Day 12 of NaNoWriMo! The wifi gods fought valiantly for this to not be completed, but I came out victorious! Two notes for this one first: (1) most importantly, this fic touches on themes of child abuse, homelessness, and food insecurity. Nothing is shown on screen, but it is mentioned that a minor (as in age) character is expecting adults to hurt him and not care about him. This same character is squatting without a proper home and always worried about where his next meal is coming from. If this triggers you in any way, please skip this. I don't want to hurt anybody. (2) This is a minor AU in which Peter arrested Neal as a teenager before meeting Neal proper. With these notes out of the way, today's chapter summary: Peter arrests a teenage Neal for some small scams in a park. He gently explains everything that's going to happen and makes a promise.
Peter went to a small table set up in the middle of the park. It was around noon, and a large crowd was gathered around. This meant there was a large pile of cash on the table. Although, the more Peter looked at it, the more he sure that it wasn't a table, but instead a rather large cardboard box turned upside down with a liberal amount of packing tape on it. This was further supported by the fact that the cards whoever was behind it was using were not in a proper shoe or anything, but rather a small box that seemed like it was held together by hot glue, duct tape, and prayers.
The person in front of the table, on Peter's side, was a businessman, probably on his lunch break like Peter. He looked well-enough off and was, presumably, the cause of a decent bit of that cash. However, the person on the other side, running the game, was as different to that man as possible. He was young, closer to a boy than a man. Probably in his late teens. He was doing his best to look sophisticated without the disposable income or appearance to go with it. He was in a suit, probably the most expensive one he could buy. His hair was well-styled, but looked like it hadn't been properly washed in a while. The boy had the beginnings of facial hair, but in the teenage way where it doesn't quite look intentional. The boy had a wide smile painted across his face as Peter effortlessly inserted himself into the crowd.
The boy flipped a coin high into the air, effortlessly catching it on the way down. "Thank you, sir," he said in a voice that clearly read 'trying to be older than he is.' "Now-" He made a card appear out of thin air and showed off the face. The Queen of Hearts. "Find the lady."
The boy put the card face down on his table with two other cards surrounding it. Three cards, straight across. He started spinning the cards around, flipping left to right and right to left. It was meant to disorient, to make whoever the mark was lose focus on which card was the Queen.
If Peter-or anyone in that crowd really-would have looked closer, they would have noticed as the boy palmed the Queen of Hearts and replaced it with a Joker instead. This game was never meant to be won, unless you were the one holding the cards. And Noah was the one holding the cards. That money was his.
He finished the card routine and slid his hands off the table, hiding the palmed card as long as possible. "Where is she?"
The businessman looked at the cards. He'd lost track of where the card he was supposed to be tracing went in the midst of Noah's fancy hand work. He hemmed and hawed for a minute. "I think..." He reached for a card. He pulled back. "I don't know.
Noah smiled. "Would you like to come back here, get a new perspective?" His tone didn't sound like he had any ulterior motive.
"Yes, I think I will," the businessman concluded.
He and Noah switched places, placing Noah firmly in the middle of the crowd. Exactly where he wanted to be. So many people so close by with such a loose grip on their valuables. Noah knew stealing was wrong, sure. But at the same time, he wanted to eat and sleep in a bed and feel like he wasn't about to faint. So, he began pickpocketing. There was a rich couple next to him-at least, they looked rich. Obvious first targets. He unclasped the woman's pearl bracelet and pocketed it. Probably worth something. Then the man's tie clip. It looked like it had diamonds on it. Noah stretched, trying to look casual and slipped it off.
The man caught Noah's wrist. "A little faster next time," he whispered into Noah's ear before releasing his hand. "Keep it, though."
Noah managed to keep himself from blushing and pocketed the tie pin. As he found his next mark, he could have sworn he heard the woman say "Oh, come on, Byron."
