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A few years ago Peter would have actually been excited to go to an FBI conference that Philip Kramer would be at. A chance to catch up with his mentor, perhaps see that old look of approval that used to gleam in the older agent’s eye at Peter’s closure rate, feel that warmth of someone else’s esteem. Sure, he was the special agent in charge of the White Collar division now, not a probie anymore, but a man didn’t easily lose that feeling of respect, of wanting to measure up to the people who had trained you into become a man you were proud to be.
Perhaps only a few months ago he would have eagerly looked forward to the event, but now he was sitting in a lecture next to a blissfully oblivious Neal, feeling something close to dread— or maybe a heavy unease.
He could almost feel Kramer’s gaze raking over him, shrewd, his expression cunning and similar to the one the agent used to have before putting forward an idea that would be sure to trap whichever criminal they’d been chasing at the time.
Peter felt physically uncomfortable as Kramer’s stare rested on him, distracting him from the lecture. Perhaps it was an overactive imagination but he felt as though Phil Kramer had been watching him closely most of the weekend. Only not just him— he and Neal.
There was anything but approval in the gaze and as uncomfortable as it was to be watched, when he caught Kramer’s attention shifting toward his CI Peter felt instantly protective. Maybe he was imagining things but that gaze held no good.
As good of an idea as it had seemed at the time to call Kramer to help track down the Degas, Peter was regretting it now. Kramer had taken just a little too much interest in Neal, and in Peter’s partnership with him— in their friendship. This wasn’t the first time Peter had felt uneasy as he noticed Kramer watching him and Neal and he had a suspicion that it might not be the last.
Peter found himself physically trying to shake off the look and focused his attention back toward the front, attempting again to track with the lecture. He only marginally succeeded.
***
It was late afternoon the next day when Peter’s infamous gut detector was proved right in a way far worse than he had expected. It wasn’t the first time he found himself sincerely wishing that he had been wrong.
After passing through an exhibit hall of interesting gadgets that the FBI would soon be rolling out (Neal had been purposely showing just a little too much interested in a very high tech pair of binoculars solely for Peter’s benefit and had grinned widely at Peter’s scowl), they found themselves in a semi-crowded foyer, waiting for the next session.
“Agent Burke, we’d like to talk to you and Mr. Caffrey for a minute.”
A group of four agents with clear seniority had made their way through the crowd, apparently with the express purpose of speaking with Neal and Peter.
“Certainly.” Peter frowned, stepping forward to follow wherever the agents led, but the men seemed content to discuss whatever it was in the crowded atrium.
Peter recognized the leader of the men, Agent Damer who worked in DC with Kramer, as he nodded toward another one of the agents.
“A few minutes ago we discovered the nano-bug listening device displayed in the exhibition hall was missing. Agent Lassen had some eyewitness information that implicates Mr. Caffrey.”
Damer was making no effort to speak with any discretion and a few curious people turned at the accusation as Peter’s mind raced to keep up with the unexpected turn of the situation as Lassen stepped forward,
“I saw Agent Burke’s CI right near by, he slipped something into his pocket.”
Peter turned to Neal instantly as Neal also turned toward him, eyes wide and startled, yet not so much guilty as taken off guard. Neal was shaking his head, his eyebrows drawing together almost desperately,
“I didn’t take anything Peter.”
Peter believed him.
Neal’s fascination with the binoculars had been his usual yanking of Peter’s chain, the kind of teasing he tended towards when he was bored, and the entire day he’d been far too loose, playful, and relaxed to have been planning something. And while he enjoyed challenges such as stealing something right under the nose of an entire conference of FBI agents and might even be impulsive enough to try it offhand, he also would know exactly how much that it would hurt Peter’s standing amongst everyone else at the conference to have his CI pull a stunt like that.
Beyond all of those reasons, there had been a look in Neal’s eye, a brief glint of startled panic that had been hidden within an instant, not the look of a caught thief but of an accused innocent. Peter couldn’t be exactly sure how he knew the expression was not another con beyond the simple fact that...he knew Neal.
