April

Peter sat at the terrace table, drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. Neal was reclined on a chaise lounge, with a blanket, pillows propping him up, a book, and his own cup of coffee. It was morning, still cool, but beautiful and bright.

There was a knock, Peter looked up at Neal, "expecting someone?"

Neal shook his head, "no. My phone is inside though, I could have missed a call."

Peter got up and answered the door. It was Diana and Jones.

"Hey, Neal home?" asked Diana.

"Outside," said Peter, "sorry if you called before, he didn't have his phone."

Diana shook her head, "it's okay."

They went back outside.

Diana walked up to Neal, Jones a little behind her.

Neal looked up at them, curious and energetic, "what's up?"

Diana offered him a file, he put the book down on the wheelchair parked next to the lounge, and took the file. He opened it over his lap and read while he sipped from his mug.

Peter poured a cup each for Diana and Jones, and walked over to them. Jones took his and followed Peter back to the table.

"He looks tired," said Jones, though Neal wasn't showing it in his excited behavior as he talked with Diana. It had to be an interesting case.

"Oh," said Peter, "he had a flare last week, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been. Mostly his back. Just still recovering."

"Ah," said Jones.

Peter raised an eyebrow at him.

Jones shrugged, "I like to know if he's okay. Getting better at telling. But I like to know for sure."

Peter chuckled, "not like he makes it easy."

Jones laughed, "he sure doesn't."

Jones paused, "but...I do think he's telling Diana and I more often."

Peter watched Neal for a while, then turned back to Jones, "it takes him a long time to trust anything, or anyone. I think Mozzie's the closest he's come to having people who were actually there for him in the end."

"Well," said Jones, "he'll find out that's not the case anymore."

Peter wasn't entirely certain if Jones meant that as an eventuality or as an intentional promise. He declined to ask, as Diana and Neal came over.

"I'm going with them to interview this guy at an archeology museum," said Neal.

"Okay," said Peter, "I'll see you later at the bureau, or if you're out all day, at home. My turn to cook, any requests?"

"Takeout?"

"Haha," said Peter, sarcastically.


Peter didn't see Neal at the FBI during the day, but he did see him. He ran into Neal and Diana at the coffee shop Neal was currently obsessed with, and whose chocolate filled pastries had become Peter's recent addiction. They were coming up the ramp into it, while Peter, coming from the other direction, had hit the stairs first.

"Please, I just need the radius exception, Jones said he'd escort me."

"You mean you and Jones will go taste expensive rare whiskey without any actual sober agent around to watch you?"

"Agent Perry might like to get out of records-"

"Hi Peter, do you want your convict back?" Said Diana as they met Peter at the door.

"Oh, this arrangement works just fine for me," said Peter, leaning down to kiss Neal as Neal grinned up at him.

"And me," said Neal, "Peter's archeology case had us digging in the sun, yours came with tickets to a rare whiskey tasting."

Peter laughed and held the door open for both of them, then went inside. Diana read the menu, Neal looked up at Peter, wincing slightly as he twisted, "came for the chocolate croissants?"

Peter reached down and gave Neal a little bit of a shoulder and neck rub, "this is your fault."

Neal chuckled, relaxing a little and leaning back into Peter's hands.

Diana ordered her coffee, looked down at Neal for a moment, and then ordered his current favorite, a cappuccino made with a particular kind of espresso.

"Jokes aside, you did good in there, Caffrey," said Diana, "yes you can have the exception and go with Jones. Just promise you won't make me any extra paperwork."

"I promise," said Neal.

"You can pay for your own coffee, Mr have your cake and eat it too." said Diana to Peter.

"If I'm the cake in this scenario–" started Neal.

"Neal!" shushed Peter, turning red.

"Next!" Said the barista.

Peter moved up and stammered through an order of coffee and croissants. He paid, and then turned around looking for Neal and Diana. They were by the pickup counter. Peter joined them, his face still burning.

Diana laughed at him, Neal just grinned huge.

"Okay, can we move on," begged Peter.

"Sorry, boss," said Diana.

"Not your boss," reminded Peter, gently, despite his mood being less than favorable at that moment.

Diana and Neal's drinks were called, Diana picked them up and handed Neal his. Neal pulled the lid off and sniffed deep. Diana watched him, hiding a grin as she slipped her latte.

