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Neal didn’t put much thought into it, a moment or two at most. There was a time for weeks of carful planning and there was a time for instant action—right now was the second. There were no thoughts of the fact the forger was just a small time crook, that the FBI would catch up to him eventually, or of Peter’s oft repeated words the most dangerous type of person with a gun is a person who has no idea what they’re doing with a gun.
Neal just had one thought about the situation before he acted: the perp was getting away.
Neal threw himself into the alley where the gun was currently being trained on Agent Blake as the forger backed away to safety, hand trembling slightly as the rest of the team stood in a tactical position powerless to stop it. Neal’s distraction was handing the team all that they needed to take this guy down on a silver platter.
“Hey! Over here!”
Two gunshots rang out in the air.
Neal had read somewhere that it was adrenaline that made moments like this seem to slow down, that the brain just collected so much more information than usual that it made a moment seem like forever. He could see the face of the perp clearly though the man stood a ways away, eyes round and terrified, clearly not really meaning to fire his gun. Neal could feel his instincts kicking in as the sound of the shots reached his ears and he threw himself to the broken pavement, the fall seeming to last at least a minute though it was really a few seconds. The final sensation of the eternal moment was the hot, dangerous breath of the bullet as it skimmed not an inch from his ear, seeming to almost mock him with how close it came to devastation.
Then time sped back up and Neal found himself laying face first on the crumbling alley pavement, ribs stinging painfully from the impact, grimacing from the taste of the bitter grit in his mouth.
He picked himself off the ground and tried very hard not to think about the feeling of the bullet whizzing an inch away from his head. To his relief he saw that the team had taken the golden opportunity, the perp was currently standing with three guns trained on him and about to be cuffed.
So yeah, sure, a bullet had barely missed him and, yeah, that didn’t feel great, but no real harm had been done—the perp was caught, no one was hurt, everything would be fine like it always was. Neal would slap on a smile to try to push away the horrible shaky feeling that spread from the pit of his stomach to the tips of his fingers. The smile would fool the other agents who would clap him on the shoulder or scowl at his impulsive actions. Peter would see through the smile, like he always did, and would really push away the shaky feeling with a gentle hand on his shoulder and an empathy filled look, and drag him home for dinner. It was a charade they’d been through many times and it was all Neal needed to stop pretending be okay and to actually be okay.
He dusted off his jacket and stood somewhat painfully, making great effort to look entirely unaffected before pasting on his grin. He turned and was almost knocked over by the force with which Peter grabbed him.
“Caffrey.” Peter’s voice was strained, “Are you—you’re bleeding!” Neal reached up toward his mouth and wiped away a trickle of blood from a cut in his lip. Peter’s hands were patting him down, running through his hair, forcing his face from side to side, the agent’s eyes scanning frantically for other signs of injury.
“Peter,” Neal pulled away slightly to get Peter’s attention, “I’m fine, I just fell.” He grinned and spread his arms slightly to prove the point, struggling not to wince at the wrenched muscles.
The agent met his eyes and Neal almost physically tried to swallow his words as he saw Peter’s expression. The agent’s face had darkened with anger and his hand clenched suddenly and painfully onto Neal’s arm.
“I... cannot ...believe...you.” Peter’s words were dangerously enunciated and Neal felt a clench of real fear in his stomach at the tone. This wasn’t the half-amused irritation that Neal got from the agent every day or even the upset frustration that was somewhat common, Peter was truly and completely angry.
Peter’s voice grew louder, “I cannot believe you. You are incapable of listening!” Peter took a breath as if to speak again and then cut himself off, clenching his jaw with terrifying control. He motioned Diana over, and Neal was stunned his next words, quiet with fury, “Diana, cuff Caffrey, take him back to the bureau and put him in one of the holding cells until I get back.” Diana nodded without question and Neal turned sharply as he processed the order,
“Peter—“
“Neal. There will be consequences for this. But right now I think it’s best for both of us if I don’t deal with you. I don’t want to do something I’ll regret.”
