Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter ran down the stairs, looping his tie as he went. “Sorry hon, I’ll have to skip breakfast. I have to go earlier than expected, just got a call from Violent Crimes and they’re needing White Collar to come in and look at a case.”

“Violent Crimes?” Elizabeth came around the corner to meet him, pouring coffee from his old Harvard Alumni mug into his usual thermos. “Any idea what it’s about?”

“Not fully, but it’s something to do with the Navarro case.” He finished with his tie and Elizabeth handed him his coffee. “I just got a call about coming to meet them at a crime scene.” He took a sip from the thermos and she went to adjust his tie. “And…they want me to bring Neal. Asked for him, even. Specifically.”

“Oh, hm.” She took a step back, considering his tie and his predicament. “Do you think he can juggle it? That and the Gallagher thing? That’s a lot of casework for him.”

Peter laughed a little as he stepped into the entryway and debated whether or not to grab his coat. Early March, the mornings were cold and the evenings were hot. He decided his hands were full enough with Neal and grabbed his keys instead. “I do, I know Neal’s limits, the Gallagher case might have late nights but they’re not too mentally taxing, not yet anyway. If I need to, I’ll start letting him go home early. ”

“Well, maybe then you can start coming home early too,” Elizabeth said with a wink and a quick kiss goodbye, and Peter left the house hoping she was right. 

Peter pulled up to June’s home and parked. He took a long swig of his thermos, finishing off the Folgers coffee he’d been sipping through the early morning traffic as he waited for the heavy front door to open for him. Once it did he pushed past the maid with a quick, “Thank you, good morning,” before going up, taking the stairs two at a time.

He was tempted to just walk right into Neal’s apartment, but even his sense of urgency didn’t give way to total rudeness, so he knocked. It took a minute; Peter was just about to call Neal’s name, when footsteps approached and  the door finally swung open, revealing a mildly disheveled and half dressed Neal. 

“Hey Peter, sorry, I’m almost ready. Wasn’t prepared to go from the 3 a.m. undercover op to the early morning wake up call.”

“Well, I’m happy to click the anklet back on you and let you get your beauty’s rest.” Peter teased with a small smile.

“Ha ha.” Neal said with perfect enunciation and a slight roll of his eyes as he stepped aside to let Peter in, saying, “The coffee is just finishing up. Make me a cup too.” 

“I wouldn’t have called so early if they hadn’t asked for your input specifically.” Peter set his empty thermos down before pulling down two mugs, filling them generously. “They sounded pretty anxious to hear what you thought.”  

“Have you learned any new information about this case? What they’re calling us in to review so early in the morning, and so suddenly?”

“I talked to Coleman on my way over here.” Peter answered as he poured a splash of cream in both mugs, watching as Neal went over to his bed, where the second half of his outfit lay. “Apparently there was a robbery at one of Narvarro’s men’s places after he was murdered.”

“After?” Neal’s tone was curious as he turned to him with a quizzical look and fingers nimbly buttoning up his shirt.

“After. Violent Crimes went in for the murder the other day, started cataloging everything, and then overnight someone went in and robbed the place. They’re sending all the info on what was stolen now, but I’ve got the info of what had been cataloged, so you can look over potential hits, as well as a blueprint of the house with the security features. I’m guessing they want your input on how they could’ve broken into the place. Jones is getting the full rundown from their men, so he’ll walk us through everything once we get to the office.”

Neal gave a quick nod of acknowledgement before he went over to his dresser and pulled out two ties. “Which one?”

As he finished the rest of the coffee in his thermos, Peter pointed at the one in Neal’s right hand. “Purple.”

Neal returned the other tie to the wardrobe, and in short order joined Peter at the dining table. He started leafing through the few lists Peter had printed while they sipped on their coffees. 

He was filling Peter in on what he’d do with the stolen items, when they pushed through the glass doors together. They were stopped short by a probie who was blocking the path up the stairs, leaning over the back of a desk as he scribbled on a notepad. 

“Sure, I’ll let Agent Burke know.” The probie hung up the phone and turned enthusiastically to stand, chest-to-chest, up against Peter. 

Neal smirked, and Peter took a step back. “It’s your lucky day, Agent Twirch, I saved you a trip. Tell Agent Burke what?” 

Peter tried to be a fair boss, and as friendly as was reasonable to expect from the division head. Still, he tended to forget that, despite what Neal said, he sometimes came off as intimidating without even trying. The probie—who wasn’t even a young man, he must have been older than Neal by the time he graduated Quantico last year, and Peter supposed he could appreciate the drive even if the man lacked skill—looked between Neal and Peter, as though asked a trick question. 

Peter could feel Neal looking at him too, now, and he gave the probie a clue before Neal could chime in with something utterly unhelpful that would only make him even more nervous. 

“You took a message,” Peter pointed to the paper in his hand. “For me.” 

Twirch’s eyes widened, he glanced down at the paper, then laughed. “Right! The message, of course. I apologize Agent Burke, I wasn’t expecting to see you just as I—” 

“The message?” 

Peter felt bad about the curtness, but he and Neal were actually on their way to a meeting, and in any case it seemed to snap the probie out of his daze. 

“Yes. The department heads meeting on Thursday might be pushed back thirty minutes, they’ll call back to let you know. Right now it’s still called for nine.” 

Peter had to look thoughtfully into the middle distance as he nodded and thanked the probie, then brushed past him to get to the conference room. 

Neal enjoyed the luxury of saying what Peter couldn’t. “At least three people were drawing a government salary today to let you know that maybe a meeting will change but probably not.” He pushed past Peter with a bright-eyed smile, and pulled off his hat. “And they say the federal government is inefficient!” 

Peter rolled his eyes a little, partially at Neal feeling like he was in any position to criticize the federal government, and partially because he was absolutely right. 

Then he started the meeting. 

He let Jones do the initial run-through for the agents who hadn’t been to the scene, and merely stood with his back against the door to his own office as Jones outlined the case. 

The Navarro enforcer ended up dead, which Violent Crimes was handling; White Collar hadn’t been called in until two days later, when apparently the man’s extensive—and as far as they could tell, completely legitimate—personal art collection had been stolen from within the crime scene. One evening the physical forensics guys lock up a house full of rare and valuable works; the next morning they return to find the walls bare, the vault emptied, and even the silver missing. 

“So word gets out that the Navarro enforcer, Salomone, was taken out, and some street thugs take advantage of the chaos and break in?” Agent Anderson asked when Jones had finished his presentation of the secondary crime. 

“Except you can’t just break in to Salomone’s,” Jones answered her. “He had top-notch security, which his wife turned on remotely as forensics left.” 

“Security system of that caliber,” Neal leaned forward to look at Anderson, “you’d need at least twenty-five minutes standing right at the front door to bypass the redundancies before you ever opened the door, plus a well-timed power outage, one big enough to affect also the tertiary backup loops. The tools they had to use are hard to come by, and it would take at least two men. You could probably also make it work with a series of smaller outages, not enough to alert electric that something was wrong, but enough to keep sending the system into a reset. What they did here would have taken a while to execute, and it was expensive to plan; it wasn’t a smash-and-grab.” 

Anderson nodded and jotted something down, and Jones resumed. “And to boot, Navarro is furious, whoever did this is going to pay, and smart money says it’s going to be the Violent Crimes way.” 

The room seemed to take a collective breath at that; everyone except Neal, Peter noticed, who was leafing through his copy of the case file. 

“Also,” Neal said, and Peter stepped closer to the table at his contemplative tone, “it wasn’t thugs. Judging by what’s missing…” Neal trailed off, his face buried in the two photos he was comparing, his eyes flitting back-and-forth between them. 

He looked up. “This Salomone was a true collector. The pieces they stole would auction at Sotheby’s or Christie’s for a nice amount, but they’re niche items and their provenance is well-documented. They can’t be sold legitimately, and there’s no real black market for religious ceremonial objects and decorated hearth panels. Artistically, this stuff is invaluable. But this isn’t the kind of thing someone would take to turn a profit.” 

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Why would someone take it?” 

“To show off?” Neal shrugged. “Or to make some kind of point. If the FBI was watching the place, it might just be an exercise in ego. Some criminals are like that,” he added, and the gathered agents laughed at the implication. 

It was funny, and it was self-deprecating but within the margin of good-taste, and it sounded completely honest, and it set Peter’s teeth on edge.

To not-quite confess to the thing, but rather to call just enough attention to himself to make others dismiss him? That was a Caffrey classic. 

It wasn’t anything, not really, but it made Peter pay attention. 

The rest of the day was spent catching up on case reports and waiting for the complete forensic reports on both the murder and the robbery, in case they were connected. Peter noticed that Neal didn’t seem overly eager to be updated on either. He flitted from task to task with the ease of a man who liked his job. 

Peter focused on the Salomone case. It had been a few years since he last worked Violent Crimes, but he still remembered how to read the evidence and forensics reports (clear signs of a struggle; broken furniture and glass; victim handcuffed; single knife wound to the throat), and how to recognize irregularities (all windows were left open; the pantry had been ransacked; jewels had been left behind). Even so, he had to read the report twice through before he realized what was bothering him. 

It was the location of the body. Salomone was attacked in the early evening, shortly after he returned from abroad; he was wearing his jacket, his shoes were still on, and the suitcase was standing in the entryway. But the body was found in the bedroom. It was… odd. The placing didn’t make sense, but Peter wasn’t sure why. It was tickling at some instinct, or intuition, or memory, but no matter how he tilted his head or closed his eyes in an attempt to to grasp the wispy thread of recognition, it evaded him.

He moved on to agent assignments—it was time for Anderson to get some fieldwork; she was sharp but kept asking the wrong questions, which told him it was time for her to learn how to ask the right ones. Rogers, on the other hand, was getting a little too cocky with the amount of fieldwork he’d been getting. A few nights staking out the Goodwin case should deflate his ego a little, as well as give him time to consider the cases he’d been slogging off on the other probies. Flores and Coleman were going to the docks to stake out vantage points and possible exits before Caffrey went to a meeting undercover. That meant keeping Twirch on field support for now, but Peter supposed the man wouldn’t mind. 

Unlike the younger probies, he didn’t seem eager to prove himself a badass with a gun, but rather seemed to know the significance of a robust command-support system. As it was he came in early every day to set up the conference room, distribute packets and files, and even collect and rinse out people’s used coffee mugs. He was the embodiment of good support personnel, even if he’d never make a stellar field agent. Peter signed off on the assignment roster, then moved on to professional advancement requests—but the Salomone case kept gnawing at him. 

He decided to return to it the next day with fresh eyes, but that proved futile, too. Looking at the crime-scene photos the next morning felt like recalling a sense of déjà vu: he could describe what he’d felt looking at them the first time, but he couldn’t recreate it. He wondered if what he’d identified as soft recognition had been merely imagination.

And the Salomone case cooled pretty quickly; Neal was right that the stolen items hadn’t shown up with any known fences or established markets, and although the streets were braced for Navarro’s revenge, no one seemed to have a lead on the murder. 

Two weeks and three more cases passed, one of them solved and the other two ongoing paperwork nightmares that had Peter and Neal working late at Peter’s home, documents carefully spread before them all over the coffee table and parts of the sofa as they tried to build a timeline for fifteen distinct sums shuffled across dozens of bank accounts over twenty-two months. It was grueling and thankless and unless they caught a break soon it would be rewardless, too, and neither of them was prepared for Elizabeth to come home and say, before the door was even locked behind her, “Happy birthday, Neal!” 

Peter looked up guiltily at Neal, and caught the same wide-eyed surprise reflected in Neal’s expression. 

Peter’s brain seemed to hover with indecision; acknowledge he forgot, or pretend he was with Elizabeth on this? 

Neal thankfully recovered first. “Thank you, Elizabeth, but it’s actually not till tomorrow,” he offered, his tone diffident, as though apologizing for having the wrong birthday. 

Elizabeth pulled off her coat, and tossed it over her arm, then seemed to remember she was home and threw it on the hook. She came over to where Neal sat on the couch, balanced delicately on the edge so as not to disturb the careful arrangement of documents. “Well, it’s gonna be tomorrow in four hours, and it looks like you boys are buckled in for the night. Stay for dinner? We’ll order celebratory takeout.” 

“That makes me the guest of honor. Does that mean I get to choose?” Neal asked, no trace of diffidence left. Peter was a little surprised at how quickly the excitement had replaced his cautious apology. Had they ever celebrated his birthday before? 

Peter wasn’t sure. 

He was sure he did not trust Neal to order food. 

“No,” he stated, just as Elizabeth allowed, “Oh, of course.” 

They paused, their eyes meeting over Neal’s head. Peter made sure his helplessness was advertised; she scrunched her face in a smile that said I know you’re just joking, even though they both knew he really, really wasn’t. 

“Of course, Neal,” Peter gestured toward the drawer of takeout menus, defeated. “Guest of honor’s choice.” 

Peter had to admit, Neal surprised him. He ordered from a Brooklyn deli Peter had never heard of and was outside Neal’s radius, a place that served large portions of dishes that tasted like someone’s grandma cooked. It was simple, and comforting, and incredibly delicious, and the wine Elizabeth chose was full-bodied and rich. The conversation was a much-needed break from the monotony of scrutinizing financial records.

Elizabeth served the deli’s peanut butter french toast in lieu of a cake alongside one last birthday surprise—and Peter knew he was riding on her coattails at this point—a coffee mug as a gift for Neal. 

“We saw this and thought of you,” she said, her eyes on the coffee as she walked the brimming mug over to Neal. “Happy birthday!” 

It was a plain white mug bearing the word consultant in big block letters, and beneath it a mock definition: Someone who does precision guesswork based on unreliable data provided by people with questionable knowledge. See also: Magician, Wizard, Gandalf. 

Peter didn’t love the implication that he was the people with questionable knowledge, but he found that even though he hadn’t remembered that it was Neal’s birthday, he took a sort of secondary pride that his amazing wife did. Looking at Neal now as he marshalled his emotions into an appropriately light thank you, you shouldn’t have, it’s great! made Peter realize how much the little things meant to him. The man had had adventures Peter hardly dared read about, owned art and jewels that Peter couldn’t imagine even seeing outside of a museum, but the longer Neal spent settled in New York, Peter was able to see just how much pleasure he was finding in regular life, in regular things. Peter was glad to be at least on the sidelines of providing that for him. 

“Come on, Gandalf,” Peter nodded Neal toward the living area. “I’d like to cover at least till the end of 2010 tonight.” 

Neal moaned as though terribly put out, but he followed Peter back out and resumed his spot on the edge of the couch cushion with a lighter step than the hour merited, holding his mug up so he could read the print again. 

Elizabeth trailed behind them, her own coffee in hand. “Is this that Salomone case? Are you guys still on that?” 

“Technically,” Peter said. “Not that there’s been any headway at all.” 

“Which is a shame,” Neal mused, “because it was a pretty impressive job. I’d love to meet whoever pulled it off,” he added as he sat down with his coffee. “I mean, even I can’t fully figure out where to pick up the trail here.” 

“Even you?” Peter echoed, pulling a bank printout closer, and slipping a takeout menu in its place to bookmark where it had come from in the pile. “The great Neal Caffrey can’t figure out a job, and that’s what makes it impressive?” 

“Peter, the man bypassed a SilverShield system, exactly at shift change when there weren’t any agents around watching? Do you know how much finesse and planning that takes?” Neal seemed to realize he was getting a little too invested in defending their art thief, and shrugged away his excess investment in the methodology. He took a sip of his coffee. “I’m just saying, it was a good job.” 

“You know what else would be a good job?” 

Neal looked at the scatterings of paper that had surrounded him on the couch. “I don’t want to say.”

“We gotta make some headway on this tonight, since you’re undercover again tomorrow.” 

“Don’t I get a furlough for my birthday?” 

“It’s not your birthday for another two hours, and this is your furlough. Find me some dirty money, Neal.” 

“I’ll leave you boys to it,” Elizabeth excused herself, and they settled in for another few hours of work, in which Neal really did find Peter some dirty money. In fact, he found almost all of it; once Neal realized that the transfer he was looking for—$210,112.57—made its way to Butterfield Bank in the Caymans as three almost-equal payments, down to the odd penny, everything else locked into place: the sequence of banks being used, the method, and the date intervals between each transfer all became clear to them. 

