If you would like to read this on Livejournal, you can find it at: pucktheperv+DOT+livejournal+DOT+com+SLASH+tag+SLASH+origamisoul

See prologue for warnings and summary.

o o o

Author's Notes: For the 'Possession/Mind Control' square on my H/C Bingo Card for hc_bingo on LJ. I'm not real fond of possession, despite being a major Supernatural fan, so I went the mind control route. As always, this story will have a happy ending no matter how angsty it gets!

o o o

Chapter 2: The Wanted Crane

"Good news, Neal! We finally got clearance from Kramer to bring you back to New York for a case. They *couldn't* deny me on this one—it practically screams 'Neal Caffrey'. You're gonna love it. It is right up your alley. They even escaped from the damn roof in a hot air balloon! And you thought parachuting was hot stuff! It's amazing!" Okay, that had probably come off as a little overexcited considering that all this meant there was a criminal running around out there that Peter hadn't been able to catch. But it had been eight months since he'd seen Neal Caffrey and, irritating and obnoxious and just plain crazy as he was, Peter had missed him, more than he wanted to admit.

Peter had thought it would be pretty easy, going back to Life Before Neal, but it had been a lot tougher than he could ever have imagined. It shouldn't have been so tough. He still had his amazing wife and his great job and his awesome team, just like before. And he'd been perfectly happy before. He hadn't needed anything else. There hadn't been an empty spot in his life *for* Neal Caffrey to fill.

But conning his way into people's hearts was just what Neal did and, somehow, without Peter even realizing it, he had chipped away at their life, making a place for himself that nobody else could ever fill. It was too creative, too unique. One moment Neal seemed like the son he and El had yet to birth, then the next he was the most cunning and talented partner Peter had ever had. He was a criminal and a case-solver, a smooth playboy and a romantic fool. He was so many things that a thousand people couldn't fill the gap he'd carved into Peter's life.

Not, of course, that Peter would ever admit that to anyone. Except maybe to El. But he didn't have to express it to El. She understood, which was good, because while Peter was smart, he wasn't smooth-talking like Neal. Words tumbled from him that even *he* didn't understand when he spoke about Neal Caffrey, words that made no sense at all. A strange mixture of joy and regret and wonder and sorrow and excitement and fear. Peter had chased Neal for years. It was impossible *not* to have feelings. But stating them… he just couldn't do it. Every time he tried it came out wrong and usually ended with Neal off pouting in a corner, annoyed at being given yet another speech on coming back from the Dark Side. Which frustrated Peter to no end. Why couldn't Neal understand that he only lectured because he didn't want to *lose* him? And why couldn't Peter state that in a way so that Neal would understand that the words weren't meant as a cop to a criminal but as a mentor to a friend?

"Neal?" The line had been silent too long. Peter's mind was moving at light speed—the mere thought of Neal Caffrey back at his side made a thousand things shoot through his head at once that he wanted to say but wasn't poetic enough to express. But still, the phone had been quiet too long.

"Neal, are you there? Did you hear what I said?" Surely Neal would be at least a little excited. Yes, a detective with far lesser abilities than Special Agent Burke could have deduced that Neal was unhappy with him for letting DC take him—not that Peter had any choice—but was he really so upset he wouldn't want to come back?

Peter could understand it, he supposed. Neal wasn't used to having to do things by the letter of the law. He had probably expected a magical out that Peter hadn't been able to provide. Neal had stopped taking calls from any of them—him, El, even Mozzie—months ago, but Peter was sure that, deep down, Neal wanted to come home. Now if he could just convey how happy he was to see him again without losing what little bit of authority he had… "God, Neal, you wouldn't believe how excited El is! She hasn't stopped talking about it for days!"

Actually it was Peter who hadn't stopped talking about it for days, meandering on and on about everything from cases where he'd chased *after* Neal to cases he'd solved *with* Neal to whether or not Neal would like the plan he'd come up with for celebrating his anniversary with El this year. The last one had earned him a weird look from Jones, who obviously wondered why the hell Peter would care what Neal thought about his anniversary plans, but Diana had given him a knowing smile. She knew what it was like with the ladies. Neal Caffrey was one step away from 'Queer Eye For the Straight Guy' when it came to teaching good old boys like Peter how to woo a woman. The one step being the whole 'not actually gay' thing. He was a good go-to guy for anything, really. Setting up fabulous dates was just the tip of the iceberg.

The line was still silent. Peter frowned deeply and glanced at his cellphone, wondering if they'd been cut off. No, the seconds were still ticking away on the little screen. "Neal, are you there? Can you hear me? Neal?"

"For the love of God, boy, say something! Speak!"