Neal hadn’t taken the bug, Peter was certain of that.
“Just because my CI was around doesn’t mean he did it.” Peter said calmly, stepping forward and slightly in front of Neal, perfectly ready, even to defend his friend.
“Pete.”
Peter felt his muscles tense at the soft, dry tone, and turned to face the speaker.
Kramer. Of course.
“A fellow agent seems to be an eyewitness to a crime your CI is accused of and very capable of committing.” Are you going to take the word of a criminal over an agent? The statement challenged.
Yes. Peter wanted to say, because FBI or no, there were always selfish, jealous, men no matter where you went, and he had absolutely no reason to believe Neal had done it, and more than a few reasons to believe someone had it out for his CI. But Kramer cut him off before he could say a word,
“Caffrey is right here, we’ve been watching him the whole time. There’s an easy way to solve this. Caffrey can give it to us right now and we’ll consider not pressing charges. Otherwise we can search him and if it turns up with nothing than we can all go our happy way.”
“I didn’t take it!” Neal protested vehemently as all eyes turned to him. Peter gritted his teeth, not wanting to give an inch to these men but knowing that, as embarrassing as it was, it would be better for Neal to be seen as compliant, for Peter to perform the simple task and be done with it. It’s for their sake, not for mine, I believe you. He tried to communicate this thought to Neal who met his eyes and, with his exceptional intuition, seemed to understand.
“I’ll pat him down.”
He laid a hand on Neal’s shoulder, giving a reassuring and apologetic squeeze before gently turning him toward the wall, but once again Kramer’s gravelly soft voice interrupted.
“Peter.” There was something akin to amusement in his tone, “Surely the infamous Neal Caffrey is insulted with the fact that you’re treating him like the average suspect. No, that thing is small enough to be stashed anywhere on him, you’re going to have to be more thorough than that.” Kramer gave what must have been designed to look like a sympathetic smile and may have fooled any but the expert eye. But didn’t take long for Peter understood Kramer’s meaning or where the nearly gleeful undertones of his words came from.
He wanted Neal strip searched.
Peter couldn’t keep the look of shock off his face as he turned to Kramer, the man standing and smiling gently as if he’d simply asked everyone to dinner.
The agent who’d blamed Neal stepped forward, his expression eager— though whether it was to curry favor with Kramer or for another reason Peter didn’t want to know.
“I can do it.”
Kramer waved him away before Peter could open his mouth.
“Lassen!” He scolded, “Mr. Caffrey is Agent Burke’s asset. Peter should perform the search.” There was relish to the way Peter’s named rolled off Kramer’s tongue.
And in that moment Peter understood everything.
This was no coincidence of wrong place wrong time. This wasn’t utter bad luck that Kramer was taking advantage of in some misguided grudge against Neal. This was a carefully contrived and expertly executed mission of humiliation. A message that Kramer was sending to Neal and Peter both.
You’re not friends. You’re not partners. You’re nothing more than a fox and a hound. Learn your place.
Peter could hear the words clear as day as he stood, rooted to the spot, gazing at Kramer with a shock that was rapidly turning to animosity toward his former mentor as the older man looked on with a slight smile on his lips.
“Pete?” Kramer prompted, just a little too guilelessly.
A small crowd of curious agents had formed and were looking on, several of them already frowning at Peter’s hesitation. Kramer had done an excellent job of setting up the situation. If Peter did anything but what Kramer wanted he would be treated with incredible suspicion at best and Neal would likely be thrown, at least temporarily, into prison or at very least a holding cell for being uncooperative.
Peter turned, slowly, to meet Neal’s eyes, and was startled by the resignation in them. Neal had read the situation just as quickly as Peter and had come to the conclusion much faster. His eyes locked intensely with Peter’s for a brief moment before falling to the ground, a subtle gesture of permission.
Do it.
Peter’s jaw clenched, his stomach churning at Neal’s resignation, at the lack of outrage in his demeanor. Neal was smart, he knew resisting would do no good, he’d read the situation and had made the right decision, but it still hurt to see.