Three wallets from businesspeople-they probably wouldn't miss them. A wad of cash that he only took part of. Noah couldn't find it in himself to feel bad about stealing from these people. They could afford to lose a few dollars. Noah didn't have any dollars to lose. He slipped his hand into an older lady's purse before making the mistake of looking up at his mark. She was a sweet older lady, a grandma-looking person. She fit Noah's exact vision of what a grandma should be: white hair about chin-length and permed, good nails, just a touch of makeup, glasses with a chain around her neck. He couldn't steal from her. That money was probably going to her grandkids for presents. As much as Noah wanted her money, he wouldn't make another child miss out on something because of him. He withdrew his hand, accidentally bumping the lady's elbow.
"Did you want something, sweetie?" she asked, as she looked over at him.
Noah went bright red. "No, ma'am." He didn't know if she suspected him or was asking out of concern. Better to err on the side of caution.
She got a smile, a good indulgent grandma-smile. "You want a little bit of sweets, don't you?" She took out a handful of candy and pressed it into Noah's palm. "There you go. You're going to be a good young man. And a great magician."
Noah stared at the ground. "Thank you, ma'am." He looked down at his hand and his face lit up. It wasn't money, but he was still a teenager. And free candy is the best kind of candy. He slipped the candy into a different pocket where he could find it later and pulled his emotionless facade back on.
He approached Peter, who didn't notice, too engrossed in the energy of the 'game.' Noah slipped his hand into a pocket and grabbed something that felt enough like a wallet to feel safe. He glanced at it as he pulled his hand back out. Oh shit. It wasn't a wallet, it was an ID. And it wasn't safe to return it yet. Maybe he'd drop it off at a police station and claim he found it. That sounded safe enough. He satisfied himself that his haul was properly hidden before stepping forward again.
"So, sir. Where's the lady?"
The man pointed to the middle card with absolute certainty. "Right here," he declared.
Noah flipped over the indicated card-a Joker. He stifled a laugh. He'd found the right card and didn't even know it. He pretended to be disappointed. "Too bad. She was actually-" He pulled the card back into his palm and replaced the card on the right with the Queen of Hearts, flipping it over in the process. "Right here." He flipped over the card on the left for good measure. Show there wasn't anything untoward happening there. He shrugged. "Too bad." He collected his winnings off of the improvised table. "That's all folks. Time for me to go." He started packing up.
The crowd dispersed, most on their way to lunch or back to the office. A few people put their hands in pockets and found a few dollars missing but didn't think much of it. Maybe they'd just bet more than they thought. Nothing to be too worried about. Peter felt his pocket much lighter than he remembered and put his hand in. There was nothing. The kid had stolen his ID. He could start to go after him, but not many people would care that a government ID was stolen. He figured a little white lie wouldn't hurt to waylay the suspect.
"Hey!" Peter shouted, loud enough for the former crowd to hear. "He stole my wallet!"
The crowd checked their pockets and purses and realized that they, too, were missing more than they thought. An outrage began. Noah started backing up, looking like he'd like to run far away very quickly. He was trapped for the moment.
Peter dashed back to the plaza outside the FBI building, conveniently finding a few of the 'Harvard crew,' as he called them outside. "Help me out," he started. "Someone stole my ID and he's right outside. I only need a few people."
Two or three of the Harvard crew followed him back to the park, where Noah looked like he was about to be torn apart. He was spewing apologies and excuses, never coming close to admitting wrongdoing. Maybe you forgot it somewhere else. How do you know it was me? Could it be someone else in the crowd? The mob wasn't buying his excuses. The FBI agents, minus Peter, held up their badges.
"FBI," Peter declared.
The kid froze for exactly one second. Long enough, however, to lock eyes with Peter. Peter shook his head minutely. Noah ran. The FBI agents ran after him, flashing badges whenever necessary.
"Stop!"
Noah kept running. He was recklessly pushing people out of the way. Probably stealing their wallets as well. He weaved in and out of people and buildings and alleys, always glancing over his shoulders. His pursuers never got any further away. In fact, they seemed to be gaining. Noah slid over the hoods of a few cars, miraculously not getting injured before getting to an abandoned garage. He ran inside and turned to face the FBI agents, smirking. He hit a large button on the inside of the wall. The sliding door slid down faster than the agents would have thought possible, effectively sealing Noah inside and them outside.
