Chapter Text
Neal coughed, but it felt like a sob tearing its way out of his chest.
Everything hurt. It had taken all he had not to throw up on the little girl in his arms.
His shoulder burned and his ribs felt like knives and his head swam like a visually impaired fish, but none of that was more important than keeping Lee safe till bullets stopped flying and glass stopped raining down on their heads and people stopped trying to take her.
Ordinarily he’d feel a little more apologetic and a whole lot more embarrassed about puking directly on someone’s shoes, but the man in front of him was trying to take Lee away, so Neal felt his actions were rather justified.
And still, the Suit wasn't giving up. Neal knew he wouldn’t.
Their escape plan had gone wrong so quickly. One mistake had cost them everything, and the only thing he could do now was make sure Lee was safe.
He had to keep her safe.
Safe, safe, safe like his mother had tried to keep him. Safe like he had already failed to keep Maria. He was out of second chances. Neal rocked in time with the pounding in his ears. Keep Eulalie safe, safe, safe and away from dad.
“Neal Caffrey?”
The agent. He’d be locked up by the end of tonight whether he went willingly or if they had to drag him kicking and screaming. The FBI knew his face. They probably knew he left the tip as well. They were going to take Lee away and throw him in prison and he would never, ever see her again. She would be lost in the foster system or witness protection or even sent to live with dad. He couldn’t let that happen. She wouldn’t be safe.
And that meant he didn’t have a choice anymore. He had one shot at this. He couldn't mess this up. No more mistakes. No more second chances. Maybe, maybe if he played his cards right and got the head injury that made his thoughts feel choppy, disconnected, swirly, like Starry Night, under control– he was probably conning himself– but maybe he could at least keep Lee safe.
Neal clutched the crying baby tighter and nodded lightly at the agent.
“Ok, Neal. Is this the hostage you mentioned on the phone?
Neal nodded again, eyes still screwed shut against the pounding pain in his head and neck. If this didn't work…
“Ok, that’s good. You did a very good job protecting her, Neal.” The agent shuffled a bit closer, but didn't make another move to take Lee… yet.
“Do you know if she was kidnapped? Or a child of one of the crew members?”
Here goes. Neal tried to gauge the agent’s expression, but his eyes wouldn’t focus properly. He faked it anyway, summoning as much bravado as he could, and played his only remaining ace. “She’s mine. I take care of her.”
The agent didn’t seem convinced. “Caffrey, we need to know who she is. Who are her parents?”
“Told you. She’s mine,” and when the agent hesitates, Neal added, a little desperately, trying to sell the anxious single father angle with the little energy he had left, “Please believe me.”
“Neal…” the agent sighed, “Is her home situation unsafe to go back to?”
Technically yes, but if Neal can convince the agent to let him walk, their living situation will be perfectly fine. She will be safe if they can only get out of here together. His hesitation might have been an answer in and of itself, but he still replied with a firm, “No, she lives with me.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Caffrey, but your lifestyle isn’t exactly conducive to raising a child.” That sarcastic tone rang with a familiarity Neal didn’t have the capability to place at the moment. “I just need a little more information in order to make a judgement call right now, ok? Has she been kidnapped from outside the crew?”
“No.” Neal was part of the crew, no matter how unwillingly. He fought back another bout of nausea.
“Is she related to someone involved with the crew?”
“... Yes.”
The agent hesitated again, “Are you related to someone in the group?”
“Yes.” He didn't mean to say that. Why did he say that? Stupid fed and his stupid interrogation tactics.
The agent reached out then and put a hand on his shoulder. He doesn't know if it’s meant to be a comfort or a warning. “Are you related to this child?”
Does he say? Will it matter? The agent honestly sounded like he wanted to help. But that's how they get you, a very Mozzie sounding voice shoots back. They pretend to be all nice and friendly, but as soon as they’ve got what they want to know? Straight to jail.