The agent turned and walked away, leaving the harsh words behind as Neal stood in utter confusion and hurt, hands still shaking from the bullet that had almost-hit, stunned by Peter’s sudden anger, wondering what had happened. He felt his arms being pulled together in the front as Diana professionally tightened the cuffs and he finally looked over to her in a silent appeal. But there was no sympathy in her eyes either.
“Di—“ he finally ventured but she shook her head.
“You heard Peter. Let’s get going.” She marched him over to her personal car and opened the door motioning him into the passenger seat, not the back seat. Beside that one gesture Diana was unusually cold and the ride to the bureau was very, very quiet.
***
Neal sat quietly in the FBI holding cell. He’d only ever been there once before—the day of his arrest and interrogation. Similar to now he’d been caught up in a swirl of overwhelming emotions and similar to now he had struggled not to let them overwhelm him.
As the guard left the room and locked the door Neal sat on the edge of hard bed, wincing somewhat at the bruises from his rather hard fall, and stared for a moment at his hands. They were trembling. He folded them suddenly and tightly, ignoring the pain from the scrapes that were beginning to scab, trying to still the tremors that Peter’s reassurance would usually have banished long ago. But it was hard to stop feeling the bullet less than an inch from his head when he sat alone in a holding cell with Peter’s anger as the only other thing to think about. When it came down to it he’d much prefer to think about the bullet, terrifying as it was, and so the trembling stayed.
For the first time Neal was realizing how much he relied on Peter to put him back together after a close call like this. No one else ever really noticed that Neal Caffrey wasn’t as “all right” as he tried to seem and few would have guessed how much Peter’s quiet, unobtrusive touches and words mattered. Maybe even Neal hadn’t really noticed—not until now when those gestures were gone, replaced with a hard anger that had come from nowhere.
Of course, it wasn’t like Peter wasn’t frustrated with him for some reason or another every single day, or that Neal hadn’t been bawled out for making a stupid move in an undercover before, but this anger was unusual, real, and very disquieting.
The real problem was, Neal was a world class con man, able to read most people like a book, he usually understood why people grew emotional which gave him the key to at least try to fix it. But right now he had no idea where Peter’s extreme agitation had come from or why Peter was checking him over desperately one moment and locking him up the next. Neal didn’t like being confused, he definitely didn’t like when Peter confused him, and he certainly didn’t like the hard anger in Peter’s eyes and cold words that locked him up. And so he ran away from the horrible confusion and his mind turned back to his close call as he could almost feel the breeze of the bullet flying past his ear. All he wanted was for that memory to go away but right now, when he really could use Peter’s steadying presence the most, the agent was pushing him away at arms length.
And so round and round Neal’s thoughts went in agonizing circles until he was tempted to childishly bury his head in the flat pillow the cell provided and let out all of the hurting frustration and fear in some sort of emotional outburst. As it was he simply let out a long, careful breath and forced his shoulders to relax as they began to ache painfully from the tension.
He had grown soft, Neal realized as he looked around the room, trying to seize on something to distract him from the mess in his mind. He had never had this problem before, of needing someone else to help him be okay. It was dangerous to become this reliant no matter how much he wanted to. He unfolded his hands briefly and looked down at them, shaking as hard as ever and he roughly folded them back. He clenched them together tightly, breathing deeply and purposefully. He didn’t need Peter. He would be just fine on his own—he always had been before and he would be now.
He had to be.
***
Neal’s hands were still trembling as the door to the cell opened two hours later.
***
It had always been different with Neal.
Of course, the team did everything possible to keep their own safe, but at the end of the day, every agent had trained for danger and had taken a pledge to protect civilians. They had known the risks, prepared for them, and consented to do the job even if it threatened life and limb. That was just part of what was expected for an agent of the FBI.
But Neal was different.
Neal was a CI, a criminal but a civilian. He may be fiercely intelligent, a quick thinker and quick on his feet, a valuable asset, but he was an untrained civilian at the end of the day. And he was Peter’s CI. Peter’s responsibility.
