To Peter's relief, Neal slept most of the evening, including through the game. Elizabeth had gone to bed early, so she would be well-rested for her busy day tomorrow. Peter figured he could stay up a little later, though. It's not like watching Neal was going to be very hard. Maybe he could just keep him doped up on painkillers all day…
Peter continued this thinking as he was brushing his teeth, standing in front of the mirror in his pajamas. Suddenly, the door behind him opened. Peter turned quickly, one hand starting toward his hip before he remembered he wasn't carrying. Not that it mattered; standing in the doorway was Neal. Peter sighed. Hadn't Neal learned how to knock? And hadn't Peter locked that door?
"Did you grow up in a barn? You're suppose to knock." Neal looked at him confusedly.
"Budt it wad locked." He still sounded horrible. Peter finished brushing his teeth under the drug-influenced gaze before turning back to his partner.
"It was locked because I didn't want people barging. Guess I need to buy a new door knob, since that one's busted." Neal shook his head.
"Doe. It's fime."
"It must be broke if you just waltzed in." Peter started to lead Neal down the hall to the guest room. Neal ended up sleeping there so often, they really should just start calling it Neal's room.
"Didn't waltz."
"Then how-"
"Picked it." Peter rolled his eyes.
"You can hardly untie your shoes. How am I suppose to believe you picked a lock?"
"Because I did."
"Alright, keep telling yourself that, kiddo. Let's get you to bed."
"Doe. I'll show you." Stopping in front of the guest room, Neal locked the door and closed it. He looked at Peter for a moment, a goofy smile spreading across his face. Then he reached down and fiddled with the door knob for a moment before he could open it. Smiling contentedly, he pressed one of El's bobby pins into Peter's hand. "See? I told you so." Peter sighed and guided Neal into the room
"Alright." He sat Neal down on the bed, smiling amusedly as Neal fell back into the pillows with an almost child-like grin. "How can you pick a lock like this? You're stoned."
"I've been picking locks since I was five. It was bound to stick." Neal mumbled as he pulled the blankets over himself. He closed his eyes and was out before Peter could inquire further. But, boy, did that little remark sure give Peter a lot to think about. Picking locks since he was five? What kind of kid had Caffrey been? One that must have been hard as hell to hide Christmas presents from, Peter mused, smiling in the dark. Drifting off, he told himself he'd have to ask, have to dig deeper and get more answers.
Morning found agent Burke waking alone. He sighed, not looking forward to an entire day with drugged Neal. Remembering what he had decided last night, though, he realized that the day could be quite insightful. After dressing and washing up in the bathroom, he made his way downstairs, stopping short when he smelled something cooking in the kitchen. Something delicious. Walking quietly, he crept closer, until he could see what was going on. Standing in the kitchen was Neal, cooking what looked like pancakes and eggs. And bacon. Without turning, the con suddenly called out.
"Peter, stop staring at me." Peter flushed slightly and stepped into the kitchen, clearing his throat before speaking.
"What exactly are you doing?" Neal didn't look up as he flipped pancakes.
"Your powers of deduction must be off in the morning. I'm making breakfast, Peter." Peter rolled his eyes and walked closer. He wanted to chastise the younger man for messing around in his kitchen, but the food looked too good. That could wait until after they ate.
Sitting across from Neal, Peter had a good look at the damage his face had taken the previous day. Violently purple bruising extended from his chin to his nose and it looked like at least one black eye had begun to become apparent. His lower lip was swollen. Peter couldn't look at the stitches for too long; they were detrimental to his appetite. The way Neal was holding his head led Peter to believe that the consultant had forgone his medicines that morning. That might be for the better.
"This is actually really good." Peter said after swallowing a bite. Neal looked up at him, lips twitching into an amused smile.
"I think I'll ignore how surprised you sound and take it as a complement." Neal sounded better. Peter guessed the swelling had gone down at least a little.
"Where'd you learn to cook?" He asked, helping himself to another serving. It was really good. He caught himself thinking of ways to get Neal to cook more often.
"Oh, here and there. Just picked it up." Peter rolled his eyes. Everything was so damned easy for Caffrey. It wasn't fair. "You know, we didn't always have a lot of options. It's not like we could go out and get dinner at some nice restaurant. You took care of that." Peter nodded slightly, conceding to the point.
After the table was cleared and the dishwasher loaded, the two men made their way into the living room. Seated on the couch, Neal sunk back into the pillows. His head hurt. He hoped Peter hadn't noticed, but the agent probably had. At least he had the decency not to tell Neal to take his pills. They watched the morning news together, speculating on some of the crimes that had been reported and scoffing at the weather report.