Peter's brow furrowed in confusion at the harsh voice that was definitely not Neal Caffrey. The receptionist had said she'd connect him. Had she dialed the wrong extension? Was he on speakerphone?

"I'm here, Agent Burke." The voice was barely recognizable, flat and hoarse and hardly above a whisper. It was about as far from the cocky, confidant charm of Neal as it could be and still be, well, Neal's voice. "Sir."

The last word, at least, had some feeling, but not anything Peter would have expected. It sounded hard, with a bitter tang to it. And he couldn't even remember the last time Neal had called him 'Sir,' except with a know-it-all smirk and laughter in his eyes as he mimicked the way the probies would dash around from coffee pot to coffee pot trying desperately to pick the best brew and get themselves on Peter's good side.

"Neal. Are you on speakerphone?"

"I'm here with him," came a voice Peter knew well. "And his handler is here as well."

Peter frowned. "His handler? I thought you were going to be his supervising agent, Phillip."

He could practically see the man waving the comment away. "You know I don't have time to babysit. I put Special Agent Billings on it. A good man. Ex-military. He knows how to keep a criminal in check."

Peter choked back a sharp retort at the obvious implication that he, unlike this Agent Billings, didn't know how to handle Neal Caffrey. No need to get on Kramer's bad side when Neal's future depended upon the man. "I spent years studying Caffrey, Kramer. You know that. Why you think there is *anyone* more qualified than I am to deal with Neal is beyond me."

"Well, since Caffrey has been under Billings' watch we've had an equal percentage of cases solved with *none* of the more… unfortunate incidents. Isn't that right, Caffrey?"

There was a long silence followed by some harsh whispers that Peter couldn't quite discern, then Neal spoke, his voice still dull and low.

"Yeah. That's right. Agent Billings has followed your… suggestions… well. Sir." Again the word had a sharp edge to it. Peter shook his head, confused. His suggestions? What was Neal talking about?

Before he could question it, Kramer spoke up, his words coming a little too fast. "But you are completely right about no one knowing Neal Caffrey like you, Peter. You know exactly how his mind works and we are very appreciative of all the… hard work you have put into helping the FBI rehabilitate Mr. Caffrey. You were totally correct that day when you told me that he just needed a new start. And DC was just the start he needed. Agent Billings and I will be putting him on a plane tomorrow morning. I think the New York office will be very pleased in the steps Mr. Caffrey has made. Over the past few months he has truly come to understand that nothing comes free and that there are consequences for his actions. And once again, I thank you for all your help in his rehabilitation process."

Peter frowned again. "Phillip, what are you talk—"

"Goodbye, Peter. Say goodbye, Caffrey."

"Bye."

There was a click and Peter was left staring down at his phone, a sense of unease growing in his mind, but he quickly pushed it away. Once Neal was back in New York, he'd get back in the groove and everything would be fine. Peter reached down, snagging the little origami creature sitting on his desk next to his picture of El. It was a crane, made of of Neal's own goddamn Wanted poster, the snarky bastard. He'd dropped it the day the Marshals had taken him down. A picture of Neal might have raised questions, but this was enough of a reminder for Peter. Everything *was* going to be okay, Peter knew it would, because he wasn't going to have it any other way.

o o o

"Honey, you're driving Satchmo crazy just standing there like that. He thinks you've died!"

El's voice jolted Peter out of his thoughts and he started, almost knocking over a bowl full of fruit on the countertop he'd been leaning against. "Hm? Oh, sorry, hon." He leaned forward, giving her a little peck on the lips as she passed. It was all he dared to do considering that she was covered in flour and frosting.

"What's with you today? You've been down since you got home? Shouldn't you be more excited? We're going to see Neal!"

Peter forced a grin. "I know, I know… I'm just worried. I don't know why, it's just a gut feeling… I should forget it."

El turned to face him, hands on her hips. "Now, Agent Burke, I have never known you to ignore your gut, whether it's saying that it's time for deviled ham or that the bad guy's hiding in the library with the candlestick! You really think something's wrong?"

Peter let out a deep sigh. "I just don't know, El. You should have heard him on this phone call! I mean, he barely spoke at all, which is completely at odds with the Neal we know…" El nodded her agreement. "And he just seemed… almost angry at me? No, not angry. Bitter? That's not right, either, dammit. I dunno, El. He has to know that I've been doing everything I can to get him back! I've called in every favor, I've made a thousand requests for his assistance—even on cases that a probie could do with their eyes closed! I start off every week with a new appeal to the DC office for his transfer back to New York. He's seen the paperwork. I know it because he's actually signed off on the fact that he's 'urgently needed' in DC. And how many times have we tried to call him? I can't help it if he won't pick up his damn phone!" Peter slapped a hand down on the counter hard enough to make Satchmo whimper and curl his tail underneath him. "I just don't get it, El! What right does he have to be angry? He's the one who cut us off."