So, yes, it had always been different with Neal than anyone else on Peter’s team. But Peter wasn’t quite sure when the the feeling of his heart jumping into his throat at even the thought of Neal in danger had stopped stemming from a sense of responsibility and had started emerging from the prospect of hurting—or God forbid losing—someone he cared about on more than a professional level.
If Peter had stopped to think about it he might have found it somewhat ironic—that you could be so angry with someone for what they did to themselves. It was Neal’s own life after all that the idiot was toying with, he’d endangered no one but himself. But Peter Burke was an intensely protective creature by nature and no one got away with threatening one of his own—even if they were one of his own—and this time Neal had truly crossed a line.
Neal was impulsive and had both a hero complex and a self destructive streak a mile wide. No matter how many times Peter told him to stay put, to stick to the plan, to wait for backup, if someone was in danger he’d disregard it entirely. It was part of what made Neal Neal , and though Peter might bawl him out for it at times he had never truly held it against him.
But this—what Neal had done today—Peter very much held against him.
This time, no one was really in danger. The perp would clearly only fire his weapon if horribly startled and Neal had played the “hero” anyway. Or the fool rather. Watching him jump into that alley, endangering himself, for what? To catch a small time forger that they’d been chasing for a matter of weeks and would certainly catch up to eventually even if they lost him today—Peter felt something snap inside of him. Neal was an impulsive, stupid, kid who was going to get himself killed and that thought hurt so much Peter almost saw red.
Peter could feel the blood pounding in his ears as his team took the opportunity Neal had given and took the perp down. The gunshots rang out over and over in his mind and he rounded the corner in terrified desperation, seizing his CI forcefully to make sure he was unhurt. Normally the horrible fear would fade away as he saw Neal’s carefully constructed unaffected smile that masked the piteously shaking hands, but this time the overwhelming wave of terror curdled into fierce anger. He fought against the urge to throw his consultant back to the pavement and instead ground out the words between his teeth,
“I... cannot ...believe...you.”
There were a lot of things Peter was feeling like doing to pound the sense into Neal, but he stayed just calm enough to bite out an order to Diana. Locking Neal up for a few hours was better than doing whatever else Peter knew he might regret later.
***
Finishing up the op took significantly longer than Peter expected and he found himself finally returning the bureau almost two hours later. He had doggedly focused on finishing up instead of thinking about Neal but as Diana came up and calmly reminded him where Neal was currently waiting, Peter found himself beginning to grind his teeth again. Diana laid a hand on his arm, her eyes seeking out his, her expression unusually understanding,
“Peter. I get why you’re angry with him, I am too. I wanted to just haul off and shoot him in the foot for pulling that stunt—but we both know that if locking him up actually got anything through his thick skull he wouldn’t be on that anklet in the first place.” Peter purposefully unclenched his jaw, seeing the wisdom in Diana’s words.
She was right. Neal didn’t respond to much, but if anything could get through to him it wouldn’t be locking him up.
She smiled slightly, reminding Peter a bit of Elizabeth as she talked him down from the edge, “I think you should talk to him Peter. You’re the best chance of getting him to really listen.”
“Thanks Di. Can you handle—“
“I’ve got it boss.”
He smiled to himself as she walked away assuredly, though his expression quickly sobered as he returned to the elevator and pressed the eleventh floor button to what was informally know as ‘the lock up’.
There was a lecture that was very, very due.
***
Peter wasn’t exactly intending on yelling but he was more than prepared—and rather expecting—to do so as he made his way over to the cell where his CI was currently sitting. But dammit, Neal looked so much like a frightened child, blue eyes wide as he looked up as Peter walked through the door, that several of the choicest words died in the agent’s mouth. But wheat was truly surprising was the fact that Neal seemed more effected by Peter’s anger than by the bullet that had flown past him.