“Come with me.” Peter muttered finally, jerking his head toward a nearby room. Kramer followed and Peter was simultaneously thankful that he didn’t have to call for volunteers to act as the second agent required to be present during the search and forcing down a wave of disgusted anger at Kramer’s eagerness.
Someone had scrounged up a box of latex gloves and handed them to Peter before Peter firmly shut the door, unable to meet Neal’s eyes as he gave the quiet order.
“Take off your clothes and hand them to me.”
“Stay in the middle of the room.” Kramer added and Peter resisted the urge to turn and glare at him.
Neal silently obeyed, taking care to carefully fold his clothing and hand them over. Peter keenly noticed the lack of playful threats about what what happen if even the smallest bit of lint marred his precious Devoir and made a pointed effort to treat the clothes far more carefully than he might in any other circumstance.
Within a a few minutes every article of clothing had been searched and lay neatly piled on the table as Neal stood, naked, in the middle of the room. Peter turned away, pulling on a pair of latex gloves with far more care than usual.
There was only one way to do this. Stay clinical. Stay focused. This was a routine procedure that Neal had experienced and Peter had performed before. It didn’t need to be anything more than what it was, no matter what point Philip Kramer wanted to make.
Aware that he couldn’t stall forever without bringing that spark of triumph back to Kramer’s eye at the discomfort he was causing, Peter turned back and began, as procedure established, at the top, running his fingers through Neal’s dark hair and over his scalp, trying not to consider how much Neal hated getting his carefully styled hair mussed. Stay focused.
He moved down, checking behind Neal’s ears, hesitating slightly as he felt a half suppressed instinctive flinch as he touched Neal’s skin with the cool glove. A routine procedure. Peter quickly felt around Neal’s neck and jaw before pulling off the gloves and putting on another pair.
“Open your mouth.” He ordered softly. Neal obeyed, cooperating as Peter searched as quickly as possible, running a finger around the gums, under the tongue, and on the roof of the mouth. Peter found himself grimacing in sympathy as he removed his hand and Neal swallowed a few times, his face impassive though Peter noticed the brief look of disgust at the taste. He changed gloves again. “Face the wall, place your palms against it, fingers spread.”
He quickly confirmed that Neal had nothing in either hand, feeling between the fingers before running his hand down the arms. He could feel gooseflesh rippling over Neal’s skin and his arms prickled in empathy. He resisted the inopportune urge to huff a laugh, mostly to break the nearly intolerable tension, partially to fight against the sick feeling in his stomach, but also from the fact that, yes, even Neal Caffrey got goosebumps.
He moved on, breathing with carefully controlled anger as Kramer called out,
“Shoulder blades, Pete.”
All pretense of the claim that this was simple procedure justified by Neal’s status as a CI grew ridiculous as Kramer stood, watching, almost spectating, calling out instructions as if Peter was a probie.
Peter stayed silent, running a hand over Neal’s back, between his shoulders, trying not to notice how sharp his shoulder blades felt. Neal was in shape and healthy but he still had a fairly slender build and Peter was startled by how much smaller he looked without his trademark suits. He could easily feel the vertebrae under Neal’s skin. He could use a bit more of El’s cooking. Peter thought absently, then he allowed himself a tiny smile.
Phil Kramer could make whatever point he wanted but it might bring results he didn’t foresee or would approve of.
This thought carried Peter through the next minute or so, keeping him focused as he moved down.
“Pete, you missed...“ Kramer protested, giving a vaguely crude wave toward Neal as Peter moved on from the most uncomfortable part of the search after a fairly cursory exam.
He felt Neal stiffen under his touch as Kramer spoke.
Something snapped inside of Peter at those words, at the gesture, at the meaning and intent behind them, and he turned slowly, his eyes dark with resentment. Kramer’s determination to force as much humiliation between them as possible sickened him.
“With all due respect Phil,” Peter’s voice was quiet with a tightly controlled anger as he stood to face Kramer, “I know Neal Caffrey, and I know there are things he would not do. My search was as thorough as necessary.”