El made a soothing noise—though whether it was meant for Satchmo's sake or his, Peter wasn't sure—then moved around the counter to wrap her arms around his neck, sprinkling a dust of flour across his suit jacket as she did so, not that he really cared. He was glad to have her arms around him.

Peter took a deep breath as she rested her head against his chest. He loved her so, so much. He was such a lucky man. So much luckier than Neal, with his star-crossed romances and his rootless life and the high school diploma he'd never actually gotten. Peter was a strong believer in the fact that men made their own choices and, if they did wrong, they should be punished for their actions. But that didn't mean he couldn't empathize occasionally. Especially when it came to Neal.

"It's going to be okay, Peter. We'll get him back. We will. I don't know what's happened since the day Kramer arrested him, I don't know why he hasn't been willing to talk to us or see us. But he'll be here today and we'll have all those answers. And then we'll start working on a way to get him back forever, okay? One step at a time, hon."

Peter ran his fingers lightly through her hair, letting out a soft sigh. She was right, of course. One step at a time. "I guess I had better get the car started, then."

El smiled up at him, that bright grin instantly lifting some of the grey clouds from his shoulders. "You do that and I'll finish up his welcome home cake." She raised up on her tippy toes, planting a light kiss on his lips. "I love you, honey."

o o o

Peter paced back and forth in front of the gate with his hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched. The nervous energy was so thick that you could probably butter bread with it and, considering that his jacket was pulled back just enough to give every passer-byer a good look at his gun, he should really cowboy up and sit the fuck down. Unfortunately for the obviously distressed frequent fliers milling about, Peter was way too worked up to sit.

"Geeze, boss, you're going to wear a hole in the carpet if you keep pacing like that."

Peter glanced over, glad that he'd decided to bring Diana with him instead of Jones. It wasn't that he didn't trust Jones implicitly, it was just that he knew he could rely on Diana to keep her mouth shut when Peter made a total fool of himself seeing Neal for the first time in what seemed like forever. Okay, maybe she wouldn't keep her mouth shut *while* he was making a fool of himself, but at least she wouldn't spread the tale of their reunion across the entire office.

"I know, I know… I'm just kind of nervous about seeing Neal, if that makes any sense." He came to a halt in front of the chair Diana was seated in, tugging anxiously at his shirt cuffs. "Which sounds nuts. But it's been so long since I've spoken to him. He's not even taking *El's* calls. And when I did get a chance to say three words to him yesterday… I think he's mad at me, Diana." He sighed loudly. "And the thing is? I figure he has a right to be."

Diana shook her head. "Peter, that's not true. Neal was the one who chose to break the law, okay? You did everything you could to persuade him not to. He landed himself with Kramer in DC—and he's lucky it's not prison. You've done everything you could to get him back. Maybe you haven't succeeded, but you've done the best you can, and that's something. He has no right to be angry at you. If he's angry at anyone then it should be at himself. You have tried to help him at every turn. He's the only one responsible for his situation." A tiny smile. "But, hey, let him act like a teenager. Compared to our old souls, he is one."

Peter sighed, collapsing down in the chair next to Diana. "I know, I know. But Kramer was right… Neal's become way more than just a CI to me. Not having him here is tough, but knowing there's a chance that he doesn't even want to come back is even worse."

"Well, obviously he does want to come back since he accepted this case."

"Or Phillip is making him come here to show off his amazing abilities at taming criminals compared to sad Peter Burke. You know, since apparently this 'Agent Billings'," Peter made quotation marks in the air, scowling, "has turned him into a perfect angel. Totally cooperative, no funny business allowed."

"I have a hard time hearing 'Neal Caffrey' and 'no funny business' in the same sentence," Diana said dryly.

Peter shook his head. "Well, apparently he is now a model citizen. Bring out the prize!"

Diana smirked. "Hey, don't be too hard on yourself. He's probably scamming them all."

The light over the gate began to flash and Peter sat up, scanning the sudden rush of people exiting for Neal's slim form. Person after person poured out, from dads hauling toddlers behind them to businesswomen checking their smartphones to Japanese tourists looking around excitedly. But no Neal.

As more and more of the crowd dissipated, the first hints of worry began to flutter around his stomach. Goddamn it, if Neal had escaped again, he was *never* going to live this down! He should have known something was up when he heard what a good little boy Caffrey was being.

"There he is." Diana stood abruptly, pointing toward the gat.

Peter stood as well, frowning deeply at the last few people trickling out. There was a chubby woman stuffing the last of her peanuts in her mouth; a pale, slumping man with a bad buzz cut; and a couple of college kids playing some sort of little handheld video game thing as they walked. But definitely no Neal Caffrey. "I don't see him."

