Neal held his face blank when Peter walked up to the cell. Peter studied him through the bars for an agonizingly long time, his face equally blank. It wasn't unfriendly, per se. But it was Peter the FBI agent evaluating Neal Caffrey the suspect. His face was tense, but revealed nothing.

"Turn around, Neal," he said finally, unlocking the door. "I'm gonna cuff you."

Neal obeyed, and Peter stepped close, positioning Neal's arms behind his back.

It was a small enough thing, but horrifying. Peter never cuffed Neal's hands behind his back. Peter always did it gently, in front. There had long been a tacit understanding between them that Neal didn't actually need to be restrained, and could just get out anyway. For his part, Neal never resisted or tried to escape. It was a wordless demonstration of deep mutual trust and respect at their worst and most painful moments.

Peter closed the cuffs, then stroked the backs of Neal's hands with his thumbs. "Relax your hands, Neal. No making your wrists bigger so you can slip out."

Neal's heart pounded, and his breath caught in his throat. But that touch had held a great deal of kindness. He reluctantly relaxed his hands, which took some concentration because every muscle in his body was coiled in tension.

Peter waited patiently for him to manage it, then ratcheted the cuffs down snug around his wrists. Really snug. It didn't quite hurt, but it was right on the line between uncomfortable and painful, and Neal wanted to whimper.

It did hurt, emotionally, being put in the category of "violent criminal who needs to be restrained" in Peter's eyes. He shivered. Not just in Peter's eyes. He was going to be a violent criminal now in the eyes of the criminal justice system.

"Do those hurt?" asked Peter, misreading his shiver.

Neal really, really wanted to say yes. His heart hurt. Peter wouldn't be able to live with the idea of putting Neal in pain, and he'd loosen them. But that would be a lie.

"No," he said, his voice coming out small.

The ripping sound of duct tape behind him made him startle. He resisted the impulse to cringe away or struggle or at least look to see what Peter was up to. What the hell was Peter going to do now, tape his hands together? Gag him?

Help.

Peter taped over the cuffs, and Neal realized he was blocking the key holes against picking. Then he zip-tied the chain linking the handcuffs to Neal's belt, so that there was no chance of wiggling his hands in front of him, or even bending forward much.

Neal's legs went numb and his arms tightened in visceral horror. Peter was really, truly restraining him. This wasn't a formality, and Neal couldn't get out. He was going to prison, and Peter didn't trust him in the slightest or even want to talk to him about it.

Peter explored Neal's wrists carefully with his fingers, then did the unthinkable and deliberately pulled the zip tie tighter and tighter until the cuffs were wrenched down towards his belt, biting into his wrists hard enough to hurt.

Neal cried out, a small but frantic noise, but not because the pain was bad enough to make him scream. It was shorthand for Stop, Peter, you're hurting me, a pleading sound reserved only for someone he trusted to care. Peter did stop, and didn't tighten the strap any further, but he didn't apologize either.

The world went sideways. There was a low, static buzz in Neal's ears, and his chest tightened painfully, and all he could hear for a minute was the sound of his frantic, shallow breathing.

Peter stepped back around front where he could see Neal's face. He grimaced. "Jeez, Neal, you look like a kicked puppy."

Neal gulped. "Am I supposed to look ecstatic?" He was trembling. He could take this from anyone but Peter.

Please, please don't let it be like this. Take me to prison, but please don't let this be the last memory I have of our friendship.

He tried to meet Peter's eyes, but he knew he was going to cry if he did, so he concentrated on trying to stay on his feet.

"I'm taking you up to talk to Fowler," said Peter. "Trust me-" His voice cracked, and Neal realized why the lack of talking before. "You're going to want to be restrained for this."

Peter laid a hand on the side of Neal's arm. "Trust me." His voice was tight, and uneven, and carried an immense amount of distress.

Neal closed his eyes and focused on breathing, focused on that touch, focused on trusting the man behind it. Peter clearly wasn't doing this to frighten or punish him, and Neal did trust him. With his life, with his future. And even with rendering him helpless in a terrifying and painful fashion.

