"You'd probably find an unsolved murder case."
The words echoed in Peter's head. A million questions formed at once. Who? Had Neal seen it? Had he done it? Peter knew that one was ridiculous. Maybe it was an accident… Was that why he'd run? Finally, he settled on one to ask.
"Who?" Neal looked down at his lap. He was having second thoughts about this already. Maybe he shouldn't have told Peter. Would Peter have to report it? Probably. There was no statute of limitation on murder. Shit. He shouldn't have said it. "Neal. Who?" Peter's voice was slightly more forceful now.
"Are you gonna have to report this?" Peter sighed. He didn't know the answer.
"That depends on what you know, Neal. What do you know about it?" God, he hoped Neal didn't do it. He hoped Neal didn't know anything. He knew it couldn't be that easy, though. The guilty look on Neal's face was killing him. God, he didn't even look like that when Peter had accused him of all those crimes when he'd first caught him.
"I know who did it." He whispered. Peter'd never heard him speak so soft. Damn, this was going to be bad, the agent thought.
"Let's go back to the beginning here, Neal. Who was killed?" Neal closed his eyes. The bruises and the fact that he hadn't styled his hair and that he was wearing pajamas at nine in the morning when he was usually in those goofy suits all combined to make Neal look impossibly young. Sometimes, Peter wondered if Neal had lied about his age on his birth certificate.
"Robert Peterson."
"Alright…was he related to you?" Peter felt stupid even asking. What were the chances they lived in that small of a town and shared a last name without being related? Neal nodded, opening his eyes to gauge how angry Peter was. To his surprise, Peter looked more concerned than mad.
"He was my dad." Peter closed his eyes and sunk back against the couch. Poor Caffrey. That would be more than enough reason to run but Peter suspected there was more. The life of Neal Caffrey was turning out to be far different than he had anticipated. He wondered if that was why El had grown so fond of Neal so fast; she could always pick up on the invisible vulnerabilities in a person and she made it her job to nurture them. He loved that about her. Well, he loved everything about her. Opening his eyes, he turned his attention back to his partner, who was watching him anxiously.
"Neal…Who killed him?" Neal looked away and shook his head.
"No, no nevermind. I don't want to talk about this anymore."
"You gave that choice up the moment you told a federal agent you had information about an open case!" Peter snapped a little. He couldn't help it. Volunteering information wasn't something you could say you wanted to do and then stop. It didn't work that way. There was no Indian-giving with testimony. When Neal finally spoke his voice was quiet and dark.
"I didn't think I was telling a federal agent. I thought I was telling my friend." He rose slowly and went upstairs, his footfalls nearly silent. Peter sighed and covered his face with his hands. He screwed that up beyond description. El might consider making him sleep on the couch if she found out about this. She was always trying to get him to be more tactful. He had certainly failed at that.
Upstairs, Neal locked himself in the guest room, sitting on the edge of the bed. He had tried not to think about his dad's death, tried not to think of what he'd seen. That had worked for a while. But, eventually, he hadn't been able to stand it. That's when he'd left Garden Valley for good. It had been hell, knowing who killed his father, watching the whole thing and not telling. The problem with small towns is that it's hard to avoid people forever. One day after school, he'd gone to the grocery store for a gallon of milk and found himself in the same check-out lane as the man who'd put a bullet through his dad's chest. He'd managed to run about 20 yards from the store before he completely lost it.
Lying down across the bed, he closed his eyes as the memories washed over him…
He'd been ten. He had long since learned lock-picking and had moved on to bigger, better things. He'd lifted a few things here and there. Nothing too expensive. Sometimes just a little bag of marbles or a pack of gum from right out under the clerk's nose, just to prove that he could. Most child-thieves were caught because they got to greedy and too bold. Neal knew better. One day, after a bit of Vodka, his dad had given him some lessons. He'd taught him how to pick-pocket too.
On a particularly nice day in May, just after school had gone out, Neal told his dad he was going to go down to the creek with some of the kids and fish a little. His dad had waved him away, nodding that it was ok, as he talked on the phone. The conversation sounded serious and curiosity got the better of Neal. He made as though he was leaving, even opening and closing the front door and then he crawled under the couch in the living room where he could hear his dad talking. He'd been watching a lot of spy movies lately.
To his dismay, his dad came in and sat on the couch, tapping his foot as if he was waiting for someone. Neal remained still and quiet, determined to not get caught. Getting caught meant getting in trouble and getting in trouble meant that his dad's belt would be out of his belt loops before he could say 'sorry'. He wished his mom was home. Maybe she could distract him. But mom hadn't been home more than she had to be lately.
Neal didn't have much time to think though. Soon, a knock came on the door and his dad all but jumped up to answer it. Neal listened as Sam Johnson, his dad's long-time friend, and his dad had a heated argument. Neal shifted slightly so he could see what was going on. The men stood only a few feet from the couch, facing each other.