Diane raised an eyebrow at him, looking slightly amused. "He's right there, boss. Don't tell me you don't recognize that skinny butt. And don't give me the old 'I don't look at men that way' BS. I don't look at men that way, either."

Peter chuckled. "Very funny. I still don't—"

The pale, slumping man chose that moment to turn around and Peter literally choked on his words, letting out a loud cough. What the hell? Had he fallen into some weird sci fi flick? Or that movie where Nicholas Cage and John Travolta trade faces? Face/Off, was it? Because that pale, slumping man was wearing Neal's face.

"Oh my God," Peter said, eyes widening as he took in the man before him. No wonder he hadn't recognized Caffrey's "skinny butt." The pants he was wearing were at least two sizes too big, held up by a tightly buckled belt. In place of his carefully fitted designer suits he was wearing an oversized forest green sports coat, a worn out button up, and a tie printed with… dear God, was that Oscar the Grouch? Okay, this *had* to be some kind of sci fi flick, because Neal Caffrey wearing a tie with a *trash can* on it was something from another universe. And God, what had happened to his *hair*? "How… What…?" He shook his head, wondering if someone had slipped something in his coffee this morning.

"Diane," he said, trying to sound calm. "Is Neal Caffrey standing over there dressed like a sixty year old man with grandkids?"

She gave a sharp nod. "He sure is, boss." She smirked, but there was a hint of worry in her eyes.

Okay, so Peter was *not* hallucinating. Dear Lord, had someone actually done it? Had someone *actually* managed to bring Neal Caffrey down to the rest of the world's level? Hell, if Agent Billings had managed to drag their diva off of his pedestal, maybe the man really did deserve some credit. God knows Peter had never been able to manage it. But how the hell had he done it?

Not sure if he should be worried or amused, Peter a step forward, raising a hand as he called out to the other man. "Hey, Neal!"

Neal actually jumped at the sound of Peter's voice, looking from side to side like some wild animal before his eyes caught Peter's, then he froze. "Deer in the headlights" would be a good description if they were sticking to the animal metaphors, but now that Peter could see him more clearly, he could definitely say that Neal didn't look half as pretty as a doe. In fact, he looked terrible.

Sometime along the way Neal had apparently decided that military crew cut was the new Prada, because his hair was gone in rough patches, very short in places and slightly longer in others, like someone had cut it in the dark. Maybe Peter could write off the lousy wardrobe as DC managing to keep the man on a commoner's budget, but this haircut… Something was wrong with that. There was no *way* Neal would want that 'do.

Peter's gut immediately sprung into action, his "Spidey sense," as his six year old nephew had called it, tingling. The last time Neal Caffrey had let himself go this much, he'd waltzed out of a maximum security prison like he was leaving the opera. This change… it meant something. Peter wasn't sure *what* it meant yet, but he sensed it wasn't anything good.

And if the idea that the unpredictable ex-con might be brewing up some trouble kind of gave Peter a rush, well, it was only because he needed some brushing up on his much touted "catching Caffrey" skill set. Not because he *enjoyed* it when Neal bent the rules and Peter ended up undercover, sneaking out of a locked trunk into a house to steal incriminating evidence. That would be very un-agent like of him, after all.

Peter shoved those thoughts away. No, no, no. He needed to remember that his number one goal was getting Neal back to New York for the rest of the man's now extended sentence of six years. And that meant none of that funny business he was known for—especially any funny business that would require Neal to shave off his hair and lower himself to wearing shirts without cufflinks.

But questions about *that* could come later. As long as Neal didn't try to parachute himself onto a movie plane and take off for China in the next five minutes, Peter was just happy to see him.

He grinned widely as he moved toward him, setting a hand down on the smaller man's shoulder. Neal stiffened, eyeing Peter's hand like it was about to attack him. Peter rolled his eyes, letting his hand fall. Trust Neal to fear mustard fingerprints on his clothing, even if said clothing looked like it came from the Goodwill reject pile.

"Neal, buddy, how are you doing?" He raised an eyebrow, giving Neal his patented 'I know you're up to something look.' "Nice trim by the way. That is quite the style."

Bingo. Neal's cheeks immediately turned a flaming red color and he dropped his eyes off to the side. Yup. Something was definitely going on with that haircut, though Peter couldn't begin to imagine any kind of con where you would need to butcher your hair like that. Of course he hadn't been able to imagine any kind of con that would involve carrier pigeons, either, until he'd met Caffrey.

"Thank you, Sir. I'm glad… glad that you like it. Agent Burke. Peter. Sir." Neal's voice was tight, his gaze still firmly locked to the side and his face still burning.

