"Alright, enough." Peter tells a sulking Neal, and holds out his hand. "let's go."
He's standing on the sidewalk, freezing his ass off by the open car door, waiting for Neal to swallow his pride and accept a little help. Glancing pointedly at his watch, by his estimation they've engaged in this battle of wills for coming up on three minutes now. He's cold, tired and quickly running out of what little patience he started the day with.
"Neal" he barks for what feels like the millionth time, tone inflicted with a by-now familiar gentle fierceness Peter has perfected just for him.
Sliding his gaze back over to the focus of his irritation, he gets no eye contact, no smile, no sarcastic rebuke - no nothing. Facing forward Neal stays seated in the rear of the car where he sullenly placed himself in his tantrum over what happened back at the hospital.
"Look, I'm sorry." He repeats. And he will again no doubt. Over and over and over as many times as Neal needs to hear it. "You know me. I don't apologise easily." He doesn't. Hates admitting he's wrong. "I was scared and I jumped to the wrong conclusion." Peter drops to a crouch, he'd been hoping to make it inside before having this conversation. "Forgive me?"
It takes a second, but that confession gets a reaction, a slight twitch of his eye which at a push could be considered a look in his direction. It's a start.
"Come on." Peter gives up waiting and makes the first move.
Tired of hanging out in the cold, he uses the still offered hand to grab hold of Neal's lax one resting in his lap and tugs. Thankfully his good intention doesn't back fire. Neal flows with the movement, graceful even in his current bedraggled state, and glides out of the car, only wobbling slightly when required to balance on his own two feet. Feeling encouraged Peter makes another unorthodox move and presses his own body as close to Neal's side as possible, gripping the narrow shoulders he directs their combined clumsy movements towards the house.
"Just a few more steps." He forces gentle encouragement into his tone as they navigate the steps. "Steady." He adds when Neal stumbles, nearly faceplanting his front door.
Neal doesn't say a damn word, but the clenched fists hanging ridged at his sides tell Peter not to make an issue out of it. He ignores his own frustration for once and does whatever he must to get them inside with the least amount of fuss.
"Doing good." He congratulates both Neal and himself when they cross the threshold, releasing a relieved sigh as soon as he can shut and lock the door behind them.
When Peter turns back Neal is still standing where he left him by the stairs. Deciding to stick with what works, he spins him around so the younger man's back is to his front and slides the borrowed FBI parka jacket right off him, chucking it lazily over the banister. He considers shimmying them upstairs for a shower and change of clothes, but doesn't relish the idea of a return trip to the emergency room all because Neal slipped in the tub. Deciding food and rest are much more important he heads for the sofa instead.
Thinking of food ignites Peter's senses, and the delicious aroma of roasted tomatoes and slow melting cheese wafting through the living room finally registers with him.
He sniffs the air appreciatively, "pizza for dinner," he announces with a smile.
Still nothing. Not a raised brow or even a blink, something that could have given a hint of what Neal was thinking, just the same dead eyed stare looking straight through him.
"Okay then," he sighs, resolved to carrying on this one-sided conversation. "But I happen to know plain cheese and tomato is one of your real favourites, not that fancy crap you pretend to enjoy, so don't even try and deny it." And with that declaration, manhandling Neal for the third time, Peter drops him onto the couch cushions.
El knows Neal's real favourite foods too of course, which is likely why his house smells like a pizzeria right now. Speaking of El –
"Hon?" He calls questioningly, realising he's yet to set eyes on his wife. "El, we're home…" He repeats, stepping away to go find her. Behind him Neal tries to stand and follow, but Peter quickly turns back, "nu uh." He pushes him back down. "I'm just going to find out when dinner's ready." Peter pats his head like Satchmo and says "you stay," only just stopping himself short of adding the automatic 'good boy' and quickly walks away.
Entering the kitchen, he finds El bent over the stove, lifting a loaded Pizza tray from the oven. Standing on the threshold so he's still able to see Neal out the corner of his eye, Peter clears his throat and draws her towards him.
"He looks awful." She says, poking her head out and looking around his shoulder. "You sure he shouldn't be in hospital?"
Peter steals her in a hug, because right now he really needs one. "Hospital wouldn't keep him and all the holding cells were fully booked for the night."
"Peter," she mock chastises and thwacks him on the arm, her laughter contrasting starkly with the tears in her eyes, "seriously. Is he okay?"
"Just tired, I think." He drops the teasing. "The drugs he was given did a number on him." Peter swallows back the lump suddenly lodged in his throat. "Everyone agreed he'd recover quicker if he was somewhere familiar."
"And what about why he was given the drugs in the first place?" Her eyes shine brightly.
Peter flashes back on the dead Neal lookalikes, then fast forwards to the real Neal - his Neal - helpless and alone in that empty loft, and takes a sudden shuddering breath. "They did a full work up." He blinks back his own tears, looking El dead in the eye. "Nobody touched him. We got there in time."