Peter glanced at the clock, and realized it was late. He also realized—”Happy birthday, Neal. You should get home, it’s after midnight.” 

“You sure? We’re just getting somewhere on these transfers.” 

“I’m sure. You have to meet Gallagher first thing tomorrow. But this was good work.” 

Neal stood, and grabbed his now-empty mug. “Thanks. For dinner also and—” He raised his mug as though in cheers. 

Peter saw him out, and reminded him to get a receipt for the taxi so he could be reimbursed. 

He turned back toward the living room, realized he had no desire to organize the paperwork just now, and decided that would be something to stress out over in the morning. 

Chapter Text

Between all the active cases, the Salomone theft not only cooled, it was all but forgotten. 

The following week the Gallagher case geared up after Neal managed to gain the trust of all five major players, and he was now on-call with them 24/7. Twice already they brought him down to the docks in the small hours before dawn to lend his expertise on the goods they were smuggling. Peter didn’t love being woken at 3 a.m. to a text letting him know Neal was in play, but it did make him glad he insisted Neal be off anklet for this one. 

Last night they called him in again, and the agents who’d been following him in the van reported at 5 a.m. that Neal was on his way back from the docks, his cover intact. He’d texted Peter confirmation when he arrived home, then said that he was just going to change and come into the office. He followed that message up saying that he thought a week more, at the outside, and they would let him in on their final secret: Who at the Port Authority was enabling their smuggling ring. 

It was already close to nine and Neal hadn’t come in yet, so Peter was passing the time by half-heartedly reviewing and dismissing the next batch of possible cases when a detail caught his eye. 

It was another robbery, which at first glance didn't seem like much: a millionaire's house robbed while he and his wife were away for the week. Typical, and unsurprising. Peter thought they were probably using some connections to rope in the FBI after the local PD couldn't help much. As he continued reading an alarm softly started to sound somewhere in the pit of Peter's stomach.

Security camera caught masked individual working on hacking client's SilverShield security system. 22 minutes. Security camera forced to save all data locally rather than broadcast to security personnel after a 3-minute intermittent power outage to the residence disabled internet relay. Security company not notified. Redundancies bypassed. Suspected perpetrator disabled internet once inside. Did not return to this camera's viewpoint. Windows all left ajar.

The déjà vu was what caused Peter to look over the information again with a closer eye. It took him a moment to place it: it was the second theft of religious ceremonial objects and some niche religious paintings. It was the Salomone case, almost exactly. But it wasn’t just the stolen items that triggered the sense that he’d been here, reading this exact report before; Peter looked up and allowed his eyes to roam the bullpen, but the back of his brain was still tickled by a loose thread. He shook his head, then caught sight of the door the the conference room, and—

You’d need at least twenty-five minutes standing right at the front door to bypass the redundancies before you ever opened the door; you could do it without informing electric. This wasn’t a smash-and-grab.

Neal had been sitting in his usual spot in the corner, and had leaned forward to explain how he would have committed this crime. Peter dismissed the soft alarm as habit, not intuition. Neal had been off anklet last night, but the timeline of him sneaking out in the two-hour window between when Peter last spoke to him and the call he got from Gallagher to report at the docks just didn’t fit. And besides, what Neal had appreciated about the previous job was the challenge of working around the feds. The only gain from this one was some religious art? It was far from Neal's typical hunting grounds.

Peter felt relatively reassured at that. The timeline was off, the reward was wrong, and Neal was good, but he wasn’t the only criminal to have cracked the SilverShield security system. There was probably a YouTube tutorial. 

Which wasn’t even to mention that Neal never slipped, and declaring his MO three weeks ahead of a crime would be tantamount to a signed confession. 

Peter repeated that a lot to himself that day. 

And he put in a request with the company that supplies SilverShield technicians to ask whether they've had unusual equipment delivery requests. 

Still, he paid attention. 

As it turned out, he wasn’t the only one.

Elizabeth was in one of her seasonal peaks—all the May and June brides panicked around the first week of April and needed constant handholding—and she left the house early every day. Peter liked seeing her off in the morning, and once he was up he might as well be up, so he left for work, too.

He arrived at the office early enough for the first pot of coffee to still be brewing, and he intended to grab himself a cup before settling in, but he was barely past the glass door when Hughes appeared at the top of the landing, standing at the door to Peter’s office.

Hughes’ expression told him coffee would have to wait. He waited for Peter to come upstairs then followed him into his office, his glance shifting uneasily between Peter, who was setting down his jacket and locking his firearm and handcuffs in his desk, and the open door to the conference room, where Twirch was finishing up his prep for the morning briefing. Peter, set on edge by Hughes’ impatient fidgeting, was about to close the door to the conference room, but thankfully Twirch wrapped up and left with a small wave.

Peter turned back to Hughes. 

“Take a look at this,” Hughes told him as handed him a file. “Tell me if anything about it sounds familiar.”

And it did. Another robbery that fit exactly the MO Neal had been talking about. Peter flipped back to the first page. The robbery took place on April 1st, just a few days before.

“Why didn’t this come by my desk?” Peter asked after he had shut the door to his office.

“I told Anderson to send all art theft cases to my desk first. I know you’ve seen it Peter, the coincidences. Either Caffrey is suddenly psychic—“

“Or you think he’s giving us the run around.”

“Look at appendix 5. Your request from the SilverShield supplier came through. They delivered a full set of a technician's gear, requested using a forged form, by the way, to a P.O. box not ten blocks from where Caffrey lives.”

“Ten blocks in the wrong direction. He was on anklet when that gear was delivered, and it's outside his radius.” 

“Peter.” Hughes shook his head. “Come on. You seriously think this is all just a coincidence? So he picked it up a week later, or he had one of his street contacts pick it up for him. Which isn't even to mention that he just so happens to tell us his preferred method for these crimes and some random, unaware thief is executing his vision?”

“Caffrey’s had impersonators before, Reese, and these crimes don’t really make sense for Neal. Niche religious artifacts? He's too showy for that. Too… artsy .”

“Artsy like mixing his hair and DNA in a bucket of shark slop? He goes low when he has to, we know this.” 

“But why would he have to? He's been busy with the Gallagher case, doing good work. He hasn't done anything suspicious,” Peter said, but even as he was speaking he realized that wasn't exactly true. Neal had been off anklet for all three robberies, and Peter had been at attention since the very first one. It was a good job.  

“Burke…” Hughes’ tone was exasperated now, and he looked across the desk at Peter with a look akin to pity. “I know you like the kid, that you’re…hopeful for him. But you need to move the wool Caffrey’s got pulled over your eyes and see the kind of man he really is. Which is one that enjoys running laps around you. He doesn't need another reason.”

Peter rubbed a hand along his jaw, forcefully easing the growing tension that started to form. “Neal wouldn’t…he’s not like that. He doesn’t enjoy hurting people. He wouldn’t hurt the team like that.”

“He wouldn’t think about it as hurting. He thinks of it like it’s a game, and you’re letting him win by not considering him a suspect. He’s laying out all the clues for you, telling you his next move, and daring you to catch him.”

Peter shook his head as he laid the file back on the desk. He took a few steps, moving from behind his desk next to where Hughes stood, but he kept his eyes forward looking over the bullpen. Neal’s desk was still empty, Jones acting as his ride that day, both granted permission to come in a little late to accommodate Neal’s operation. Diana stood at the break area, a forced air of casualness to her as though she hadn’t been intently watching. 

“I’ll assign Diana to it, to keep an eye out for any more connections linking Caffrey to the case.”

“Cases,” Reese corrected him. “If I'm right, he's also got a hand in those two cases from last month. And Peter,” here Hughes' tone took on a sharp edge, and Peter knew he was holding back from giving him a direct order, but just barely. 

“I think you need to consider pulling him off Gallagher. If he is up to something, we're running a double risk by keeping him off anklet, and having him be the sole lynchpin of the operation. If Caffrey runs at the wrong time, Gallagher will close shop and we'll lose any chance of catching him at all. It's one thing to screw up his own life, but I won't let him screw up the work of everyone in this unit.” 

It was a suggestion, but just barely. 

“I understand. But I just… I just don't think we're there yet. I'm not—” Peter held up a hand to halt Hughes objection. “I'm not saying we trust him implicitly, but I don't want to throw away the Gallagher case until we have more compelling evidence that he's involved. Like you say, this case is bigger than him.” 

Reese thought that through, weighing his options and nodding minutely to himself. “Fine,” he finally allowed, “but it's a short leash. For both of you,” he added, pointing at Peter. 

Peter felt every inch of that leash, and although he didn’t intend it, he thought Neal started feeling it, too. 

For him, it was small things: Hughes asking to see backdated reports of Neal’s tracking data, like maybe Peter had missed something incriminating, or worse, had deliberately looked away from it; every inch of the Gallagher case being scrutinized by a second team, to make sure nothing was missed; even his personnel assignments were now sent to Hughes, to make sure there was a senior agent on Caffrey whenever he went out at Gallagher’s request. 

Neal himself was paired with an agent when he went out to lunch, and that agent was pulled for a short debrief with Peter and Hughes upon their return. Neal hadn’t said anything, but Peter could tell he noticed; his eyes followed the babysitter-agent of the day all the way up to the office, while Neal sat at his desk and held a file open in front of him.

And the weekend immediately after was Easter, so with both Diana and Jones taking a long weekend for family gatherings there weren't enough agents at the office to spare one to accompany Neal to lunch, Neal showed up at Peter’s door.

“Hey, are you hungry?” Neal asked as he knocked. “I was thinking we could go to that deli that we ordered from the other night?”

Peter checked the clock—12:19—then looked down at the report he was writing. He was going over the field crew’s reports of the Gallagher case, sifting for vital information to shorthand into his own summation of the findings. It wasn’t hard work but it was tedious, and time consuming. “I should probably stay here and finish this.”

“Come on Peter,” Neal said with that slight pleading whine to his voice as he came in to sit. “I’ve ordered in this week already, and I even subjected myself to the awful cafeteria food yesterday when it was, firmly might I add, suggested that I shouldn’t go to the cafe down the street for a quick lunch without an escort.” He leaned back in his seat a little, arms wide. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I thought the offer of the deli would be enough to show you how desperate I am.”

Peter clicked his pen in thought a couple times. It was a curious thing, that Neal was picking up on the tacitly implemented restrictions but wasn’t questioning them outright yet. Peter didn’t know whether Neal came to him in order to show he was aware of the restrictions and only complying because there wasn’t much to gain, or if it was part of planning his next move in a game he thought Peter didn't know they were playing.

Peter decided he was going to play, though. 

Plus, that deli was a really compelling argument.

Neal made the expected pleasant conversation during the drive and while they placed their orders. It wasn’t until they found some nearby outdoor seating and Peter had his food carefully spread out that Neal finally asked, “Did something happen to trigger this Level 2 lockdown?” 

When Peter shot him a quizzical look, Neal added, “It’s a prison thing—the not fully contained but monitored movement?”

“Oh, uh…right.” Peter popped a fry into his mouth as he considered his next response. There was a fine line here with too many variables to know exactly where he stood; if Neal was planning something and Peter revealed too much, he might run. If Neal actually wasn’t the cause of the robberies, then leaving him too much in the dark would only build resentment, and that could cause him to withdraw; he’d still be there with a bright smile, but no longer within Peter’s sphere of influence. 

So, Peter tried to stick somewhere in the middle. “The Gallagher case is putting Hughes’ on edge, along with some other, trickier things he’s handling, stuff that I'm not even fully in the loop on. You’re getting the blunt edge of a trickle down effect.”

Of course, Neal didn’t reveal how much of that he believed. He simply thought it over for a moment, then he nodded. “Right, okay. I guess that makes sense.”

“Yeah?” He watched Neal for a sign, any flicker of panic or a glimmer of doubt, even just a look of dejection.

Nothing. Neal shrugged with a, “Yeah,” before he opened his salad and asked, “So how did Elizabeth find this place?”

Peter returned to the office with a vague alarm bell dinging in the back of his mind, a gentle but dutiful ring. Neal must’ve suspected that Peter knew more than he let on, but why drop it so quickly? He supposed it could be Neal’s self-preservation not wanting to rock the boat. Or it could all be a ruse to see what Peter would be willing to admit to him at this stage. 

Peter didn't want to dwell on the second possibility, and he drove Neal home early that day and headed home himself, hoping to have at least an evening when he didn't have to consider the different ways Neal Caffrey might be working an angle. 

He found parking and went inside and began preparing dinner, and all the while he wondered whether Neal was betraying his trust, or whether he was betraying Neal's. 

He welcomed the distraction of the sound of keys in the door and his wife's lovely, "Hey hon! It smells good in here," ringing through.

Peter walked out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish rag before he pulled her into a hug. "Hey, hon." A quick kiss before he pulled back. 

"Spaghetti's almost ready. I think I've nearly got my Grandma’s pasta recipe perfected. Used the pasta machine and everything."

"Well, I'm excited to try it. Better than when you tried to shape them by hand.” 

“You won’t let that go? It was twelve years ago!”

“I can still taste the vinyl countertop of your old place," She laughed, holding onto his arm with one hand and reaching down to pull her heels off with the other. "I need a treat especially after today, you would not believe the runaround these brides are giving me."

"Oh, speaking of runarounds, did you happen to see my handcuffs laying around?"

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at him before she turned to head towards the kitchen. "Was there a reason you were getting your handcuffs out at home? Neal teaching you his tricks?"

"No, no. Nothing like that." He followed her into the kitchen and grabbed a wine glass while she grabbed her favorite cabernet from the cupboard; a true indication of a long day. 

"I couldn't find them today. Last I remember, I had them at my desk, but they were gone today. I thought...I don't know."

She watched him as she poured the wine into the glass, a careful look. "Neal?”

“What?”

She shrugged a little, a knowing look still on her face. “You’re thinking Neal had something to do with it?"

It was less so surprise that filled him and more dread. "No, I... why would Neal steal my handcuffs? He spends too much of his time getting out of them."

She replaced the bottle of wine and took the glass from his hand before she asked, "But?"

"But?"

"There's a 'but' in your tone. Neal's doing something to make you suspicious of him?"

Peter let the question simmer in his head as he stirred the noodles in the pot. None of the scenarios were making sense. The feeling in his gut, the one that felt like he knew Neal, understood him, just couldn't rectify Neal with all of the evidence being laid out before him. But Hughes was right; Neal did enjoy their cat and mouse game, he enjoyed being superior to those around him, and just because he talked once about religious items being a niche market didn't mean that he was completely absolved from the temptation of stealing them.

The snake was eating its own tail at this point, and complaining about it all to Elizabeth wouldn't clear any of it up. There was no reason to use her as a sounding board just yet. 

"Just...the usual Neal stuff. Tell me about your brides, maybe we’ll come back to him once you’re done."

Elizabeth’s bridal talk managed to fill both the salad and the dinner courses, and was only interrupted by Peter’s phone ringing with Diana’s number flashing on the screen. El excused herself to get ice cream from the freezer while he answered.

“Burke.”

“Peter…” The hesitation in her voice brought back the alarms deep inside him, no longer softly sounding but now dinging in a harsh, braying tone.

“Diana, what is it?”

“A Hockney was just reported stolen. Grabbed while the owners were out to dinner. SilverShield security system, three-minute intermittent blackout, gotta be professional toolset used on this one, windows left wide open…it matches the MO of the other cases.”

Something jagged found itself growing in Peter’s chest, with sharp edges that pressed against his lungs. His heart rate seemed to double in a single breath and his vision tunneled, pressing in around him. A gnawing discordant intuition returned, a sense that all of this was wrong somehow, and he was starting to realize that it was just him that was wrong.

“Right…okay. I’ll head over to Caffrey’s now.” He hung up without another word exchanged and stood up on lead heavy legs. “Sorry hon, I’m—something came up.”

“Neal?” Elizabeth asked for the second time that night, watching him with two bowls of ice cream in her hands. 

“It’s…yeah. Neal. I’ll explain when I get back.”

Peter moved to kiss her gently before he went upstairs to gather his things. 

Elizabeth looked up at him when he came back down, a dismayed expression taking over. “Do you really have to do that now? What about the Gallagher case? Whatever Neal did—”

“Whatever Neal did needs to end. Now.” Peter didn’t mean to sound short, but he could feel the embers of his anger starting to take hold. He forced a deep breath before he grabbed his keys and gave a quick, “I’ll be back soon, hon. This won’t take long.”

