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The case they are working is on an investment banker who is running an insider trading gig and manipulating market prices of financial derivatives. He also seems to own a gun, as it turns out, the barrel of which is directed at Neal at the moment.
He keeps telling Peter that the FBI should invest in a real Rolex if they are going to send him in undercover among people who own and care very much so about Rolexes. Maybe then his watch wouldn’t have been smashed and his cover would have been intact.
“You think you can just waltz in here and play at being a spy?” the guy, Williams, spits out. “Whoever you are working for, they won’t even find your body.”
He unlocks the gun’s safety.
All Neal can think about right now are response times. He puts forth his best wide eyed innocent puppy expression.
“Hey man, you don’t have to do this -- I can explain.”
Since he started working as a consultant for the White Collar division, he found himself in this exact position too many times to count -- his cover blown, communications jammed, a hair’s breadth from destruction. Every time so far, Peter showed up just in the nick of time, just before the criminal of the day could send Neal’s soul flying up to heaven.
He swallows and waits for those same magic words that saved him so many times until now -- FBI! Freeze! -- Peter’s voice deep and authoritative and not taking no as an answer. The FBI agent of his dreams.
Williams sneers, the way you would expect a cartoon villain to.
“Oh but I do.”
He pulls the trigger.
Neal throws himself to the side on instinct.
“FBI! Freeze!”
Agents breaks down the door and come bursting in.
Once on the floor, Neal takes in a quick breath and then another. When he is convinced that he has not, in fact, died, he opens his eyes. Agents have swarmed the room. His arm hurts, so he looks and sure enough, it’s as if ink is rapidly spreading through his white shirt sleeve -- if his shirt sleeve was the paper and the ink was bright red.
“Guys,” he calls out, “I think I’ve been shot.”
*
Peter materializes out of nowhere at his side and kneels on the floor in one swift motion.
“You are going to be fine.”
It’s a command. Neal traditionally doesn’t do too well with authority and he would never tell Peter this, but he kind of likes it when Peter orders him around. It sparks in him a desire to do the exact opposite of what he has been told and a desire to listen and make Peter proud, and he relishes the contradiction. It makes him feel alive.
Peter rips a large piece of his (very expensive and very nice) shirt without so much as bothering to ask. He presses the fabric to the wound and talks into his radio.
“Agent down. Secure the building and send paramedics up to the 25th floor. I repeat, secure the building and send paramedics up to the 25th floor.”
His voice carries so much urgency that Neal ventures another glance at his arm to make sure he isn’t actually bleeding out.
“Didn’t realize I was an agent.”
“Yeah well, ‘our favorite convict who has been released into FBI custody to work as a consultant has been shot’ doesn’t carry the same weight.”
Neal preens just a little bit.
“Aw, Peter I’m your favorite.”
Okay, maybe he preens a lot, directing his thousand-megawatt smile at Peter, but he deserves it, he thinks, given the circumstances.
Peter grunts in what may be a laugh in his language and the corner of his mouth twitches in the ghost of a smile.
“Yeah? Bear in mind that the sample size here is one.”
He doesn’t look up, though. All of his attention is on Neal’s arm and on applying pressure, face drawn in concentration. Neal is almost touched by the concern.
*
What happens when the EMTs arrive is downright embarrassing.
He stands up to hop onto the gurney, and makes the mistake of glancing at Peter’s makeshift bandage, now discarded on the floor. On it is a lot of blood. His blood. Neal has never been good with that, and sure enough-
The room tilts. He feels very hot and very cold at the same time, like he is going to be sick, and before he knows it, his knees are giving way and he is falling towards a floor that is not there.
“Neal!” he hears Peter call before everything goes black.
*
He comes to in the ambulance, the shrill alarms blaring in the center of his brain. Peter is there, saying something to one of the EMTs, which reminds him that Peter saw him faint at the sight of blood – so much for his efforts to keep that detail out of his FBI file for years. The guys will probably never let it go. They probably don’t faint when they get shot in an extremity.