Peter huffed. "Damn it!"
"Burke?" one of the agents asked, cautiously. This was highly unusual. White-collar crime didn't usually end in foot chases.
Peter took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. Nothing good was going to come from anger. "How old did he look to you?"
Another agent shrugged. "About fifteen? Nineteen at the oldest."
Peter nodded. He had come up with an idea and was just convinced that it would work. "I'm going to try to talk to him alone. Wait out here." He started walking to a side entrance no one had noticed.
The Harvard crew shared a look and followed after him. What if the kid had a weapon? What if he wanted Peter alone? The 'what if's were becoming more and more unlikely, but that didn't deter them.
"Sir, are you sure that's the best idea? We could-"
Peter held up a hand to cut the agent off. They froze. "He's a teenager," Peter explained. "He probably ran because he's scared. I'll talk him out and he'll probably come out peacefully."
The Harvard crew shared another look. That made sense. Someone that young probably didn't have a criminal empire set up. The kid was probably just terrified and bolted on instinct. It wasn't exactly an everyday situation to have the literal FBI come to arrest you.
"Go for it, sir."
Peter entered through the side door. It wasn't a garage on the inside, Peter realized. It had been repurposed into a small apartment. There was a cot pushed up against the wall, a camp stove and gas containers near another wall, and a small washbasin and several store-bought gallons of water at the end of the cot. There was a small stock of cans and other non-perishable foods tucked near the stove. The kid looked like he was both doing alright for himself and horribly underprivileged. He wasn't starving, but he was struggling. He was squatting in a garage, not even a building meant to be lived in.
Noah was kneeling in front of the cot, stowing his goods in a portable safe. It looked like it was normally stashed under the cot when it wasn't in use. The ID was off to the side, probably rejected for not having monetary value. Noah didn't seem to hear Peter entering the garage and continued about his task. Peter crossed his arms, content to watch the kid count his 'earnings' and hide them. When Noah didn't show any signs of stopping or even noticing Peter, Peter cleared his throat.
Noah nearly jumped out of his skin, spine instantly snapping straight. He closed the safe and kicked it under the cot with his heel, spinning towards the side door. Peter was in front of the side door. Peter was between Noah's quick escape and Noah's current location. He started to panic. Oh God. I can't leave. He knows, he knows, he knows, he's going to arrest me- Peter raised his hands, showing they were completely open and that there was no reason to panic.
"Hey, hey, kid. Don't run." His tone was as calm and pacifying as he thought he could make it. "I'm not going to hurt you. What's your name?" Noah stayed silent. Peter sat down against the wall, nearer to Noah than he was, but far enough away to let Noah feel comfortable. "I'm Peter. What's your name?"
Noah cleared his throat awkwardly. "I-I'm Noah."
"Last name?"
"N-Noah Carnahan." The way he made it sound, that was the hardest thing for him to say. It probably was, telling an FBI agent that you stole from who you were.
"Okay," Peter continued with a polite nod. "Well, Noah, do you know who I am?"
Noah thought for a second, staring at Peter. He backed up to the cot, not willing to let his eyes leave Peter's, like he was worried he was going to be arrested if he turned his back. He grabbed Peter's ID off the cot and read off what it said.
"Agent Peter Burke, FBI White Collar Crime Unit." The impact of the words sunk in and Noah went white. Not pale, white as a sheet. "What's gonna happen?" he asked. His voice trembled and he sounded as young as he looked.
"What do you mean?" Peter asked.
Noah's breathing sped up. His heart was pounding, his head was spinning, and everything was rapidly becoming too much. "I...I didn't mean to steal your ID," he spit out. He was spouting words, starting one almost before he finished the previous. "I didn't want to. I only wanted to eat something tonight! I thought it was your wallet."
Peter looked politely at Noah. He tried to make his face look as non-angry as possible. "How much did you get?" he asked.