Enough was enough. For all the rope Neal Caffrey had been given, it looked like he was intent on hanging himself with it.

Chapter Text

Neal was clearly surprised to see Peter at his door when he pulled it open, already dressed in a plain white tee and blue pajama bottoms. "Hey, Peter?"

"Yeah, hey." Peter ran his thumb over the hard plastic, feeling the glassy bulbs, the smooth seam, before holding up the anklet. "I...I'm gonna have to put this back on you."

"What?" The confusion appeared on Neal's face instantly, and it looked genuine. Peter struggled to convince himself it was. "Peter, I can't wear that. Gallagher has been pretty consistent these past few nights about—"

"You've been pulled.The undercover op is off." Peter gave the anklet a little shake. "Anklet goes back on."

“Pulled?” A cautious, shadowed expression took over the confusion on Neal's face as he tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. "Just like that? The Bureau is willing to throw away weeks of undercover work for… What? Why? Did something happen to Gallagher or his men, or something at the docks? Even if the operation is suddenly more dangerous, we can’t walk away right now. Not when we’re so close."

Peter shook his head. “We can’t talk about it until you put the anklet back on, Neal.” Peter extended the anklet, and dared Neal to fight, to argue, to give Peter any reason at all to think he was overreacting. 

“Uh… okay.” Neal met his intense gaze with ease, eyeing him with skepticism but taking the anklet from his hand with no sign of reluctance or hesitation. “You’re acting like I’m a flight risk or something.”

Peter didn’t say anything, an uncomfortable confirmation at Neal’s agreement. He simply watched as Neal walked over to his dining table with the anklet, and as he wrapped the piece around his leg something finally seemed to click for Neal. A last puzzle piece creating a full picture. 

“It’s something I did—something the Bureau thinks I did—that’s getting me pulled? They don’t trust me on it anymore, for some reason. Did they tell you why?” 

Neal appeared to wear an open, innocent expression. As if he truly didn’t understand how the Bureau could have reached this conclusion.

Peter waited for the familiar whrrr-click of the anklet’s mechanics before he even moved from his spot next to the doorway. “There’s been some speculation about a string of robberies.” 

Neal shook his head a little as he faced Peter again. “I’d defend myself to them but I haven’t even heard about any robberies. Mozzie hasn’t been boasting or complaining to me about any robberies either, let alone a string impressive enough to get the FBI’s—

“You have,” Peter said. “Heard of them. You and I started investigating the first one, about a month ago.” 

Neal’s reaction was a masterclass in feigned bemusement. His shoulders dropped, his eyebrows rose, his head shaking as though he had no idea— until he froze mid-gesture, the dime ostensibly only just dropping. 

“You mean the Salomone case? Navarro’s man? Peter, is this a joke?” 

Peter wished he had a Neal Caffrey bingo card; claiming it’s ridiculous to suspect him, pearl-clutching at how he could even be considered a suspect, offense that Peter dared remember Neal was a career criminal, half-cocked explanations, and finally demanding trust even though they both knew that Neal was lying more often than not about things he wasn’t supposed to doing with people he wasn’t supposed to be associating with. 

He sighed, whatever patience he had quickly evaporating in anticipation of Neal’s predictable denials. “No, it’s not a joke, Neal.” 

“Peter,” Neal’s tone was one of affronted disbelief, which to Peter sounded a lot like pearl-clutching, “They can’t seriously think I stole… What was it? A Eucharist chalice and painted hearth panels of the fall of Lucifer?” 

“Good memory,” Peter said, almost casually. Then he took a step closer to Neal. “You sat in that meeting and outlined for us exactly what steps needed to be taken to bypass that security, the same exact steps that were taken in the next two robberies. And we know the tools were delivered not ten blocks from here.” 

“Peter, I didn’t buy any tools. I didn’t know there were two next robberies, and I never even saw those files!” 

“You wouldn’t need the files if you planned them.” 

The words hung between them, the accusation clearly made. It settled any doubt Peter had entertained—as well as clearly staked what side of the line he was on. It wasn’t Neal and Peter versus the FBI being overly cautious. It wasn’t Peter here at Hughes’ behest urging, he realized. He was here because the gentle bell that had claimed his attention before had become the incessant clamor of a belfry, loud and clear and intrusive in a way Peter could no longer ignore. 

Neal nodded, his eyes averted as though he couldn’t bear to look directly at Peter. “Right,” he huffed. “It comes back to that, doesn’t it? I’m so good a criminal that I can’t resist stealing objects I’d have no chance of fencing, and I’m also so bad at it that I’d pre-confess, and then immediately go and commit the exact same crime? That’s worse than a confession, that’s, that’s…” Neal’s hesitation was only with his next words. When his hands sliced across his body in emphasis it was with sure confidence. “Do you think I’m that stupid? ”

Peter dismissed the confidence of a con artist, and took another step closer, pointing at Neal in emphatic punctuation of his words. “Stupid like stealing a U-Boat’s worth of Nazi treasure from under the nose of the FBI? Stupid like sneaking a gun into a crowded event at the Russian Heritage Museum? Yeah,” Peter said, taking another marching stride forward. “It’s our job to remember stuff like that. You’re the one who admired that job, you’re the one who showed off exactly how it would be done, and you’re the one who was off anklet during all three robberies, regardless of what exactly had been taken!” 

Peter only caught that he was yelling, his hand well within Neal’s space, when Neal faintly recoiled from him. 

Neither of them said anything. Neal kept his gaze downcast. Peter kept his on Neal. 

Peter wanted to dial back his reaction, to assure Neal that he wasn’t truly a suspect, this was just a precaution… But he no longer could do that in good conscience. 

Neal broke the silence first. “If you’re willing to throw away everything we’ve done on Gallagher over this, then why aren’t you slapping handcuffs on me and sending me back? If you trust me so little?”

That’s bingo, Peter thought, but he managed to answer civilly. “Because I’m still hoping to be proven wrong, that this is all some twisted misunderstanding, but Hughes isn’t taking a chance. Now at least, if another robbery happens, you’ll have an airtight alibi.”

Neal still didn’t look at him as he grumbled, “More like ironclad.”

Peter let him have the last word, and left. He was satisfied that he’d not only done his job, but he had done what’s right. If Neal truly was innocent, this was the best way to prove it.

He had been prepared for Neal’s denials, and he hadn’t expected anything less than his typical display of hurt at the supposed broken trust. It was all par for the course after all.

What surprised him, though, was the dig about Peter’s handcuffs. 

Because his handcuffs never turned up. It wasn’t even that he needed them; the next morning he stopped by Tactical Supplies down on 7 and already had a new pair when he stepped off the elevator on 21. 

He walked by Neal’s still-empty desk and felt his hand drift to his pocket, to feel for the handcuffs. He took the stairs to his office and waved absently at the probie who was setting up the conference room for the morning briefing. 

Peter shook off his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair, and unlocked his top drawer, but after a moment’s deliberation he smacked it shut. He decided to keep his handcuffs on him. 

A light knock on the door frame and, “Agent Burke?” Had Peter looking toward the conference room. 

“Would you like me to…?” Twirch asked, pointing at Peter’s mug. “I’m going to wash these, anyway,” he said, holding up the dirty mugs he collected from the conference room table. 

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Peter’s tone of conceded pride, “I’d appreciate it.” 

“Not at all, Sir.” 

Twirch took Peter’s mug, too, and whistled his way to the kitchenette. 

That was the last show of levity in the office that day. 

The conference room slowly filled up, and Peter sat in his adjacent office, answering emails and reviewing paperwork, with an ear half-lent to the rising hubbub of the gathering agents. 

Neal arrived last, and he took his seat with an easy smile to everyone whose eye he caught, all the while managing to never catch Peter’s eye. 

Peter sighed. 

He hated having to do this. 

The room quieted down when he walked in from his own office, but in the slow, incremental way of employees who respected rather than feared their boss. 

“Okay, boys and girls, let’s get started,” Peter finally said, and began to run through the day’s agenda. Peter took something of a coward’s route, and began with the easy updates. 

He ran through the progress on their long-term cases, updated the team on the court dates of the solved cases, and assigned new cases to the free agents and new assignments to those already working their caseload. 

“And there’s one final update,” Peter finally said, and though he didn’t mean to, he looked at Neal. He managed to catch his eye, but Neal broke the contact with a frustrated shake of his head. 

Peter looked at the agents assembled. Jones, who first noticed the inconsistencies in import taxes; Flores and Coleman, who kept toll of over 145,000 containers on 127 incoming cargo ships over 15 months, trying to match wares to manifestos; Twirch, who sorted and collated endless rounds of drafts, reports, and memos, helping Peter keep a bird’s eye view of the entire operation; Diana, who had risked her life to get Neal an interview with Gallagher himself, who recommended him on her own life if he didn’t pass muster… 

So much hard work from everyone on his team, and now, this. 

“The Gallagher op is shut down.” 

The response was mixed, and telling. Most of the agents demanded why and what happened and entirely shut down? and another week Boss , and but we're so close.  

A couple of the junior agents—including Anderson—looked doe-eyed from agent to agent, startled out of a concrete opinion, while all the probies—including Twirch, who expressed it with a bemused, imbecilic smile—just looked confused. 

What really interested Peter was that Jones and Diana both looked knowingly at Neal, who had turned slightly away from the table and toward the window, his face a mask of inscrutable gravity. 

Peter used both hands to conduct the cacophony back into semi-silence. “Something came up, and we had to pull Neal. I know it’s disappointing, but sometimes ops fizzle out.” 

A series of exchanged looks got Jones nominated as speaker. “Peter, this isn’t a fizzle, it’s abrupt as all hell. Did Gallagher make Neal as FBI?” 

Peter exhaled loudly, showing his reluctance to continue the arguments. He didn’t want to get into it, not like this and not right now. “No, it’s something on our end. We had Neal text Gallagher that he got called out of state on urgent business with the Chicago mob, and he’ll be back in a month. If this thing is settled by then, we can unfreeze the case. The hard work you all put in won’t be wasted, I promise you that. Okay,” Peter added, and his tone dismissed the subject. “To compensate, we’re going to be working a string of robberies that took place over the last six weeks or so.” 

He handed the nearest agent an information packet he’d assembled himself. 

“Navarro’s man? We’re back on that?” Flores asked, and Peter realized that he could have brought them the Antwerp diamond heist, and they’d still be disappointed. 

He didn’t blame them. 

“We’re back on that,” Peter answered him, “because there’s been an escalation. As you can see, what started out as a pet project of religious objects—chalices, religious paintings, illuminated prayerbooks, kiddush cups, and even a couple of menorahs—escalated last night to the theft of a Hockney. His sketch of Portrait of an Artist was stolen from the home of a private collector.” 

Twirch raised his hand, looking up from his information packet. “Isn’t that a little… Artsier than the other robberies?” 

Peter nodded. “It is. We think the thief perfected his technique and lower-value targets, since SilverShield has been undefeatable until Salomone’s was robbed. Confident he could break in, he moved on to bigger ticket items. Neal, do you want to fill us in on the piece?” 

Neal squared his jaw and shook his head in disbelief, like Peter had ordered him to share a humiliating secret. Peter didn’t know why he should mind if he had nothing to hide. 

Neal sat forward. “ Portrait of an Artist is Hockney’s seminal piece, though not necessarily his best, stylistically speaking. It was completed in 1972, and is largely regarded as the most valuable painting of a living artist to have ever been sold. Um,” Neal drew his hands apart, as though unsure what to add. “In direct discourse with Joycean themes, it obviously speaks to not to coming-of but being of age, epiphanic insight, and the unknowability of self. An early sketch of such a painting could be worth upwards of five million dollars to the right buyer, which I’m guessing because I didn’t even know such a sketch existed until just now.” 

He paused, and Peter took over. “The sk—”

“It’s worth mentioning,” Neal interrupted with a polite smile, as though he had only stopped for breath and not made a deliberate show of his discontent, “that the narrow part of the painting is over two meters long. The thief couldn’t have been very discreet rushing around with a poster tube as tall as Lebron James. I mean,” he added, eyes wide with mock-genuine helpfulness, “assuming you knew the thief had an impossibly small window in which to commit this crime.” 

Peter sighed. He hadn’t meant to inform the room that he suspected Neal quite yet, but if that’s how Neal wanted to play it, Peter would win. 

“The sketch isn’t to scale, Caffrey,” Peter said, and the agents, every last one, now turned to look at Neal. The use of his last name confirmed to them what Peter was suspicious of, and the sharper ones had probably already connected it back to what had come up on their end that froze the Gallagher case. The tension in the room became noticeable, like a flavorless aftertaste. 

“It’s about double a letter-size canvas. Fits nicely in a standard tube, and I’ve seen people stupidly do acrobatics with those on top of public transportation.” 

He didn’t give Neal a chance to rebut. “Everyone, dismissed. You have your assignments for today, we’ll start on this tomorrow. Jones, Diana? Hang back.” 

The agents filed out of the room, some of them shooting Caffrey looks of annoyance, most looks of disgusted disappointment. 

Again, Peter couldn’t quite blame them. Caffrey had disappointed a lot of people. 

Allegedly, he reminded himself belatedly. 

Diana didn’t bother preambling. As soon as the last agent cleared the staircase she asked, her arms crossed, “You suspect Caffrey?’

“Yeah.” There was no point equivocating. “Hughes is more certain than I am, but…” 

“And he’s good for it?” Jones looked over his shoulder at Neal down in the bullpen, then turned back to Peter. “You got evidence?” He asked, but then answered his own question. “If there was evidence, he’d be in handcuffs.”

“Nothing that would hold up in court, no. Not at the moment,” Peter answered, “but enough to put the anklet back on. That’s why we pulled him off Gallagher.” 

“How’d he take that? He’s been doing a lot of the heavy lifting on that op.” 

“Not to mention spending his free time with a man like Gallagher every night,” Diana added, with a small shudder she tried to hide with another shift of her weight. 

“He responded as Neal always does when accused with something he did,” Peter answered them both. “Insisted he’d never done anything wrong in his life, but unable to provide any proof he wasn’t involved.” 

Jones nodded to himself, taking that in. “So what’s the play? Keep an eye on his tracking data, clear him if any new robberies happen, and see if we can bust him on the old ones?” 

“More or less.” Peter turned, and nodded for them to follow him into his office. He put his papers on the desk, then stepped back toward the two of them. 

“Jones, I want you to keep a close eye on his tracking data. Diana, I want you in touch with the NYPD. I want to hear about any art robberies as soon as they happen, especially any with SilverShield security systems. If this is Neal, I want to catch him in the act, before he gets a chance to disappear with millions in stolen goods.” 

“That seems to be a refrain around here,” Diana said. “But we’re focusing on just art? I mean,” Diana crossed her arms over her chest as she considered, “the first three thefts aren’t exactly Neal’s usual choice. What if he goes niche again?” 

Peter had deliberated the possibility himself, but he didn’t really have a good answer. “Then he’ll get away with it. I hate to say it, but let’s hope he steals a Vermeer. At least then we’ll know for sure.” 

Jones and Diana don’t seem like the biggest fans of this possible outcome, but they nodded and returned to their desks.

Throughout the day, the mood in the office shifted to something unlike anything Peter had ever seen before. Even when Caffrey was new to the office, with all the possibility that he could be swindling them for his own gain, there was still a level of civility between him and the agents. Now, though, as Peter watched from his own desk, he could see them ignore Neal’s attempts to speak to them, purposefully averting their gazes from him. Neal’s typical fluttering around the office, gracefully moving around to help the probies brainstorm their cases, going over possible outcomes with Diana or Jones, even just the casual chatter around the break area, all of it had come to a grinding halt.

Twice Peter saw Neal attempt his familiar glide around the space in an attempt to find some footing by offering his help or expertise, but he was rejected each time. If the mild slump of his shoulders and the crease of his forehead were anything to go off of, the rejections must’ve been blunt.

After that, Neal stayed at his desk, eyes glued to files and reports, a mirroring of the attitude being shown to him.