He stopped shaking, and his muscles relaxed. His heart still hurt, but he was calm. There was nothing he could do to take back what had happened, or alter where things went from here. If Peter wanted to take over entirely right now, Neal was willing and relieved to let him.

He opened his eyes and drew in a deep, much-needed breath. "I do."

Peter led him into the interrogation room, and Fowler was there in cuffs too.

"Hi, Neal," said Fowler with a a dry half-smile.

Neal tensed, the blood pounding hot and hard through his heart, focusing his vision like a pinpoint of fury right on Fowler. He should have shot the bastard when he had the chance. Prison or no prison. At least he'd be alive, a luxury Kate didn't have. That Fowler shouldn't have.

"Neal. Neal. Neal." Neal didn't register Peter's warning words until the agent jerked on the chain linking the handcuffs and pain shot up his arms. He'd forgotten he was wearing them, forgotten Peter was in the room, forgotten where they were entirely. He was struggling to get to Fowler, to tear him limb from limb on the spot.

"Neal."

Another jerk, harder this time, twisted the cuffs and ground their hard metal edges against nerves and bone so fiercely that the pain almost made him scream. He heard someone let out a stifled yelp, and realized it had been him. It took that, for Neal to snap out of a blinded, tunnel-vision focus on Kate's murderer.

Kate's. Murderer.

Reality and physical pain cleared his head, and he contented himself with directing a look of pure hate at Fowler.

I can get you even if I'm wearing cuffs. Do you know how many murderers I count as friends? Do you know how far some of those terrifying fuckers would go to help me?

"Neal, can you hear me?" asked Peter.

At first Neal didn't, but the self-preserving part of his subconscious that really didn't want to get jerked like that again caught his attention.

"Yeah."

"Camera's on, audio's not," said Peter. "Nothing that's said in this room in the next few minutes is going on any official record."

Peter led Neal over to a chair and made him sit, supporting him firmly on the way down so he wouldn't have to put pressure on tender wrists to balance himself.

"Neal, Fowler says he didn't kill Kate, and I believe him."

Fowler met Neal's eyes. "I didn't. I didn't kill her, I didn't cause her to be killed, and I didn't try and kill you."

Fowler's voice was low and subdued, and the former command and triumph, the smugness, was gone from his face. He spoke again, quiet and serious.

"I'm not an innocent man. When I'm done talking to you and Peter today, I'm going to prison. If you want me to suffer for what I did do to you, it's going to happen. But I did not kill Kate. I didn't want to harm either of you and still don't."

Neal stopped breathing. Fowler was telling the truth. He recognized it in every minute movement in the guy's face. He recognized the absolute sadness and surrender.

A shiver ran up his spine and didn't stop, and his stomach tightened like he'd been punched in the gut. Oh, God. Oh, God. I almost shot someone, and he was innocent. I almost revenge-murdered an innocent FBI agent.

He retched, and choked, catching it just in time when the handcuffs pinning his arms back bit mercilessly into his wrists as he tried to lean forward. The sharp pain actually steadied him, and he sat still.

Peter had a hand on his shoulder and was holding on firmly, calming him, that grip and the restraints the only things holding him together.

"I'm - sorry, Fowler," said Neal, his voice coming out completely messed up, cracking and uneven. "I'm really sorry. Peter dug his fingers into Neal's shoulder, hard enough to bruise before Neal even registered it.

Shut up.

Okay.

"You two both screwed up, bad," said Peter. "Fowler's willing to talk to us about what really happened, and it's going to send him to prison. You two are an FBI agent and my partner. I'd like to be able to move this into my office and have us sit down and talk like the decent people we all are. No anger, no restraints, just talking. This is a hard day. Can we not make it more painful than we have to?"

Neal gulped. "Yes."

Fowler eyed Neal and nodded.