"Um..." Noah crouched down, kneeling in front of the cot. He pulled the safe out and opened it. He quickly flipped through, counting the money he had put in that day. "About 250 dollars. And a handful of change."
Peter gave Noah a look. "That's a lot more than dinner." He tried to be sympathetic, but that was a little more than he could excuse.
Noah nodded and put the safe back, standing again, still ready to bolt. He looked down at the floor, ashamed. "I know," he admitted. "It's about a week, if I'm careful."
That broke Peter's heart. A kid shouldn't have to think about how much money would get him meals and some food to keep over. Peter glanced to the food stock. It wasn't much. A few cans of vegetables, some tuna, a little bit of pasta, and some canned soup. Barely enough to last three days, if he only ate two meals a day. This wasn't how someone Noah's age should be living. Wasn't the thing a boy Noah's age should be thinking about. He should be worried about prom and first cars and where to go to college. Not how to eat for the next week and where he'd be sleeping.
"Do you do this every week?" Peter asked, gently.
Noah nodded. "Sometimes I get more, sometimes less." He switched immediately back to panic. "But I didn't want your ID! I thought it was a wallet, honest. Here."
Noah snatched the ID and crossed the distance to Peter. He pushed the ID into Peter's chest and retreated. The kid's chest was heaving. He was definitely panicking and didn't know how to reason himself back to sanity.
"Thanks." Noah only looked back down at the floor. He dragged his toe back and forth and swallowed. "Now, the FBI already got involved in this case. Do you know what that means?"
Noah's breathing picked up again. Peter was having trouble finding distinct breaths anymore. He stared at Peter, eyes wide and terrified. "Come on! I didn't do anything bad! I mean, I know I stole something from you, but I gave it back!" The childish reasoning hit straight to Peter's chest. This was a child. And he had to arrest him. Noah started mumbling to himself. "I'm hungry. And I wanted a real bed tonight."
Peter felt bad, he really did, and he really wanted to help this kid. But it had already become an FBI matter and he couldn't back out. "I know," he said. Noah's breathing slowed a little. "I know, kid. Trust me, I feel as bad about this as you do. But, we started this. Then you ran away from us, which is another crime."
Noah started to tear up. He was young. He was irresponsible, sure. He was maybe even a little bit stupid. But he wasn't bad. He didn't want to commit crimes. There just wasn't a better way. He didn't have a home or a family or anyone who cared about how he was doing. He was stuck in a strange city without anyone to fall back on and left on his own. He didn't know what to do and certainly didn't think about consequences. He sniffed.
Peter balked. He was not good with crying children. "Calm down, kid." Noah sniffed again, looking back at Peter helplessly. "Listen. Do you want to know what's going to happen?"
Noah stared at Peter. He was...being nice to him? After Noah stole from him? And ran? Why? He was too shocked to speak. He managed to nod and crossed the distance over to Peter. He slid down the wall and sat near him. Far enough away that he felt comfortable, but not too far that Peter couldn't reach over and touch him.
"Okay," Peter continued, as calm as he could. "First, once you leave this room, they're gonna put handcuffs on you." Noah blinked and wiped away tears. "Have you ever been handcuffed before?"
Noah shook his head. "N-No. I've never b-been in trouble."
"Okay." Peter really wanted to put a reassuring hand on Noah's shoulder, pat his back and tell him everything was going to be all right. But he wouldn't touch him if Noah didn't say he wanted it. And, right now, it looked like he didn't want it. "They're not going to hurt." Noah nodded. "It won't be comfortable, and you'll feel that they're there, but they won't hurt."
Noah opened his mouth, then closed it. He wanted to ask something, he really did. But he still didn't entirely trust Peter. That was fair. Peter was giving him reasons to trust him, but was still law enforcement talking to a thief. Peter answered the question he was trying to ask.
"If the cuffs hurt-actually hurt-tell someone. Whoever you tell, whether it's me or another agent, will check and adjust them if they need to. Understand?"