Still there is no point dwelling on that now, so he wants to run a gimmick to distract all of them from his less than dignified fainting. He is going to extend his good hand out towards the door and with eyes half open tell Peter that it’s getting dark and he can see his grandma calling to him.
Except, when he tries to move his hand, it doesn’t come freely--as if it’s stuck in something.
Peter startles.
“Neal.”
Neal looks to see what’s holding up his hand, and it’s not a what, it’s-
“Are you holding my hand?”
Peter was, as it turns out, and he lets it go now as if it’s scalding hot.
One of the EMTs explains that he is okay--they don’t think the bullet hit the bone or the artery. Neal curls up his hand and extends his fingers again. They feel strangely empty--the air that surrounds them cold, where Peter’s hand used to be. He opens his mouth to tell Peter-
But the EMT is right--he is not hurt badly. That is not something you do.
***
They patch him up at the hospital. The drugs they give are excellent for putting him to sleep.
By the time he wakes up, it’s getting dark outside and it has started to rain. Droplets tap on the window in a gentle rhythm. He has more or less curled up into a ball under the covers--when he turns and sits up El is there on the other side of the bed.
“Hey,” she says, “how are you feeling?”
Neal grins.
“Never better.”
It’s only 20% a lie.
She catches her up on the goings-on--Peter is at the bureau but will come as soon as he is done, they haven’t told Mozzie (who is out of town) or June, doctors said they will keep him for another couple of hours and then let him go.
“You should stay at our place tonight,” El says with a smile, “it’s a scientifically proven fact that having a dog around aids recovery.”
Neal isn’t hurt badly enough to require supervision or assistance but as a principle he won’t say no to more time spent with the Burkes, so he gracefully accepts, and delights El with tales of how worried Peter was for no reason.
They play cards and talk about Raphael and by the time a knock on the door reveals Peter on the other side Neal is feeling like himself again, restless and ready to go.
Except then-
Well, he remembers the way Peter has been acting like he was dying, and the way he was holding his hand in the ambulance. He can see the tight lines of worry on Peter’s face even now.
And he thinks he could have just a little bit of harmless fun. See how far Peter’s misplaced concern extends.
He looks at Peter through half open eyes and smiles a tired smile, and when it’s time to go, he stands slowly, holding onto the side of the bed for support, and lets his shoulders fall forward, wearing the slouched posture of a man doing his best.
“Give it a little rest and you will be just fine,” Peter says, clapping him on the shoulder, his voice a little strained.
“I am already great,” Neal replies with a grin that is less than convincing.
El stares at him, frowning--Neal can practically feel the hole her gaze is boring into his neck but he manages to wink at her without Peter seeing. A little bit of understanding dawns in her eyes, mixed in with a spark of mischief and if Neal didn’t love her already, he would for this alone.
*
“So, what are we having for dinner?” Peter asks the two of them from behind the wheel of his beautiful Ford Taurus, the best car in its class as rated by multiple websites.
Neal looks down at his shoes.
“I was thinking,” he says quietly, “if you were a split second too late, or if Williams fired a second earlier, or if I timed my fall just the smallest bit off--it was so easy for the bullet to-” he waves his good hand in a semi-circle as if the rest of the thought is too painful to contemplate. “And I’d be- and I never got to try your mushroom risotto.”
Ah, the mushroom risotto. The one dish of Peter’s whose tales he heard plenty but has been unable to try for himself, because Peter will not cook it for him, coming up with an excuse every time Neal tries.
He looks outside the window like he said too much.
“Oh, Neal,” El says. Peter draws in a sharp breath. A minute later he is making a turn to stop at the grocery store, so he can buy the ingredients they don’t have. Neal does his best not to grin too widely.
*
When they are home, he is settled on the couch, and Peter is lost in the depths of the kitchen, El comes to sit next to him.