Peter spoke again. "Fowler, are you comfortable being in a room with Neal? You're the one he was trying to kill, and I'm not about to put you at risk."

Neal gave Fowler his most sincerely apologetic look, and Fowler nodded. "If you trust him, so do I."

"I'll trust him by the time I bring him in," said Peter.

Neal's legs were weak. Astonishingly so. He hadn't been expecting that, but Peter had, and the agent supported him effortlessly and marched him out of the interview room, down the hall, and into a conference room.

His eyes were playing weird tricks on him with pinpricks of light, and things going gray or wobbly, and he could hear his pulse in his ears, and he wasn't sure exactly how he was propelling his legs. His mind simply couldn't handle all the shocks.

Fowler. Innocent. Almost shot him. Violent criminal. Me. Gun. I'm a felon. I stole a gun. Oh, shit.

He could still feel the trigger under his finger. The tiny movement it would have taken to fire a bullet into a living person, an innocent person. He knew what it looked like, blood and splintered bone and brain matter and the horrifying realization that nobody truly died instantly. He knew how to handle guns, knew better than to put his finger on the trigger until he was ready to shoot. His finger had been on the trigger, and there had been no internal restraint or mercy stopping him from squeezing it.

"Neal."

Just Peter's voice, ordering and pleading and reasoning with him. That voice he'd come to love and trust was the most powerful restraint in the world. It was the sole reason he wasn't a murderer.

"Neal." Peter had said it several times, again, he realized. Just like he had in the interview room, firm, steady, trying to dig through the buzzing fog in his brain, catch his attention, make him think. "Neal."

"Whay - wha-t?"

Peter was rubbing his back, patting him gently, trying to bring him out of it, and he focused on that. It was a pleasant, comforting sensation he trusted.

"Can you hear me now?" asked Peter.

"Yeah."

"I'm gonna cut you loose, literally. Need to use a knife on the zip ties and tape, an' I don't want to cut you by mistake. Need you to hold still, okay?"

"Yeah." He thought he could do that.

"Hold still, Neal," Peter repeated as he worked. "Hold still. Hang in there, buddy. Hold still. You're alright. Hold still."

The second the cuffs came off, Neal crumbled. Now he got why Peter'd done it, and that it wasn't just out of an excess of caution to keep him from going after Fowler. They'd been the only thing holding him together.

He hit the floor, gasping, shaking, hyperventilating. Peter sat down close beside him.

"I - almost - killed - an innocent man." Neal gulped over and over again in nausea and dry-heaved. "Oh God. Oh God."

"Neal, you look at me and you listen to me. Right now, with everything you've got." Peter's voice was like iron, and Neal wasn't looking forward to the impact, but he obeyed.

"This is why we do it right. Because the consequences of doing it wrong are too horrible to even contemplate. This is why you obey the law, Neal. You are playing with life and death and people's entire futures. You. Do. It. Right."

The words penetrated like ice. Peter was sitting inches away, directly in front of him, looking him right in the eye. Deadly serious.

And this was why he felt such a profound trust for Peter Burke. Because never discounted how serious the decisions he made were to Neal or anyone else. He made them carefully, and for the right reasons, and he cared.

He made himself really look into Peter's eyes, without reservation, in lieu of having any idea what to say in response. He saw absolute focus, but also one other reason he trusted his handler so deeply. The gentleness in those soft brown eyes.

"I can't - I don't - I - Peter, help. I - how - what's -"

Neal put his head down, resting his forehead on Peter's shoulder and closing his eyes. He hadn't avenged Kate's death, he couldn't, and instead he'd put an innocent man through the terror of watching his life counting down to the end.

He was shaken, shaking, and feeling as small and hurting as possible. He'd screwed absolutely everything up.

And regardless of whether Peter was about to take him to jail, he knew where to find solace. Peter stroked him gently and silently on the back of his head and upper back, just being there and being Neal's refuge.

After a couple of minutes Neal's breathing steadied, and with his free hand Peter took hold of one of Neal's wrists and rubbed it. "You okay with what I did back there?"