"Partly sunny, my foot." Peter grumbled, looking out at the dreary New York sky. A rain drop splattered on the window and he exhaled heavily. Never trust weathermen. As the steady pitter-patter of rain grew louder, Peter turned his attention back to his partner.
"Why did you learn to pick a lock when you were five?" He blurted out. Direct was probably the way to go; no way could he weasel information out of Neal Caffrey. Neal smiled at him a little.
"Did I really say that?"
"Yes. Why?" Peter wasn't going to let Neal change the subject.
"Because I was drugged." Peter wanted to slap him on the head, but he remembered the concussion and stilled his hand.
"Why did you learn that?" Neal sighed. It wouldn't hurt to tell Peter now. Not like he could do anything with the information.
"If I tell you this, will you not tell anyone else? No writing it down, no looking it up, no smoke signals." Peter smiled at that.
"Yeah. Sure."
"My dad taught me." Peter nodded. He'd never heard Neal talk about his father before. On a couple occasions he'd mentioned his mother, but not very often and not very clearly.
"Why would he teach you that?" Neal shrugged, looking down at himself instead of at Peter. He was still wearing one of Peter's old shirts and a pair of borrowed sweats. He tried not to think about the shirt he wasn't able to save. It had been a good shirt.
"He taught me because I asked. He was into petty theft. Nothing major."
"No paintings?" Peter teased lightly. Neal gave a half smile, still thinking about his childhood.
"No paintings." He confirmed. "Dad was more of a practical items type of guy. Or, as practical as a bottle of vodka is, anyways." Peter frowned.
"Your dad an alcoholic?" Neal shrugged.
"I didn't think so. He drank. He was a great guy…at least, I thought he was. When I was a kid, I looked up to him a lot."
"So that's why you wanted to pick locks? 'Cause dad did?"
"Yeah. He taught me on my fifth birthday. Even nicked one of those lock picking kits from the station for me."
"How thoughtful." Peter mumbled. Neal shrugged. He wasn't going to tell Peter he'd loved that kit. He looked over at Peter.
"Mind if I take a nap? Might take the edge off this headache."
"Don't let me stop you." Peter expected Neal to go upstairs, but he didn't mind when he simply switched seats to be in the recliner. Even though it was his recliner. Neal was asleep within minutes.
Peter wondered how much trouble that headache was giving him, if maybe he should have been more adamant about Neal taking his pain killers. He stopped himself. Neal was an adult; he could take care of himself. Not that he'd ever once proven that in their years together. He sighed and flipped channels on the television, mindful to keep the volume down. A sleeping Neal was an easy Neal to watch. He wasn't going to complicate things.
Neal was surprised by how tired he was. Of course, he'd had a hard time sleeping after the drugs had worn off. Making breakfast had just been a distraction. He'd been worried about his head hurting and not knowing how serious his concussion was or wasn't. He couldn't bring himself to look in a mirror. If his face looked half as bad as it felt, he didn't want to see it. Thoughts of his conversation with Peter clouded his mind, infiltrating his dreams…
Five year old Neal had wanted nothing more than to be like his dad. His dad was cool. Possibly the coolest dad in the history of ever; but he hadn't verified that yet. So, when his dad taught him how to pick a lock for his birthday, it was awesome.
In kindergarten, he was able to put his new skill to use for the first time. He snuck his kit to school in the over-sized pocket of his overalls. When the teacher announced it was snack time, Neal asked if he could go to the bathroom. She let him go and he left quickly. He went passed the bathroom, making his way towards the basement door, which was always kept locked. No one knew what was down there. Some kids said it was where the teachers lived but a few of the older kids said it was a haunted dungeon, the kind of place they sent the really, really bad kids. Neal thought it might have been a combination of the two and that it had a pool. What else would teachers have for fun?
After a few minutes, he found the right pick, just like his dad had shown him. Only moments after that, he had the door open and was heading down the stairs to the basement. The stairs creaked and the lights were dim. Neal had been scared but he forced himself to keep going. He hadn't picked the lock just to pick a lock, he reasoned. He wanted to see what was down here.