She narrows her eyes. Neal wonders whether the piercing gaze is a trait she and Peter shared in common that helped them fall in love back in the day, or if they perfected it together since then.
“I can’t tell if you were genuinely scared of dying or if you are just manipulating my husband.”
She is good. She also keeps her voice low enough that it doesn’t carry over the sound of running water in the kitchen, which is why she is the best.
Neal grins and shrugs at the same time.
“All good lies have an element of truth,” he tells her in a whisper. It did occur to him how the smallest change in the day’s events would lead to him lying on a slab in the morgue now, cold and lifeless, and tapping into that anxiety makes his- not lie, statement, stronger. Besides, he may never get to taste Peter’s risotto otherwise.
“You are evil,” El says. If anything, she sounds impressed.
“Will you tell him?”
El gives him a look that is cold and calculating.
“Not if you help me.”
“Oh?”
She is a natural at this and Neal loves her so much.
El sighs. Apparently, there is a new episode of Mad Men today but it coincides with the Knicks game. It’s her turn to watch it on the upstairs TV but the upstairs TV is small and in no way does justice to the show.
Neal nods, chest filled with pride.
*
Getting the downstairs TV isn’t even difficult.
Neal just brings it up in the middle of dinner. First, he compliments Peter’s cooking with a warm smile. It’s not warranted, exactly--the risotto is mushy and overly salty, to the point that Neal thinks maybe there was a good reason Peter never let him taste it before after all, but pointing that out will not help his cause. When Peter smiles back, he asks whether they would mind if he watched the new episode of Mad Men on their TV tonight, puppy eyes at full force and hesitant enough to show he is more than fine if they say no.
“Oh?” El says, her eyes sparkling, “I didn’t know you watched Mad Men too! We can watch it together.” She stops and draws in a quick sharp breath, like he just remembered. “But it’s Peter’s turn on the big TV so we can watch it upstairs in our bedroom…”
Neal nods and eyes the stairs with weary dread, as if he has been shot in the leg and not the arm. It takes Peter whole of twenty seconds to cave in.
“Yes!” El replies happily but then tones it down with a small cough. “I mean, thank you honey, I’m sure Neal appreciates that a lot.”
Neal looks at Peter--Peter who has always had his back and who will cook for him and let him have the big TV because he is hurt. He curls the fingers of the hand Peter was holding in the ambulance into a fist before relaxing them again. This twinge of guilt, he definitely got from Peter too--he wouldn’t have felt it for such a small act of manipulation back in the day.
Still, they have the TV and that is mission accomplished.
“I’m in it for the fashion,” he explains with a wink when Peter asks since when he has been a fan of Mad Men.
*
“Could you get him to wash the dishes?” El asks in a whisper after dinner under the guise of helping Neal to the sofa. The Burkes have a system: if one of them cooks the other gets the dishes and El is apparently even more feisty than Neal gave her credit for.
At this point she has the makings of a criminal mastermind, to be honest. Mozzie would be proud.
This will take some effort, but he can get there.
He nods--who is he to deny the wishes of Elizabeth Burke--and gestures for her to sit next to him. He thinks about how beautiful she is, how much she and Peter love each other, and how he will never get something like that. Maybe it will be a bullet that gets him the next time the FBI is a couple seconds too late, maybe poison--maybe he will grow old and become irrelevant. But the bottom line is the same every time--a con man is a con man, like Peter said so many times, and this kind of love, where you are willing to put in the work to understand and trust and grow together--that’s not something for people like him.
Like clockwork, Peter’s head appears from the kitchen.
“Honey, the dishes won’t wash themse-”
Neal quickly wipes at his eyes with his good hand, as if embarrassed to be caught with tears in his eyes. He sees even El startle, though she recovers in time.
“Could you-?” she asks, gesturing at Neal, who is now smiling bravely despite it all.
Peter frowns and marches to stand right in front of them. Puts his hands on his hips.
