"How's Neal Caffrey?" Elizabeth Burke grinned cheekily as her husband came through the door. The answer that came was not what she had expected.
"He's scared."
Peter had been excited for days about the set up that the team had been planning for months, the trap he hoped would finally catch the elusive criminal. She'd barely been able to get him to eat breakfast that morning and had made him promise to call when he knew anything. She'd shared her husband with Neal Caffrey for three years and she wanted in on the action.
She'd gotten the call mid-morning,
"We got him El!" He'd been exuberant, talking around the green apple sucker that he had almost reverently removed from the 'Caffrey Box' that morning. "Jones has him outside so I can't talk long." He paused, "...He's an interesting one, El." She had laughed,
"As if the midnight phone calls and birthday cards didn't tell us that already." He'd laughed along,
"True, true. Though...well I'll tell you all about it later, love you hon!"
She'd expected a slightly more exhausted but still elated FBI agent to walk through the door—the man that greeted her instead was sober, almost dejected. He took her into his arms and buried his face into her shoulder, soaking up her support the way he did after particularly difficult days.
They stood for a long moment before she gently lead him over to the couch and sat, letting him gather his thoughts.
He let out a long breath, and looked up at her, his elbows resting in his knees and his hands laced together, "El, the day I caught Neal Caffrey was supposed to be one of the greatest days of my career."
He was right.
He'd been looking toward this day for three years and she'd been personally witness to his utter frustration as well as (though he never admitted it) enjoyment of the chase. Caffrey was possibly the most prolific white collar criminal of the decade if not the last fifty years and Peter's career was going nowhere but up now that he'd caught him. And yet, the look of despondency on his face was clear.
"And it isn't?" Her expression was sympathetic and a bit confused. He shook his head.
It had been one of the greatest days of his career—for all of ten minutes.
He'd eaten the sucker that Caffrey had so brazenly handed him two and a half years before, making no effort to smother his grin. He'd received congratulations from his team and had called El, satisfaction and pride practically radiating off of him. And then he'd walked outside, had gotten into the car with his suspect, and had seen Neal Caffrey, the world class con man, desperately trying to keep himself together.
"There was nothing great, El, about arresting an intelligent, friendly, stupid kid whose been showing off to the world in the most idiotic way and watch him struggle damn hard not to fall apart from the consequences."
The white collar crime division didn't generally arrest hardened criminals. More often than not the cuffed suspect broke down in the back of the car; it wasn't the first time Peter had seen it and, barring the truly villainous ones, he'd been kind and gently sympathetic to them before.
But something about the contrast between the cocky forger who had the nerve to greet him with a sucker, the cheekily written birthday cards, the friendly voice on the phone at midnight—and the young man sitting next to him, pale, trembling, and looking a lot younger than his supposed 25 years hurt Peter's heart.
The sympathy on El's face, previously directed toward Peter, had turned to the young con,
"Poor boy." She was silent for almost minute before speaking quietly, "Peter, do you wish you hadn't..."
"No." Peter's voice was low but very firm. "Not at all. This isn't guilt El. I guess I shouldn't have said there's no good in arresting him—there's a lot of good. I think this arrest is the best thing that could have happened to him, he's still young and he's been living in the clouds. He needs a good shake and a dose of the reality. But that doesn't mean this isn't going to be some of the bitterest medicine he's ever had to take." He dragged a hand down his face in exhaustion, his next words much softer, "I don't know why I care so much but it's hurting me to watch him take it, El."
Elizabeth wordlessly pulled him close.
"You're a good man Peter Burke." She murmured, stroking the back of his head, "The arrest isn't the best thing to happen to Neal Caffrey—you are."
His breathing was slow and steady in her embrace but she could feel his heart beating faster than normal. Discreetly eyeing the clock that put the time near midnight, she knew that he wouldn't be able to sleep, at least not before talking about the day. She pulled him up,
"It's far too late for dinner but why don't I get us a late night snack and you can tell me everything." He complied, dropping into a chair, his shoulders slightly slumped. He managed to smile up at her as she pushed a mug of tea into his hands, along with crackers and cheese.
"No beer?"
"Peter, it's midnight."
"You're right, you're right." He sipped his drink, his gaze turning far away again, "I've seen a lot of people freak out after being arrested, even gang members start panicking when faced with prison time. Caffrey was trying so hard though El, I didn't even really realize how he was really doing until I buckled him in and felt him shaking like a leaf." Elizabeth made a small noise in the back of her throat, her empathetic imagination giving her the details of the scene as Peter described them.
"But that wasn't even the worst part," Peter continued, "I was taking him to the building and I noticed the cuffs were digging painfully into his wrists, I thought one of the team was hiding a sadistic streak and putting the cuffs on far too tight until he admitted that he did it. When I asked him why he gave me a pathetic lie, said pain relaxes him or some other crap, but he was looking at me in this way and, El—he just looked so alone. I think he was using the pain to distract himself, digging the cuffs in to try to keep from crying or something."
At this point El was near tears at Peter's bleak description,
"What did you do?"
"It wasn't like I could give him a hug or something. I brought him to interrogation and made sure his hands were okay before interrogating him for five hours."
He had sent Jones for the first aid kit right away and sat Caffrey down as the con protested,
"I'm fine Agent Burke." Peter had just leveled a glare at him. Even if it didn't go against every bone in his body to leave him bleeding, it was good grounds for a lawsuit. Caffrey had backed down.