Peter took a step forward, frowning deeply as Neal mirrored him, stepping back. What the hell was going on with all these 'sirs'? What was he trying to pull? It was possible that whatever Neal had up his sleeve was already in motion. Had he shaved his head and switched his clothes on the flight? Surely Kramer would have mentioned a change this drastic to Peter before sticking Neal on a plane—this new look was obviously very suspicious. Peter really wasn't sure what to think.

"Caffrey, please tell me you don't have some sort of con going already. You haven't even been off the plane five minutes yet!"

Neal made a choking sound and raised a hand to his collar, tugging at it in a nervous way that just looked really… off. The man wore collared *pajamas.* He was not a tug-at-the-collar sort of guy. "No, sir. No, God no. Nothing's going on, I promise." His other hand came up and he began to loosen his tie then paused, frowned, and tightened it again.

Peter exchanged a glance with Diana who just shrugged, obviously as befuddled by the situation as he was.

"Okay, then," Peter said, less than convinced that nothing was going on. He would have to keep an eye out for Mozzie. "I guess we'll go get your luggage and get out of here."

Neal just shook his head sharply and bent down to grab the small duffel bag sitting at his feet, holding it up silently for their inspection. After a few moments of awkward staring—well, Peter was staring, Neal's eyes had found their way the floor and seemed intent on staying there—Diane spoke, her words slow, like she was trying to puzzle something out. And you had to admit, the idea of Neal Caffrey with no luggage was kind of a puzzle.

"Okay, you have your carry on. You don't have any other luggage?"

Neal shook his head and Peter frowned again—there had been a lot more frowning at this little reunion than he had expected. Just what the hell was Neal playing here? "Did you have it overnighted?"

Again, just s shake of the head. Peter let out an irritated sigh. "Dammit, Caffrey, this isn't twenty questions. Just speak!"

Neal's head jerked up at the words, his eyes wide. Combined with the terrible haircut and the cheap, ugly clothes he just looked kind of, well, pitiful. "This… This is all I have."

That was all he had? There was no way that Neal could fit even one of his posh suits in that thing, short of crushing it into a ball. And Peter was pretty sure he wouldn't do that to a Doovwa or Dowar or whatever that suit he loved so much was called. Neal would probably consider it a crime up there with drowning a puppy and wearing white shoes after Labor Day. There was definitely, absolutely, 100% something going on. And if Neal wasn't willing to talk about it here, well, Peter would find a way to pry it out of him. He was an investigator. Prying things out of people was what he did. And in the mean time, he'd play it cool. Smooth. Like Neal used to do.

"Well, okay, then. Let's get out of here."

o o o

Neal chewed nervously at his thumbnail as he felt the plane touch down, not that there was much left to chew. His nails were so chewed down that they were hardly there at all. Just another nervous habit. He'd never had any nervous habits before, and now it seemed like he had every one imaginable. But hey, he spent a lot of time being nervous. Nervous habits gave him something to *do* with that time other than melt into the floor in a pitiful heap. Because that's what he was. Absolutely fucking pitiful.

Look at him. The flight was over, he was here in New York, and he had absolutely no idea what to do. With no Billings or Kramer or even an unnamed agent to tell him what to do, he might as well have been chained to his seat. Should he get up, exit the plane, try to find Peter? Should he wait here until Peter came to find him? What would make the best impression? He just didn't know.

It had been so long since Neal had made any decision for himself, he wasn't even sure he remembered how. Thankfully, after a few awkward minutes of sitting frozen in the now almost empty plane, he was saved from having to try by an annoyed looking flight attendant. The look she gave him was one of pure disgust, which wasn't really a surprise since he looked like a pauper. Or a crack addict with a fetish for Sesame Street, if you wanted to be less poetic about it.

"Time to exit the plane, *sir*." The last word was said a little mockingly and Neal dropped his eyes in embarrassment, turning his face away.

He avoided her eyes as he stood and carefully pulled his bag out of the storage compartment. It contained everything Billings had decided he needed for a stay of unknown length: a toothbrush (apparently he felt that Neal could find toothpaste on his own, or maybe just use the hand soap), three button up shirts in varying shades of awful, three pairs of cheap polyester pants, shoelaces in case the ones on his worn out sneakers broke, a safety razor (sadly Neal had yet to figure out how to kill himself with a safety razor), two ties even more embarrassing than the one he was wearing, and five pairs of socks. It seemed that the DC agents didn't feel it was worth wasting the money to buy him underwear, so he was going commando all the time. Or, more likely, it was less a money issue and more the fact that Billings tended to rip them up when yanking Neal's pants down from awkward angles.