Suddenly, Sam pulled something from his waist-band. Neal couldn't see what it was at first. Then he heard a loud shot. His dad crumpled to the ground. He clamped his hand over his mouth, fear telling him that making noise would be ill-advised. Sam leaned over his father's body and smiled. Neal would have nightmares about that smile.
He turned to leave but stopped when Neal's dad let out a low moan. Turning, he fired two bullets into his chest before leaving. Neal was frozen in place. He was too scared to even cry. He didn't know what to do. After a while, he became aware of something. The floors in their house were uneven because of the way the old home settled. The blood that was pooling around Neal's dad was slowly making its way down the slant in the old floor towards the couch.
Neal finally moved, running out of the house. He hadn't been sure where to go but he found himself at the creek where he was supposed to be all along. Sitting on its banks, he cried himself to sleep. He didn't wake up till later that night, when the police chief, Mr. Martin, found him.
"Hey, Neal." He began sadly. "Your mom's been worried about you. I think you need to go home." The man didn't have the heart to tell Neal about his father's death but it was just as well since he already knew. Neal felt guilty. He left his dad dead on the floor for his mom to find and then worried her by disappearing.
Neal opened his eyes when he heard the door open. He glared at Peter, who stood in the door way, arms crossed.
"See, you don't like it when people do it to you." Peter muttered, remembering the lock picking incident from the day before. Neal only gave him a confused look. Peter had forgotten Neal didn't remember it. The older man drew a deep breath before speaking. "Look, Neal I'm…I'm sorry"
"No, I shouldn't of said that. I should've just told you." Peter looked shocked before quickly regaining face.
"Oh. No, you shouldn't of." He agreed awkwardly, wondering what exactly he was doing. "You want to tell me now?" Even though Neal's head was no longer clouded with drugs like yesterday, Peter still felt like he was taking advantage of him somehow. He didn't like the feeling. Neal nodded. His hands were shaking at Peter sat down next to him.
"To whom am I speaking?" Neal asked, half turning so he was facing his partner. "Is this Peter or agent Burke?" Peter smiled.
"Peter." Neal nodded.
"My dad's best friend, Sam Johnson. He killed him."
"Did you see it or is that a guess?" Neal shook his head.
"I saw it. Saw him shot him. Three times." Neal gulped. His head hurt again but he was afraid of what he would say or do if he took the painkillers.
"Jeez, Neal, why didn't you tell anyone?" Neal looked up at him.
"I was ten…" Peter nodded, feeling his heart sink in his chest. Ten? When he was ten, he broke his arm sledding down the hill in the backyard and missed playing pond hockey all winter. His parents used to take him down to the pond and skate around with him, making sure he didn't fall. He would have been devastated if anything had happened to them. He put an arm around the consultant.
"I'm sorry."
"Not your fault. It was a long time ago. I'm fine." Peter squeezed his arm before letting go.
"It doesn't matter how long ago it was, that's something any kid shouldn't have to go through." Neal shrugged.
"Well, it did." He didn't want to tell Peter how bad it had been after that. He'd had nightmares and flashbacks for months. It got better when his mom moved the two of them into a new house a few blocks away, but it didn't erase it from his mind. When he'd run into Johnson at the grocery store, all those memories came rushing back.
Peter watched Neal, the tired con not able to hide hints of emotion on his face. He wasn't used to seeing this side of Neal; the con was larger-than-life, always cheerful, always confident. Neal looked away, trying to hide behind his façade, which was eroding slowly under the pain.
"So, did you pick the lock or use a key? Because if you picked it, I'd be impressed."
"It's my house, Neal. What do you think?"
"I think you don't know where El put the keys." Peter gave a wry smile and shook his head. Neal was a little too good at reading him.
"You want to stay up here or come back downstairs? You know, it wouldn't kill you to take those painkillers." Neal sighed.
"I'll go downstairs. But I'm not taking those pills." Neal didn't want to say anything else he might regret. Peter nodded once, standing to leave the room. When he was in the doorway, Neal looked up.
"On the microwave." Peter stopped.
"What?"
"The key. El keeps it on the microwave." Peter's mouth fell open for a second before turning upward into a grin.
"How do you- no, you know what?" He held up his hands "I don't even want to know."
Neal grinned and followed Peter downstairs. The two made their way to the kitchen. Peter poured himself a glass of water and then one for Neal when the younger man indicated he also wanted one. Sitting down at the table across from Neal, he broke the silence.
"You sure you don't want those pills? You look like hell, Caffrey." Neal smiled.
"You're so sweet, Peter."
"That's a no, huh?" Neal nodded, taking a long drink of water before letting his aching head come to rest in his hands.
"Maybe we should go back to the doctor's and get you some painkillers that won't make you so…loopy."