Neal almost giggles at the accidental reference but quickly remembers his battered ribs and the seriousness of the conversation he’s in the middle of. He brushes off his inner Mozzielogue and reasons the agent would probably hear it from dad later at some point in an effort to score some pity points or something. Neal would rather assert his own more legitimate claim to full custody first, and fast before his brain went completely useless.
“Yeah, I am.”
“And who are her parents?” The agent didn’t ask how they were related. Didn't ask if Neal was the father. He’d probably deduced another explanation, maybe even the right one. Too bad Neal wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of a straight answer.
“James Bennett murdered her mother. Legally, I have sole custody of Eulalie. ’S on her birth certificate in– in the diaper bag.”
The agent didn’t even look away from Neal’s face, but a female agent, whose presence Neal hadn’t even noticed until now, immediately moved, presumably to find the diaper bag. The edges of his vision were growing fuzzy. Like mold on cheese. Not the plastic, fake stuff though, Neal wasn’t sure if Kraft singles even counted as cheese. No, like a good brie or… or… cheddar?
Neal blinked and the lady agent was back, reporting in a rather disbelieving voice that he was telling the truth, the birth certificate did have Neal’s name on it. Neal grinned. Of course it did, and it's not even a forgery.
“I wouldn’t put it past you, Caffrey.”
But it wasn’t, her parents hadn't even given her a name! Neal had done that when he called the hospital to report her birth and get her a social security number and birth certificate. A week and a half after she was born. Eulalie Quinn Caffrey.
The hand on his shoulder tightened. “Ok Neal, the paramedics are going to look over the both of you and then you can have Eulalie back, got it?”
Neal nodded. Paramedics sounded like a good idea. They might be able to make the pain go away long enough for him and Lee to slip away to safety. As long as they didn’t take him to the hospital. Or jail.
“Diana here is going to hold her while I help you up. Can you let her go? Just for a moment?”
Wait.
Hands appeared.
No!
Hands pried Lee out of his arms and hands held him back.
Hands usually only pinned him down and pushed him around and always, always hurt, never, never helped! No, no, no, please! He couldn't let them take her! Neal couldn't let those hands hurt Eulalie! She was the last bright spot in his life.
But he didn’t have the strength to hold on and his wrenched shoulder screamed along with his heart as his little Lee was torn from his grasp. Please! Please don’t hurt her, please!
But she was already gone, and he’d never see her again and dad might find her and Neal wouldn’t be there to protect her. She was the only part of his world that wasn’t tainted by lies and deceit. But even that was a lie. Her birth certificate, the hiding for days on end, the breaking and entering to find a little peace, stealing moments away from home that would only be repaid later tenfold. He was a liar and conman, and his baby sister was the sweetest, most innocent little kid who didn't deserve to be trapped in the mess that was his life, but she also didn’t deserve to be abandoned or used or forgotten like this. He couldn't let that happen to her. He had to keep her safe! And he was failing! Again!
Suddenly there were hands on his face. He cringed away, but the hands were gentle, and they wiped away his tears and then he was looking into the worried brown eyes of Special Agent Peter Burke, and he was saying something over and over and Neal couldn’t hear his words, but relief flooded his mind. Peter was here. Peter could help.
If there was a single FBI agent Neal trusted to keep his sister safe, it was Peter. He was the only one. He just needed to know. He just needed to know and he would help. Neal curled numb fingers into the lapels of Peter’s jacket. He had to tell him, he had to know about Lee if he was going to be able to help.
“P’ter.” He had to force the words out. “P’ter please, th’ took m’ sister. Sh’s my baby s’ster!” He choked on his next inhale and realized he was gasping at air that refused to fill his lungs, “Pl’s. Y’ have to– pr’t’ct ‘r– fr’m– m’dad!”
Peter nodded and this time Neal could make out the word ‘Okay’ repeated a couple times, but he didn't go get Lee. He didn’t leave Neal to protect her while Neal was unable to. He didn’t understand. Neal had to make him understand.