His words were more polite than he’d even intended but his tone was chillingly dangerous. You’ve pushed me far enough. Peter felt Neal’s muscles tense slightly under his hand and realized that he’d placed a protective hand on his CI’s shoulder and was now squeezing it almost painfully. He relaxed his grip, hoping Neal understood the hold had nothing to do with anything toward him.
“Alright.” Kramer raised a hand almost defensively, wisely following Peter’s unspoken warning, “I trust you Pete.” There was a moment of silence as all three men knew who had won this small battle, but it made only a small difference in light of the larger one. “Well, finish up, we don’t need to be here all day.”
With little left to do, the rest was mercifully easy and Peter bent down to finish, repressing an audible sigh of relief as he stood pulled off the latex gloves.
The whole thing had taken perhaps six minutes from beginning to end. Six minutes that Peter never wanted to repeat.
“You can put your clothes back on.” He murmured quietly, turning away to give Neal some semblance of privacy and facing Philip Kramer.
“I’m glad to see Neal is clean.” Kramer said with a glance of contrived relief. Peter wasn’t sure he’d be able to respond without being written up as insubordinate and wisely stayed silent, letting his expression communicate a small fraction of his anger. Kramer just gave a small nod, “I know that was a little tough for you Petey, but that’s the job we signed up for.” He gave a syrupy look of sympathy and reached over to pat Peter’s shoulder. Unable to quite hold back his disgust Peter wrenched his shoulder away from Kramer’s hand.
Kramer raised an eyebrow but before he could say anything his phone rang and he reached to answer it.
Peter took the brief moment to reign himself back in, grateful for the distraction to keep him from doing something worse than pull away. Kramer hung up the phone and turned back, a manufactured look of sheepishness on his face.
“Looks like the bug wasn’t stolen after all, it was misplaced by a probie.” He laughed a little, “Well, I’m sure you can understand this little mix up, can’t you Neal?” He looked over at Neal who was focused on knotting his tie.
Neal didn’t look up and didn’t respond. Peter held back a tight smile of approval.
A ‘little mix up’. Yeah right. This carefully constructed mockery of justice and procedure, a disgusting farce designed to prove a twisted point— yet Kramer smiled, content with the knowledge that such an accusation would never hold water.
Kramer shrugged his shoulders and turned with a little wave.
“See you around Petey.”
Peter sincerely hoped not.
Kramer left the room, his point made, mercifully leaving the fallout of his little game to the privacy of the two men.
The silence weighed between them for a long moment as Neal carefully smoothed his jacket, taking longer than strictly necessary even for him.
They had planned on attending the last few lectures of the day but though Peter wanted nothing more than to rub it in Kramer’s face exactly how little this whole thing had effected them, the truth was quite the opposite. He had no wish to parade Neal around after this, and it was unlikely that Neal wanted to either. He pulled in a breath at last, his hand hovering over Neal’s shoulder, not quite sure that his touch would be comforting rather than a reminder of what he’d just done. After a moment he put his hand in his pocket.
“Let’s head home.”
Neal nodded, his eyes gratefully relieved and they made their way silently to the car.
Some days it was easier than others, Peter thought as he walked next to his CI, an awkward cloud hanging between them. Some days it was easier to pretend that their partnership was all blue skies, solved cases, and jokes about bad coffee. Some days it was easier to pretend that Neal’s anklet was an annoying fashion accessory rather than the only reason the young man wasn’t behind iron bars. But the truth was, there was a lot of ugly in their relationship, things that they both tried not to dwell on.
It was easier for both of them to look into each other’s eyes after solving a case. It was less easy after Peter had to restrain Neal with steel handcuffs locked around his wrists and force him down a perp walk in front of the whole office.
Peter had considered the possibility of a strip search when he’d first taken Neal’s deal. He was certainly not so naive as to think it would never come up as a necessity, and had already decided that if the need came up he’d get someone else - someone from a different division - to do it. It would be hard enough to build any sort of respecting relationship with someone when you held the key to their freedom, had the power to control most aspects of their life, and could throw them back behind bars if you wished— but having that between you would add another raw edge entirely.