When Peter received a text from Elizabeth asking if he wanted to meet for lunch, he didn’t hesitate. And if upon his return he noticed that Caffrey’s hat hadn’t moved from the spot on his desk and the stack of files seemed to have doubled, well that was just the hand Neal was dealing himself. 

Chapter Text

The rising tensions between Caffrey and the others came to a head on another stakeout a couple of weeks later.

No new art thefts were reported, and the longer that held true the higher the likelihood rose of Neal having been responsible. In direct correlation, the more distrustful everyone seemed to get of the conman’s intentions.

The current operation was simple; a lawyer suspected of extorting clients with blackmail. It should’ve been a simple mission for Neal—go in as a prospective client, drop a bug somewhere, and leave.

Neal, as always, just had to keep pushing and ask, “Should we take the anklet off? That way Mr. Fle—”

Peter had barely registered the request when Diana turned to Neal, a contemptuous look on her face. She spoke over Jones’ lukewarm assent and said, “Are you seriously asking that, Caffrey?”

Peter looked to Neal just quickly enough to catch the shocked expression before he returned his face to a blank neutral. “It was just a suggestion. I can make do.”

The interaction itself lasted less than 5 seconds, and even if Diana’s tone was a little short, it wasn’t overly harsh. A firm correction for someone toeing the line. However, Peter was struck by the reactions of the two other agents in the van; they both entirely ignored the tacit van protocol of pretending not to hear others’ arguments. Anderson—smart, eager to learn, and finally out in the field—looked from Diana to Neal, her eyes slightly narrowed, her mouth almost forming words she was building up the courage to say. Rogers kept his eyes on the materials he was reading, but muttered, “Unbelievable,” loudly enough to be heard.

He knew everyone was still smarting from the abrupt freeze of Gallagher op, but he now wondered if his agents were angry enough for it to cloud their judgment. What Neal was suggesting wasn’t unreasonable, and even if Peter had his suspicions about those other robberies, there was no reason to suppose Neal would run from an office building with one street exit, which was covered by the FBI. 

Peter was about to intercede when Anderson found her voice. “Sir? Caffrey’s appointment is for a Jesse Palmer. I can let down my hair and lose the jacket, and introduce myself as Jessica. It’s a simple bug drop, we don’t need—” She stopped herself short, then amended to, “I can handle it, and we don’t have to worry about the anklet.” 

Peter looked at Neal. He was looking back at him with the same blank neutrality he had donned for Diana, but there was something more there. Peter shifted his eyes to Anderson, who seemed to read his hesitance and she pulled on her ponytail in response, shaking loose long curls and smiling brightly, as though ready for intake at a law firm. 

Peter told himself it wasn’t about punishing Caffrey, but letting Anderson learn the job. 

“Fine,” he said, and asked Neal to give her a brief rundown of how to approach the intake, how to answer questions, and where to place the bug. 

It was much later in the day when Peter realized that that was the last thing Neal had said to anyone in the office. 

When they returned to the FBI, the bug neatly in place and transmitting clearly, his agents took an early lunch and Neal took to his desk, and started making a dent on the piles of paperwork there. Peter suspected it wasn’t all his own assignments, and that Neal was putting up with some more practical expressions of frustration from the other team members. 

While Peter didn’t blame their frustration— Gallagher received another shipment last week, one they would have caught if Neal hadn’t been pulled— he couldn’t condone it, either. He called Neal into his office, just as afternoon was tipping towards evening, and tried to offer an olive branch. 

“You’ve been at your desk all day. I didn’t even see you take lunch. Why don’t you head home?”

Neal let out a stilted breath, the tension in his posture violin-string taut. “I have a lot of work to do.” 

Peter shifted, Neal’s bad attitude already wearing his patience thin. “Is it your work? I don’t remember assigning you all those files.” 

“What you do assign me is given to Anderson.” 

“She needed the experience,” Peter reasoned, but Neal openly scoffed. 

“She needs a lesson in art history! Did you read her report from today? She didn’t even mention that they have a Triple Portrait hanging in Fletcher's lobby, even though it’s never supposed to be removed from the Norman Rockwell Museum in Massachusetts! She was describing it to Rogers like it was a vanity piece. There’s open evidence of blackmail hanging in that office, and we don’t have it on file because you sent Anderson in instead of me. And it wouldn’t appear in the paperwork at all if I wasn’t redoing Anderson’s report.” 

“You weren’t being punished, Neal. Sometimes we send other people in. Remember, we got along perfectly fine before you.” Peter tried to keep his tone calm, but he could feel the blossoming need to stop beating around this particular bush, and make Neal understand just how badly he’d screwed everything up. 

“Then why am I even still here, if you can get along just fine without me?” Neal asked, and Peter was suddenly sorry he called him in here. If he wanted to skip lunch and work on other people’s reports, Peter wasn’t going to stop him. 

He stood and pulled on his jacket, and said, “That’s beginning to look like the sixty-four thousand dollar question, isn’t it?” 

Neal shook his head in small, controlled movements. “You know what? I’ll take the dirty looks from them,” he said, gesturing sharply behind him to the bullpen, then turning back to Peter, “because they don’t spend their free time boasting of how well they know me. But you?” 

Neal pointed sharply at Peter, “You know how little evidence you had when you pulled me from Gallagher, and you know that you would never even consider me for these… unsophisticated,” he released the word like a slur, “crimes if they came across your desk and I didn’t happen to be in your line of sight.” 

Peter’s disappointment, his anger, his offense at his instincts being reduced to pure deduction, as if he thought Neal Caffrey was the only improbable remaining, they swirled together into a livid hiss. 

“You admitted to the crimes.” 

The words came out low and rasped, dragged from him before Peter could think better of them, and he belatedly glanced to make sure there were no agents in the conference room or milling on the platform. Even after everything, Peter wasn’t ready yet to openly accuse Neal. 

Once assured, he took a breath to regain his composure, and clarified. “You sat in the conference room and you told us how you did it. There’s not a handful of people in the United States who would think to run those bypasses like you did, let alone get access to the right tools! And we both know you could have gotten Mozzie to help you with those pointed blackouts. As to why?” Peter looked away from Neal. 

“Who knows why with you?” He shrugged. “Maybe it’s why you felt the need to steal my handcuffs, while we’re talking about unsophisticated crimes.” 

Neal had the audacity to laugh, a surprised huff that made Peter look over in time to see the accompanied look of open disbelief. “Why would I—you’re not serious. I can see them in your pocket.” 

Peter froze, the files he was gathering hovering halfway between his desk and his briefcase. “Don’t you dare.” 

He dropped the files into his briefcase and picked it up, and stepped closer to Neal. “The day that second robbery came across my desk, the day Hughes all but demanded that I bust you, by the way, my handcuffs went missing from my desk drawer. I didn’t—”

Peter shook his head. “Every time,” he said under his breath. Then, louder, “The only reason I haven’t lodged an official complaint is because I wanted to believe it was a game, that you’d laugh and apologize and we could move on, but honestly, that’s my fault.” 

Peter took no joy in showing his hand. 

“I looked at the surveillance tapes, Neal. Only two people came into my office that morning. Twirch, who took my coffee mug from atop my desk and not the drawer, and you. Please, explain that to me so I understand it, because I can’t think of anyone with less incentive to take them than Otis Twirch.” 

Neal squared his chin, and looked at Peter with bright, focused eyes. “Nothing I can say is going to convince you, and I won’t debase myself in order to try. You can think what you want. Can I get back to work?” 

Peter didn’t answer for a long moment. He had intended to suggest Neal stop and eat something, to insist he stop handling the paperwork foisted onto him by angry FBI agents; but he found now that he himself was too disappointed to do either. He crushed the instinct to help Neal, because Neal wasn’t interested in helping himself. 

“I’m taking you home.” Peter said as he picked up his own briefcase. “I’ll be checking your tracking data regularly from this point out. This warning is a courtesy, and it’s the last one you’re gonna get.” 

Peter stood by the door, and pointedly waited for Neal to walk past him and closed the door behind them. 

And he made good on his promise. He didn’t so much check Neal’s data as he had it open all evening, transmitting his live location—in the office until six-thirty; in transit; at home for the rest of the night—until Peter turned in a few minutes before 1 a.m.; Neal had been in his own bed since midnight. 

He doubled checked that his clock was set to its weekday setting of 5:30 a.m., and took a bittersweet comfort in the fact that the Gallagher case being shut down at least meant a lack of middle-of-the-night phone calls.

Which was why the alarm in Peter’s gut thundered when his phone rang at 4:57 a.m..

Urgently awake, Peter hit the answer button. “Burke.”

“NYPD just called in a robbery.” Diana’s voice, sharp but simultaneously kind of breathless, rang through. If she was up and getting ready, Peter knew he needed to be, too.

“Where and what?” He asked as he stood carefully and headed towards the closet.

“Fletcher’s office. The—”

“Norman Rockwell’s Triple Portrait.” The thundering alarms of instinct turned into a roaring in Peter’s ears, and for a moment all he could do was stand in his dimly lit closet and not lose his composure so as to not wake his wife. “Neal’s—”

“Anklet went down at exactly 2 a.m., down the block from June’s, and didn’t come back online for 45 minutes. I called the Marshals and there was scheduled maintenance to the programming. They said you were notified about the scheduled maintenance last week.”

“I was not. I knew nothing about— damnit, I would’ve—” The thundering alarm from earlier was now accompanied by a flash of lightning, belated but illuminating an idea with sudden, harsh clarity. “Where’s Caffrey now?”

“Home. Do you want me to send officers over there?”

“We don’t have enough to charge him with anything, yet.” Peter's emotions were twisting up, anxiety and anger burning together into one indistinguishable mound in his chest. As he pulled his suit jacket on, he told Diana, “Go to the office and pull every second of security footage of the office from the fourth—no, the third—of March to last night. Call one of the probies and get them in on this too. I want Caffrey’s every movement noted and cataloged, especially if he went anywhere near my office.”

“On it, boss.” She hung up with a resonating click.

By the time Peter made his journey from Brooklyn to the office, Diana and Twirch were set up in the conference room, both a few pages deep into their note taking. It was well into spring and the day promised to be wonderfully warm, but the dark early-morning chill only reluctantly ceded to the dull gray of sunrise in the city, and between the pallid light from the windows and the yellow lamplight from within, the conference room was awash in stifling illumination that somehow fit their task: sending Neal back to prison.

“I, uh, I’m starting with last night and working my way backwards, while Agent Berrigan started with March, sir.” Twirch answered as Peter looked over his shoulder to read the notes.

“Good, that’s good.” Peter continued to scan the lines—Twirch had already covered two weeks’ worth of security footage—before he reached over to tap a line more than halfway down, the date just a few days past. “Here, April twentieth. Caffrey went into my office?”

“Yes sir. He went in and came out with a file. He then took the file to his desk and, and started to work on it. Records show that he submitted a couple suggestions about the..." Twirch pulled out some papers from the scattering around his designated table space. “Carson's jewelry case that afternoon.”

"Did he answer my phone at all? Log on to my computer?"

"Not that I could see, sir, but the security cameras aren't in the best position for catching your desk." When Peter didn't move from his spot looking over Twirch's shoulder, Twirch continued, "Do you want me to pull up the footage sir? I'm, I've already made it back to April thirteenth, but give me a few minutes and I could—"

"No, no. That's alright." Peter gave the younger man a small pat to the shoulder as an apology for hovering in his space. "Your notes are detailed, and you've got the time code noted if it needs further investigating. You're right about the security cameras not revealing much."

Twirch’s body language finally relaxed as Peter took a step back, and he nodded jerkily. “Yes, sir.”

Peter nodded to himself, told Diana he’ll be making phone calls, and moved into his own office. He shut the door behind him and leaned against it for a moment, wishing he could pause time, just for a short while. 

He had a feeling today wasn’t going to be a good day. 

He’d been warned about this. Everyone, from Phil to Hughes to even Landon Shepard, they all warned him that the likeliest outcome of his partnership with Neal would be his ruin, not Neal’s reform. 

He sighed. Even if he was wrong about Neal, the least he could do was prove them wrong about where his loyalties lie. He would always do what’s right, even if that meant—

He would wait for Neal to come in. Give him the opportunity to defend himself, if he could. One, final, unearned chance to prove that this partnership hadn’t become about snubbing his nose at the FBI at every turn. 

He grabbed his mug—and he should thank whoever it was who washed and returned it, because it definitely hadn’t been him—and went to get his first cup of coffee of the day. 

He called Hughes and promised to meet with him later in the day for a full update, and he called the local PD to make sure he was copied on forensics and initial conclusions, and he even called the Marshals, not making any concrete requests but keeping abreast of the correct protocols if he needed to use them. It was bleak work, and when Diana rose to pointedly shut the connecting door between the conference room and his office against the noise from his phone calls, he was grateful for another moment of privacy. 

He only noticed Neal had arrived at the office because Jones had stood abruptly from his own desk. He jogged toward the glass doors, and when Peter followed his path he saw that Neal was making his way from the elevator to the office, slowed by Jones’ approach. He wasn’t sure what Jones was going to do, but when he took Neal by the elbow and led him away from the bullpen, Peter decided to follow them. 

He had just turned the corner in the hallway that lead to the bathrooms when Neal’s voice, a soft but indignant whisper, “Jones, man, come on, you can’t seriously—”

“I’m just saying,” Jones voice, another whisper, not harsh but still firm, “You need to cut the bull and fess up. Whether it’s these robberies, or some other crime you’ve been committing that you feel like you can’t admit to in order to clear your name on these, you’re running out of space to get away.”

“I haven’t —”

Jones once again cut him off. “Neal, at this point your denials aren’t enough. Peter’s ready to start burning bridges. Don’t put him in that position. Either show proof you didn’t, regardless of whatever else that proof implicates you in, or own up to it. You seriously don’t have an alibi for any of the robberies? June or that little man didn’t see you, once?”

“Would any of you even take their words for it if they did?” There was only a long silence. “Right. Exactly. I can’t prove a negative Jones, but you’re the ones blaming me for a hypothetical–”

“Neal.” Peter said as he stepped around the corner, revealing himself. Jones and Neal both looked up, surprised, and for a flickering moment Peter caught a genuine expression on Neal’s face. A kind of sad resolve, a gentle hesitation marking his features, but then it was bricked up behind the sullen apathy Peter had started to get used to this week.  Peter  reinforced his own wall of resolve against it. “You need to come with me. I have some questions to ask you.”

He then tilted his chin towards Jones. It wasn’t like Neal being a prime suspect was being kept a secret, but Jones had crossed a line, getting to Neal first and trying to encourage a confession. 

“You can tell Diana to join me at the interrogation room and you can take over what she’s doing in the conference room.”

“Peter—”

“Go on, Clinton. We can discuss this later.”

Jones gave a slow nod and started to step away, but then he doubled back and stuck his hand out to Neal. No words were exchanged, but as Neal returned the firm handshake, Peter could tell it was meant to be a quiet resolution between the two.

Once Jones left Peter gestured for Neal to walk ahead of him. “Come on then.” He commanded softly. 

Neal’s gaze hardened between looking at Jones leaving and turning to Peter, and he gave no impression of registering what Peter had said before he pushed past him. It wasn’t until Neal made the left past the doors that Peter was sure they were on the same page.

Neal let himself into the interrogation room, and as he sat down on the far side of the table, he held up his hands, wrists up. “Am I missing some jewelry for this conversation?”

Peter wondered whether making a joke and claiming it’s a joke both counted toward his bingo. He decided to claim the square. 

“You’re not under arrest. Yet.” Peter took his seat across from Neal, making sure to maintain eye contact the entire time. “Where were you last night?”

“I think I’m already wearing the jewelry that’s supposed to tell you that. You’ve seen it. Very expensive, chafes, has a blinking–”

“Your anklet went down for 45 minutes last night.” Peter’s unwavering tone cut straight through Neal’s attempt at sarcasm, and it seemed to have the impact he wanted.

Perhaps too strong of an impact, because Neal suddenly sat up straighter with an outright shocked expression. "What? ”

“The Marshal’s had a scheduled outage last night to upgrade some of their systems. They claim to have sent me an email regarding it, and they have a response from me that I got it, but somehow I never once saw that email.” Peter leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “You know the date that they sent that email?”

“ No, Peter, I don’t. I—”

Peter talked over Neal’s panic act. “April tenth. At eleven-fifteen. You know where I was on April tenth at eleven-fifteen?”