There were other words too, but eventually it seemed the agent realized Neal’s ears were under water. Or maybe his whole head was under water because his eyes were all swimmy and his cheeks felt wet, but Peter’s hands were dry and warm and wiped his face clean again and pulled him forward till his head rested against his shoulder and there Neal wept while it felt like his heart was tearing out of his chest. Everything hurt and he’d lost the person he cared about most in the entire world.
Peter carded one hand carefully through his hair and just before the darkness consumed him, Neal heard him say, “It's okay, kiddo. I promise everything is going to be okay.”
Neal wasn’t sure if he believed him.
Peter put his pen down and rubbed roughly at his eyes. Nothing about it should be drawing his attention this insistently, but there was just something off about the mysterious James Bonds case.
On the surface it was a cut and dry profile. Their forger was bold, cocky, and smart as a tack. He'd walk into banks without an ounce of fear and stroll back out with hundreds of thousands of dollars in hand. He created masterful forgeries of priceless art, slipped through supposedly airtight security systems with ease, and broke into uncrackable safes like it was a game. James Bonds was a diva, a showoff, an artist that lived for the performance and thrived on attention, good or bad.
And yet. Something felt wrong.
Peter couldn't pin down what exactly. There was nothing concrete in evidence to inspire that unease, but ever since the case first appeared on his desk there'd been a distinct feeling in his gut of ‘wrong, wrong, wrong’.
Whatever it was, he wouldn't be finding it tonight. He had dinner with El, and no plans to be late this time.
With a sigh, Peter tossed the file in his briefcase and headed out to his car. He knew he'd most likely end up staring at it in frustration later this evening anyway.
Just as he hit the lobby, his phone buzzed. “Hey hon.”
“Hey yourself. Are you on your way home?”
“Yep, just walking out now.”
“Oh good! Can you pick up some heavy cream and a head of garlic on your way home?”
“Anything else you need while I'm there?”
“No, I think– actually yeah, grab a loaf of that crusty French bread from the bakery, would you?”
“Got it, heavy cream, garlic, and bread.”
“Thanks, hon, you’re the best.” He could hear the smile in El's voice and his heart still did a little flippy flip, even after all these years of being married to her. Peter paused just outside the bureau's front doors to get his grin in control. “So, how was your day?”
He smothered the urge to sigh, smile fading a little at the reminder of his James Bonds. “I don't know, El. You remember the bond forger we've been tracking for the past couple months?”
“The one that's been driving you mad for years? Of course.”
He started up the street once more. “Yeah, that's the one. Something just feels off about the case, but I can't pin down what exactly. There's no reason, no evidence, but I feel it in my gut. It's almost like he's just a front man or something. A distraction. A red herring. He's a thief and a con artist, but… there's just. I don't know. Something else to this case, El. I just know it.”
“Well, if anyone's gonna find him, it's going to be you.”
“It g– uhf!”
“Oh gosh! I'm so sorry, sir!” Someone to his right scrambled to their feet. “Are you alright?!”
He looked up and worried blue eyes met his own as a thin hand reached out to pull him off the ground. It was a kid, early teens, maybe 14, brown curly hair, dressed in an old hoodie and jeans, beat up converse, still looking at him with concern and maybe a little bit of fear, like he was expecting to be cussed out or screamed at. Understandably so.
Peter smiled comfortingly as he took the offered hand, “I'm fine, kid, no harm done. Are you ok though?”
“Yes, sir, I'm ok.” The kid stooped suddenly and came up with Peter's phone, open badge, and a completely changed demeanor. "Whoa! You're an FBI agent?!” His eyes sparkled with delight.
“Sure am,” Peter chuckled.
“Wow! Have you ever caught any bad guys?”
Somehow, Peter didn't think the kid would appreciate finding out that 80% of his job was actually combing through a ridiculous number of half legible legal documents and dusty old tax statements.
“A couple.” Peter gave the kid another once over, taking in the oversized clothes and skinny frame, “Are you sure you're okay? Must have been in quite a hurry to bowl me over like that.”