Neal grimaced and nodded. Peter was like a person-managing savant. If anyone had suggested that chaining him up and dragging him in front of Fowler in cuffs would be a good way to preserve his dignity, he'd have flipped them off with one of his very trussed-up fingers. Way to make him look like a forgiving badass, though. Wow.

"Yes."

Peter had his fingers against the groove the handcuffs had indented in his wrist, and was massaging in tiny, light circular motions that felt wonderful on stinging skin.

"You've got a hell of a pain threshold when you're pissed," said Peter. "Afraid I probably gave you some nasty bruises."

Neal shivered. "That's - about the last thing I care about."

He still had his head on Peter's shoulder, and Peter was still stroking him slowly with the hand that wasn't rubbing his wrist. He closed his eyes and just enjoyed it for a minute.

"I'm going back to prison, aren't I?" Neal asked after a bit. It wasn't really a question.

Maybe if Fowler really had been the killer, Neal would have gotten away with it as justified rage. But he'd held an innocent person at gunpoint and nearly murdered him in front of FBI agents. He just wanted to know, and crawl into Peter's arms and be cared about for a last few minutes before he said goodbye to the best friendship and the best years he'd ever known.

"I need to talk to Fowler about that," said Peter. "Maybe not. You listened to me, you didn't pull that trigger, you surrendered, and that's a million miles away from where we'd be right now if you had. We'll see."

Neal nodded, tense, wishing he knew now. He welcomed hope, but not suspense.

"If - it goes that way -" Neal was hit by a sense of enormous grief, just trying to make this one plea. "Let me say goodbye to you. Please?"

He was feeling so much love that he was trying not to cry in the face of how fast he could be arrested and taken away with no chance to truly hug Peter, and show him how much this friendship had meant, and how deeply he appreciated and cherished every act of caring. If he was going back to prison, it was for a long time, and Peter had given him the happiest years of his life to cling to.

Peter put both arms around him and hugged him. "I will. I will."

Far too soon, Peter stood, pulling Neal up with him. "Come on. Let's not drag this out. I'll go talk to Fowler."

Neal's heart sank when he saw that Peter was leading him back to the holding cells. But there were no handcuffs this time, and he remembered Peter's command to trust him. That terrifying restraint job had turned out to be something he was grateful for. If Peter wanted him to go into a cell, right now, he'd do it without complaint.

It was uncomfortable, but not awfully so. Sitting on the bench, leaning into the corner, at least gave some shelter and support.

Peter had told him once that the holding cells had been designed to be as pleasant as practical because they ended up putting a lot of innocent and scared people in them in the course of complex investigations.

Neal closed his eyes and gave up. He could look at all the positive sides all he wanted, but the raw fact was he'd been locked up in his own FBI building, by his own handler, and it hurt. This was the one place he'd felt somewhat trusted, and having screwed up so badly that Peter felt the need to lock him in a cage stung, badly.

He bit his lip to keep from crying. He'd stolen a gun and nearly murdered a former FBI agent. He warranted the cell and the handcuffs. It wasn't overkill, it was more than reasonable, and it felt so wrong. If he went to prison as a violent criminal, he'd deserve it, and he'd probably never be able to look at Peter again without tearing up and apologizing, over and over and over again.

And it wouldn't change anything. Half the people he'd done time with wished with all their hearts they could press rewind on the horrible choices and mistakes they'd made, but it didn't work that way.

I'm so fucking sorry, Peter. Tears started leaking from his tightly closed eyes. He hadn't just screwed himself over and traumatized Fowler. He'd let down the person who meant the most to him in the entire world, who'd worked and sacrificed to keep Neal from facing exactly what was happening now.

He'd just have to hope Peter would still care about him, still be willing to take his calls when he needed a gentle voice to talk to, still send him postcards and maybe visit him once in a while.

He would. That caring person who'd sat with him in silence, stroking his head, wouldn't abandon him.