“Wouldn’t happen to have been with me?” Neal tried as he mimicked Peter’s posture, slumping back in his seat and crossing his own arms over his chest. Rather than casual though, he made himself look dejected, staring at the corner of the floor behind Peter.

“No. I was out to lunch with Elizabeth. Do you know where you were?” When Neal didn’t answer the hypothetical, Peter continued. “Angry about the Gallagher op, and inside my office. There’s security footage to prove it.”

Neal didn’t say anything. He just continued to stare straight ahead, a sharp downturn to the corners of his lips. All his joking attitude, his apathetic composure, had dissolved.

What remained was someone who knew they were about to be caught.

“Tell me where it all is.” Peter sat up straight again, pointing towards the two-way glass. “Diana will be in there by now. She can write down the address.”

“I don’t have it, Peter.”

“Cut the crap. Where Mozzie has it, or Alex, or whomever you’ve fenced it to—”

Neal stood suddenly, a movement so fast that the metal chair skidded against the floor and Peter’s fingers twitched toward his sidearm. From his suit jacket, Neal pulled out a pair of handcuffs, Peter’s new handcuffs, and tossed them on the table. “When I take things, you don’t know about it.” 

He stayed towering over Peter, but if it was an attempt at intimidation or grasping for control, it failed. Peter watched Neal force a deep breath in an attempt to regain some composure, but thought he looked more like a puffed-out cat, fuzzy and tense, cornered in an alley by a German Shepherd. Neal ran a hand through his hair as he took another, then looked down at Peter with solemnity Neal used only when he was being completely honest, or telling a bald-faced lie. It told Peter nothing. 

“I don’t have it! I, Neal George Caffrey, go on official record to say I do not have and have no knowledge of the location of the Lucifer hearth panels, the Eucharist chalice, or the Last Supper lithographs, or the Hockney sketch. Or who has them, or where they’ve been since their legal owners had them.”

Neal’s emotional outburst was well-performed, but Peter didn’t take the bait. He was cornered, so of course he was exploiting the last loophole he had—the idea that he never lied to Peter. 

Peter didn’t budge from his seat, simply watched as Neal scrambled to find a ledge to stand on. “What do you know about the theft of Norman Rockwell’s Triple Self-Portrait that occurred last night, at the exact timing of your anklet deactivating?”

Neal just stared at him, a piercing expression on his face, for a long minute. Peter watched his fire burn for a moment longer than was comfortable, then pushed his chair back. He stood, his gaze breaking away from Neal to look at the stolen handcuffs on the table.

He wasn’t completely sure what his next actions would be; but he saw Neal take a half step back, an instinctual retreat, as he reached for them, and he felt a pivot happen internally. Between one moment and the next, one breath and its successor, it suddenly became clear to Peter that regardless of what he had to do—when he knew what that was— he wasn’t interested in watching Neal suffer while he battled indecision. 

He didn’t look at Neal again as he slid the handcuffs back into the pocket of his suit jacket and said, “You’re on house arrest until further notice.”

“Peter…”

He ignored Neal and walked over to the two way mirror, giving it a quick, hard knock. “Diana will drive you home.” There was a confirmation knock on the mirror and Peter turned back around to face Neal. 

“Go home. Call the bald one over, sit down with June, and enjoy a dinner with them. Have some of that nice wine you enjoy so much, maybe take a long, hot shower with all those fancy products you spoil yourself with. Just…have a good night Caffrey.”

It was the look that Neal gave him in that moment that somehow tripped all the alarms in Peter’s gut, those devoted to Neal and those that kept him sharp on his casework and those that alerted him with a subaudible ringing that he was being manipulated. It was a fireworks show of intuition, but the shapes blazed too brightly and too briefly to be fully comprehended, even in the moment. Something deep inside Peter was yelling that this couldn’t be an act, that no matter how good an actor, master manipulator, or illustrious conman Neal Caffrey was known to be, there was no faking the depth of grief that settled on his face. The way his jaw was slightly slack and his eyes seemed to gently shine, or the grey pallor to his skin—they couldn’t possibly all be feigned. But Peter wasn’t sure that wasn’t just a dim after-image, the ghostly memory of fireworks that had tried to show him something else entirely. 

“Peter,” Neal tried again,  stepping towards him. “I am telling you, as your friend, that I did not do this. Any of it. Mozzie didn’t do it, Alex didn’t do it, no one I know or have any connections to has done this. I swe—”

Peter turned around as he heard the doorknob start to turn. He pretended he couldn’t see Neal’s reflection in the mirror, still looking at him until Diana placed a hand on his shoulder, and ignored the way the alarms blared louder through his core as Neal shook his head in defeat and finally turned to leave.

Chapter Text

It was too late at night, Peter knew that; it was technically the small hours before tomorrow. But having decided, he wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. 

He knew now that the Marshals received remanded prisoners at all hours in their offices downtown. 

He looked up at the impressive facade of June’s home, a place that no longer intimidated him like it once had. “You said if I found a nicer place for the same price, I should take it,” echoed dimly, less a memory than a fleeting association. He wondered if he’d ever be welcomed inside again after tonight. 

He didn’t tell anyone what he was doing, though he suspected Hughes wouldn’t be surprised, and Elizabeth probably understood when he left. 

Peter had met with him in Hughes’ office after he’d sent Caffrey home, and they sat together for upwards of two hours, reviewing every detail of each robbery. Part of Peter saw that what they were doing was post-hoc justification for the target they’d preemptively drawn on Neal, but he couldn’t ignore how neatly all the pieces fit. 

Still. 

He wasn’t convinced in that deep-in-his-gut way he’d come to rely on, and he was starting to wonder whether he relied on that feeling too much, since every excellent agent around him seemed to be drawing the same conclusion: Neal was guilty. 

They had called it a night, both standing to leave, no firm conclusion in hand, when Reese addressed his hesitation. 

“A word, Peter? As a friend?” 

Peter had been reaching for the door handle but he stopped, and turned on his heel. “Always, Reese.” 

Reese exhaled through his nose and looked at Peter, his head dipped low, a hand on each hip, his shoulders weighed down. “Listen,” he started, and Peter could hear the latent disappointment, the buried hope that sense might prevail. “I know you like Caffrey, and to be honest, I get why. He was a real asset for the department, and he obviously looks up to you, cares what you think of him. But the simple truth of the matter is, it doesn’t look like he wants to be here anymore. These crimes, they scream catch me if you can, but you’ve spent too many resources on this goose chase, as it is, and I need to remind you, Peter, we’re the FBI. We don’t play these games.” 

“Games?” While Peter didn’t disagree with anything Hughes was saying, he resisted the accusation. “Accusing him of these robberies, maybe sending him back to prison? I’m not doing that lightly.” 

“And no one’s asking you to. But, at this point Peter, it doesn’t really matter whether or not he did it. You’re considering him a suspect based on the evidence we do have, which means you think he’s truly capable of betraying you… Does this partnership feel like it’s working, to you?” 

Peter hated how much sense that made. Because the answer was not what he wanted, but it was clear to him, all the same; the partnership wasn’t working, it couldn’t possibly work while suspicion hung so heavily over Neal. And Reese was right—it didn’t even matter whether he was guilty. Peter couldn’t sleep with any kind of security that he wouldn’t wake up to another crime, and he couldn’t send Neal undercover, and he couldn’t even leave him in the office unsupervised. 

It was untenable. 

Hughes either read Peter’s conclusions on his face, or he just decided to drive the point home. But the next thing he said was, “It’s really very simple: Either you trust him, or you don’t.”

Peter’s eyes shot up to Hughes’, narrowed slightly as he listened for another tacit order in Hughes words. But there was none, only the invocation of Peter’s own judgement. 

“If you trust him, I’ll support your decision. You can investigate these crimes fresh, bring Caffrey in to review them with you, find a new suspect. But if you don’t… Sending him back to prison isn’t admitting defeat, Burke. It’s adjusting to new circumstances. Sometimes, that’s the best we can do.” 

Peter thanked him and left, stopping in his own office only for his jacket and briefcase. 

He was deliberate in his choice not to think about what Reese had asked of him. 

That had lasted less than seven hours. He now killed the engine and opened the car door, immediately regretting that he’d walked out of his home without grabbing a heavier jacket. The night was frigid, more January than April, and it made Peter think of the chilly Autumn when he’d brought Neal home—was it ever truly his home?—and the combination of wind and the dryness of the small-hours only served to make the cold more biting. 

He threw his hands in his pants pockets and crossed the street at a brisk pace, and made his way down the block to June’s. 

He had always been so sure that his partnership with Neal always balanced in the black; the few times it didn’t, he knew at least what had gone wrong. 

But this time they seemed to be at an impasse. Peter truly believed his suspicions were warranted, if not fully substantiated, and it seemed like Neal had gone out of his way to have a negative alibi. “Tell me which rule I broke, and I will thumb it back to prison myself.”

No, it didn’t make perfect sense for Neal to have told him about Triple Self-Portrait hours before he planned on stealing it, but it seemed even less likely that it was stolen, hours after Neal Caffrey located it, by ill-lucked coincidence.

He’d gone home still heavy with the conversation with Hughes. Elizabeth could sense he was troubled, and it took her exactly one question to get to the cause, but even she couldn’t untangle the mess of his—moral? ethical? Professional?—misgivings for him. 

“I wish I knew what to say, hon,” she replied, after he laid out the evidence, and Neal’s reaction to being confronted by it. “We always knew he might run, or have his judgment get clouded, but… A deliberate scheme to undermine you, and the division? Even when he’s angry, he’s never been… Vengeful. You’re sure it’s not possible he’s telling the truth? I mean, he might have been enjoying a late-night walk when the Rockwell was stolen. You used to, whenever you needed to clear your head, before you moved in with me.” She paused, and cuddled more closely into his side. When she looked up at him, it was with a soft look of nostalgia. 

“Remember that time you took me on that patrol route you made up, so I could find you if I came over and you were out? Let’s see…” She trailed off, and Peter was about to remind her when she began reciting, her eyes shut as though following an invisible map, “Take a right out of your building, to avoid the apartment across the street because you never wanted me walking by there, then two blocks and a left onto Hudson, a right onto Riverend, down the length of the promenade and then straight down Vanderbilt to where it intersected with Smith Street, and back to your place.” 

She opened her eyes and looked up at him, smiling at the memory and her performance of it. “How did I do?”

“Perfectly, Ms. Mitchell,” Peter answered, for a moment drawn out of his own mood to meet her in hers, dwelling, just long enough to catch his breath in a time before Neal Caffrey, a time when he was just earning his name as the Archeologist working toward his first truly significant arrest, a Peter who knew the right thing to do, even when it was hard to do it. 

A Peter who, above all, trusted himself. 

That thought seemed to seal him off from the warm memory of cold nights with Elizabeth, walking the blocks around his apartment as he talked through his cases, their plans, her ambitions. 

Because even if he couldn’t trust Neal, he trusted himself; and he knew the partnership wasn’t working. 

“Hon, I have to go,” he said, kissing the top of her head and setting down his untouched glass of wine. “It’s a work thing, it shouldn’t take long.” 

She sat up to help him disentangle from her. “Okay,” she said simply, with neither judgment nor anticipation, and he loved her dearly for that. “Wake me when you get back, if you want to talk.” 

Peter raised his hand and gave a threefold, ungentle rapping at June’s front door. He’d want to talk, he knew that now, but he had no idea what he could possibly say. He couldn’t even articulate what he was feeling to himself. 

As Peter climbed the stairs to Neal's apartment for what would likely prove to be the last time, the weight of what he was about to do seemed to finally find anchor in him. It was a kind of grief, a kind of hesitation, slowing his steps. Hughes' words echoed in his head— does this partnership feel like it’s working, to you? —and while Peter had felt so certain of his decision up till now, as he approached Neal's home ready to uproot him from it, the doubt he had buried crept out of the topsoil, clawing its path forward, making sure Peter knew it was alive—if barely—and that it saw him.

Peter found himself stopping on the top of the grand stairs, right before they turned into the small steps that lead up to Neal's entryway. He could hear voices talking, Mozzie and Neal's. Their voices were hushed, but Peter could still hear the slight, tense edge to them. It made sense, of course. Peter figured there were two likely conversations that were going on. The first would be Mozzie, upset that Neal would be sent back to prison, imploring him to run. The second would be the pair actively planning how to run.

The newly awoken doubt rasped at Peter that he could let them. Not escape, of course, but allow them a few more minutes of imagining their fantastical freedom. Grant them a final, decaying kindness before he ruined them both.

It was the sound of a glass shattering that pulled Peter from his thoughts and pushed him the rest of the way up the stairs and through the doorway. Mozzie shot him a look but kept moving between the living room area and the dining room. 

"Suit, this is not a good time for—"

"Oh Moz, c'mon. There's’never a good time to be arrested on false charges. Hi Peter."

If Neal's slurred speech wasn't enough to clue Peter in to his current state, the way he was sprawled out on the couch certainly was. He was still in the neatly tailored outfit he had worn to work, but now it was a disheveled mess. His dress shirt was half unbuttoned and bunched up his back and around his stomach from how he slouched against the backrest, and the sleeves were shoved up his arms rather than carefully folded and rolled. He was still wearing his tie, but just barely, the knot so loose it threatened to come undone entirely. There were splatters of red wine around the collar of his white shirt.

If that wasn't enough of an indicator to Peter, the swollen redness around Neal's eyes and his nose were further back up: Not only had Neal been crying, but he had been crying for a while.

"Let's just get this over with, yeah?" Neal said and tried to push himself into a standing position, but didn't push forward far enough and simply fell back onto the couch. "Wait, hold—"

"Caffrey, I told you not to move." Mozzie said with a sharp tone, appearing behind Peter with a broom and a dust pan.

“Peter’s here to arrest me, Moz. I have, I have to go.” He looked up at Peter then, eyes wide and starkly blue against the inflamed redness of his face. “Don’t I?”

“Uh,” was Peter’s eloquent answer. 

He felt like he was in Wonderland, like reality was slightly wrong in the worst ways. He watched Mozzie lean down to sweep up the shattered wine glass at Neal’s feet, the repeated scraping of wet glass between the hard bristles and the broom and the hardwood floor the only sound for a few interminable beats. 

Neal’s socks were soaked in red wine.

“Of course he’s not going to arrest you right now.” Mozzie told Neal, speaking over the silence. “As heartless as I think all Suits are,” Mozzie stood back up and handed the dustpan of broken glass to Peter, meeting his eyes with a stern gaze that belied the almost childlike tone he was taking with Neal, then continued, “Peter told me he’s also your friend , and friends aren’t so disrespectful to drag you to prison when you’re so drunk you can’t see straight.”

“Contains real jojoba extract,” Neal said, pointing across the room, and Peter followed the line of his finger to a fancy-looking container of hand soap by the kitchen sink. 

“I have,” Neal elaborated, drawing out the word like a braggart child, “20/20 vision Moz. Can see perfectly straight.” He looked at his own raised hand, and dropped it with an air of petulance. Peter, still trapped halfway in the looking glass or the rabbit hole—he’s never read that book, he wasn’t sure—looked on, still dumbly holding a dustpan of broken glass, as Mozzie grabbed Neal’s ankles and pulled them up, forcing Neal to slump sideways. Mozzie first pulled off one ruined sock, holding it disdainfully far from himself, and then the other. 

Neal seemed unaware that he was now lying on the couch, and that he was talking mostly to himself. 

“S’good to have perfect vision in prison. Glasses break and, and no one fixes them. Leaves people…” Neal’s eyebrows furrowed together as he thought hard, but whatever the end of his sentence was going to be faded out of his grasp, and he looked back up at Peter. “You—you didn’t answer, Peter.”

“That’s… because I don’t understand what’s happening here.” The truth came out of Peter before he could really think about it, and when Mozzie straightened, holding both Neal’s socks in one outstretched hand, Peter followed him into the kitchen. “What is happening here Mozzie?”

“You tell me, Suit.” Mozzie tossed the stained white socks into the trash can, and turned to look at Peter expectantly. “I showed up a little after seven to find him already well in his cups, at the bottom of several bottles, imbibed far past the point of good taste—” 

“I understand, he was drunk,” Peter tried to rush him along, with a glance over at Neal, who was singing the chorus to Wasn’t Me over and over again. 