When he reached the bottom, he was disappointed. The basement was large, but mostly empty. Something that looked like the water heater in his basement stood in one corner and several boxes and piles of books in another. There was no place for teachers to live, nothing that looked like a dungeon and no pool. There was, however, a great deal of dust. Neal sat for a few minutes on the bottom step, watching as a daddy-long-leg spider walked past him. Finally, he stood, kicking a bit of the dust with his foot. This was stupid! He'd done all that work for nothing! Looking around the room, he decided that the least he could do while he was down there was to get rid of the dust. Maybe the teachers used to live there but it got too dirty. With a large dust broom he found discarded under the staircase, he began to run across the floors, smiling as dust flew everywhere. At least it wasn't on the floor any more. Suddenly, the fire alarm sounded. Panic gripped Neal and he ran up the stairs and out the near-by door. Catching his breath, he released he was covered in dust. He brushed it off quickly, shaking out his hair as he made his way to the playground, where they met during every fire drill. He ran when he saw his teacher, Ms. Waller.
"Ms. Waller, Ms. Waller!" He yelled as made his way towards her. She turned, smiling when she saw her only missing student.
"Oh, Neal. Were you in the bathroom when the fire alarm went off?" He nodded, looking down. He didn't want to lie to her, but he couldn't exactly tell her where he had been. "That must have been scary." He nodded. It had been. Being all alone in the basement, with the alarm going had left young Neal a little shaken. "Come on. Let's get you back with everyone else, ok?" She took his hand and led him through the throng of people to where her class sat in a sort of line, playing hand clapping games. As he calmed down, Neal noticed sirens. The fire department never came when they practiced fire drills. He gulped at the thought. If the school burned down, his Scooby-doo backpack would burn up too.
"Ms. Waller? Is the school going to burn down?" She looked down at him and smiled.
"No, the school will be just fine. The firefighters are just coming to check on everything, just in case. Why don't you go play with the other kids while we wait, ok?" Reassured, he nodded and scampered towards his friends, joining in a rousing game of red-rover that the teachers were watching disapprovingly.
Neal woke slowly. At first, he was confused by the noises in the background, but he soon recognized it as Peter's TV. Stretching and yawning, he smiled as he remembered that first time he'd picked a lock, unwittingly setting off the old fire alarm with all that dust. He would have gotten a spanking for that if he'd gotten caught, that was for sure. It reminded him of what his dad had always said: 'If it'll get you in trouble, don't do it. If you do it anyways, don't get caught.'
"Hey, you're awake." Peter's voice interrupted his thoughts, drawing him back to the present. Neal smiled a little, sleep still lingering heavy on his limbs.
"Yeah. Head feels better." Peter nodded. He wanted to know more about Neal's life from before he heard of him. He wanted to fill in the blanks. He knew a lot of things about Neal but he didn't know the why. He thought the answer might be somewhere in the consultant's past.
"That's good." He let a few silent beats pass before he continued. "Why couldn't I find anything when I was looking for you, Neal? Nothing. No year books, no phone books, no nothing."
"You have my birth certificate." Neal was quick to point out. Peter rolled his eyes.
"Yes and it was a lovely work, Neal."
"It was alright. One of my first." He chuckled a little. "Moz had to help me." Peter's curiosity was piqued. He would have to work his way up to when Neal met Mozzie, though. At the moment, he just wanted the basics.
"Where'd you live?" Neal looked over at him, grinning slightly.
"Oh, no. No, no. no. If I tell you, I'll never hear the end of it." Peter laughed.
"C'mon, Neal. Where'dja grow up?" Peter waited but Neal didn't answer. He decided to offer up a bit of information about himself. Even if Neal already knew, it was the gesture that was important. "I grew up in Northern Michigan, in a town of about 20,000 people. Pretty small compared to New York, huh?" Neal nodded, seeing through Peter's tactics, but going along with it anyway.
"Garden Valley, Oregon. Population of about 1,500. " Peter grinned.
"Oregon, huh? You might be right. You may never hear the end of this one." Neal gave a joking groan. Peter looked over at him. "When I was a kid-"
"You had a pet dinosaur? That's so cool, Peter."
"Very funny. So funny I might have to drug you." Neal took the threat seriously or at least pretended to. "We used to go down to this pond and fish. In the winter we played pond hockey. It was a great little place."
"Garden Valley was right along the coast. We'd bike down to the beach. Sometimes we'd stay in town though and…" Neal trailed off.
"And what?"
"No. No, you'll enjoy it too much."
"No such thing. And what?" Peter prompted.