As humiliating and vulnerable as a strip search was, Peter could only imagine it would be ten times more so if it were performed by someone you’d have to face on a daily basis, not to mention someone that you respected and wanted to respect you.
No. If— when the day came he would not strip search Neal.
And yet here he was, beginning a two hour drive with a silent Neal Caffrey in the passengers seat— having done exactly that.
Peter swallowed down the bitter taste that dwelt on the back of his tongue, but couldn’t wash it away.
The silence had grown unbearably heavy as they drove further from the conference site, weighing Peter with the need to clarify, reassure, or something, anything, to perhaps make this whole thing even a fraction less awful than it was.
“You’re not just my asset, you know.” He spoke the words quietly.
Neal’s head ducked slightly in response and his words were soft, a bit shy.
“I know.”
That was good, Neal had sounded serious, not simply humoring Peter, but it wasn’t nearly enough to get anywhere close to bridging the gap that Kramer had forced between them. Peter found himself falling back into glum, hurting frustration.
But then Neal turned slightly, and did something so endearingly and undeniably characteristic of him— of his nature to help and protect and care for those he cared about, that Peter found himself just a little stunned.
“It wasn’t your fault Peter.”
Peter stared it him.
“No.” He managed. At least there was that . “But still—“ he broke off, still startled by Neal’s words of comfort.
Neal was the one who’d been humiliated. Kramer’s message may have been more for Peter with Neal’s embarrassment being a happy addition, but Neal was the one who had been purposefully, publicly pointed out and paraded as an example. Yet here he was comforting Peter. Somehow it was this, the sweet natured effort from his partner who saw Peter’s distress and put it over his own that truly hurt Peter’s heart.
Friends and partners? Or handler and CI? The relationships should be mutually exclusive - were mutually exclusive - but somehow Peter had ignored that fault line down the middle of their partnership for a very long time. Now Kramer had taken the fissure that breached down the center of Peter’s relationship with Neal, the crack that Peter had hidden away from even himself, and had shone a spotlight on it.
It couldn’t hide anymore and Peter found himself brutally wrestling with it.
Was this all that he and Neal could ever be? This odd, nonsensical, divided and strained relationship that was sometimes one thing and sometimes another and never quite fully what either of them truly wanted?
In some ways they would no longer be themselves, be Peter and Neal, if they were not an odd, unlikely pair, but surely at the core, there wouldn’t always need be this chasm even if it must remain for now?
Surely someday the crack could heal?
***
Neal felt a flush of warmth rise to his cheeks as he stripped off his clothing. Embarrassment was a weak emotion, he’d long ago decided, and it took a lot for it to be more than a passing thought for Neal, but it was certainly more than that now. He fought against it desperately, hating the feeling of shame that crept down the back of his neck.
Compartmentalize. He scolded himself. It had been a very effective strategy for him in the past. He worked to break down the situation into manageable parts to process separately. But it didn’t help like it usually did.
As soon as he’d heard that the bug was missing he’d understood what was about to happen— though he hadn’t thought it would go as far as it did. The public reminder of his status, the purposeful humiliation was certainly not pleasant but it was something he could overcome. He didn’t have to let it bother him.
Kramer’s clear relish in whatever message he was trying to convey with his little game didn’t matter to Neal who had never cared much about other people’s lessons in wisdom before.
And it wasn’t that he minded Peter seeing him undressed, that had happened before, a locker room or two, and more embarrassingly when he’d been sick once or twice, no, it wasn’t that that really bothered him.
Even being strip searched wasn’t really so bad— it hadn’t bothered Neal much after he’d been in prison for a few months. It was routine, part of every day life in a supermax, and he’d grown used to it. This hadn’t been the worst strip search he’d ever experienced either. There’d been a few— rougher, more humiliating, the guard taking just a little too much pleasure in his job. Nothing that scarred Neal for life necessarily, but enough to keep him wary. He didn’t need to worry about that with Peter.