“Yeah, sorry sir, just trying to catch the bus! You’re really cool! See you, Special Agent Peter Burke!” And with that the boy took off, disappearing neatly into the crowds.
Peter stared after him for a long moment. He was a sweet kid, and it had been a rather unremarkable moment all things considered. But something about it had pinged his already hypervigilant instincts. Peter ran the conversation back and caught it just at the end. The boy had known his name. Did he read it off the badge? It was odd the way he said it though, like it was a challenge. In fact, the whole interaction felt almost… staged?
With a jolt he realized El was calling his name in a slight panic from the phone still held in a loose grip at his side.
“Sorry! Sorry, Honey, just got tackled by a middle schooler. I'm ok! I promise.”
“Ok, well I'm glad you're alright. Is the kid okay?”
“Yeah, yeah he's fine, already zipped off again.” Peter collected his briefcase from the ground. “I'll be home soon. Bye, hon.”
“Ok, bye hon. See you soon.”
As Peter slipped the phone into his pocket, he felt something that hadn't been there before.
Carefully, he pulled out a postcard. On the front was a lovely, hand painted mountain scene, and on the back, written in beautiful flowing calligraphy next to a taped-on green sucker were the words:
Nice to meet you, Agent Burke ;P
- NC
It took until after dinner and 20 minutes of the foreseen staring at the James Bonds casefile to make the connection. That day was the first time Special Agent Peter Burke met Neal Caffrey, the notorious James Bonds, in person, and he'd been just as bold, cocky, and whip smart as Peter knew he'd be from the criminal profiling. But he'd also been significantly younger than predicted.
And the worn, baggy clothes hanging off his thin frame hadn't escaped Peter's notice either. Caffrey had been skinny, raising some very bright red flags in the federal agent’s mind. Red flags that could have any number of implications, whether they indicated some level of abuse or neglect in the boy's life, maybe a runaway situation, or maybe just a rogue child in need of some firm guidance in his life.
Either that, or it was part of an act to throw him off. Or to warrant sympathy? Maybe a clever distraction or a disguise to blend in with the crowd.
Whatever the implications, James Bonds’ age and uncertain home life may have partly explained Peter's ‘something is wrong’ gut feeling and raised hundreds of new questions, all with even more pressing answers, but he still felt like some key piece of the puzzle was missing.
Unfortunately, for an entire year, Peter wouldn’t receive any answers. The boy was always at least one step ahead of the FBI and Interpol, if not three or four. Peter had to admit, not even begrudgingly, the kid was a genius. And a little turd.
He sent flowers to Peter's work, made odd (though rather endearing) phone calls at all hours of the night, delivered birthday cards, left notes in his pockets, and, on one notable occasion, planted handmade chocolate coins with Peter's own likeness stamped on them in his shoes. Peter sometimes wondered if he should feel more threatened that a criminal with an active search warrant on his head knew where he lived and had been inside his home more than once.
He only brought it up to Elizabeth twice, but both times she firmly indicated her belief that the boy meant no harm and was willing to bet he only did it because he admired Peter and wanted his attention. “Like Satchmo digging holes in the garden and looking to see if we’ve noticed him, even if he knows he’ll be in trouble later, hon.”
Peter silently added that it might be because the kid was looking for somewhere safe to bunker down either to hide or to rest when he knew both busy occupants would be out. It honestly worried him more that for Caffrey to seek sanctuary in an FBI agent’s home, let alone the agent in charge of his case, he had to be hiding from someone truly nasty.
In any case, Peter found himself anticipating Neal’s next dramatic caper. Not the crimes, the forgery and theft, but the little things the boy did in his off time. His little gifts, his notes, his calls where he occasionally asked for advice or passed along interesting tidbits of information on other, more dangerous individuals, or, more commonly, mocked Peter’s choices in clothing. The phrase ‘Caffrey Shenanigans’ became a common phrase in the Burke household and even began taking root in the White Collar Division at the bureau.