"They don't exist. I even get weird with ibuprofen." Peter snorted.
"Hate to break it to you, kid, but you're always weird." Neal just sighed. He closed his eyes and wished he could just sleep for the next week or so. Everything hurt. His face had taken the brunt of the damage in the fall, but he could feel the scrapes on his hands and knees. The muscles across his back and in his neck were stiff from the jarring of his sudden landing.
If he was home alone, he'd take the pills. He'd probably take too many of them, though. Apparently, drugged-him couldn't count. He'd learned that some time ago. Chemical-free Neal was always finding out new things about his drug-influenced alter ego.
Peter watched Neal, thinking about maybe making lunch later and crushing Neal's pills up in it. He figured it would end up like a bad spy movie where he ended up with the drugged plate instead. His plans always backfired when Neal Caffrey was involved. Neal would probably switch the plates when he wasn't looking. There were definite downsides to working with one of the best con-men around.
"Neal." Neal's head snapped up at Peter's voice and the agent almost winced in sympathy at the look of pain that spread across his features. The more he got to know Neal, the more he realized he really couldn't deceive people who were close to him. It was almost an endearing quality. "Just take the meds."
"I can't. Who knows what could happen."
"I'll try to keep you from doing anything stupid, if that helps." Neal gave the slightest shake of the head.
"Nope. Not possible. I've never taken painkillers and not done something stupid. Ask Moz."
"I would if he wasn't screening my calls." Neal looked up quizzically and smirked.
"You called Moz? Why?" Peter shrugged.
"To see if he had any ways to get you to take the pills. Or, alternatively, if he would help me drug you."
"That's cute, Peter."
"Yeah, 'cause that's exactly what I was going for." Neal shrugged. "Just tell me this: how bad does it hurt? I'm tired of guessing." Neal looked up.
"It hurts."
"Elaborate on that thought."
"It really hurts."
"Your English teacher must have loved you. Adjectives. Descriptions." Neal gave him a frustrated look.
"I am now able to empathize very well with the basketball from gym class. Happy?" Peter smiled a little.
"Neal"
"Peter." Neal was sounding a little frustrated. "I'm fine. I've been taking care of myself for- for a while now. This isn't as bad as the one I got while I was in Cyprus." Peter frowned.
"When were you in Cyprus?"
"That's not important. The point is, I took care of myself then, I can take care of myself now." Peter leaned across the table.
"I'm only going to say this one time, Neal, so you better listen: back then, whenever it was, you were alone. You didn't have anyone, right?" Neal nodded. "But now, you have me. And El, and Moz, and June. You don't have to take care of yourself because we are always going to want to help you. That's what friends do, Neal." Neal blinked a little, taken aback by the sudden speech. Usually, Peter wasn't a very talkative guy.
"Ok. Fine. I give up." He held up his hands as though surrendering. Peter smiled.
"Now. When did you go to Cyprus?" Neal laughed.
"I was probably about nineteen. I think."
"And when did you meet Moz?"
"When I was seventeen." Neal was tracing his finger around the edge of the glass.
"When did you run away from home?"
"Sixteen." The one year gap worried Peter.
"What happened between sixteen and seventeen,"
"Believe it or not, an entire year." Peter gave him an un-amused look. "I was not doing well on my own. Let's leave it at that."
"How'd you meet Moz?" Neal sighed.
"Am I being interrogated, agent Burke?" Peter furrowed his brow in frustration. The FBI agent in him had a hard time not asking questions like that. One after the other, with no conversation or anything offered up from himself. But really, what did you say to that? When Peter had been that age, he'd just gotten a car and would drive around with his friends.
"Tough habit to break." Neal nodded in acknowledgement.
"Moz took me in after he found me passed out in an ally in November. In Chicago. I was working as a waiter but I never had enough money for both food and rent. Can we be done with this interview now? I feel like I'm on trial again." Neal joked. He walked back into the living room, stretching out his sore body on the couch. Peter stayed in the kitchen, mulling over his thoughts.
First and foremost on his mind way figuring out a way to get Neal feeling better. Neal at anything less than his usual bothered him. He didn't like it. It wasn't normal. But these thoughts were continuously interrupted by the mental picture Neal had so skillfully painted in his mind. Neal in Chicago, unable to both feed himself and keep a roof over his head.
Peter remembered what it was like to go outside and get cold in Michigan. The difference was in Michigan, at the end of a long cold day, there was the promise of hot chocolate and roasting marshmallows in the fireplace. For Neal in Chicago, long, cold days had been followed by long, cold nights. Peter wondered when he'd gotten so protective over his friend. El must have been rubbing off on him.
AN: As you all know, I usually don't do author's notes. However, I just had to say how much I love all the attention this story is getting. I'm glad everyone seems to be enjoying it! It's so much more fun to write something when you know people are reading it. Thank you all so much!