"Mm-hmm."
Peter nodded approvingly. He was getting somewhere. "After that, you'll be put in the back of either someone's car or a van." At least one of the agents had probably gone back for a car by now. It was always easier than leading a handcuffed suspect through crowded streets. "Try to sit forward on your seat and lean back. It's better on your shoulders."
Noah gave a small smile. He trusted Peter now. And he still wasn't good with trust. The smile immediately fell, but Peter still noticed. Noah bit the inside of his cheek, hoping to quell the nervous storm inside of him.
"Try to stay calm during the ride and don't do anything irrational," Peter continued.
Noah gave a tiny sarcastic look, wordlessly asking 'Me? Irrational?' But, he nodded at Peter. Peter gently put a hand on Noah's. He figured that was a good way to start physical contact. Noah could easily withdraw if he didn't like it. Noah stiffened a little, but didn't try to pull his hand away.
"They're going to bring you into a room. It's not going to be comfortable; it'll probably be bright, cold, and really quiet." Noah took a deep breath in that shook on the way. Peter paused for him to say something. Noah didn't. Peter went on. "You're going to sit down. Your hands will probably be chained to the table."
Noah bit down on his cheek. The metallic taste of blood exploded across his tongue. Peter could see the hurt in his eyes and the dip in his cheek. He shook his head. Noah released the skin and rubbed the outside.
"Don't fight this," Peter said. He wasn't sure if he was referring to being put in an interrogation room or the entire process of getting arrested, but it was still good advice. "Let it happen. Then, you're going to be left alone for a while."
Noah managed to find the confidence to ask a single question. "How long?" His voice sounded like he was on the edge of properly crying, rather than just a few tears here and there.
And Peter had no good answer. He shrugged and shook his head. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "Anywhere from five minutes to a few hours."
Noah started shaking. He wasn't just scared, he was well on the way to terrified. Peter's heart broke. Noah was a kid who had made a few bad choices. And now he was getting arrested by the FBI. Peter made a snap decision that he was going to make sure that this kid was fine. He didn't care that he had committed crimes. It was all petty theft. He didn't care that he was a thief. Peter only cared that Noah was a kid who needed help. And he could be that help. And that help included giving him a warning.
"Don't say anything when you're alone." He realized he was giving advice on how to handle oneself in interrogation to a criminal, but this criminal was sixteen. What was he going to confess to, cheating on a history test? "They're going to hear and use it to make you look worse than you are. You can hum to yourself, rock in your chair, anything like that. That means you're nervous. Nervous is good. Nervous is expected for someone like you. Don't say anything. That makes you look guilty."
Noah nodded slowly. He gave Peter a questioning look. Peter was an FBI agent. And, more than that, Peter was an adult. Adults weren't supposed to care about children. They were supposed to brush them off as a bother, as a nuisance, as something that wasn't important. Why did Peter care? And, from what Noah had heard, law enforcement were dicks. This guy seemed alright. Was he about to do something to make Noah hate him, like arrest him right there? But then, why explain what was going to happen? Peter cut into Noah's spiral of thoughts.
"When someone comes in, they're going to ask you a lot of questions. Be honest. Tell the truth." Noah's eyes widened and he shook his head frantically. There were a lot of things he was good at; the truth wasn't one of them. Peter squeezes his hand. "But, if you need something, tell them. If you're hungry, tired, thirsty, need the bathroom, tell whoever's asking you questions. They know you're young. They know you're scared. They know you're not a hardened criminal." Noah cracked a small smile at that. "They'll listen. Just tell the truth."
Noah tugged his hand out from under Peter's. Peter relinquished his home almost immediately. Noah curled in on himself, hugging his legs to his chest. "I'm not good at the truth," he whispered.
"Just tell the truth," Peter repeated.
"And what about after that?" Noah asked. He was terrified. His voice showed it, his posture showed it, even his breathing showed it. But Peter was trying to calm him down.
He sighed. "After that, I don't know. There's a few things that can happen."