Neal Caffrey, for over a year, slowly chipped away at boundaries (or occasionally just pole vaulted over them with abandon) and carved a place in Peter Burke’s life, no matter how unwarranted. Oh, he knew the kid was a criminal genius. Knew he’d committed numerous felonies. But he also knew the kid had a good heart. So Peter Burke chased the kid all over the country, across state lines, and very occasionally, across oceans, and all the while, still prickling the back of his mind, tapping incessantly at his periphery, there was that insistent gut feeling that he still wasn’t seeing the whole picture.
Then one day, Neal just fell off the radar. For weeks.
And Peter about lost his mind.
Ordinarily, a con artist dropping off the face of the earth meant they'd gone to ground, holed up somewhere to let the heat simmer down. Ordinarily, a con artist as prolific as Caffrey was not a teenager with a questionable home life. Ordinarily, Peter wouldn't be worried about a criminal going silent. He might even be a little grateful. But not this criminal.
No, when Neal Caffrey dropped off their radar for more than a month, Peter Burke became very worried indeed. He was digging up every lead they could find and still coming up empty. There was no telling what could have happened. Rationally he knew Neal could just be planning a bigger heist or really had gone to ground for a bit. But there had been no contact from him at all. No note, no tipped cap in the direction of a security camera, no cocky grin on a crowded street. Not even a late night phone call. Peter couldn’t help but worry. He might have gotten mixed up with the wrong people or attempted a dangerous heist that had gone horribly wrong or maybe he’d gotten sick and had no one to care for him. He might have been killed at a hand off or been involved in a car accident for all Peter knew. There was just no way to know. And it tore at Peter's insides.
He tried to rationalize. Neal was a criminal. Neal was one of the bad guys FBI agents like Peter worked every day to catch. Neal wasn’t his responsibility past capturing him and handing him off to the justice system.
It didn’t work.
Because Neal wasn't just a criminal, and he wasn't like the other bad guys Peter put away. And for some unknowable reason, Peter did feel responsible for the kid.
As weeks without some indication of Neal Caffrey's continued existence slipped away, Peter became more and more desperate to find him. Not just because he was a criminal and had to face the consequences of his actions, but because he was a smart kid with a sharp sense of humor and a kind heart, and because he might be in very serious danger.
So finally, after over a month of no contact, it came with both surprise and relief when a familiar voice cracked over the speakers of Peter's cell while he was on a stakeout for another case to leave an “anonymous” tip about an old bar called Sal's in the Bronx and a couple corrupt cops. It didn't clear up whether Neal was okay or how he was connected to the bar or what involvement he had with dirty police officers, but at least they knew he was alive.
It didn't take Peter and his team long to dig up info on Sal's and find an interesting collection of people who frequented the rundown establishment. They'd had the place under surveillance for two days already when Peter got another call. This time Peter was really caught off guard by the voice. He knew immediately that it was Neal again, but he sounded wheezy and kept stumbling over his words. He mumbled and trailed off and repeated himself multiple times. He sounded concussed and hurt. But it was the content of the call that really kicked Peter into high gear. Neal told them there were guns and angry men and hostages (Was Neal one of the hostages? Peter knew he didn't like guns) inside the building and things were about to go very badly and “Please, Peter, please you need to get here quickly.”
Diana and Jones were already mobilizing the SWAT team before he had time to promise Neal “We'll be there in two minutes, I swear. I swear we'll get you out, buddy, just hold on.”
The raid went bad so fast. One greasy man made a lazy attempt to sweet talk his way out of getting charged when the group first saw SWAT closing in, but once it became immediately clear his badge wasn’t going to get him out of this, over a dozen men, all armed, took that as their cue to either make a break for it or take down as many feds as they could before getting caught.
In the chaos, Peter almost missed the jerky movement at the back of the bar before the firefight was over and the enraged yelling began as men were cuffed and read their rights. But he didn't miss it.
He saw a mop of brown curls and a bloody t-shirt dive into a booth and overturn the table as a barricade from bullets and shrapnel.
Leaving his team to take care of the soon-to-be-ex officers, Peter turned his attention to the back of the bar.