Peter’s touch had been gentle and not even by comparison. It was by far the most respectful and physically easy search Neal had experienced. But that didn’t make it easy.
For something like this to have as little discomfort as possible it needed to be cold, clinical, performed by someone you’d never met and likely wouldn’t again, at least not under any other circumstances. That was ideal. Strip searches were a procedure to be performed by prison guards or nameless members of law enforcement. Not... partners. Certainly not friends.
To be strip search by a friend— that was one of the most intimately distrusting things that could come between you. No matter how quickly or gently or respectfully Peter performed his task, it didn’t erase the fact that it was Peter Burke, his handler, his partner, his friend who was running his hands is places neither of them wanted, searching for proof of betrayal, while being watched by a smug Phillip Kramer.
Breaking down, compartmentalizing the pieces of the situation simply didn’t work because even if none of the little pieces were a big deal in a vacuum, put together they were...well frankly they were awful. It was the whole thing that sucked, coming together into one, awkward, awful, mortifying mess. It was a harsh reminder of everything vulnerable and humiliating that undermined the only solid, sturdy friendship Neal had ever had.
As much fun as it was to pretend it was mostly cloudless skies working with White Collar, it really wasn’t all snark and high closure rates between him and Peter. Kramer was bringing back that reminder with a vengeance.
And it really, really sucked.
They walked in silence to the car.
It wasn’t so much that Neal had trouble thinking of something—anything to say, there were a dozen jokes that he should be able to crack about what had just happened, but he simply...couldn’t. It wasn’t a laughable situation and as easy of an out as it would be to try to make it one, he couldn’t loosen the tight knot at the back of his throat enough to let a lighthearted remark through. And deep down he wasn’t sure he could really handle it if Peter were to laugh.
He snuck a glance over at the agent who walked beside him, trying to get a reading on how Peter was reacting to everything. He knew Peter hadn’t liked it, Neal had seen that from the very beginning. To an outsider Peter may have come across as vaguely annoyed at having to search his CI and maybe just a bit embarrassed, but as an expert con artist who’d worked with him for more than a year Neal could read his discomfort easily. Peter’s posture, expression, even his touch all seemed to be apologizing, his eyes begging Neal to understand. And Neal did. As much as the entire thing sucked, Peter held none of the blame for anything but being his friend.
But there was another question that weighed on Neal now. Was the search anything more than somewhat uncomfortable for the agent? If Peter saw how Neal had really felt, how much more than just a strip search it had been for him, just how close it all came to the sensitive, bruising parts of life that Neal was trying so hard to be okay with, would he simply tell him to cowboy up?
No. Neal realized with some shock as he glanced over at his friend and really looked at the agent for the first time.
Peter was miserable.
A tight frown of frustrated, hurting distress was pulling at the corners of his mouth; his eyes flicked away from Neal, staying studiously on the pavement. His posture was hunched, hands firmly in his coat pockets instead of resting absently, protectively, on Neal’s shoulder. Neal hadn’t even noticed how often Peter walked that way, unconsciously, affectionately, protecting him until now, as they walked side by side with a foot or so of space between them that might as well have been a chasm a mile wide.
Peter was struggling with what had just happened, struggling in the same way as Neal was— perhaps more. Neal could almost see it burrowing deep inside his friend and lodging there to fester. As much as this day had bothered Neal, he would push it away, purposely forget it, pretend everything was fine tomorrow. It might rankle occasionally, when he let himself think about it, but he’d pull away from it with as much mental strength as he could muster. It was what he did.
But it would weigh on Peter.
Neal could see it troubling him and knew Peter wouldn’t shove it away like Neal would. In a sudden, incongruous moment of emotion Neal felt a sharp stab of hurt on behalf of his friend. He examined the feeling instantly, startled and confused by it and found himself in the ludicrous position of feeling the need to comfort the man who’d just strip searched him— for searching him.
But no, Neal reproached himself, you could make anything sound ridiculous if you phrased it too bluntly; this was about Peter.