Neal shuffled out of the plane, trying his best to ignore the looks the flight attendant was shooting him. There had been a time when women like that had flocked to him. A time when a single smile could make every person within a 50 yard radius want to be his best friend. And now… it was all gone. And it wasn't just the hair and the clothes. That part of himself was gone and he wasn't sure he would ever get it back, even if he did manage to physically survive the next five years and ninety-two days.

The terminal was as crowded as could be expected for an airport in the heart of New York—which meant very crowded—and Neal stopped just outside the gate, dropping his duffle bag to the ground. He couldn't wait in the plane for Peter to retrieve him, but he could wait as close to the gate as security would let him. Better to make airport staff wonder if he might have some terrorist connections by refusing to leave the boarding area than to leave and have Peter think he'd been trying to run off. Airport security could only strip you naked and hold you for 72 hours. Peter could do whatever the hell he wanted. They did in DC, after all.

Neal didn't bother watching the crowd. Peter would come get him or Neal would sit his ass down and sleep in the middle of the terminal. The last time he'd wandered away, Billings had taken it upon himself to beat the shit out of Neal with an extension cord. And he'd only "wandered" over to the trash can across the street to throw away the empty coffee cup Billings had handed him before he'd disappeared into a strip joint on his lunch break. It had just been bad luck that Neal had decided to help out the environment right as Meathead McAsshole ran out of ones.

Neal did glance around a couple times, however, unable to resist a long look out the window at the sprawl of Manhatten. New York City. The memories were like a sweet dream. A long lost dream that he could barely remember because he had spent so much time caught up in this new nightmare he called his life.

"Hey, Neal!"

Neal jumped at the sudden shout, looking around a little frantically. God, he was on the edge. He needed to calm down. It was only Peter. Who else would be shouting his name across the airport? He just needed to take a deep breath and find him…

There. Off to the right, standing next to Diana in front of a line of the cheap plastic chairs airports used to subtly torture passengers who refused to fly First Class. Special Agent Peter Burke.

Neal had thought he was prepared for this. Hell, he'd spent the entire flight here coming up with scenarios of what this would be like. He'd mapped out a thousand different conversation, calculated every move that Peter could possibly make and come up with the best way to present himself, a way that make him seem so amazingly reformed that Peter decide to do away with the discipline mark system entirely. A way that made him look so humble and loyal and adoring that Peter would decide that Neal was wasted on DC and that he should come back and stay in New York for the rest of his sentence, far, far away from Agent Billings' dirty mouth and grabby hands.

Hey, a man could dream, right?

Unfortunately Neal's grand plans to awe his new trainer with his child-like obedience and utter submission was foiled when an unexpected rush of feelings surged through him. He couldn't even open his mouth to spout off his much practiced, "Agent Burke, Peter, it is so good to be at your service again." His chest was too tight, the emotions too strong.

Neal had a sudden urge to just run to Peter, fling his arms around him, and sob into his chest like a little boy. Because that, of course, would be a *wonderful* first impression. *Everyone* wanted to work with a pitiful heap.

But he couldn't help it. Somewhere along the way the idea of Peter as his protector had apparently worked its way into the hardwiring Neal's brain. Maybe because Peter really *had* always been his protector, to some degree. He had taken Caffrey's case in its early stages, but he'd never used under the table tricks to find him. No fake hits put out on his name. No trying to flush him out by mentioning to the fouler criminal elements that he *might* have been involved in the theft of their money or drugs or whatever. No "accidental" shots to the leg when he was running full out down an empty boulevard to escape the Feds.

Even in prison, Peter had protected him. Federal lockup was full of the worst kind of criminals. The sort that wouldn't think twice about taking the skinny, artsy kid—because, at 26, he was nothing more than a kid to these guys—and using him for whatever fucked up purpose they pleased. But Peter had made sure that Neal had his own cell, placed far away from the most violent offenders, and that the guards had kept a very, *very* close eye on him. He hadn't even realized at first that it was Peter. He thought he'd just been lucky. But about six months in he'd spotted Agent Burke in one of the offices and decided to put his top criminal skills to good use and listen in on the conversation. If you could call holding a glass to a door a top criminal skill.

It was then that he discovered that the man actually checked in on him every week and that he'd made it very clear that if Neal showed up in the infirmary for anything more than a skinned knee he'd gotten "dancing ballet or painting with his feet or jumping off buildings or whatever Caffrey is into now," the prison would be facing a *very* serious investigation led by a *very* serious federal officer. It had actually made Neal blush. Though he wasn't sure if Peter thinking he danced ballet was supposed to be an insult or a compliment. He was very graceful, after all.

Even when Neal escaped prison… once he'd gotten to the empty apartment and seen that lonely bottle sitting in the middle of the room, he hadn't bothered to try and get away. He'd known that Peter would come for him there, and it was better than being taken down two states away by a US Marshal with an itchy trigger finger. Peter would take care of him.