Heart pounding in his ears, he almost missed the unmistakable sounds of a small child crying.
Too young to be Neal.
Oh goodness, one of the hostages was a baby!
Peter shook off his uncertainty and marched deliberately towards the booth, announcing his presence so Neal would know it was a friendly face approaching. If he was conscious that is. The way he'd sounded on the phone was worrying. Peter wasn't confident the kid would be aware even if he was awake.
“Neal, it's Agent Peter Burke. I’m approaching the booth now. Drop any weapons you may have. I'm here to help.”
No response from behind the table besides the baby's stuttery sobs.
“Neal? I'm going to move the table, alright?”
Still nothing, so Peter pulled the table away and shifted one of the booths back to widen the space between the benches so he could assess the situation.
He was not prepared for the sight that greeted him.
Neal was covered in blood and shards of glass. He was bent forward on his knees, curled protectively over a toddler but trembling. Peter couldn't tell if it was fear, pain, or shock. It was likely a nasty combination of all three.
He called for someone to get paramedics inside as soon as possible and crouched down, trying to coax Neal out as gently as he could, but quickly realized nothing he said was getting through to the boy.
“Neal, kiddo, I'm gonna touch your shoulder. You need to get looked at. Those are some nasty cuts, and it sounded like you were concussed on the phone earlier.”
The moment Peter's fingers brushed the kid's arm, he jerked violently away, setting off the baby’s crying again and seemingly his own stomach. Neal spun around abruptly and vomited all over Peter's shoes. Not a good sign, but he accepted the handkerchief with clumsy fingers and wiped his chin almost on autopilot as the paramedics arrived and took in the scene with an air of professional competence that Peter appreciated. He had basic field emergency medical training, but nothing to properly handle a situation like this.
He stepped back, mistakenly daring to think everything would be fine with medical professionals on site, right up until one of them tried to check on the little one and Neal went back into panic mode, snatching the baby up with a frantic “No!”
“Neal! Neal, it's ok! They're just trying to help!”
The paramedic quickly moved back towards Peter, “You know him?”
The ‘Yes.’ caught in Peter's throat. He nodded instead.
“Do you think you can convince him to let her go?”
“Honestly, I don't know. He sounded concussed on the phone, and I don't think he's heard a word I've said since I got here, but I can try?”
The paramedic nodded, “Try it first, we don't want to cause more stress, but we do need to check them both over as soon as possible.”
Peter didn't want to think about the mostly dried blood crusting Neal's hair or the fresh little splotches blooming across his t-shirt and dripping down his arms. So he focused instead on the anxious trembling and the mumbled pleas still tumbling from his mouth.
“Neal?”
“Caffrey?”
Neal stopped mumbling to cough violently. It sounded painful and Peter couldn't hold back a sympathetic wince.
“Neal Caffrey?” Peter tried again.
The boy nodded slowly but still didn't look up. At least he was responding.
“Ok, Neal. Is this the hostage you mentioned on the phone?
Neal nodded again and Peter mentally catalogued how each visible injury affected his movements. Bruises on arms and neck, a possible shoulder injury, cuts all over the back of his upper body, likely from the shattered mirror above them. It would be great to get both kids away from the broken glass, but one thing at a time. As long as he didn't move.
“Ok, that’s good. You did a very good job protecting her, Neal.” He spoke slowly, so as to avoid spooking him again and inched forward, just a bit as he kept talking. “Do you know if she was kidnapped, or a child of one of the crew members?”
That finally got Neal to look up. Peter’s heart clenched. The kid’s eyes were huge and unfocused, and bruises stained his face like blotchy watercolors making him look young and horribly vulnerable. That doesn't stop him from declaring boldly in a voice that shook but didn’t falter, “She's mine. I take care of her.”
It sounded like it hurt to breathe. Broken ribs? Strangulation? That might explain some of the bruising on his neck.
As for the statement, Peter stared, calculating.
