The silence between the two men was thicker than toxic smog.

"I can explain," Neal eventually managed to choke out. "Please, Peter… I uhh… this is not what it looks like. This is something other than what it looks like. I-"

Peter held up a hand and Neal immediately fell silent. He advanced over the threshold and summarily tossed the hot soup and pain relief he carried in his hands into the trash can by the door before snaping it shut behind him. A red mist danced in front of his eyes and his breath caught in his throat. His eyes fixated upon the merrily flashing green light on the anklet in Neal's hand and he felt a venomous rage coat his tongue. Nothing but his years on the job and his naturally mild-mannered disposition could have forced him to think rationally and risk assess the situation.

"Do you have the means to put the anklet back on without tripping the alert switch and notifying the Marshalls?"

Neal felt his hammering heart practically arrest at Peter's deathly calm tone.

"Yes," he near whispered in response. "I have the key."

Peter nodded as calmly as if Neal had pointed out a typo in a case report.

"Good. You will slowly and carefully put the anklet back on and lock it into place. You will then hand me the key."

Neal's insides writhed with guilt laden panic as he hitched up his leg on the nearby coffee table. Feeling genuinely woozy, he took a deep breath and slipped the anklet back onto his ankle, taking great care to ensure the device was jostled as little as possible. He bit his lip as the familiar locking sound cracked up at them and turned slowly to face a practically catatonic looking Peter with a raised brow. The elder man simply held out his hand wordlessly and Neal dropped the key into the awaiting palm before dropping his head to examine his shoes.

For the longest time, neither man uttered a word before Peter pulled his lips apart.

"This is the last straw. I can't do this anymore."

Neal's tousled dark head whipped upwards with his gut contracting painfully. He stared at the older man who was gazing distractedly over his head at a spot on the wall as if he was admiring some obscure painting in an uppity gallery. Neal licked his dry lips and willed himself to remain calm. This was a nightmare he'd had many, many times before but Peter had promised him more than once that he would never give up on him and Peter always kept his promises.

"What… what do you mean?"

His voice, even to his own ears, was painfully high pitched and hitched. Peter's voice, to the extreme contrary, was flat and expressionless… almost as if he was reading from a script.

"I mean exactly what I just said. I can't do this anymore. You sneak around, you plot and you scheme. You do all these things no matter how hard I try and teach you otherwise. You do these things in flagrant disregard for everything I have done for you, everything I have risked for you. You do these things over and over and over again no matter what I do or say, think or feel. Everyone has their limit and I just reached mine. I allowed you to put the anklet back on so that your deal would remain in being and so you can be transferred to another handler, instead of prison, which is more than you deserve."

He took a deep breath and continued his emotionless monologue.

"You will report to the office as usual tomorrow, and I will discuss your situation with Reece. I'll make up some story or other as to why this partnership… or what I thought was a partnership… is no longer viable. You will be someone else's problem by midday, and I can only offer you a suggestion that you will not follow and tell you that your next handler will not be as foolish as I have been. They will see you for what you are and treat you accordingly and so for your own benefit, I would try and show them even a molecule more respect than you have shown me… in other words, show them at least one molecule of respect."

He removed his gaze from the spot above Neal's head and ran it over the kid's face. It was a testament to the danger of his rage, hurt and disappointment that the strangled look in the boy's eyes and paling pallor of his skin did absolutely nothing to move him. Raising a brow, he cleared his throat pointedly.

"Do you understand what I have just told you, Caffrey? We're done. I'm done. I should have done this a long time ago, but I was an idiot who thought you were capable of change, and you took full advantage of that fact. I treated you like a son and you treated me like a mark. Well… it's time to find another mark, Caffrey. This one has finally wised the hell up."

With that deafening proclamation lying in his wake, he turned on his heel without another word and walked softly out of the apartment, closing the door gently behind him. It was only seven seconds later when the vomit trundled up Neal's windpipe. Dashing to the bathroom, he upended the contents of his stomach into the toilet in one violent sitting before standing shakily up and drawing the back of his hand across his mouth. In a daze, he walked slowly to his bed and slumped down on the corner of it. Staring around at the life he had built around him, his brain struggled to take in what had just happened. Falling back onto his pillows and drawing his knees up to his chest, he suddenly felt an acute pain radiate from his small intestine, a rapid shortening of his breath and a sick sheen of sweat bead across his brow.

His blue eyes popped open in distress.

It had been years and years since he had a panic attack.

A couple of minutes and miles away, Peter stormed into his living room to find a cheerfully scrapbooking El perched in front of the TV. Looking up at the dramatic entrance, her face clouded in concern. Watching as her husband threw himself into the armchair in front of her and stare mutinously at the wall, her well honed senses kicked into third gear.

"What did Neal do this time?"

It took a moment for Peter to answer her and when he did, his voice bore the same hollow tone he had used to dismiss Neal only a short while ago. Taking some deep breaths here and there, he told El the whole story from start to finish. He saw a plethora of emotions cross her face as he spoke which ranged from anger, shock to disappointment and sadness. By the time he uttered his last word, he leaned back in the chair with his eyes closed and waited for her soft words of comfort to fall.

They didn't.

Reluctantly peeling his eyes open, he looked over at his silent wife and raised a brow.

"Honey? Are you ok?"

El did not answer immediately and when she did, she stared him directly in the eyes.

"I'm just so, so disappointed."

Peter nodded sympathetically.