“He was plastered , Suit, and surrounded by case files for robberies I’ve never even heard of . Low value, classless work, by the way. It took me half an hour to get a cup of coffee in him and figure out that he’s, apparently, on the chopping block for them.” 

Mozzie reached out and pulled the dust pan from Peter’s hand and dumped its contents into the trash himself. “I tried to cut him off, but it’s been a growing mess ever since.”

A familiar siren flared inside him, warning against a possible trap, a deliberate web of misinformation intended to push Peter to the wrong conclusion. Peter remembered the earlier flash of certainty that he was being manipulated, and wondered if it was in anticipation of this, a display carefully designed to dull his certainty in what both he and Neal, apparently, had seen coming. 

Peter glanced back towards the living room area again. Neal had pulled his feet up onto the couch to lay down properly, rather than half slumped over. His head was laying on the arm rest closest to where Peter and Mozzie stood, and although he was staring at the ceiling, he had stopped singing and Peter could tell he was clearly eavesdropping. 

Trying to, at least. The way he was fighting the weight of his eyelids undermined his intention. 

Mozzie rolled his eyes before he grabbed a tall water glass from the dining table, which, now that Peter was actually looking towards it, he could see was littered with papers— overlapping sheets of reports, witness statements, timelines, and maps covered the table top, and were even spread out across some of the chairs. Peter could recognize the crime scene photos; Navarro’s home, a shot of where the Hockney sketch once hung, detailed photos of the chalices. There were pencil markings underlining random bits of text, circling parts, a Caffrey-specific shorthand that Peter couldn’t read from a distance, and the occasional ring on the paper. A couple were thin, red rings, a few flat, clear circles, and a one darker, thicker ring, overlapped by a familiar consultant mug, still half-full with cold, slightly curdled coffee. 

It seemed that Neal had at least started his afternoon with the intention of sobriety, though the table presented a distressingly vivid outline of how he had gotten… how he was. 

“He was already drunk when you got here?” Peter asked as he turned back to Mozzie, even though Mozzie had made that abundantly clear just moments before. But that would mean…

“I sent him home early, do you think—” He was cut off as Mozzie pushed a glass full of water and three generic ibuprofens into his hand.

“You can convince him to drink this better than I could.”

Peter’s gaze bounced between Mozzie, the glass, and Neal a few times, desperately trying to process the scene he walked in on and was now apparently a part of. The warning sirens faded into an equally important but somehow less urgent feeling in his gut, an imperceptible shift in their timbre softening their sharpness and tilting the sound toward something more organic. The more he understood, the more those sirens came to resemble a heartbeat at-attention, than an alarm. 

He walked over to the living room area again and grabbed Neal by his elbow. “Up, Caffrey. Take this, then I’m dumping you in that stupidly high bed of yours and going home. Finish it,” he warned.

Neal’s head lolled as Peter forced him into a sitting position too quickly, but he managed to catch it and look up again at Peter. It was far from the fearful look of a trapped alleycat; Neal was infinitely more bedraggled than he’d been at the office—Peter hadn’t ever seen him looking worse, not in prison, not after Kate, never—but the delicate hope he allowed, or couldn’t keep from his features gave him the aura of a child, finally allowed in from the dark.

“Not prison?”

A slight shine returned to his eyes as he spoke.

Peter moved his hand from Neal’s elbow to his shoulder, holding him steady as he moved to sit on Neal’s coffee table. He slumped his shoulders so he could catch his eye, and met Neal’s gaze straight on. “Not…right now. But—”

“Didn’t do it, Peter.” Neal held his gaze right back, unwavering. “I…you know me. You,” Neal reached out and poked Peter’s chest hard. “You know me. You always find me, cause of how well you know me. I don’t…I wouldn’t mess around like this. Not with you.”

Peter’s own heartbeat seemed to count the seconds as he tried to figure out how to respond to that. It measured out El’s, it’s not possible he’s telling the truth? squeezed into iambic pentameter, Mozzie’s robberies I’ve never even heard of fitting the offbeat as a trochaic chant, the sure steadiness of each of their words more in tune with his own internal meter than any of the warning alarms had been.

Peter shook his head slightly, forcing away his thoughts, and he held out the glass of water. “Won’t send you back right now if you drink this. All of it. And if you don’t make carrying you ten feet as big of a pain as you did at the Hearts Wide Open clinic.”

Neal’s face grew entirely serious as he nodded and took the water. He swallowed the pills easily but drinking the rest of it did seem to be a challenge for him; any time he pulled the glass away Peter gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and Neal dutifully—Peter tried not to think fearfully —brought it back to his lips. Maybe he shouldn’t have made drinking the water a threat.

Once the glass was finished, Peter looked up to find Mozzie and gestured for him. He shrugged off his suit jacket in anticipation of the task at hand. “Come on, you take his right side, I’ll take the left.”

“His left or yours?”

It shouldn’t have taken two sober men as much work as it did to guide a third drunk one across a room, but Neal was stumbling deadweight, pulling against their help in the effort to lend his own. It was easily ten minutes before Neal was finally put into his bed.

“I’m going to grab the trash can.” Mozzie said as he turned around. “Last I saw him like this, the next morning wasn’t pretty.”

Peter cringed in empathy before he turned back to Neal, already flopped back against the pillows with an arm over his eyes. He hesitated before he reached out and gently slid the remaining tail of the tie free from the knot, pulled it carefully from around Neal’s neck, then folded it up. The small pressure seemed to rouse Neal just enough for him to mumble a low, “Thank you, Peter.”

Something in his gut told Peter he wasn’t talking about the tie. “You’re welcome, Neal. We’ll figure this out.” He pushed the wine freckled tie into his pants pocket and had just finished pulling the covers over Neal when Mozzie came back over with the fresh trash can.

“Right. Our turn now.” Mozzie said with a not-so-gentle slap to Peter’s back.

“Nope, no.” Peter said as he followed behind Mozzie to give Neal at least the semblance of privacy. “I’m going home, I’m done—”

“ No , Suit.” Mozzie said, enough venom in the two words to make Peter stop. Mozzie kept his back to him as he went to the kitchen and…pulled a small section of tile from the wall, revealing a secondary stash of alcohol. Of course the renovated speakeasy had extra liquor storage. 

“I have just spent the entire evening trying to help my friend deal with whatever fuzzy-ended lollipop you’ve been trying to feed him. You owe me an explanation. And Neal owes me a drink, so unhappily for me those two ends meet in breaking bread and pouring wine with you.”

He turned back to Peter and held up a bottle of 81-year-aged Macallan Reach.

“Except sans the bread. Or wine.” 

Peter eyed the bottle, then Mozzie, then glanced over at Neal. He hadn’t moved from his sunken position, but his body seemed more relaxed, his breaths even with sleep. Peter tried to recall the last moment he had seen Neal actually at rest, and a small flicker of cake , once tugged on, called forth the entire memory: Neal, slunk down on Peter’s living room couch, surrounded by papers from another case, holding a consultant mug and a dessert, shortly before his breakthrough would solve the entire thing.

And, for a moment, there was only silence. No alarms, no warning bells. Just Peter’s own familiar, steady heartbeat. It was a settled sort of silence.

Peter owed him this.

“Pour me a double while I call Elizabeth and—”

“Already texted her, Suit.” Mozzie said as he went to the shelf and pulled one of the doors open, gesturing for Peter to retrieve the items. “She said she’s glad you’re staying and will be ready to hear about it when you get home.”

Peter retrieved the lowball glasses from the high shelf. “I don’t like that you text my wife so casually.”

“Jealousy doesn’t behoove you, Hoover. Your McCarthic enthusiasm for hurling accusations has driven my best friend to steeper emotional cliffs than I’ve ever seen him try to balance, and that includes the time his girlfriend blew up in front of him.” 

Mozzie ignored the way Peter stood, shellshocked by the blunt scolding, and simply plucked the glasses from his hand. “Let’s have this conversation out on the balcony, so as to not further disturb his inebriated slumber.”

The temperature had dropped a few degrees since Peter had made the walk from his car; but here, high above the windtunnel created by buildings on either side of the street, the air was almost still and the frigidity had taken on a refreshing quality. Heat and tension Peter hadn’t stopped to acknowledge now released into the night with every exhalation of cold air, and the effect was immediately calming. The anxious abruptness with which he had left Elizabeth now seemed childishly naive, like he’d believed that swallowing the medicine quicker might render it less bitter. 

He sat down beside Mozzie in the cushioned section, gently tucked away from the delicate breeze, both facing the noise and lights and activity of the city instead of one another. While Mozzie poured Peter tried to organize his thoughts around Neal, but he kept drifting back to Elizabeth, instead. 

Part of it was the balcony itself; in some corner of his mind it would forever be overlaid with glittering fairy lights and the sound of softly renewed vows. But sitting out here in the cold night air, a drink in hand, threw him thirteen—fourteen, now?—years back, when they were still just dating but Peter had known they would be more. He’d taken her up to the rooftop of his first apartment, absolutely nothing like June’s meticulously maintained terrace, and over beer and to the inescapable sound of Celine Dione’s “My Heart Will Go On” playing on the radio, he had awkwardly proposed to her. He made it up to her later, with a more elaborate date, a more romantic soundtrack, and, well, a plan. But that first proposal, the one where he stumbled with boiling nerves and inadequate words through icy air, it was the one he remembered most fondly, and it was the one he was reminded of tonight. 

He inhaled deeply and raised the glass Mozzie had handed him, and hoped that tonight, too, he’d be adequate for the task at hand. 

"As you can probably tell, I didn't get exactly the most coherent recounting of events from Neal today." Mozzie turned from the City and was looking straight at Peter. 

This was a Mozzie Peter hadn’t encountered before; there was no chaotic monologue about things that didn't make sense because they were either flat out wrong or covered in layers of convolution. There was only his full, cold, resentment-filled attention. 

"What's your side of the story, Suit?"

Peter recounted the past few months, finding what parts of the story Mozzie had been told and filling in details Neal had chosen to omit. It took half his whiskey to recount it all, from Salomone’s hearth panels to Fletcher's Rockwell, the details of the Gallagher case and what it had meant to shut it down, the probability of Neal’s involvement rising from unlikely to only reasonable explanation with each subsequent crime.

"In my judiciary opinion." Mozzie interrupted, "That’s bull. Your body of evidence boils down to a lack of other suspects?"

"No," Peter said defiantly. "The evidence is the way each crime happens in exactly the way Neal details it. Navarro happened, Neal said that shorter outages could achieve the same result without alerting the electric company, and then...boom. Next robbery relies on a series of outages. Neal says the stolen art isn't artsy enough for him to be interested in stealing it, boom, a Hockney is stolen. We pull him off his first case after Gallagher and that night, the exact office he was meant to go into gets a Rockwell stolen from them?" Peter shook his head before he took another sip of his whiskey. "It's just...all too coincidental."

Mozzie tapped his finger against the side of his glass a few times. "Ignoring the fact that this isn't Neal's style of thievery at all, this showboating, skylarking kind of exhibitionsim..." He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. "The Rockwell was the Fletcher case, right? Where his anklet went offline?"

"Right."

“That’s just not like Neal . He may be a victim of his emotions occasionally, but not to the point of such recklessness. Even if I were to believe your logic, what’s the game in that? To show you that, when he’s lucky enough for the anklet to not track him, he’s going to go through the extra trouble to help you nail him for an otherwise perfect crime?” 

Mozzie gave a shake of his head. “Neal’s too clever for that. He doesn’t taunt and flaunt his crime, that’s for wannabe conmen who use braggadocio talk to make it seem like they’re one of the greats. Neal just is .”

“What’s greater than admitting to the FBI you intended to commit crimes and then committing them right under their nose? To show that there’s no way for them to stop you?”

Mozzie met his eyes once again. “You mean for you to stop him?”

Peter gave a half hearted shrug as a response and for a moment he looked over the balcony, out at the large city spread out around them. “Neal likes showing me he can do the impossible.”

The silence that followed felt long to Peter, powerful enough to mute the city around them. It was the truth of his last words that seemed to smother everything else. While Neal might enjoy catching the bad guys, playing both sides of the chess game, having his cake and eating it too, the rush of the con was what he truly wanted. Peter was just the unlucky one caught in the crossfire.  

He turned to try and explain that to Mozzie, but while he had been lost to his thoughts the smaller man had gone to stand near the edge of the patio table, arms crossed over his chest against the chill, and glancing indoors, toward the bed. 

“Peter,” Mozzie said, and Peter rose to his feet at the mere use of his name. “If it was all just a game, Neal’s way of showing you he could do the impossible…Why wait?”

“Wait?” Peter parroted as he went to stand next to him.

“He knew you were going to arrest him tonight. Peter’s here to arrest me Moz, I have to go with him. That’s what he said when you entered, plus the hundred or so times he told me before then. He’s going to arrest me Moz, unless I can figure out what’s happening here. He’s going to arrest me unless I can give him another suspect. There has to be something they missed. He was…”

Mozzie shook his head again, the movement sharp and ferretish, but also glaringly sincere. He downed the rest of his glass and set it on the small patio table with a little too much force. “If this was just a game to him, why wait around for you to come and arrest him? Why cover the place in papers and files and drink himself blackout drunk because he couldn’t find an answer? What’s the bigger plan here, to land himself in prison with no memory of when you came to arrest him? You know Neal plays to win. What kind of victory is this? What kind of ending?”

Peter had talked himself into all kinds of justifications for his suspicions of Neal, and where his imagination had faltered Reese had come through with reinforcements; either his creativity was waning or his instincts were coming back online, but Peter couldn’t fathom a reasonable answer to Mozzie’s last question. Why would Neal stick around? If his goal was to be sent back to prison—which he’d already proven he could escape from—he could have ended the deal himself. And with the additional security measures they would be bound to take, it would hardly be worth Neal’s time when a pair of scissors and Mozzie with a getaway car would’ve gotten him the same outcome.The idea was almost on par with his suggestion that Neal had escaped prison knowing full well Peter would catch him as a segue into their current deal. Neal hadn’t been that sloppy then, and there was no reason to think he’d grown sloppier now. 

What kind of victory? No kind, for either of them. 

“Why did you come over tonight?” Peter asked instead of answering, his glance drawn, like Mozzie’s, to Neal’s unmoving form. 

“Are you asking because you think I came over to discuss fencing a Hanukkah lamp?” 

Peter rolled his eyes and turned to look at Mozzie. “I’m asking because I want to be convinced you two aren’t planning something that involves exploiting my desire to trust Neal.” 

“Oh,” Mozzie chuckled, the sound delighted sarcasm. “So you do want to trust him? I’m sure he’ll be elated to hear that.” Mozzie picked up his glass and the whiskey, and nodded pointedly for Peter to grab his half-filled tumbler, too. 

Peter led the way inside as Mozzie said, “Ironically, I came over to implore him to trust you with something he’s been reluctant to share.” He went to continue before he stopped, considered, then said,”I’ll leave it to you to ask him what.” 

Peter exhaled his frustration. It was nearly 3 a.m., and now impish, secretive, oblique Mozzie came out to play. Of course. 

Peter scanned the table, but there wasn’t a spare inch; he walked over to the sink and gently set his glass down. “Mozzie, it’s late. If you’re here in the morning you can tell Neal he has one more day to convince me, but the evidence…” 

“You have no evidence, Suit. And I think the reason you sat outside with me is because you know that. From what Neal told me, from what you told me, what I managed to glean from those files of subpar police work,” Mozzie pointed at the table, “it looks like someone didn’t so much frame Neal for crimes as much as they committed crimes Neal would be framed for.” 

Peter didn’t have the energy for—“How are those not the same thing?” He asked, managing not to whine, but just barely. He went to grab his jacket.

“I don’t know why I expected better of your government-assigned imagination: The wise man doesn’t give the right answers, he poses the right questions. Stop asking whodunit. Rather,” Mozzie said, lilting his words like a teacher to an eager classroom, “ask, who benefits from these crimes. It’s not the thieves, because…” 

Mozzie raised his shoulders and put out his hands, equivocating. “Let’s say a mutual acquaintance of ours named Haversham would have heard if these items even came on the market, which they didn’t. If they’re not selling the art, and they’re not using it to decorate an interfaith nondenominational early twentieth-century house of worship, who gains from having you betray Neal and send him back to prison?” 