Peter was cut off abruptly. Noah was shaking like a leaf. He looked about ready to fall apart. Peter was never good with children, especially not ones who didn't trust adults and looked ready to cry. Noah bit his lower lip. Not knowing was bad. Peter could think of a way to console a child, but it was better than nothing.
"Can I hold you?" he asked, cautiously.
Noah hesitated for only an instant before nodding. He needed comfort. He thought he could remember being held by his mother (or the woman who acted more like it than the woman that gave birth to him). He wasn't sure. But it had been too long since Noah had been consoled from tears. Since he'd felt someone touch him and not want to hurt him. He scooted closer and Peter wrapped an arm around his shoulders, holding him close to his side. Noah leaned into the touch instantly.
"Do you want me to keep going?" Noah nodded into Peter's shoulder. "Okay. So after they ask you questions, there's a few options. You could be put in a holding cell in the FBI building. That's if they think there are more things you know that you didn't tell them. Now, holding cells are uncomfortable, but you'll have a place to sleep, something to eat, and things will be worked out in the morning." Noah nodded again. "Another option is you'll be brought to jail."
Noah leaned closer into Peter's touch. He'd been on the streets for a while. He wasn't an idiot. He'd heard stories about what jail was like. He'd heard stories about assaults, gangs, all kinds of bad things he didn't want to think about. And he was terrified. It wasn't just people that were trying to 'scare him straight' that told these stories. It was the other street kids he associated with, the other kids brought to this point. He needed someone to touch him, and this person was Peter.
Peter, to his credit, didn't fight him. He held Noah closer, trying to channel reassurance into his touch. He didn't pretend to know the things Noah had heard, the things he was afraid about. But he'd heard some stories that would scare any child, even one that didn't seem abused.
"I know what you've heard," he started. "But it's not going to be that bad. You probably won't get a chance to eat unless you asked for something while you were being questioned. But, you can sleep, and the same thing will happen. Everything will be worked out in the morning."
Peter rubbed Noah's arm up and down. Noah gave a small smile. He appreciated this touch. This touch wasn't supposed to hurt. This touch was supposed to be comforting. He could get used to that.
"The last option is you can be what's called released into a guardian's custody. Do you know what that means?"
Noah shook his head. He sniffed. He would not cry in front of Peter. "No."
"Okay," Peter said. "It basically means that someone will be given custody of you for a period of time. Do you have parents, someone to watch you?"
Noah shook his head. "No," he said hollowly. "I don't."
Peter felt a tug at his heartstrings. Noah did not look old enough to be living on his own. But, this garage was his apartment. He had a way to get money and get food and clothes for himself. Peter felt so bad. He wanted to give Noah a hug. But he wasn't sure if Noah would be comfortable with that, so he resisted the urge.
"So," he elaborated. "You could be released into my custody. You'll have a meal, a bed, clothes, everything you need." Peter gave a small laugh. "My wife wouldn't mind mothering you."
Noah tried to push Peter's arm off his shoulders. The effort was half-hearted, he still wanted to be held. He scowled. It was adorable. "I don't need mothering," he insisted. "I'm sixteen."
Peter held him tighter. "I know you don't. But it's an option." Noah looked back down at the floor. "I don't know how long it would last if you were released into my custody, but as long as necessary, we're there for you. You could also be released into someone else's custody, but I'm sure they'll treat you the same."
Noah scowled again. This time, it looked irritated. "That means they'll feel sorry for me," he snapped.
Peter was shocked. A teenager's mind shouldn't immediately go to feeling sorry when basic human necessities were offered. Food, clothes, a bed, safety. Those were things that Noah should have assumed were given if someone cared for you, for however long they'd care for you. And instead, Noah's immediate thought was that they would feel sorry for him.
"No, it doesn't," Peter said, gently, carefully. "It means they'll show you human decency."
Tears started to leak from Noah's eyes. "That's not a real thing," Noah whispered. "That's something for fairy tales."