Peter was starting to feel better about having been in Spain for most of the past month. His worst fear was that Neal would feel abandoned, and go back to a life where Peter would have to catch him when he ran, rather than when he fell. But it seemed that Peter needed to do neither, at least all the time. Peter realized that Neal actually wasn't the only one who was still struggling with trusting what he had.


The night of the whiskey tasting Peter and Elizabeth went out to dinner together. Elizabeth went home to sleep, Peter went to June's to wait for Neal. When he got there June was playing an old record, reading, and sipping a cocktail. She smiled when Peter came in, "oh, and where's Neal?"

"Still out with Jones, rare whiskey tasting. He promised to behave, so I don't…think, he's coming home with stolen property."

June laughed, and offered Peter a drink as she made herself one.

"Sure," said Peter after considering. Just trust it. Trust Neal, and relax.

June gave him the cocktail, clear honey amber with a twist of orange peel.

"Oh, this is delicious."

"A friend started the distillery, Rams and Parrots. Neal isn't the only one who enjoys a good whiskey."

"What a name."

"Indeed. Oh, how was Spain?"


After maybe half an hour, there was a honking sound outside more persistent than the normal New York traffic. June took that as her cue for bed.

Peter opened the door, to find a cab idling out front. This was odd, as they had left in Jones's car. Peter walked down to the street, and knocked on the window. The door opened, revealing Neal and Jones in the back, Neal lying on his side, Jones sitting up, Neal's upper half in his lap.

"Hey Peter," said Jones, cheerfully.

"Hi," said Peter.

"Peter!" said Neal.

"We had fun," said Jones, "maybe a little too much."

Peter chuckled, "I see."

Peter got Neal's chair out of the trunk of the cab and set it on the sidewalk. He looked back into the cab. Neal was now leaning against Jones's arm, not really sitting, but kind of.

"Peter," said Neal, sounding tired, but happy, "it was so fun. Lots of good tastings. Only minor problems. You gotta come next time."

"What do you mean minor problems?"

"His back doesn't feel like sitting up," said Jones.

Neal waved a hand, "minor problems. Plus it was a historic building so only the back entrance had a ramp, and they made it up to us by taking us through the cellar."

Neal paused and looked at Peter's concerned face, "oh, don't worry. I didn't take anything, nor do I plan to."

At Peter's look, he added with a chuckle, "nor do I plan to have anyone else take anything."

Peter nodded, satisfied, and locked the wheelchair for Neal to get into.

Neal and Jones both scooted over, Jones's arm around Neal's, coordinating. Once Jones got to the end of the bench seat and stood up, Peter could see that the right side of Neal's back was tight, cramped up.

Jones held out his hand, Neal grabbed it with his left, and Peter steadied the chair.

Seated, Neal beamed up at Jones, "thanks for taking me,"

Jones clapped his hand on Neal's left shoulder, lightly, "thanks for the ticket. Have a good night, Caffrey."

"Thanks, you too."

"Goodnight, Peter," said Jones.

Neal turned and looked at Peter, as Jones got back into the cab to go home, "are we crashing here or at the house?"

"El has a long day ahead of her, something about three chargers for every place setting, at this wedding. I think here."

"Yikes, okay.."

Peter walked up the steps, Neal took the lift. Peter unlocked the door and held it open for Neal, then locked the door behind them as Neal opened the elevator cage. Peter and Neal got on, Peter closed the cage and Neal pulled the handle on the elevator control towards himself.

Peter put his hand on Neal's right shoulder, giving touch and warmth, as they headed up.

"I'm glad you had fun with Jones. I feel bad I don't have time to go with you to more places, or don't always want to."

Neal looked up, having to turn his body slightly to do so as his neck refused to give him a full range of motion, "that's sweet, Peter. Yeah, actually I gotta tell Diana in the morning, Jones said he owed me for the tasting ticket so he would go with me to that mokume gane exhibit."

"That sounds nice," said Peter, beginning to suspect that Jones was making a concentrated effort to spend time with Neal outside of work. He recalled that Jones had in fact basically stated his intention to make Neal feel that people had his back. Peter made a mental note to thank him with lunch or something.