Peter was just shrugging on his jacket, and was about to comment on Mozzie’s wildly prejudiced use of the word betray, when his point actually registered. Peter paused, arms pulled behind him mid-shrug, and said, “I really have to go. Tell Neal to be in tomorrow by ten.” 

He turned to leave with a quick patdown to make sure he still had his phone and keys, when he was forcibly frozen by a soft, “Suit.” 

He turned to face Mozzie. He finished straightening his jacket but then stilled, all his attention on the slightly drunk, very loyal voice of common sense this evening. 

"You're rushing off and it's better than slapping cuffs on him, but if I’m sending him to the FBI tomorrow, I need to know: Do you trust him?" 

Peter looked past Mozzie, out the still-open balcony doors and to the City beyond. The noise of it filtered in now, too, unceasing and multitudinous and speaking of possibility in a hundred different languages. It was enormous and anonymous, always poised to devour both the willing and unwilling; Neal could have disappeared out there without ever leaving the five boroughs. If he’d wanted to leave, there wasn’t anything stopping him, not really. 

The crisp nighttime air was creeping inside, and Peter glanced at Neal. He had shifted slightly, the covers now pulled up to expose his feet, and down to expose his middle, where his shirt had bunched up again. He considered adjusting the covers, but figured Neal would just kick them off again.

Did he trust Neal?

He knew Mozzie wanted what was best for Neal, and he knew El’s intuition was seldom wrong, and he knew that Neal wasn't faking how distraught he was. 

Did that amount to trust? 

Peter walked past Mozzie and pulled on the balcony doors, shutting out the cold, the noise, and his doubts.

Chapter Text

Peter had arrived home with not-enough time for any kind of night’s sleep, but too early to head into the office. He napped on the couch for an hour and then reread his own files, and as soon as it was reasonable he showered and changed and gently nudged Elizabeth to let her know he had been home, then kissed her to let her know he was heading out again.

He arrived at work early enough to have to put on the coffee himself, and he washed his favorite mug, used from the day before, as he waited on the percolation and thought of what Mozzie had said. 

Who gained from having Peter betray Neal? 

That truly was the correct question to be asking. 

Peter held a lightning-quick briefing and then retreated to his office, the door closed, spreading out case files on his desk much as Neal had on his dining room table last night. 

When Neal came in at nine-thirty Peter didn’t allow him enough time to stop at his desk. He rushed to the landing before the doors had been pushed fully open, and caught Neal’s attention with a double finger-point. 

He lingered a moment longer, taking in the reactions of the agents in the bullpen: Jones nodded at Neal, while Diana merely met his gaze; everyone else either pointedly looked away, or leaned in to whisper something to the agent standing near them. 

It was an unpleasant display of what he’d allowed to germinate on his team. 

He turned and took his seat. 

Neal’s immaculate vestments did not hold up to scrutiny. He’d obviously showered—his hair was still damp and the fragrance of what might have been jojoba extract lingered about him like an enticing aura—but the cuffs of his sleeves hung open, his eyes were tired and bloodshot, his hair seemed to be slightly curling in the absence of product and the time to apply it, and his sunglasses hung crookedly out of his breast pocket. 

On considering him, Peter stood again and walked around to lean against his desk, directly across from where Neal took his seat. 

For a long moment, Peter didn’t know how to break the silence, and Neal looked almost afraid to try. 

“Here, hold out your wrists,” Peter finally said. 

Neal deflated. He looked up at Peter with profound disappointment. “You called me up here just to—” 

“You’re a mess, Neal,” Peter’s voice was purposefully light, forcing their familiar teasing, as he spoke over him. He squatted down in front of Neal to grab his left arm, and worked the two tiny buttons that had apparently been too delicate for Neal to handle, then repeated the gesture with Neal's other sleeve. 

The disappointment shifted into guarded confusion. That was Peter’s opening. 

“What do you remember about last night, Neal?” 

Neal was too practiced protecting his own secrets to answer that directly. “Did June call you?” 

Or, maybe Neal was just genuinely confused. That was enough of an answer for Peter at the moment. He stood back up and went to his desk to pull open the deepest drawer, then drew out his usual work thermos, holding it out for Neal. 

“Here.” 

Neal didn’t ask any questions, and he made no objections. He downed his dosage with cool aplomb, all things considered, managing only a small, disgusted reaction as the taste hit. 

“Sorry if it’s a little warm,” Peter apologized, still leaning against his desk. “I’ve been here since six, but I knew you would need the famous Burke hangover remedy after I saw the state you were in last night.” 

Neal reacted to that. 

“It wasn’t— I wasn’t, we weren’t celebrating anything Peter, I swear. I got carried away and Moz happened to be there, I don’t even remember—” 

“I have no trouble believing that,” Peter said, both eyebrows raised and keeping his tone deliberately light, because if Neal was worried last night could be construed as a celebration, Peter owed him a bigger apology than he’d realized. 

He stood and took his own seat behind the desk. 

Neal had stopped his flustered explanation, and was looking at Peter again with that bluer-than-blue glow of bloodshot eyes. Peter didn’t let him wait for an explanation. Directness was the least of what he was due. 

“Mozzie was there when I came over last night, and after we got you to bed he misquoted Levi-Strauss at me.” 

Neal tilted his head, engaged despite his misgivings. “And do you think you’re asking the right questions?”

Peter leaned forward. “I think I am now.” 

And he read Neal in to what he’d been doing since he left June’s last ni—no, earlier this morning. 

They sat together in Peter’s office all morning, and the agents on the floor knew to take their questions to Jones rather than interrupt. Peter didn’t know whether they thought it was an intense interrogation, a detailed confession, or what it actually was—the resurrection of a partnership—but he felt that they were finally working in the right direction on this, and he did not want to stop in order to hold hands and navigate egos of those who wanted to know more. 

Peter told Neal that Mozzie’s question last night, who benefitted from the robberies, got him looking into motives that weren’t profit or extremely short-term grandstanding. 

“Mozzie asked who benefits from me betraying you—” 

“I never said—” 

“Relax, Neal. Prison is off the table, I need you with me.” 

Neal swallowed back his objection, and nodded.

“Mozzie asked who would benefit from me sending you back to prison, and the answer is, only someone who would want to see you suffer. I’ve been over our cases from the last six months, and nothing stands out. Can you think of anyone who would go to these lengths to send you back?” 

Neal shifted in his seat, shaking his head. His eyes were already looking healthier, and his demeanor more his own. “Not really, no. I sort of made it a personal goal not to target the types of people who would do things like this. It’s why I stopped working with people like Wilkes and Keller.” 

Peter nodded, and allowed his gaze to drift over Neal’s shoulder as he absently clicked a pen, his elbow resting on the arm of his office chair. 

“Why’d Mozzie come over last night?” He asked, unmoving, except for his eyes which drifted back to Neal. “He told me to ask you. About something he thought you should tell me.” 

Neal stood, shaking his head to himself. “He shouldn’t have told you even that much. I don’t want—” 

“Did you do something illegal?” 

“What?” Neal stopped pacing. “No.” 

“Did he?” 

“It’s nothing like that, Peter. Rumors, that’s it. Moz heard some rumors he wanted me to share with you.” 

“Rumors like Elvis keeps Area 51 alien babies locked up in Graceland?” 

That earned a small laugh, and Peter was privately relieved that Neal trusted him enough for that.

“No,” Neal allowed, and exhaled out some resolve. “Rumors like there was a bounty on my head effective the moment I set foot inside a federal prison.” 

Peter’s heart tried to stumble out of his chest. “I beg your pardon?” 

“It’s just a rumor, Peter.” 

“How could you not think this was relevant when you were trying to convince me you were being framed?” Peter had given him so many opportunities to explain himself, to offer some kind of defense. 

“How would that have played out?” Neal asked, not unkindly. “The friend you suspect is my accomplice told me to tell you not to send me back to prison because there was a one million dollar contract out on me? I’m not sure I’d believe that. The way things have been… It would have sounded to you like I was setting up a con.” 

Peter recognized the truth of that, and his indignation at Neal holding back such uneasy information shifted into a filmy shame that clung to him. He thought he knew how distressed Neal had been last night at the idea of going back to prison, but he hadn't had any conception, none at all, of how thoroughly boxed-in Neal had been. 

Peter realized he was lucky that Neal had sought only the bottom of a bottle, and not anything worse.

It was in trying to decide how much, if any of that, he should address, when a background connection made itself known. “You said one million? Isn’t that almost exactly what was missing from Salomone’s vault?” 

Neal’s eyes widened, and he took his seat. “Give or take, yeah,” he nodded, sensing, like Peter, the first sign of a narrative. Something they could follow. 

“You think this is all a coordinated attempt to get me killed in prison?” Neal asked, and Peter, guided by some other background instinct he couldn’t quite name, replied, “Let’s discuss this over lunch. I’ll buy.” He nodded Neal toward the door. 

Neal shot him a laden look before grabbing his hat off the desk and flipping it on in a deliberate display of ease. Peter held the door open, and followed Neal out. 

As soon as it became clear they were coming downstairs the bullpen snapped into a frenzy of casual conversations and movements, as though everyone was eager to prove that they had not been either watching the meeting or speculating about it. Neal ignored the buzz with a confident smile Peter didn’t believe, and Peter started to lean towards him to whisper something—he wasn’t sure what, he merely wanted a display of his own, one of collegiality—but he was accosted by a slightly breathless, smiling Twirch before he could open his mouth. 

“We’re just about to order lunch, Sir, do you want to join?” He side-stepped between Neal and Peter, tactlessly creating distance between the two as he held up a takeout menu for a burger place. “If, uh, if…” 

He leaned in to stage-whisper. “If Caffrey’s coming back after your… meeting?” he guessed delicately, “we can order for him, too,” he offered magnanimously. “The conference room is clear, you can eat there if you still need, um, privacy.” 

Peter felt that film of shame layer over him again from the direct inconsideration of Neal, the gall to act as his superior, and the belief that Peter would entertain this belittlement in front of him; he answered a little more loudly than necessary. “Of course he’s coming back, Agent Twirch, he works here, too. And no, that won’t be necessary, thank you.” 

He took his spot back next to Neal, which earned him a small smile, and the two returned their walk. At the entrance, Peter held the door open for Neal before he turned back, one more gesture to really drive things home. “Jones,” He called, and waited for Jones to stand up. “We’re out to lunch,” Peter said, hoping he was managing to express, at least partially, that Neal was no longer being excluded. For good measure Peter placed a hand on Neal’s shoulder and squeezed tightly. “Call either of us if you need anything.” 

“You got it, Peter,” Jones offered with an assured tip of his head. Then, he added, “Caffrey,” with the slightest of nods. He sat back down as though there had been nothing unusual about the interaction, and Peter would have shaken his hand right then if he wasn’t standing across the room. 

Peter had intended on choosing the burger place; a fair dose of fat and carbs, along with some actual fresh, cold pickles, surely would’ve helped Neal’s hangover even further. But a combination of not wanting to get trapped behind a big takeout order and a small amount of spite had him reconsidering. 

He walked with Neal to a food truck in Foley Square, but an unceasing warning in Peter’s gut made him want to stay on his feet, on the move; so he guided the way, meandering towards the Brooklyn Bridge. They wouldn’t have time to walk the whole way across, but Peter found he wanted the protection of random strangers and an open vista. 

On their way to the Bridge, and before they circled back to the rumored bounty on Neal’s head—the one Peter had come so close to setting in motion last night—Peter told Neal of what he’d found when he revisited his casefiles with the right questions in mind. 

“There’s still a lot of weird details about the first robbery that I’m trying to figure out. Since then they’ve been hitting big ticket items in empty locations, so why start with murdering Salomone and stealing his religious arts collection? Those pieces really don’t mean anything to you?” 

Neal shrugged, offering, “Nope. Nothing,” before he sipped his drink.

“Well, you keep thinking, and I’ll keep looking. I’ve gone through all of our case files back to the Dutchman, I’ll start looking through some of the connections you had before our deal.”

“I didn’t exactly make enemies with the South American mob, Peter.” 

“Something isn’t sitting right. I might not know all the heavy hitters in the mob world anymore, but I knew about Navarro’s operation. He hasn’t had any serious enemies in almost fifteen years.” 

“Maybe it’s someone looking to come back, to restore their former glory? Like we saw with the Irish?” 

Peter weighed the possibility against what he knew of the organized crime scene in New York; while he did his best to keep up with the major players, it had been a while since he worked cases like that, and even then it had been as a rookie agent working a small catch. 

“Could be,” he acknowledged to Neal. “It would explain why Salomone got roped into it. We took out the Flynn's and we have our eyes on Navarro, someone might be trying to seize the field and stop us from catching them while they’re at it. I'll reach out to Organized Crime and ask if anyone's resurfaced that we need to know about.”

“Another question mark for our vision board?” Neal asked, and Peter could only allow that yes, they had more questions than answers at the moment. 

They cut through the underpass and took the stairs up to the bridge and, bolstered by the vibrant breeze, Peter broached what he absolutely didn’t want to discuss. 

“That contract. How long has Mozzie been hearing these rumors?” 

Neal’s gaze lost some of its sharpness as he tried to recall. “Two, three months?” 

“So before even Navarro’s man was killed. Does he know who’s offering?” 

“He tried to dig, but no one knows anything. Not who’s offering, not whether it's real, and not how they intend to make good on the contract inside a federal prison. Just that it’s on offer for every federal prison in the tristate area, and the bounty supposedly drops for every day I’m in prison and not killed.”

Neal’s casualness was chilling in a way Peter had no way to contextualize. A tightening low in his abdomen seemed to cause nausea to bubble in his stomach. Neal was being targeted very thoroughly, his would-be killers incentivized with such cold efficiency, and Peter had gone over to June’s last night ready to pull that trigger for them. 

He’d have been the architect of Neal’s death and his own ruin. 

Peter decided to stop walking. He pointed Neal to an empty bench about a quarter-way down the length of the Bridge, and set their food between them. “We know that the money predates the theft from Salomone. Either they were planning that theft all along, or they had one million dollars already earmarked for this back in February. And there’s more,” Peter added, not yet touching his food. 

“As a professional thief, what’s the only way to ensure you won’t be caught?” 

Neal considered that for a moment. “There’s no sure way, but bribery goes a long way toward assurances, I suppose.” 

Peter nodded. “Right. Twenty five minutes is a long time to be standing outside someone’s home and messing with their alarm, even with the right tools and power outages. There should have been witnesses, but we’ve never found any. What if there were, but they were paid off?” 

Neal exhaled in a helpless gasp, like was trying not to call Peter a fool. “To pay someone off the street into silence? Peter, that would require a wild amount of capital on-hand, before anything had even been stolen.” 

“Yeah,” Peter said, and let that sink in while he unwrapped his lunch with mechanical slowness; he’d lost his appetite. 

Peter had come to the conclusion that they were dealing with a terribly well-funded operation earlier that morning. To orchestrate five robberies of increasing value, all while the FBI hovered around them like a satellite? Someone had to have been paid off. 

Which reminded him why he’d decided to go out for lunch. It was less than a hunch, less than an intuitive leap, even less than his recently more-wrong-than-right gut feeling; but he couldn’t shake the idea. 

“Once bribery is on the table, it begs the question, how did these people know to frame you so thoroughly?” 

He repeated now for Neal the list he’d rattled off last night to Mozzie, but this time posed as a question, not an accusation. 

“The day we caught the Salomone thefts, you said that shorter outages could achieve the same results, and that was utilized in the next robberies; you said the ceremonial objects weren’t artsy, and the next theft was a Hockney. And your first case after Gallagher would have been the Rockwell, and it was stolen that night. Anklet maintenance aside, how does that add up? If that wasn’t you flaunting—” 

“Sorry, what was that?” Neal teased with an exaggerated seriousness, leaning towards Peter with two fingers delicately pointing toward his ear. 

Peter conceded the point, but plucked the last fry from Neal’s styrofoam container and popped it into his own mouth. “Since that wasn’t you flaunting, it looks like someone is targeting you very closely. They’re using your own words to keep setting you up.” 