And he had, more than Neal had even imagined. Even when Neal hit him with half-truths and betrayals at every turn, Peter had still been there for him. He'd always had his back, in his own lawful way.

Neal still wasn't sure what had caused the man to give up on him, but he knew that his instinct to run and hide behind his "special Special Agent" was pure foolishness. No one would be overlooking anything anymore—that was the point of his training. And if something did go wrong, he would have to prove his own innocence because people like him just weren't worth wasting your time defending.

Neal took a deep steadying breath as Peter moved toward him, hoping like hell that he hadn't done anything wrong by getting off the plane. Forget his elaborate plans to impress, now he was just hoping he hadn't already fucked up. Ms. Scowly Face flight attendant had made him get off. That was *not* his fault. Not that it mattered to these guys. But Peter really didn't look pleased. He look kind of… Neal just didn't know. Shocked, maybe? Was he really shocked that Neal would get off the plane without orders? If just that was enough to upset him then Neal might have to rework his plans so that the goal would be *returning* to DC, not escaping it.

Neal managed to keep a calm facade going until Peter's big hand came down on his shoulder, then the panic took over. So big and strong. It felt like Billings' hand. *Just* like Billings' hand. And there were few things he hated more than the feeling of Billings' hands on him. Surely Peter wouldn't discipline him here. And he *definitely* wouldn't fuck him here. So if not to hurt him or to fuck him, why the hell was he touching him?!

Neal's mind was racing so fast trying to come up with possible answers to the question that he almost missed the way Peter rolled his eyes as pulled his hand away, like Neal flinching away from him was just silliness. And, since the touch had apparently been completely innocent, Neal guessed it was. But Neal was used to Billings' hands, and fearing those fingers was not silliness, it was smarts.

But with Peter, the touch had been… Friendly. Familial, even. That's right… Peter… he used to touch Neal all the time. Not in any weird way, but to shake his hand or pat his back or even pull him into the occasional hug. The touch meant nothing. Maybe… maybe he had even meant it kindly. Maybe… maybe this really wouldn't be so bad. Maybe Neal should go ahead with his plans to try and win Peter over. It had been ten whole minutes and the other man hadn't hurt him yet. That was more than Neal could say for the first time he'd met Agent Billings.

"Neal, buddy, how are you doing?" Peter raised an eyebrow, shooting Neal a knowing look that made him want to squirm. "Nice trim by the way." He made a soft noise of disbelief. "That is *quite* the style."

Okay, take back the thing about ten minutes with no pain. Neal's already red face began to really burn and he had to casually reach up and pretend to rub his eye to keep a tear from running down his cheek. That… that had hurt. A punch to the face would ache for days, but this casual comment on Neal's total loss of power hit him where it mattered.

Kramer had been right—Peter did know him better than any other agent. Even Billings had to be a little more explicit than that to make Neal feel like he'd been stabbed in the heart. But all it took Peter was five simple words, five words that nobody else would recognize for the knife they were. Because the way Billings had thoughtlessly chopped off Neal's hair without even bothering to tell him what was going to happen was just a physical metaphor for what they'd done to him as a person. It was the antithesis of Neal Caffrey, something he would have never done to himself. It had left him feeling vulnerable and scared knowing that, whatever they wanted to do, whenever they wanted to do it, they could. Like he was less than human. No need ask him first—it wasn't his decision to make.

But he couldn't just let the comment sit, no matter how much it had hurt. He had to respond or Peter might think he was being rude. Neal was undecided yet on whether he'd be striving to do his very best on this case so that Peter would want to keep him or so that he could get back his more familiar hell in DC. But, either way, he didn't want to be on the bad side of the man who essentially owned him.

He took as deep a breath as a man choking on embarrassment could handle and managed to mumble, "Thank you, Sir. I'm glad… glad that you like it. Agent Burke. Sir." He couldn't bring himself to call the man 'Peter,' even though he'd been instructed to do so in order to keep questions down in the office. They were very obviously *not* friends anymore and Neal wanted what distance he could get. If New York really was going to be just like DC… He could handle being used by the man called "Agent Burke." "Agent Burke" could not destroy him. Not anymore than Billings already had, anyway. He was like a diamond. Hammer at it and its beauty would chip away, but the rock would still be there, cracked but not broken. But the man he knew as Peter… With Peter he was like glass. One careless movement and he could shatter him, and Neal was pretty sure he'd never be able to put those pieces together again.

Peter took a step forward and Neal winced as he stepped back without thinking, automatically trying to keep the space between them. A look Neal couldn't quite define crossed Peter's face then he spoke, his voice exasperated. "Caffrey, please tell me you don't have some sort of con going already. You haven't even been off the plane ten minutes yet!"