Peter felt another, stronger, tug at his heartstrings. This kid thought human decency was made up. Thought normal people didn't care about other people for being people. This time, Peter didn't resist. He pulled Noah into a hug. He didn't resist the hug. Noah leaned in, but didn't reciprocate, staying still as Peter's arms wrapped around him. Peter released Noah from the hug back to the way they were, Peter's arm slung over Noah's shoulders.
"There's one more option." Noah looked up. "You can be released on your own recognizance. That means they just let you go, no questions asked. You'll be free to go on your way as long as you promise to show up for court, if you have a court date. Do you understand that?"
Noah nodded and slowly stopped shaking. Maybe human decency was a real thing. It didn't seem like Peter wanted anything. It seemed, as much as Noah couldn't believe it, that Peter cared about him because he was human.
"I'm scared," he admitted in a whisper.
"I know, kid. I know." Peter rubbed his arm again. "Listen, if you ever need someone to take care of you, I'll do it." Noah started to argue that he didn't need taking care of, but Peter cut him off. "I know, I know. You don't need someone to take care of you. But, in case you change your mind."
He took his arm off of Noah's shoulders. Noah did not whine at that; he was too mature for that. Peter pulled a business card and pen out of his jacket pocket and wrote something on the back before handing the card to Noah. Noah took it and held it close to his chest, not bothering to read it.
"That's my address," Peter explained, returning the pen to his pocket. "If you need food, clothes, sleep, a place to feel safe, someone to take care of you. My door's open. Day or night. No questions asked. Got it?"
Noah nodded. He started to cry in earnest. Someone actually cared about him. Someone actually cared if he was okay. Someone actually cared if he had enough to eat, or somewhere to sleep, or felt safe falling asleep where he had. And that someone was an FBI agent explaining how getting arrested worked and offering his own house as a safe space. He put the card in his pocket.
Peter smiled and tried to get Noah to laugh. "No, don't cry. I can't do crying." Noah wiped away his tears and managed a small laugh. "There you go!" Peter stood. "Ready to go?"
Noah sniffed before slowing standing as well. "I guess." Peter held out a hand, offering it to Noah. Noah bit his lip. "I'm almost an adult. I don't need to hold someone's hand."
But he didn't push away Peter's hand. "I know you don't need to," he said. "Do you want to?"
Noah hesitated for a few seconds before he took Peter's hand. Peter was content to hold his hand like a five-year-old. He knew the physical contact was keeping Noah grounded in the here and now. Noah suddenly wrenched his hand out of Peter's and ran towards the sliding door. He glanced back at Peter and Peter sent a questioning look.
"Give me one second," Noah clarified.
He hit the button to raise the door. The door wasn't as smooth going up as it was going down. The door rattled, but slid steadily upwards. Noah retreated back to Peter, unwilling to face the FBI without someone he had come to consider a familiar comfort. He slipped his hand back into Peter's. Peter gave him a reassuring squeeze and Noah offered a smile. The door opened the entire way. Peter started to lead Noah out, Noah following without complaint.
The few FBI agents were still there. Someone had gone back for a car; it was parked nearby. The agents surrounded the two.
"Raise your hands above your head," one of them commanded Noah.
Noah nearly went straight back into panic, but managed to keep his conman facade up. He looked over at Peter. His face was calm, but his eyes were panicked. Peter gave his hand a gentle squeeze before releasing him. Peter went over to the FBI agents. Noah took a deep breath and raised his hands slowly. The arrest itself went peacefully. Noah didn't fight, didn't run, didn't do anything other than what Peter had told him. The agents led Noah over to the car.
"Remember what I told you, kid," Peter said, as Noah passed him.
Noah nodded gratefully. "Thank you."
Peter smiled. He was about to lie to a child, but this situation called for a little white lie. "I'd do it for anyone."
Neal pulled a pen out of his jacket pocket and began doodling on a napkin. He and Peter were finishing up lunch together. They'd just closed a major case and Neal was decompressing in his own way. Peter glanced over at Neal.
"What are you drawing?" he asked. "Why are you drawing?"