Neal loves people. That's a fact. He could be covering for someone he cares about. Or the baby might actually be his. It’s always a possibility, even if you do use protection. But somehow Peter doesn't think that's quite it. Neal didn't say he was the father, just that he takes care of her. “Caffrey,” Peter tried again, “we need to know who she is. Who are her parents?”
Neal wasn't giving up yet, but his eyes, unfocused as they were, begged Peter to let it go, “Told you. She’s mine.” Peter hesitated, and he added, desperation palpable, “Please believe me.”
“Neal,” he sighed, caught between duty and compassion, “is her home situation unsafe to go back to?” It was the most logical conclusion, and based on Neal’s silence, the correct one. Bleeding hearts. The both of them. Peter wasn't going to separate them if he didn't have to for now, that was already decided. He just needed to know how difficult it was going to be to make that possible.
“No, she lives with me.” Dang it Neal.
If only the kid would cooperate. Then they could get him to a hospital before he passed out and Peter could begin unraveling this spider's web of a case.
But cooperation with government officials wasn’t something Neal was known for. He felt a little bad for snarking at him, but no matter how delirious and pathetic Neal was, he had the uncanny ability to annoy Peter, even in the middle of a rescue op, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Caffrey, but your lifestyle ain’t exactly conducive to raising a child. I just need a little more information in order to make a judgement call right now, ok? Has she been kidnapped from outside the crew?”
“No.”
Okay.
“Is she related to someone involved with the crew?”
“... Yes.”
Now they were getting somewhere.
Another question comes to mind, “Are you related to someone in the crew?”
Neal says “Yes.” And Peter is surprised at the honesty. Because that’s what it was, true honesty from a prolific conman and liar.
Neal really cares about this little girl.
Peter settles a comforting hand on his shoulder before asking, “Are you related to her?”
That wasn’t the real question Peter wanted answered. He was almost certain they were. The baby stopped crying a while ago, curled into the boy’s chest with a tiny fistful of his shirt in both hands, gazing at Peter warily out of the corner of her eye. They have the same brown curls and an intelligent sparkle in their eyes. Well, usually. Right now, Neal looks disheveled and tired and confused, but his grip is steady and sure, as though this isn't the first time he’s taken up a defensive position to protect the little one.
Unfortunately, that practiced defensiveness is hindering medical assistance, and Neal was taking his sweet time having an internal debate over how to answer Peter’s simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question.
He eventually opened his mouth to reply, but the words got a little lost on their way out. Kid needed to get checked out, badly.
In the silence, Diana slid past the paramedics to Peter’s left. “Hey boss, are they okay?”
Without taking his eyes off the pair in front of him, Peter replied, “I think the little one is alright. Neal definitely needs a hospital, but he won’t let go of her. They’re probably related. Siblings maybe.”
“He looks rough. Think it was one of the morons back there?” She jerks an accusatory thumb behind her.
“Yeah. Don't be too nice, would you?”
Diana just shot him a sharp grin that said she'd already planned on it; this was just explicit permission.
At last, Neal seemed to come to a decision and admitted he was related to the toddler.
Called it. “Okay Neal, one last question. Who are her parents?”
Who are your parents, Neal? Who would let their son run around committing art theft and bank fraud and pull who knows what cons on potentially dangerous people. Who would allow their son to put his life in jeopardy so often and in so many ways? Nobody good, that's for sure.
“James Bennett murdered ‘er mother. Legally, I have sole custody of Eulalie. ’S on her birth certificate in– in the diaper bag.” Fantastic. Peter's frustration only grew. A name and another criminal to hunt down, but not a straight answer.
Diana immediately went to find the diaper bag and the head paramedic, his jacket identified him as H. Laufrey, took her place at Peter’s side.
“Sir, we really need to get a look at him. I doubt anything we do will convince him to willingly part with the little girl, and at this point it doesn’t matter what distress separating them will cause if he dies of internal bleeding or something.”
Peter eyed Neal’s glazed expression, “Understood.”