Peter, who had no trouble joking about sending Neal back to prison but had clear glints of pain in his eyes when he’d seen Neal there. Who’d cuffed him numerous times but who had always had a steady hand on his back, had given a quick squeeze of the wrist, or gently laid a coat over the cuffs to hide them. Peter, who grinned whenever Neal moaned about his anklet, but never really touched it, to take it off or put it on, if he could help it. It was about Peter, who had always worked to reconcile the rifts and abnormalities of their anomalous relationship but was still struggling as it disrupted his black and white world with shades of grey. Neal could see the way it scared him.
They reached the car at last, both shivering slightly in the cool air, the cold causing them to scramble rather than hesitate to get into the vehicle. But as soon as they were seated the heavy silence settled like a thick fog.
Peter spoke first, a few minutes after they pulled safely away from the conference center.
“You’re not just my asset, you know.” His voice was low, a bit rough. Neal ducked his head, feeling almost shy with the direct way Peter addressed a small bit of the problem.
“I know.” Neal replied softly. He did know that, and his heart warmed at bit at Peter’s obvious need to get that message across.
Peter nodded once, a bit stiffly, but his hands gripped tightly on the wheel, his knuckles whitening. Neal didn’t miss either of these small signs of Peter’s distress and absently ran a hand through his hair, trying somewhat uselessly to tidy it, before he spoke again, hoping to offer some small reassurance. “It wasn’t your fault Peter.”
“No.” Peter said with quiet strain. “But still—“ he didn’t finish the sentence.
Peter’s frustration came out in his driving as it always did, the steering wheel being pulled with more force than necessary, the breaking just a little too sharp. But this was more than his usual frustration with traffic and Neal could almost follow the thoughts that tormented his handler, the two relationships that were enemies and yet somehow were trying to coexist between them.
CI and Handler—that relationship meant something very real to Peter. But friendship—that did as well. They both meant very, very different things and they both coexisted between he and Neal in some strange convoluted way that worked because neither of them examined it too closely if they could help it. Neal was surprised, when he thought about it, at how long Peter had let it go without challenging it too much. Perhaps because now, being forced to look at it clearly, he was driven to distraction.
“It’s just—it’s not— it’s not supposed to be this way!” Peter slammed his hand on the steering wheel, tugging it sharply, his voice raised in the same sort of half-yell he often used when frustrated, though the tone had a lot more potency now. He looked over and saw Neal’s lips twitching slightly out of habit. “What?” He muttered a bit sheepishly.
“It’s just that...you’re trying to fit us into a box that makes sense.”
“I like things to make sense.” Peter threw back.
“I know you do. But Peter, our... partnership has never been conventional.” Neal said quietly. “If you try to make it that way, something’s going to give. You drive yourself crazy trying to make it work perfectly.”
Peter just turned his head away slightly, that same distressed frown pulling at his mouth, furrowing his forehead. “Look,” Neal tried to explain, hoping maybe a little logic might help his handler, “in your world friends have beers, play basketball, and stand up at each other’s weddings. In my world, friends backstab each other and rip each other off millions. You put them together and...” he shrugged, letting Peter mentally finish the thought. You get this uneasy truce of oil and water when they’re shaken together, but never really combine.
It wasn’t ideal— it did sting, it was hurtful, it was humiliating— but it was okay.
Neal had learned long ago how to make the best of a difficult situation, to mold it into a better one, to be grateful that things weren’t worse, to try to think about the friend that he had instead of the anklet that he wore. It wasn’t perfect but he’d learned to be okay with it. He had to be okay with it. And Peter had to learn to be okay with it too.
“You see the world in black and white Peter. You don’t like when they mix, but grey is a lot more versatile of a color.”
Peter was silent for a moment. “That sounded almost poetic.” He finally remarked dryly. Neal huffed a laugh, his chest loosening enough that he began to think maybe it might be best, now, to laugh it all off.
“The fact that you looked like you’d rather be in a lecture on pre-Renaissance art history helped a bit.”
A brief shadow of a grin crossed Peter’s face but it faded quickly, replaced by the by-now-familiar lines of taut distress that carved around his mouth and into his forehead.