"Is it okay if I touch you?" Caffrey had looked startled at the question, but nodded. Peter took his wrist and wiped away the spots of blood, disinfecting the area and affixing a bit of gauze and bandaids. He took another minute to rub circulation into Caffrey's wrists, smoothing out the indents and wondering at how much beauty those hands had created and how much damage they had caused.
"How was the interrogation?" El prompted gently. She noticed the humor that crept into her husband's face at the question.
"Completely fruitless and the most fun I've had in years."
Caffrey was clever, that had never been in doubt, but his verbal dance around every question was so masterful that Peter felt sure the tape of the interview would be used to teach counter-interrogation techniques at Quantico. With that alone the hours would have been a lesson in extreme frustration but combined with a sharp wit that blended effortlessly with Peter's own, a disarming sense of humor, and the charming flash of mischief in his eye that teased Peter with answers just out of reach—Peter had never enjoyed an interrogation so much.
Peter had dismissed half of the rumors of the con man's golden tongue but he was seriously rethinking his dismissal after the first ten minutes or so with Caffrey. From the first question Neal had turned on, almost becoming an entirely different person, charming, smooth, and witty, Peter was on his guard in an instant. But as time went on Caffrey seemed to relax a bit more, became less polished and more...open, his laughter a bit more genuine as Peter somewhat grudgingly retold the "champagne sent to the surveillance van" story from the FBI's point of view.
"He removed his cuffs about seventeen different times—said that he couldn't properly tell a story without hand motions. I gave up putting them back on after the sixth time but he always put them back when he finished." Peter relayed several of Caffrey's antics to his wife.
"Did you talk about the birthday cards?" Elizabeth wanted to know. Peter grinned,
"I said that I didn't even want to know how he found out my birthday and he said that was probably wise and better for both of us." Elizabeth raised an eyebrow,
"Do you think he's been spying on us?" Peter rolled his eyes,
"Probably, yeah, I kind of do. I feel like I should be more mad about it..." he looked up suddenly at Elizabeth, "He won't hurt us honey, I promise, he's not like that at all you don't need to worry—" Elizabeth cut in,
"I know." She said with gentle humor, "I'm not worried." Peter seemed relieved,
"I almost wish you could meet him."
He hadn't meant to say that out loud and looked up slightly embarrassed, "I mean, I don't actually wish that, I'm just saying..." he trailed away.
Elizabeth was silent for a long moment, a searching expression on her face as she looked at her husband.
"You really care about him, don't you?" She murmured—almost to herself. A curious look twisted her mouth into a soft smile.
He shook his head, confusion written all over his face,
"Maybe it's some reverse Stockholm syndrome thing..." Elizabeth laughed,
"It's not."
"Well what is it then?"
"It's who you are, Peter. You see a lost and hurting person whose reaching out to you and you want to help them." He looked doubtful and the confused again,
"What do you mean 'he's reaching out to me'?" She leveled him a look,
"Do most of your suspects send you birthday cards and cookies and call you in the middle of the night to talk?" He sighed and tilted his head with a slight smile,
"Why me though?" His expression had fallen back into a perplexed frown, "Why not choose a criminal buddy to look up to, it honestly doesn't make any sense!"
"I think it makes perfect sense, Honey. He's attracted to you." Peter's look of horrified shock was comical and Elizabeth rushed to explain as she choked on her laughter, "—not romantically! Honey, I just meant...well, I don't know much about his life. I'm sure you know more, but everything about you is the opposite of what he is. You enforce the law, he breaks it. You have a steady job and a home and he goes wherever the wind blows him. You have family and friends who care about you and love you and he plays a role for a few weeks and had almost no long lasting relationships. If I were to guess I'd say you—and everything you have—intrigues him. Perhaps, though I doubt he realizes or would admit it, you're what he wants to be." Peter looked slightly stunned for a minute before his expression turning wry,
"You sound like your Dad without all of his fancy words." She laughed,
"Well there are perks to being the daughter of a psychiatrist." He grew sober,
"You're a wise woman Elizabeth Burke."
"Peter." Elizabeth's voice was surprisingly firm as she turned the subject. He looked up from his drink. "You should talk to him." Peter huffed a bitter laugh,
"Why? A lot of good that would do now."
"You're right." She purposely took the comment at face value, "I think it will do a lot of good. You don't need to tell him everything you just told me, but showing him compassion? I think that will do a lot more for him than you could imagine."
"But I'm not going to get a chance to see him until his trial in three weeks where I'll be testifying against him, trying to get him put away. What am I supposed to do, give him an encouraging wink and a nod as I walk up the the stand to incinerate his defense?"
"Just be kind to him, Peter. There's going to be an awful lot of people treating him like a second class citizen, treat him like a person. Tough love doesn't have to be brutal." She stood, patting him on the shoulder as she made her way over to the stairs, "I'm going to go to bed now, try not to stay up too much later."
"Thanks honey." Peter called after her.
He sat quietly, his mind running through the events of a day.
He wouldn't soon forget the good natured hand outstretched with the sincere thanks for finding Kate, the tragically brittle mask of calm in the car and abused wrists, and finally the confused longing in Neal Caffrey's blue eyes as Peter had said goodbye, wanting to reassure the young con and not quite knowing how.
After a few more minutes Peter stood quietly, mounted the stairs, and climbed into bed. Exhaustion overtook him but sleep wasn't so forthcoming.
Neal Caffrey was falling asleep in a cell tonight—a cell that Peter had put him in.
Peter couldn't help but wonder, as sleep finally overtook him, if Caffrey had any idea how much he cared.