“I'll get the stretcher ready. If you can get him up in the next two minutes, that would be ideal.” The stretcher was already waiting for them, so most likely that was Laufrey's way of telling him to get moving.
The paramedic returned to his place outside the sticky booths just as Diana let out a triumphant “Found it!”
A second later there was a birth certificate with Neal’s name on the line meant for the father in front of Peter’s face.
“He was telling the truth, boss.”
“Course I was. An’ its not even a forgery!” the kid in question slurred through a very self-satisfied grin.
“I wouldn’t put it past you, Caffrey.”
“But i’s not. ‘R parents didn't even giv’er a name! Had’ta call the hospit’l t’ tell’m. I named ‘er! Eulalie Quinn Caffrey, my baby s’ster!” He frowned, “Said sh’s mine tho. Safer.”
Oh. Oh wow, that will be fun to pick through later. It was probably more than Neal meant to say. But it couldn't be taken back now and Peter could ruminate in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. “Ok Neal, the paramedics are going to look over the both of you and then you can have Eulalie back, got it?”
Surprisingly, Neal agreed. ”The’ll make me not hurt s’much. Jus’ no hosp’tl’ ‘kay. Dun wanna go ta jail.”
Yeah, no. They were definitely going to the hospital. Neal didn’t need to know that just yet though. “Diana here is going to hold Eulalie while I help you up. Can you let her go? Just for a moment.”
He didn’t put up much of a resistance, though not for lack of trying.
Bruised fingers clutched at Eulalie's pink onesie, but he was already falling forwards with a high keen of distress as Diana stood up with the now fussing baby on her hip and Peter darted forward to catch him before he could collapse fully onto the glass covered floor.
With his sister gone, Neal was openly crying, his already labored breathing coming in such shallow gasps Peter doubted any air was actually making it to his lungs.
Broken, heaving sobs made it clear Neal thought he was never going to see his sister again and Peter's heart ached for him, but Neal was going to pass out if he didn’t calm down soon. Cupping the boy’s face, Peter tried to catch his attention. “Neal, Neal, it's okay, it’s okay! You're going to be okay, just breathe! Come on Neal! Deep breaths. Your sister is safe, you're safe, you're both safe.”
Finally, those pleading, teary eyes seemed to focus on Peter’s face for the first time since he’d first approached the improvised hiding place and a pair of trembling hands gripped the lapels of his suit coat, “P’ter? Peter! Th’ took m’ sister. My baby s’ster!” He choked on his next inhale and the fear Peter saw behind the tears suddenly turned to pure terror, “Pl’s. Y’ have to– pr’t’ct ‘r– fr’m– m’dad!”
He wasn't making much sense at this point, but Peter got the gist. Protect them both from whoever their father was. That wouldn't be an issue. Peter had no intention of letting any of the kidnappers near either of the children.
He continued crying as Peter nodded and spewed placations while he shifted his arm around the kid to assess the damage to his ribs. “Okay, okay, okay we can do that. Don’t worry, bud, we can do that. We'll keep you both safe.”
He brushed the tears from Neal’s face and pulled him forward till his head rested against his shoulder, “I know it hurts, buddy, I'm sorry. I’m going to lift you up now alright? Alright. It's okay, it's okay.”
He settled Neal on the stretcher with a little effort and the paramedics whisked him outside to the waiting ambulance where Eulalie was already done being checked over, having only had one small cut on her forehead.
Peter told Laufrey he’d be riding to the hospital with them and Diana pressed the little one into his arms. He wouldn’t say he had a lot of practice holding babies, but he knew enough to keep her tucked securely against his chest, much like he had held her older brother only moments before, as the doors slammed shut and the sirens went on.
Up close she looked exhausted and tearstained, but she was fighting the lull of sleep. Stubbornness must run in the family. He shushed and rocked her as Neal had done.
Peter tried to keep out of the professionals’ way, but found he had enough space to card through Neal’s hair with his free hand. “It's okay, kiddo. I promise everything is going to be okay.”
He didn’t know which one of the kids he was trying to reassure more.