from a day of work.

"Bologna."

"Hm?"

"Bologna." Peter repeated, "Why don't you like it?" Neal looked up,

"Why would I like bologna Peter? It's like the half-sibling of deviled ham."

"You don't look like you're about to puke all over my deviled ham."

"I did not—" Neal interrupted himself, "—whatever. I don't like bologna."

"Why more than deviled ham though?"

Neal gave him a look,

"Why on earth are you so interested in my distaste of your sandwich?"

Peter sighed, "Neal, you're overdramatic on regular occasions, but your reaction to that was not your usual teasing." Neal was giving him a glare and Peter's face softened, "look, I should know if there's things you genuinely can't stand. We're partners, we work together, and you're certainly not going to do your best work if you're sick. So what's up? Are you allergic or something? Did you get food poisoning from it at some point?" Neal shook his head,

"No, no it's fine. Don't worry about it Peter, you can eat it whenever you want." Peter gave him a skeptical look and he sighed frustratedly, "I just—I don't have great memories of bologna. You wouldn't be a huge fan of something either if you had to eat it for four months straight."

He seemed to regret the words as soon as the were out of his mouth and turned his attention back to the paper swan, almost obsessively refolding an already perfectly formed wing.

Peter was silent for a long moment before he spoke,

"Neal—"

"Don't, Peter." Neal's tone was almost warning but his eyes were pleading. He relaxed suddenly and smiled, shiny and slick, trying to con Peter—or maybe himself. "It was a long time ago and that's not who I am anymore."

On the face of it, it was true. That wasn't who Neal was. The little boy with an absent father and neglectful mother, the boy with second-rate cheap lunch meat in his lunchbox for four months straight, that little boy seemed long gone, hidden behind suits, wine, caviar, and art.

But that boy, Danny Brooks as Peter would later know him, was still part of Neal Caffrey and Neal Caffrey would never have been born without him.

Damaged, hurting Neal who used shiny masks of granite to hide his every imperfection was created from a childhood of imperfections.

Peter Burke was a protector by nature and right now he was stifling the urge to hunt down Neal's parents and beat the crap out of them, or maybe turn back time and rescue a young boy from a desolate childhood. His heart was hurting over the life of the little boy that caused the creation of the man sitting next to him.

But neither route was very possible, there was nothing Peter could do to undo the hurt from Neal's past. It was the present, he realized, that he had been given guardianship of.

It wasn't the first time Peter had felt almost a physical blow as he realized the implications of his responsibility to Neal, but this time he saw how much deeper they truly went. Under law he was responsible for Neal's physical well-being and his actions—a monumental and intimidating task in its own right.

But as Neal's friend? He had the responsibility to care and he had a responsibility to show Neal that he was cared for.

This realization was one Peter would never—could never—put into words, but it was true all the same.

Peter nodded his head slightly in deference to Neal's plea Don't bring up my past and smiled wryly, lightening the mood,

"The game ended so if you want to change the station I guess you can have a turn." Neal looked up with an excited grin,

"Really?"

Peter groaned, "I'm going to regret this aren't I?"

Neal shook his head, "No you won't, because there's this really great talk show that I know you'll love—"

"—I really don't think I will—"

"—about art through history..." Neal had already changed the station and Peter settled back in his seat, staring out the window resigned to shake himself awake every few minutes as Neal listened to the show with wrapt attention.

Sometimes caring for someone was as simple as sitting through an art history program on the radio—or not eating a bologna sandwich.