Neal shrugged absently. "I'm bored," he said, answering the second question.
Peter nodded. "That's like you. What are you drawing?"
Neal looked down at the napkin. Oh, my God. I didn't draw that. He drew the small garage with its sparse furnishings. The cot, the camp stove, the small safe hidden under the cot. The side door was cracked, hinting that someone came in or just left. And a business card taped to the wall with an address scribbled on it.
"That garage," he whispered.
Neal nearly choked on tears. He didn't know he still had feelings about that time. Noah Carnahan had been arrested and released without charges. That was a small miracle, but Noah was a marked man. He'd disappeared soon after. Then Neal had started to bloom into Neal Caffrey as he was known now, Nick Halden and Steve Tabernacle being born and fading away, James Bonds opening a file in the FBI. Noah Carnahan hadn't died, but he'd simply fallen off the face of the earth. Neal didn't even know he still thought things about that. He thought he'd forgotten, or at least tamped down on the instinct to panic and deny Noah's existence. He put his pen down and wiped away the tears that started to drip from his eyes. He thought of something and met Peter's eyes.
"Did you really mean that?"
Peter was thrown for a loop. "Mean what?"
"Do you remember what you said to me when you arrested me the first time?"
Peter blinked and tried to think back to the first time he'd arrested Neal. "Um...'Looks like I won this round, Caffrey?'"
Neal shook his head. "No, the first time."
"That was the first time, right?" Peter asked. If there was a time before that, I don't remember it.
Neal sighed heavily and buried his head in his hands. "You probably don't remember, then. I was young, like fifteen, sixteen years old. I don't remember anymore. Ran some small scams in, um, Thomas Paine Park?"
Peter stared at Neal. He stared at Neal Caffrey, organized and effortless conman. Peter remembered arresting a sixteen-year-old boy for running small scams in Thomas Paine Park. But that kid was skinny and small and terrified and vulnerable. None of those were words that applied to Neal Caffrey.
"You were that little terrified teenager?"
Neal smiled awkwardly. "Yeah. What was I calling myself?"
"You don't remember what alias you used?" Peter asked with a smirk.
Neal shrugged it off. "It was a while ago."
"Noah," Peter said, finally taking pity on Neal. "Noah Carnahan."
Peter nodded. "Right." He lapsed into silence.
Peter had a question that he needed answered. "Did you really live there?" He gestured to Neal's drawing. "In that abandoned warehouse?"
"It was a garage," Neal said off-handedly. "But...yeah. I...I wasn't doing so hot." He took a deep breath before meeting Peter's eyes again. "But, did you mean what you said to me?"
Peter ran through his memory. He couldn't remember saying anything then that Neal might be interested in now. "Did I mean what?"
"When you said you'd do the same for anyone?"
Peter was stunned. He knew Neal had a good memory. But he remembered that for that long. It had been almost ten years since that day. And Neal remembered that Peter had promised that he'd do the same thing to anyone. But Neal still wanted an answer. He shook his head.
"Not for anyone. Just for you." He playfully punched Neal's shoulder.
Neal rubbed his arm, pretending that it hurt. He looked back down at his drawing. "Thanks, Peter. That...that means a lot."
"You're welcome," Peter said, sincerely. Then, the other promise he made that day came back to him. He hadn't just promised that he'd do the same for anyone else. He promised safety and care and...love. He covered Neal's hand with his, the same way he did when promising Noah. "And the other offer stands too."
Neal blinked a few times. He looked up. "What does?"
"If you ever need a place to stay and be cared for, my door's open. Day or night. No questions asked." He laughed a little. "Although, preferably day with some warning first now."
Neal smiled softly and gave a small laugh. "Thank you."
Peter shook his head. "Thank you."
So...again, I don't feel like asking if you enjoyed it. But if you thought it was, I don't know, well-written, you can leave a review? I guess that this one also answers how long I can write comedy. About one day. To all those who are participating in NaNoWriMo: I'm sure you're doing great! No matter what sort of thing you're reading, I welcome your contributions to the literary world.