The lift arrived and Neal and Peter got out. Neal went to the fridge, and opened it. He blinked at the contents. Peter came up behind him, leaning down and putting his arms around Neal's shoulders, kissing the sore side of Neal's neck, "what's wrong?"

"I didn't open this." Neal showed Peter a bottle of white wine, put it back and opened and closed his fingers, then stretched them out, after holding the cold object.

Peter straightened, leaving his hands on Neal's shoulders, "Mozzie?"

A form sat up on the couch, and Neal sighed, "How long have you been here?"

"Hours! And then you come home with the suit!"

"Yes, my boyfriend is at my apartment, Mozzie. I maybe even had plans around that."

Peter stifled a chuckle and got out bread and jam. He put two pieces of bread in the toaster.

"I need to talk to you," said Mozzie.

"Can it wait for the morning?"

"Not really. I need a favor."

Neal sighed, "a legal favor?"

"Well…technically, yes."

Peter looked over at him and raised an eyebrow.

"Look, it doesn't…a friend needs a copy of a painting."

Neal stared pointedly Mozzie, waiting for him to continue.

"I'm just gonna go get ready for bed," said Peter, and took his plate of toast and jam into the bedroom


Neal eventually joined Peter in the bedroom, looking tired, sitting almost diagonal in his chair. Peter got up, offering Neal his arm to grab as Neal got from the chair to the bed. He wasn't very steady even with the help.

"Mozzie okay?"

Neal laughed, though pain flashed across his face as he did, "he's fine."

Peter sat next to him, softly cupping Neal's jaw. He then started undoing Neal's shirt buttons. Neal reached up and pulled down on Peter's tie, first drawing him closer and then undoing it.

Peter kissed him, gently, warmly. Neal sighed contentedly into Peter and then let go. Peter let the kiss break, and smiled down at Neal.

Peter finished with Neal's buttons, and kissed from his jawline down to his waistband. When Peter kissed his skin, where he held himself so stiffly it was warm with inflammation.

Neal sighed again, reaching up with his left hand to push his fingers through Peter's hair. He looked content, tired but happy, reveling in the attention and affection from Peter.

Peter alternated between kisses and gently massaging Neal's shoulder. Neal took his shirt off and turned over onto his stomach. Peter straddled him at the hips, using the heels of his hands to make long, firm, slow strokes up and down the painful muscles.

Neal whimpered, surprising Peter.

"Too hard?"

"No," breathed Neal, "it's just sore."

Peter kept going, occasionally taking one hand off Neal's back to stroke his hair. Neal was boneless, letting Peter see how tired his body was, how much it hurt, and how much he wanted Peter's touch. Every now and then Peter would hit an especially painful knot, and Neal's breath would catch. Peter used his thumbs to work on the offending group of muscle fibers, working until they slowly relaxed.

"Peter," said Neal, muffled with his face in the mattress.

"Hmm?" Asked Peter, his hands still moving over Neal's bare skin.

"I'm sorry."

"What? Why?" asked Peter.

"I spent the whole night out with Jones and then Moz was here…"

"Oh, Neal," said Peter, softly, and kissed his way from Neal's tailbone up his spine and neck, ending with his face beside Neal's ear, "don't be sorry for having people in your life. I want that for you."

Neal tensed up slightly. Peter resumed the backrub, but that didn't seem to help.

"Neal? Are you okay?"

Neal made a quiet, restrained sound of distress.

"Neal?" Asked Peter again, worried.

"You're the first person I've had who didn't want to control me, didn't always want something from me. You and Elizabeth. Even Mozzie always has an angle."

Peter kissed him on the cheek, neck, shoulders, arms, back, whispering, "I'm sorry. You deserve better than that. You deserve to have the people around you have your best interests at heart."

Neal nodded, very slightly, then winced. Peter continued to kiss him, rub his back, and murmur soft affirmations that this was in fact the treatment Neal deserved, and that he should expect from healthy relationships.


Peter and Neal headed into work together the next morning, Neal was still tired and sore, but in a great mood. Peter parted ways with him in the elevator lobby, kissing him gently. Neal beamed up at him.

Peter walked off to his own work, holding the image of a happy, confident, secure Neal in his head as he prepared himself to spend the next several hours on a call with the Greek embassy and a translator.