Neal had been effected by the bullet though, Peter knew that. Neal always was, though no one else ever seemed to realized it. It had taken Peter a while to realize it himself—that Neal didn’t always take things in stride quite as well as he pretended to. Peter knew Neal would need some sort of reassurance when he had come storming into that alley, but at the time he had been to angry to care, thinking it would probably do the CI good to stew on the moment for himself a bit longer. Perhaps it had been good for him, but now looking at the wide, watery blue eyes and hands folded tightly against trembling Peter regretted it.
“Dammit Neal.” Peter muttered, trying to keep his voice from breaking. He was furious with his impulsive CI, the criminal with a self destructive savior complex that Neal didn’t even recognized in himself. One day it would be the death of him, literally, and that thought twisted Peter’s heart so painfully that it was all he could do not to scream in Neal’s face to be more careful and lock him up until he well and truly got the message.
But now Neal was looking at him, scared by a bullet earlier and still trembling despite his attempts to hide it, frightened by Peter’s anger in a way Peter had rarely seen, his eyes begging Peter to explain, to make it better, to tell him what was wrong, to make things right or at least try. Peter moved toward him suddenly and pulled Neal into an embrace, the anger draining mostly out of him as he simply held his partner. He saw the confusion on Neal’s face but didn’t speak for a long moment, just held Neal’s head against his chest and struggled with the flood of his emotions. Finally he pulled away, hands on the sides of Neal’s arms, meeting his gaze directly.
“Peter?”
There was a lot in the one word question. Confusion mostly, some hurt, still some fear, but affection as well.
“Neal, I—“ Peter broke off, struggling to explain what, to his CI, looked like his handler flying off the handle out of nowhere, locking him in a cell for two hours, and then hugging him.
What it actually was, was Peter watching someone he cared about put his life at risk for no good reason and scare him so badly with the thought of loosing him that he could barely stand to look at the person who had almost killed his partner—even though that person was his partner. But the relief of seeing Neal alive and well, but also hurting and frightened, overwhelmed him.
Neal just looked at him patently, more patently than Peter felt he probably deserved, even though it was true Neal was the original one at fault here. The damn kid just didn’t listen.
“Diana was mad at you too, you know.”
Neal smiled nervously.
“Yeah, I...noticed.” There was a silence. “I’m still not quite sure why though. You do know I have no idea why I’m here.” Peter sighed and shook his head slightly,
“Neal. These...rules that we give you—‘stay behind’, ‘stay out of the way’—they’re for your own safety. These aren’t optional rules. We’re angry because you broke them.”
“Technically you didn’t tell me not to...” Peter could feel his anger rising again at the words and saw the instant regret in Neal’s face as he felt his expression darken.
“ How could you do something like that, Neal?”
“I don’t know Peter, I—did it to get the guy, that’s the job—“
“No!” Peter interrupted heatedly, “That’s not ‘the job’, you put yourself in significant danger for no excusable reason!”
“This...isn’t about breaking rules is it?” Neal’s voice was uncharacteristically small.
“‘The hell it’s not! You could have died Neal, for what? A few thousand dollars in forged money.” Peter took a breath. Dammit, he had planned on keeping his temper and he could see Neal beginning to pull down his mask, his face growing more impassive as Peter yelled.
Peter’s next words quieter but still upset. “Neal, do you know why Diana was angry too? Why Jones and Blake weren’t up here keeping you company and trying to calm me down? Why I locked you in here for two hours? You really have no idea? Well, let me enlighten you. It’s because we all sat there and watched you being an stupid, impulsive, careless, thoughtless fool. We saw you almost get yourself killed, and that is not acceptable. To any of us.” Neal had been sitting with an expression that Peter recognized as a carefully constructed ‘apologetic listening yet slightly offended’ air, designed to calm down an incensed lecturer while still communicating offense at being yelled it. But his eyes had slowly grown wider at Peter’s words and the agent could see that, for once, the con might actually be listening.