“Alright you two that’s enough. Cut it out.” He turns to Neal. “Caffrey, I can’t believe you corrupted my wife.”
Neal gives him his best ‘I’m innocent’ shrug and El starts to protest, but it’s in vain--Peter is onto them.
“First it was the cooking,” he lists, “then you got the downstairs TV and now you are trying to get out of doing the dishes. For shame.”
“But I’ve been-” Neal tries and he is going to say he has been shot but Peter cuts him off.
“You have been shot in the arm!”
Neal bursts out giggling then--no point in fighting this battle any longer. El lasts another five seconds before she joins in. Peter looks kind of adorable in the middle of the living room like this, pissed off but the way a cat whose tail you played too much with would be. Grumpy, more than anything else.
Neal raises his good arm in surrender.
“You got us. But for the record El corrupted me. She makes me look innocent.”
El gasps and smacks his shoulder lightly. Peter is shaking his head but his lips are betraying him, curling up into a smile every time he schools them into order.
*
“Unbelievable,” Peter says, once El has left to do the dishes. Truth be told, Neal would miss this, if he was dead. This warmth that only seems to exist in the Burkes’ home, even when one or both of them are mad at him. But there is something Peter needs to hear, too, which is this:
“It’s not your fault I got shot. I was the one who suggested this deal remember? I’m aware of the risks of working with the FBI.”
Peter turns to him. When he speaks, his voice is somber.
“I know that.”
“Do you? You were acting like I was dying at the investment bank earlier.”
Neal doesn’t know if he ever saw him that worried except for the time Keller kidnapped El. Certainly never on his behalf.
Peter purses his lips and he looks supremely guilty all over again.
“About that,” he says. “We got a full confession from Williams in under an hour. He gave up all of his associates, even confessed to a bribery scheme from five years ago we knew nothing about.”
“And how did you do that?”
One thing Neal loves about the Burkes is that they never run out of ways to surprise you. Peter’s face breaks into a grin. He looks at the ceiling and Neal knows it is going to be good.
“I may have implied that you were dying and if you did that before he signed a deal, well, he would be charged with murder, wouldn’t he?”
“Peter.”
This is better than good. This is incredible.
“Did you lie to a suspect?”
Maybe he has corrupted both the Burkes.
“Never.” Peter raises his hands, palms up. “Jones might have walked into the room, said he was just on the phone with the hospital, and when I asked how you were doing, shook his head, though. We let Mr. Williams come to his own conclusions.”
“That’s why you were putting a show at the bank.”
Suddenly everything makes sense.
Peter nods.
“It helped a lot when you fainted.”
Neal runs a hand through his face. There he was, thinking Peter was making too big of a deal of a minor injury, all this time. But so, there is only one thing that doesn’t add up.
“Why did you cook and give up the TV, then?”
Peter smiles. It reminds Neal of something he lost, though what, he can’t remember. Something beautiful and filled with love.
An answer he will not voice.
*
Neal sits between Peter and El on the couch that night as they settle in to watch Mad Men. Peter has decided to join them, muttering about how nothing important happens in the first hour of the game anyway. Neal has taken another dose of painkillers, even weak painkillers tend to knock him out, and he can feel his eyes beginning to drift closed five minutes into the show.
He does something he wouldn’t dare to, normally. He rests his head on Peter’s shoulder and pulls up his legs and tucks his freezing feet under El’s knee, 100% expecting to be told off.
But the Burkes surprise him once again. Peter flinches a little, on instinct, but that’s it. He asks El to pass the afghan, which they drape over him, and turn down the volume.
Neal smiles to himself, his arm aching in dull pangs, but happy and comfortable and at home.
There is one more thing about Peter’s explanation that doesn’t add up that neither of them will bring up.
No one was there to watch in the ambulance and there was no reason for him to hold Neal’s hand.
(And yet, he did.)
(Maybe one day, Neal thinks as he drifts off to sleep, without this anklet, maybe-)