After that call, Peter decided he needed a pastry reward, and went to the coffee shop a few blocks away. While he was sitting at a table eating his chocolate croissant and drinking a latte, Jones came in and held the door open, Diana and Neal followed.

Neal was pale, someone's FBI jacket over his lap despite the 60 degree weather outside. Diana was pushing him, and absently put a hand onto his shoulder when they stopped at the end of the line to order. Peter smiled into his coffee, as Neal and Jones regaled Diana with the tale of the previous night's adventure.


Near the end of the day, Elizabeth called Peter's office phone. He picked up, happy to see that number and not yet another Greek diplomat.

"Hi, hon," he said into the phone.

"Hi, honey," said Elizabeth, "I was just calling about dinner. There's tri-tip, fingerling potatoes, and broccolini left from the event, does that sound good?"

"Sounds great," said Peter.

"Fantastic. Could you and Neal pick up wine to go with it on the way home?"

"Sure."

"Thanks, hon."

"Of course."

"See you in an hour or two,"

"Love you."

"Love you."

Peter set the phone handset down, stretched, and got his stuff together. Neal had been tired enough he would probably be happy for an early day if Diana didn't need him to stay. Peter packed his bag and locked his office, then went to see about taking his partner home.

Neal was predictably in Diana's office. Neal and Diana were sitting on the sofa, Jones was sitting on Diana's office chair as the three of them tried to untangle a bin of audio surveillance cords and equipment. Neal was definitely physically beat. He was listing sideways, towards Diana, a pillow stuffed between him and her side.

"Hey," said Diana, as Peter knocked on her office door.

Peter came in, "hey, just thinking about heading home early, if Neal can head out soon too."

Diana looked at Neal, who laid his head on her shoulder and looked up at her making the most pathetic, pleading expression he could muster. Diana laughed, and lightly shoved him, "okay. Go home."

Neal grinned huge, "thanks, boss."

Diana put her pile of cords down, "I think that's enough of this for all of us, anyway."

"Thank god," said Jones, doing the same.

Neal tried to lean down to put his cords in the bin, and almost fell forward off the couch. Diana grabbed him around the chest, and pulled him back, leaning him against the pillow and her side and shoulder. He had his eyes shut tight, embarrassment and pain on his face.

"Neal," she said, gently, "you promised you wouldn't lie to me."

"Didn't lie," mumbled Neal.

"You told me you were good to be at work."

"I am good," he said, still quiet.

Diana, her arm around his back, rubbed his upper arm a little bit, "you literally can't sit up."

Neal opened his eyes and looked at her, his expression painfully vulnerable, his exhaustion making his words more honest than he might have meant, "what if I get worse and it's like this all the time? Is that the line? Is that when you tell me I'm not useful?"

She froze, looking at him from inches away, arm still around him. Peter and Jones exchanged a worried look.

"No," said Diana, finally, "there's no line. I want your input whenever you feel up to it, full stop. You just scared me. I worry about you when it's clear you haven't been honest about how you're feeling. I don't know what you're holding back, if it's just that you're tired and unsteady, or if you're really feeling like crap. I would feel like shit if I assigned you more than you could handle because I misjudged how you were doing. Ask Christie, she's had to listen to me stress about it since I took over the team."

Neal was silent, then finally said, in a small voice, "I just…need this. Purpose, structure. People who actually have my back even if that means telling me no. Cases that keep me from getting bored, the high of helping people. If that got taken away…"

Diana squeezed him around the shoulders, and used her free hand to take his.

"I absolutely promise, that no matter what, I will not take that away from you."

"I promise to tell you the truth," said Neal, still quiet, then paused and chuckled, "it might take practice. Trusting takes practice."

Diana laughed quietly, "it does. But I think we'll get there."

Neal grinned at her. Then his face fell, "actually…I…should tell you…Mozzie…"

"Mozzie's trying to get him in trouble with me, probably because Mozzie wants him to help with crime. Or he just misses Neal."

Neal looked at Peter so quickly he winced hard and had to pull his hand away from Diana's to put it on his neck. Diana moved her hand to his shoulder, using her palm to warm the angry muscles.

"Yes," said Neal, finally, "that. He's doing that. I don't want to mess up. But I don't know how to say no to him."

"Tell him if he asks you to break the law I'm bringing him in for solicitation of a crime," said Diana.