"I know, hon," he said softly. "But I've dealt with it. We are done with damned Neal Caffrey and-"

"No," El interjected swiftly. "I am not talking about Neal. I am talking about you. I am disappointed, bitterly disappointed, in you. I cannot believe that after everything that boy has been through that you would turn your back on him like this. I cannot believe that you, the man I thought I knew better than anyone in the world, could be so cowardly and cold."

Peter's mouth fell open as he practically jumped up from his seat in indignation.

"Me? You're pissed with me?"

Her beautiful eyes flashed dangerously.

"You bet your ass I am, Peter Burke. We both sat that boy down in this very living room and promised him that we would be there for him no matter what. We told him that no matter the stunts he pulled or mistakes he made, we would always stand by him and see him right and you… you threw that in his face tonight. Yes, he screwed up and yes, he behaved disgracefully but the way I see it… the only person who deserves to be ex communicated right now is you, not Neal."

Peter spluttered in strangled outrage.

"Anyone else would have canned him a long time ago and-"

"I do not want to hear it! I simply do not want to hear it, Peter. I don't think I have ever felt so disappointed in the actions of another person. Neal has been through so much. He's not perfect, far from it, but neither are you. You talk about all you've done for him, and I know you've done a hell of a lot, but he's also done a hell of a lot for you. It's not a one-way street. What Neal did tonight was disrespectful, disobedient and deceitful and for that he deserved to be punished, not abandoned."

She stood and tossed her hair behind her back, her eyes crackling with anger.

"You better make this right, Peter. I know you and I know you will see sense if given a day or two to work this out in your own head and usually I would let you have that time, but Neal is out there right now… hurting. He's hurting because you broke your promise to him and did the one thing he's always feared you would do… you gave up on him. Just like everyone else in his life. You promised we would be different and so help me god you better live up to that promise."

With that, she was gone, sweeping up the stairs without a backwards glance.

Hearing their bedroom door shut with a snap and knowing he was doomed to a night on the couch, Peter let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. Dropping his head into his hands, he screwed his eyes up tight and tried to process everything his snarling wife had just thrown at him. His rarely seen stubborn streak railed up to defend him.

Neal was relentlessly disobedient.

Neal was relentlessly disrespectful.

Neal was relentless.

Everyone had a breaking point and he reached his, did that really make him a terrible human being? It was easy for El to stand on sermon… she didn't have to deal with every slight of hand, caper or downright disaster that Neal dished out. She didn't have to be the bad guy day after day and try and teach the kid right from wrong, a thankless and ultimately impossible task. He was about to throw off his shoes and coat to settle down in the doghouse for the night when a flashback of Neal's eyes shot through his brain. A small twinge panged in his stomach. He tried to ignore it, but it only twanged stronger. More images flooded his brain, Neal's face when he told them he was done… Neal's face when he told him he was passing him off to whomever would take him.

Neal….

A small groan gathered at the back of his throat. He was a clever man and it rarely took him hours to see his own errors once they were pointed out to him.

He'd screwed up.

Big time.

With as much effort as it had ever cost him, he heaved himself back out of the comfortable armchair and got as far as putting his hand on the front door handle before El materialised behind him.

"Wait," she ordered shortly. "Wait a second."

He did as requested and frowned when she emerged from the kitchen with a small casserole pot in her hands. Foisting it none too gently into her husband's hands, she fixed him with a glare.

"He will need to eat. You need to make sure he eats some of that Ragu."

Peter nodded slowly before clearing his throat awkwardly.

"I was wrong."

The admission hung between husband and wife for several moments before El sighed and placed a very faint kiss on Peter's cheek.

"You were… and now you need to go and make it right. You bring that boy back here, Peter, or you don't come back. You got it?"

The wearied Agent nodded his head.

"Got it."

The ride back to Neal's apartment seemed to take forever and take no time at all. A disquieting sense of foreboding dogged him. He had no idea how he was going to fix this but he certainly didn't think a Ragu was going to do the trick. Smiling wanly at a cheerfully oblivious June, he crossed over the threshold of the Brownstone and made his way up the stairs to Neal's apartment. Sometimes he might barge in but he knew that privilege was lost to him now and so he awkwardly rapped on the door.

And waited.

And waited some more.

No answer.

Groaning, he leaned his head against the cool wood of the door and spoke gently through the small crack in the frame.

"Neal? It's Peter… open up… please…"

Nothing.

Chewing his lip, Peter reasoned that he couldn't make things worse and slowly creaked open the door. Placing the casserole pot down on the side table, he glanced around the apartment and didn't immediately spot the motionless Neal sitting in the corner of the outside balcony. Striding towards him, he felt a lick of nausea ripple inside him.

"Neal?"

No response.

Nothing.

Brow furrowed, Peter stepped out onto the balcony and took in the kid's tight set jaw as he stared resolutely out at the New York skyline. He opened his mouth, to say what he didn't know, before his attention was drawn downwards. His eyes popped open as he digested the angrily blinking red light of the broken anklet that lay in two pieces beside an artist's chisel at Neal's feet.

"Neal!? What have you done?"

The blue eyes, usually sparking with mischievous mirth, had zero life in them.

"The Marshalls will be here soon, Peter. It's best you leave."

Peter gaped.

"Why… what are you doing?"

Turning back to the sparkling lights in front of him, Neal spoke softly.

"I'm going back where I belong."

….

I was in the mood for angsty… mea culpa. I'll fix them, don't worry. Inks x

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