“I’d rather have been in prison.” He muttered, turning the wheel sharply. Neal wasn’t sure he was exaggerating.
Neal let out a discouraged breath, unsure why Peter’s unhappiness was now bothering him far more than his own perturbation over the day’s events. It certainly meant something to see how much it bothered Peter, but now he wanted Peter to be able to accept it, to be as alright with it as Neal was—or would be in a few days.
He turned a bit to better face Peter who glanced at him as well as he could before focusing obstinately back on the road.
“Alright, we can both agree that sucked a little.” Neal tried not to recoil from his own understatement, tried not to hear Mozzie’s voice, The greatest lies a con tells are to himself, “But we don’t have to let it bother us. It’s the way it is, isn’t it a bit naive to expect any different?” He asked gently, trying not to think about the fact that the words were as much for his own benefit as the agent’s. Peter maintained a heavy, stubborn silence.
Neal settled back in his seat, turning his head to look out the window.
“In an ideal world, Peter, everything would be great. But we’re in the real world. This is the way it has to be.”
The silence continued but Peter glanced over, his frown more thoughtful now, though still hurting. Neal hoped that perhaps he’d gotten his point across, perhaps Peter might understand how much easier it was to just accept the world in all its crummy glory and make the best of the good that was sprinkled amongst all the rot.
He was wholly unprepared for how entirely Peter’s next words would take him off guard.
“But it doesn’t have to be— not always.” Peter’s words were quiet, almost to himself, “Someday...” he murmured, his tone was wistful...longing.
Neal swallowed against the ache that rose suddenly in the back of his throat, blinking back the moisture that burned his eyes.
Someday.
It wasn’t a promise, not really, more a...hope. A hope in a future that Peter saw. One that Neal hadn’t seen before. A future where they worked together, truly side by side, trusted each other— where Peter trusted him, where they were friends without the sobering, distasteful reminders of their current fox and hound relationship.
It startled Neal sometimes, that this man, a man who really had seen some of the worst of humanity— had so much faith in people.
One part of him, a small bitter part whispered that Peter was simply naïve, that Peter didn’t understand the way the world really worked, but a purer, brighter part, the part that he tried to listen to more often, longed for Peter’s belief in justice and good and mankind. Neal had seen too much bad and not enough of the good that Peter had to have that faith. But perhaps...someday.
Peter’s wistfully murmured words, his struggle with the difficulties of the present were not those of a man who didn’t understand the real world, but of a man who worked tirelessly for a better one.
Neal could feel the effect, warm and sweet, that those hopeful words sowed in him, a hope he didn’t know he had. It was a realization of Peter’s hope in him, of Peter’s faith that he— that they really could turn this odd mesh of beautiful and ugly into something truly lovely, that Neal perhaps wouldn’t mess this up as he had everything else. That Peter not only wanted to, but believed he would perhaps trust Neal one day. That Peter believed in him— believed in him enough to allow himself to truly hope.
Neal saw clearly, now, the difference between them. It was, yes, a difference of black and white and shades of grey, but it was also a difference of resignation and hope. As much as Neal was the dreamer of the two of them, it was Peter who saw the brighter picture, who was reaching toward it— and was struggling more potently with the ugly reminders of the current one.
Neal found himself looking at Peter, searching, studying the agent with a curious wonder, a small smile softening his lips as he looked at his friend. There was so much more to Peter Burke than met the eye, more than the agent realized himself, Neal thought.
Peter had no idea how radically hopeful, how deeply caring his nature was— it was just who he was, who he’d always been. And it gave Neal hope.
“ Someday .” He repeated quietly.
It had been a few minutes since Peter had spoken and a gentle silence had reigned in the car ever since but Peter looked over as Neal repeated the hopeful word. Neal met his eyes and suspected that his own were suspiciously bright but decided he didn’t care. Peter needed to see how profoundly his words had impacted Neal, if only for the briefest of moments. He let a soft smile warm his face, holding Peter’s gaze with his own and letting a little of the fondness he felt seep through.
“ Someday .”
And then Peter smiled too.