"Or let Elizabeth talk to him," said Peter, thoughtfully.

Neal blinked at Peter, then admitted, "I mean, Elizabeth is definitely scarier than the FBI."

"Even if Diana or Elizabeth scare him off, he'll try again in a few months unless he hears it from you," said Jones, quietly. "Am I right?"

Neal looked at Jones. Then he looked at the floor, "you're probably right."

"He needs to hear it from you, and respect it." Said Jones.

"What if he doesn't respect it?" asked Neal.

"Then why do you want to be friends with him? If he won't let you choose the life you want, if he's willing to sabotage your relationships to force you into doing what he needs? That's not a friend."

Neal kept staring at the floor.

"I like the little guy," added Jones, "but I don't like him messing with you."

Peter could not have been more grateful to Jones in that moment. Diana jostled Neal slightly by the shoulder, "you don't have to figure it out right now. Thank you for telling me, us. Thank you for promising to tell me how you're doing. Go home, have a good night."

Neal nodded, and finally raised his head, "thank you."


Neal rode in the front passenger seat on the way home, uncharacteristically quiet. He held onto the handle molded into the roof, leaned on the door. Peter reached over at a stoplight, sliding his hand between Neal's back and the seat.

Neal looked over at him, as Peter rubbed his back.

"I'm really, really proud of you," said Peter.

Neal smiled at him, hazy with fatigue, but happy at the praise.

They stopped at a wine shop, Peter pushing Neal, Neal directing Peter to pull things down. Neal selected a malbec for him and Elizabeth to go with the tri-tip, and picked up a viognier and a rosé while they were there.


They got home, Peter kicked back on the couch with Neal snuggled up to him, Neal holding a glass of wine, Peter holding a beer. Elizabeth got the leftovers in the oven and came over, sitting on Neal's other side, and laying down with her head and shoulders in his lap. Neal smiled and kissed her tenderly.

There was a knock on the door. Elizabeth sat up, Neal looked at Peter, not at all ready to have the conversation that needed to happen. Peter shook his head, and got up, "doesn't have to be tonight."

He went and opened the door on Mozzie. Rather than let Mozzie in, he walked out onto the steps and closed the door behind himself.

"Listen," said Peter, leaning against the railing, "I have a question for you."

Mozzie glared at Peter, "and I have one for Neal."

"Right," said Peter, "but my question first."

Mozzie sighed, "what?"

"What do you really want? Say you get Neal to come with you, you two pull off a grand heist, and go fulfill your dreams. What do you want most about all that?"

Mozzie stared at him for a moment, and then out of surprise as much as anything, said, "security."

"There's more than one kind of security. Having a lot of money is one, sure. Having people who care about you, who have your back…. community, friends, loved ones. People you trust. That's another kind."

Mozzie laughed, "good one. I trust no-one."

"Right," said Peter, with a sigh, "well, Neal wants to be able to trust you, to let him have that kind of security. Anyway, go ask him your question. But please don't try to drag him out somewhere tonight, he's not feeling well."

Peter opened the door, Mozzie walked in. He stopped when he saw Neal on the couch. While Neal was definitely happy, giving Satchmo a thorough ear scratch with one hand, drinking wine with the other, he was also leaning against Elizabeth's shoulder to sit up, pale, Elizabeth's hand working on his neck where his sore muscles refused to release.

Mozzie looked at Peter. Peter raised his eyebrows. Mozzie looked at Neal and Elizabeth, "I'll come back tomorrow."

Neal blinked at him, as Mozzie turned around and walked out the door.

"We'll be at June's," called Peter after Mozzie's retreating back.

"What did you say to him?" Asked Neal, concerned.

"I just asked him a question, and told him you were tired."

"What was the question?"

"What he wanted from his life."

Neal gave Peter a strange look. Peter shrugged.


The next day Neal wasn't doing so hot. He tried his best to get dressed and ready but Peter found him holding his suit jacket, leaning with his arms on his thighs, head down in frustration.

Peter brought Neal a soft, comfortable sweater. Neal put it on, slowly, struggling to lift his arms enough to get them in, and made himself toast. He ate that and drank a glass of orange juice, then pulled out his phone. Peter gave him some privacy while he called Diana to explain he wasn't feeling up to coming in. After the call Neal retreated to the bedroom of his apartment.