Neal's mouth actually dropped open at the accusation, his eyes going wide. This was way, way worse than he had expected. He'd gone through a lot of scenarios in his head on the plane and had made very careful plans so as *not* to make Peter think he was doing something he shouldn't be. Now, ten minutes off the plane and Peter thought he was running a con?! What had he done? What had he *missed*? He had been careful to keep his hands still at his side—there was no way he could be giving signals. Maybe he should have put them behind his back. More submissive *and* less likely to be the cause of… of whatever Peter thought he was up to. It couldn't have been anything Neal said—all he'd done was agree with whatever Peter said. It was incomprehensible.

Neal had half a mind to get down on his knees and beg forgiveness, but he doubted that would particularly please Peter, nor would it really paint Neal in a good light. Who wanted to work with someone who broke down every time you raised your voice? Other than Agent Billings, but that was different. Neal never worked in the field on DC cases. He just sat silently in their dark conference room, politely answering questions when the Harvards and the Yales were all stumped then letting them take all the credit when Kramer came around.

"No, no, sir," Neal managed to stutter out. God, he felt like he was choking. He reached up automatically, trying to pull his collar loose. Not that it would help much considering that he had a big hunk of metal locked around his neck beneath it. "No, sir. No, God no. Nothing's going on, I promise." What to say to convince him? Neal just didn't know.

There was a long moment of silence, during which Neal started to loosen the hideous tie he was wearing, caught himself, and quickly tugged it tight again before anybody actually got a *glimpse* of the horrible collar he was wearing underneath it. Neal was pretty sure that was one of the reasons Billings had caved and bought Neal some collared shirts for this trip. As if him wearing t-shirts under a sports coat wouldn't have been suspicious enough, Neal seriously doubted anyone would believe that he had suddenly decided to start wearing nouveau jewelry with a Gothic theme. Especially since said jewelry could not be removed without the assistance of an electric saw.

Finally, after exchanging a couple of disbelieving stares with Diana, Peter spoke. "Okay, then… I guess we'll go get your luggage and get out of here."

His luggage? He had his luggage right here… Neal lifted it up pointedly.

Did Peter actually think Billings had let him check any bags? Hell, Neal didn't have enough stuff in his "room"—which he shared with Billings' front load washer and dryer—to fill half of your average suitcase. Besides his basic wardrobe he had a sleeping bag on the floor, an old pillow, a flashlight, and a bag of peanuts in case Billings forgot to feed him and he started getting dizzy. The only thing he had that was actually *his* he'd had to leave in DC, because Billings would probably beat the living shit out of him if he knew that Neal had anything he could possibly find comforting in his home.

Behind the washer was a loose board in the wall that Neal had managed to pry off early in his stay. You could say that inside it were his only friends, if you didn't mind sounding like a five year old girl in serious need of some Prozac. There was a little pink crane made out of an old 'While You Were Out' message, an eggshell colored elephant from a memo that Kramer had told him to throw away, a bright green alligator made of a piece of torn construction paper the little girl next door had given him one day. A fox and a dolphin, a giraffe and a bear. There was even a peacock made out of three one dollar bills he'd found in Billings' pockets when he was doing his laundry—God help him if the bastard ever found out about *that* one. Everyone of them was something beautiful formed out of trash. If he had wanted to wax poetic, Neal supposed he could claim that they were a metaphor for the hope that someday something wonderful would form out of the scrap of a human being he had become. But if he was honest, they were really just what kept him from going completely insane. The one thing he still had that reminded him of the Neal Caffrey he had once been.

"Okay, you have your carry on…" Peter was frowning at him. "You don't have any other luggage?"

Neal shook his head, his heart skipping a beat when Peter's frown just deepened. Was that the wrong answer?

"Did you have it overnighted?"

Neal shook his head again, not sure what else to do. Apparently this was not what Peter wanted, because he snapped, "Dammit, Caffrey, this isn't twenty questions. Just speak!"

The tone was harsh enough to make Neal wince. Apparently Peter expected a lot more talking out of him than Billings and Kramer did. Which was understandable, he guessed. The Neal Caffrey Peter had known had definitely been more chatty. Kramer had claimed that Neal's voice made him want to stab his eardrums out, but he was pretty sure that Peter had kind of liked it. They'd sure talked a lot, anyway. "This… This is all I have."

Peter stared hard at him and Neal resisted the urge to fidget. Whatever the other man was looking for, Neal guessed didn't find, because he just let out a tired sigh and turned, waving for Neal to follow him. "Well, okay, then. Let's get out of here."

Neal took a deep breath. It would all be okay. It had to be okay, because he wasn't sure how much more he could take.