"We'd swim in the creek and fish for crawdads." He finished quietly, thinking back to the idyllic summers of his youth. They really had been good times. He sometimes missed the small town life. It had been nice knowing everyone by name, walking down to the general store and buying a pop. But Neal Caffrey couldn't live on the perfect small-town vibe forever; he'd needed excitement, needed to live. Needed to get away.
Peter would have made a snide remark about Neal's humble beginnings, but the con looked too far gone in his memories for Peter to pull him out. He tried to picture a young Neal on a creek bank fishing, maybe barefoot with rolled-up jeans but he couldn't get it to mesh with the man he knew. Finally, he did snatch Neal from his thoughts when he spoke.
"What was your name then?" He asked softly. He didn't know what had caused the shift in the nature of the conversation, but he didn't want to break it –it was like a spell. It was strange finally knowing where Neal had spent his childhood. It wasn't how he'd imagined it. He always thought Neal was from a big city, maybe San Francisco or Los Angeles. At least he'd been right about the west coast.
"Neal Peterson." Neal mumbled, holding his head with one hand. Not all of those memories were good ones and the bad ones stood out violently against the mellow background of Garden Valley. Peter frowned.
"I thought you said your head felt better. Is it hurtin' again?" Maybe Neal should take his medicine.
"Yeah. Just a headache, nothing too bad." He tried to smile cheerfully, but somewhere between the bruising and the stitches, it lost its effect. Peter's frown deepened.
"Maybe we should take you back to the doctor." Neal rolled his eyes.
"Don't be ridiculous. Of course my head hurts; I got my face bounced off the pavement like a basketball yesterday. It's not the first concussion I've had."
"You should at least take your pain killers. They didn't just give them to you for fun."
"Apparently they gave them to me for your amusement, because I hardly even remember yesterday after I took them. That's not something I'm eager to repeat." Peter could sympathize with that but he would feel less guilty if Neal wasn't sitting around his house in pain all day. Sensing his dilemma, Neal smiled reassuringly at him. "I'm fine. I said this wasn't my first concussion and, you know what, this isn't even the worst. I'm fine, really." Peter sighed.
"Fine. You want an ice pack or something?" He'd remembered El giving him one of those yesterday.
"Nah, I'll be fine." Peter let them watch the rest of the TV show in silence, wondering how long he'd been on the Home& Gardening network without realizing it. Those shows were addictive. Really, they were very similar to fishing shows; no one really wanted to watch them but they get sucked in anyway. As the end credits rolled, Peter finally asked the question that had been quietly gnawing a hole in his gut since he saw Neal on the ground.
"What exactly happened at the scene?"
"I didn't tell you yesterday?" Neal seemed confused.
"You weren't really in the state to." Peter explained.
"Huh. I thought I must've or you would've asked. I fell."
"Neal…"
"Well, I had some help. Don't remember which one it was, but somebody pushed me and I couldn't catch myself in time. Wiped out on a curb." Peter winced.
"Ouch."
"Well, you didn't think it felt good, did you?"
"I know it doesn't look very good. You may have problems charming every woman you meet for the next week or so." Neal shrugged.
"Nah, I'll tell them I got hurt in the line of duty. That always goes over well." Neal paused for a nervous moment. "How bad does it look?" Peter's lips twitched in amusement.
"You haven't looked? Well…You'll probably be able to keep your nose. At least, most of it."
"Peter!" Peter laughed as panic rose in Neal's eyes.
"Relax. No permanent damage done. You'll look like death-warmed-over for a week or so, but you'll be fine." Neal nodded, deciding to ignore the death-warmed-over remark and being grateful nothing had been too banged up. A set of lawn-care commercials passed before Neal spoke.
"Remember, you promised not to look up anything I told you today." He reminded.
"I remember. I seem to recall something about no smoke-signals either." Neal nodded.
"That too, of course. All your smoke-signal making equipment will need to be confiscated immediately." Peter laughed before asking-
"What would I find if I did look up 'Peterson' and 'Garden Valley, Oregon'?" Peter wondered if Neal would tell him or not. As he drew a deep breath, Neal wondered the same thing.
He'd never told anyone about his life as Neal Peterson before. There was no need to start now and yet…and yet he wanted to tell Peter. He wanted to tell someone who'd understand, someone who'd know what it all meant. Most importantly: he wanted to tell someone he trusted. Moz knew bits and pieces, but when they'd met it had all been too fresh for Neal to go over. They just naturally avoided it after a while. He could tell Peter, though. He could tell Peter everything, finally getting it off his chest.
"You'd probably find an unsolved murder case."