“You would’ve been dead.” Peter continued, his voice more emotional, “We would have been the ones who had to live with it. See, here’s the part I don’t think you get: we... care ...about you. When you have people who care about you, your life and actions aren’t yours to just do what you want with. You can hurt others. Do you get that Neal?” Here Peter paused and Neal started slightly, realizing that the question wasn’t rhetorical. But for once he seemed slightly at a loss for words.
“I...yeah...” He nodded, clearly trying to minimize the length of the lecture, but Peter could see the confusion in Neal’s eyes as he remained unconvinced.
And that, really, was the problem right there, Peter realized in that moment.
The kid, from years of having no one really care, had simply never learned to respect his own life. Behind all those impressively amazing, death defying stunts he had pulled during their three year chase, was a heartbreaking lack of understanding about the worth of his life. It was just a toy Neal played with, tossed around as if it were his rubber band ball.
Well, that may have been Neal’s choice before now, but dammit, Peter cared about him now and it wasn’t his choice anymore. It hadn’t been his choice for a long time, and everyone around him knew that. But Neal needed to understand that.
The irony was, Neal understood the value of life. He understood it far more than almost anyone in the criminal profession, it was one of the things that had drawn Peter to the James Bond’s case in the first place. Neal understood the value of a life—just not... his life.
No wonder Neal was so frightened of Peter’s anger, never dreaming that it might come out of a place of...love. No one else had ever cared like that before, and so when people were angry at him all Neal saw was the anger and not the underlying care, concern, and fear. These were things that Neal easily read in any other situation but with himself, it didn’t even register as a possibility.
He was living a hypocrisy—other people’s lives were worth something to him, but Neal’s own wasn’t particularly special.
That, in a nutshell, was the problem that needed to be fixed. Peter had seen it before but now, as it manifested so dangerously, it was no longer something Peter could push away to the ‘Caffrey’ corner of his brain but something that needed to be dealt with.
Neal needed to know his life was valuable. He needed to know that he was...precious.
Frankly, Neal needed to be cherished and since clearly no one had ever truly done that before, Peter wasn’t going to let it go on any longer.
Tossing the kid into the lock up isn’t the greatest way to value him, Peter’s conscious prodded and the agent sighed. So, maybe, he hadn’t handled things impeccably, but it wasn’t too late. Peter felt his expression soften as he looked over at Neal sitting on the edge of the concrete bench that acted as a bed, his body language endearingly nervous as his eyes flicked over Peter’s face, subtly trying to read the situation and ascertain an appropriate response. Peter sighed again, this time a bit ruefully as he grabbed Neal’s shoulder, his grip tight with lingering annoyance but his expression affectionate.
“Okay. Let’s get going.” Peter could see the relief that flooded Neal’s eyes through his less affected mask.
“We’re going home?” Neal asked.
“Back to my house. El’s making little chickens for dinner.”
“Cornish hens.” Neal corrected.
“Yeah those.”
“A lot better than pot roast, I have to say.” Neal grinned mischievously and Peter felt himself breath a bit easier in relief that Neal wasn’t holding anything against him. Deserved or not, Peter knew he’d been harsh, but it was not the first time the kid had offered an endearingly quick gesture of forgiveness. Peter pulled an expression of mock offense,
“Or I could, just, let you walk back to June’s instead...”
“Pet er”
“I’m just saying it’s an option if you keep that up.”
“Okay fine, ‘I wish it was pot roast’. Happy?”
“That’s more like it.”
Neal rolled his eyes and Peter grinned, loosening his grip on the CI’s shoulder and bring a hand up to rumple Neal’s hair. Neal ducked out of the grasp, grousing about his perfectly styled hair and Peter reached over to tousle it even further. Maybe it wasn’t the most dignified exit from the FBI as agent chased con man, both laughing with exhaustion-fueled glee at the childish game, but, Peter decided, there were more important things than dignity.
It was a problem that wouldn’t be fixed overnight but some Cornish hens and a game of chase were not a bad place to start when teaching someone the value of a life.