Peter checked on him maybe ten minutes later, and found him back in bed, upset but too exhausted to keep pretending he was okay. Peter got into bed with him, wrapped his arms around the younger man.

Neal buried his face in Peter's chest, "I can't even get ready."

"I'm sorry."

Maybe twenty minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Peter got up to answer it. Jones and Diana were there, carrying all the materials from their current case. They followed Peter into the bedroom.

Jones set up a whiteboard with a tripod, and Diana sat next to Neal, first handing him a pillow to sit up against and then dumping paperwork into his arms.

Neal tried to hold back his emotions, as Diana and Jones acted like there was nothing out of the ordinary about holding a meeting on Neal's bed.


When Peter came home from work, the paperwork was by the door, music was playing, and the conversation was not about mortgage fraud. Neal, Jones, Diana, and June were in the living room. Jones was standing by the record player, a beer in his hand, relaxed and amused. Diana was seated next to June on the couch, pouring first June and then herself another glass of wine. Neal was lying to June's other side, his head and shoulders in her lap, her hand on his chest, his hand holding hers. He was exhausted, but the smile on his face was genuine and big.

"Peter!" said June, happily.

"Hello, June," said Peter, and kissed her on the cheek, then bent to kiss Neal on the forehead. Neal grinned up at him.

There was a knock, in iambic pentameter. Peter heaved a sigh and went to open it.

Mozzie stood there, holding a painting.

"Oh, suit. How strange that you would be here."

"Hello Mozzie," said Peter, evenly, "how about you leave that painting outside the door, and come join us."

Peter stepped back, allowing Mozzie to view the whole room, the people. He stared at the assembled group, hesitating, still holding the painting.

"Hey Mozzie," said Neal, "come on, man. Stop trying piss off Peter. Come over here and grab a glass instead."

Mozzie looked towards the couch, though he couldn't actually see Neal through the back of it.

Peter reached down and put his hand on the painting. Mozzie slowly let go, anxiety on his face. Peter put the painting outside Neal's door, and closed the door behind Mozzie. Mozzie still didn't move further into the apartment.

Peter went to a cabinet and pulled out another wine glass. He walked over to June, and she poured a generous glass of red wine. Peter stood, holding the glass out.

Mozzie finally walked in, and took it from Peter. He looked at the people, at Neal lying on the couch, at Diana downing her glass to deal with Mozzie, at Jones flipping through June's records as the player neared the center of the one that was playing.

Peter pulled a chair out, and Mozzie sat in it.

"Elizabeth is picking up Italian," said Neal, "do you want anything?"

Mozzie looked at the floor for a long moment, then he said, hesitantly, "which place?"

Neal smiled, big.

Mozzie watched Neal light up, and his shoulders dropped. He looked ashamed, as he stared into his wine glass.

"Mozzie," said Jones, indicating the record cabinet, "any requests?"

Peter went and got himself a beer.

Twenty minutes later, the door opened and Elizabeth came in, holding a large bag of takeout, "Neal, someone left a painting out here."

"Ignore that," said Mozzie, quickly.


After dinner, after everyone had had several drinks, Peter went outside onto the patio for some air. Footsteps came up behind him, and he turned. It was Mozzie, uncharacteristically subdued.

"Suit," said Mozzie

"Mozzie," said Peter, evenly.

"You're right. Neal can't trust me," said Mozzie, leaning on the railing with his glass of wine.

"Oh?" asked Peter.

"I don't have what he has, and I've tried to hold him back from it so I wouldn't be lonely alone."

Peter stared out over Manhattan, taking a sip of his beer as he thought about Mozzie's words. Finally he gestured back into Neal's apartment, filled with people and music, "what do you think the difference between you and Neal is? The reason he has people, and you don't think you do?"

"Hair?"

Peter chuckled, "the difference is he's in there letting people take care of him. You're ready to run the second something goes sideways. I understand why. But trust builds when it goes both ways."

It was Mozzie's turn to think for a while. Finally, he spoke quietly into his glass, "I've only ever had myself."

"Then it might take practice, and time. Do you think it's been all smooth sailing for Neal?"

Mozzie shook his head.

"Well," said Peter, clapping his hand on Mozzie's shoulder, "think about it."