“Except I never said the ceremonial objects weren’t artsy, Peter; that’s barely a real word.” Neal reached over and helped himself to Peter’s own, near-full serving of fries. Peter tossed him some extra packets of ketchup, and took the now-empty container to free Neal’s hands. “What I did say was that they were invaluable, but didn’t have much of a black market appeal. I mean, that chalice was an Alexander Mukin. It’s plenty artful.”

“Well, be that as it may,” Peter said—dismissing the correction but filing it away for later, because something didn’t add up— “they’ve been listening closely.” Peter decided to take the gamble, fully lay out his hand for Neal to see, even if it was a risky move. “I think the office might be bugged.” 

Neal sat up a little straighter then, turning slightly to face Peter more directly. “You seriously think it’s someone at the office doing all of this? Framing me? Why?”

“I don’t know enough yet, but the parallels…The risk doesn’t feel like zero.” He tapped his finger against the side of the styrofoam container a couple times. “I made a big show of the fact that you’ll be coming back this afternoon, but I don’t know if it’s actually safe for us to talk there, or for you at all.”

“Well, we’re halfway to Brooklyn already. We can take a cab to your place,” Neal suggested, but Peter shook his head, then tilted it the way they came. “My car’s at the office, not to mention all my files.” He stood up. 

“Let’s head back, I’ll grab my things and we’ll head home. Mine,” Peter clarified after a moment. “Don’t talk to anyone, though, till we’re sure one way or the other about the bug.” 

Neal wiped his hands on a napkin, collected their trash, and stood. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

Right. Because Peter had allowed the department to follow his lead, and Neal was persona non grata at the moment. Well, they’d fix that just as soon as they figured out who wanted to send him to prison.

“Neal,” Peter started as they headed back, “I don’t—” He lowered his eyes and tried to catch sight of the cars driving beneath them. “It’s hard to believe it’s anyone in the department, but I have to ask, and I don’t like it but I’ll trust your judgment on this, but…” He looked up to see Neal keeping stride, his eyes flitting between Peter and the pedestrians ahead of them. “Jones was trying to convince you to confess. Do you think—” 

Neal smiled, almost in relief. “No, not at all, Peter. He was trying to protect you, and the office, but I think he was also trying to protect me, in his own way. I don’t think that, not for a second.” 

Peter didn’t answer, but he felt the relief like the removal of a physical obstruction to his lungs. A week ago the very suggestion wouldn’t have merely been beyond laughable, it would have been offensive, to him, as a team leader. But, with recent events, Peter wanted to make sure he looked under every stone regardless of his intuitive doubts, because if he’d been so wrong, but so sure about Neal, he had to rethink everything else he was so sure about. 

They touched on other aspects of the case for a short while, but as they neared the office the topic switched, by tacit agreement, to neutral, inconsequential chatter. Neal did most of the talking, and when they stepped off the elevator he was just finishing up his review of American gothic fiction. 

“I’ll be just a minute,” Peter said, almost in apology, and left Neal by the doors. 

He piled all the files he’d been working on into his briefcase, made sure he had no urgent emails waiting, and pulled his office door shut behind him. He updated Reese that things were advancing on the robberies, but he and Caffrey would update him after the weekend. 

“See that you do,” was Hughes’ bland reply. He didn’t even bother to look up from his own paperwork.

Peter supposed aggravated neutrality towards Neal wasn’t the worst attitude in the office. 

As he walked down from his own office, he saw Neal seated at his own desk, twirling a pen in his hand as he absently leafed through some of the files, and, oddly, still wearing his sunglasses. It wasn’t until he got closer that he could see what Neal was really doing; scanning over the desk, his eyewear concealing his gaze. He was using his habitual fidgeting to disguise his search for a bug. It gave Peter that old, familiar swell of pride, seeing just how cleverly Neal could disguise his intentions.

“Ready?” 

Neal gently closed the file he was looking at and returned it to the top of the pile. “It’ll wait till Monday,” he said, pocketed the pen, and followed Peter out. 

Chapter Text

When they walked into the Burke’s home, Elizabeth was sitting at the dining table pouring over one of her large wedding binders. “Well hi, honey, this is—“ she froze for a second spotting Neal walk in behind him, but recovered with grace. “A surprise for both of you to be here so early! How are things going?”

“It’s been…an interesting day.” Peter answered as he moved inside to kiss her hello. “I think we’re going to do some work here for a little while, if we’re not intruding too much?”

“Not at all! I’ll put on coffee?” She stood, looking over Peter’s shoulder at Neal. 

“That sounds great, thank you,” Neal said, and Peter couldn’t turn to look at him without being too obvious, but he could see Elizabeth beam at him; someone treating Neal with well-deserved kindness made him glad they’d decided not to stay at the office. 

After several hours of good investigative work—so far fruitless, but often organizing and cataloging the information was what engendered breakthroughs—Peter threw down the file he was reading onto the dining table in frustration. 

“Maybe we’re working under a wrong assumption,” Neal said as he looked up from the file he was reading over on the sofa. “Maybe the office was bugged by some outside source. We’re not exactly high-security, and it wouldn’t be the first time someone managed to get in. If there even is a bug. How sure are you about that? Maybe someone’s getting information from an unwitting gossip.” 

Peter hesitated. About as sure as he’d been that Neal had been involved in the robberies. 

“Very?” he answered, but he couldn’t help the slight uncertainty that colored his words. “The things you said in the conference room, someone could have repeated that, sure. But I was alone with Hughes when we talked about the religious—” 

Peter’s eyes locked on jumble of wires at the base of the television, and dared not move lest he sever—

Neal was right, he hadn’t said—

Peter had been alone with Hughes, and Peter said the chalices and kiddush cups weren’t—

He broke his gaze away and sat forward, turning his eyes to Neal. 

“What?” 

“Who called the Hockney artsy? In that meeting, just after we pulled you from Gallagher?” 

Neal lowered his eyes, tracing the memory, then raised them again in a silent, blazing blue realization. “Twirch.” 

He sat forward on the sofa, too. “Do you remember what you said to me when you accused me of taking your handcuffs?” 

Peter heard no reprimand in Neal’s voice, and the film of shame grew a shade more substantive. He deserved to be reprimanded. 

“I said only you and Twirch had been in my office that day.” Understanding came slowly, like the rolling of a boulder downhill. Slow, and heavy, and inevitable.

Neal asked, “Did he have access to your office? To intercept the Marshals’ email about the anklet?” 

“Every day.” Peter shook his head but the certainty remained, awful and dark. His voice was low, barely above a whisper. “He made it a habit to be in there, first thing in the morning, collecting everyone’s mugs.” 

It was late on a Friday afternoon, but Peter knew that Jones and Diana tended to put in long hours, and after a brief hesitation he decided to text Jones. While he hadn’t exactly managed to keep things strictly professional around Neal, he hadn’t been among those actively alienating him, and he seemed to take Peter at his word earlier that Neal was back in the fold. Peter appreciated that. 

He made Jones leave the building before calling him.

He had him comb through the security footage again, discreetly pull Twirch’s financial records, and review his phone logs to see if anyone else in the office was involved. 

It was inconceivable, and it was happening. 

Peter, on his part, was aching for the moment they’d finally have enough evidence to take to Hughes. To arrest that bumbling, smirking, manipulating son of a bitch in front of the whole office. 

Neal, for a reason Peter couldn’t fathom, was reacting less strongly.

They were at something of an impasse, waiting for Jones and in need of a break anyway, so Peter grabbed a couple of beers and joined Neal on the sofa. 

“Why aren’t you more concerned?” 

He extended his own bottle to tap the neck of Neal’s, and took a long, slow sip to allow Neal a moment to arrange his thoughts, before looking over to him. 

“If you saw me last night, you probably know I was fairly concerned,” Neal answered blithely, and Peter detested the easy smile that tried to soften the blow of his words. 

“Why were you waiting for me at June’s? If Mozzie’s right and there’s a bounty on you in prison, how could you let me send you back without saying anything?” 

Neal shrugged, opened his mouth to speak, sighed instead, and twisted his beer bottle in his hand. “I… We don’t really know how substantiated those rumors are—”

“Come on, Neal, you trust Mozzi—”

“And anyway,” Neal continued, as though he hadn’t heard what Peter had said, “I knew I could take care of myself in prison, if I had to. I thought it was more important to prove to you that I wasn’t involved. As you know, going back is always hovering over me. That isn’t new.” 

Neal had answered like there was barely a single layer to this conversation, like Peter’s distrust hadn’t been on the verge of signing his death warrant, like proving himself to save his life and drinking himself into a stupor when he’d failed was just his version of c’est la vie . But despite the casual inevitability with which he spoke, Peter could see Neal was careful only to lift his eyes to Peter every few words; he otherwise made sure to be occupied with the fine print on his beer bottle, with the blunt smoothness of the lip of the bottle, with anything other than Peter. 

“I shouldn’t have made you feel like our baseline was something you had to keep fighting to prove,” Peter said, his brow pulled low as the enormity of what he’d done continued unveiling new depths of harm. He wished Neal would look at him. 

“That first robbery came across my desk, and I thought, no way. Not his style, not his prizes. But…” 

He wasn’t sure how to explain his mistrust in Neal had been both so understandable and grotesquely unpardonable. 

“But someone went out of their way to make sure you didn’t trust me, Peter. They planted evidence in direct correlation to your conclusions. It… It was a pretty good manipulation. Someone skilled ran a very good con to get you to send me back to prison.” 

Peter took the grace Neal was offering him. He’d do his best to earn it. 

“Thank God for Mozzie,” Peter said, even though he wasn’t entirely sure that the sight of Neal, undone by fear and wine, hadn’t done more to convince him that he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way. 

“Never con a conman, and Moz is the best,” Neal said, and now he did look at Peter. He set his unopened beer bottle down on the table. 

“Thank you for listening to him. I know that it wasn’t looking good, I couldn’t even find anything to dissuade you, and I assume everyone in the office expected you to arrest me last night, that Hughes was probably pushing for it, and—I understand that’s not a great position for you to work against. So thanks for listening to him.” 

Peter should have listened to Neal. Should have been able to hear him. 

But Neal looked away again and deliberately picked up a file, and it looked to Peter like he did not wish to continue this line of conversation. So instead Peter steered them back to, “Wilkes?” 

Neal pssssh ed with a shake of his head before saying, “Not nearly imaginative or subtle enough. He manages one layer of deception and feels like Moriarty.” 

“Keller?” 

Neal stopped reading, weighing the possibility. “A definite maybe, but you were right on the cusp of sending me back last night, and by that stage of the game he usually likes to let me know he’s playing. Wants me to know he’s the cause of my downfall. I suppose we can’t rule him out, but this doesn’t feel like his style.” 

“Dinner?” 

They both looked up at that. Elizabeth was coming down the stairs, pulling her hair into a ponytail just as she rounded the bannister and came to stand by the sofa. 

“If I have to redo the Hastings seating chart one more time,” she said with a bright smile, “I’m going to drown the maid of honor in the very classy vodka fountain they insisted on having. The woman’s a doctor, when did she have time to sleep with the entire wedding party? Including the bride’s father, by the way. Are you drinking that?” 

Neal waved his hand toward his beer and swallowed hard, like the words alone had the power to make him nauseous. “Not at all. I’m still recovering from last night. Drank the pickle juice and everything this morning.” He passed her the untouched bottle, and she took the first third of it in one sip. 

“It’s a remedy passed down for generations for a reason.” She ran a hand over Neal’s shoulder gently, offering a soft squeeze of comfort, before she reached over him to grab the landline behind the couch. “I’ve simply had enough of crazy brides tonight, and I am starving . Plus, since it’s about to be the weekend from hell, I’m not cooking.” She stood back up and took another sip as she started to dial, then pointed with her bottle. “Neal, you’re staying, right? I’m thinking Chinese. Comfort food. A lot of it. Yes?” 

She looked first to Neal, who looked to Peter. “Yes?” 

It was a yes.

Elizabeth ordered, then sat on the arm of the couch, leaning against Peter, and asked that they fill her in to distract her from her own frustrations. 

“Oh, this doesn’t make me less angry at all,” she said when they finished talking her through what they had. She had moved from the arm of the couch to sit on the floor between Peter and the low table, his knees on either side of her. She reached forward to pick up the crime scene photos from Salomone’s. 

“So you think Twirch had the office bugged?” 

“Not the whole office,” Neal answered. “I checked my own desk, it’s clean, and from what Peter said, it sounds like most of the conversations that were later the subject of robberies were, in what, the conference room, your office, and Hughes’?” 

Peter nodded for Neal, and rubbed up and down El’s arms. “Yeah. We’re gonna go in tomorrow, try and see if we can subtly check out those spaces. We don’t want to alert them we know, just yet. Once we find it, we’ll be able to make a move against Twirch.” 

“Did Jones find anything on him?” Neal asked, then his eyes shot past Peter towards the door at a brisk knock. 

Elizabeth started to stand, but Peter put his hands on her shoulders. “I’ll get it.” Then called over his shoulder, “Not yet,” in answer to Neal. “But he’s good at what he does, he’ll keep digging.” 

Peter returned with the food and realized there wasn’t anywhere to set it down, and after a brief gauge of the strewn papers at either spot, decided it would be less work to clear the dining table.

Elizabeth hadn’t been kidding when she said she’d be ordering a lot of food; dinner lasted several hours, as they drifted back and forth between work and eating, case files moving from the couch and the table, containers of food being carried from the dining table over to the coffee table and back. They took breaks from eating in order to run theories past one another, and took breaks from that to share stories of past cases, escapades, or, in Elizabeth’s cases, wedding nightmares. 

She had just finished telling the story of a couple who wanted to reenact their rappelling proposal on their wedding day, in a church, when Elizabeth turned to Neal and asked, “Did Peter ever tell you about the first time he proposed to me?” 

Neal turned to Peter. “You needed a second time?” He buried himself in his pork lo mein, in an ostentatious show of giving Peter privacy with his shame. 

“Shut up,” Peter said, “it was romantic.” 

“It was, both times, just in their own ways,” Elizabeth laughed, leaning in closer to Peter and dipping her head on his shoulder, in lieu of a hug. 

She told the story Peter had just been reminiscing on the previous night, of the cold rooftop and Celine Dion on the radio, with a charming glee to her voice, somehow managing to make Peter both more bumbling and more romantic than he remembered being, and even followed up with the story of his actual proposal a few weeks later. 

“He took a week off work after he finished up a big case and we flew to Chicago. Spent an entire day at the Art Institute, and then the Field Museum, Shedd Aquarium, and the Planetarium the next day.” She rubbed at Peter’s arm on the table, smiling soft and fond. 

“He spoiled me the entire time, letting me choose where we went, when we went. Full control. It was…a little unlike him, and definitely wasn’t like how I would’ve imagined him to be if I had known he was going to propose.”

“She had already said yes," Peter laughed softly. "There was less pressure."

“Right,” Neal smiled as he listened. “Would have to be an impressively bad proposal to undo the first one.”

“Exactly.” Elizabeth smiled, and Peter could feel her fingers starting to trace over his own wedding ring. 

“So we had these few days of doing what I wanted, even down to these dinner reservations that I made at this place Yvonne kept telling me about from when she used to live there. Little did I know the two had orchestrated the whole thing!" She knocked her knuckles against the table for emphasis, a glint in her eye as she laughed, "It was a con Neal. I got conned into my proposal."

"A con—" Neal sat up straighter as he started, but Peter cut him off.

"It was not a con! It was a surprise. Surprises aren't cons."

"Well," Neal tried once more.

"No. It wasn't a con."

 Elizabeth and Neal shared glitteringly sly smiles before Neal relented and leaned back in his seat once more. "So, the restaurant?"

"Right. It was this gorgeous place on the river, and we sat outside, this time it was warm enough to. And, well, I was already wearing the engagement ring, so instead of that he had the waiter bring out a little snow globe of Chicago out with our desserts." She placed her chin on her palm as she looked up at Peter then. "He told me that it didn't matter to him what city he lived in, what skyline to look over, whatever art or dinosaurs are at any museums, because all that mattered to him was that I was by his side."

Neal let them have their soft moment before saying, “That is a pretty good proposal.”

“It was. And don’t get me wrong, I still loved the first one, but it was a little nicer of a view than up on that rooftop overlooking that suspect’s chronically open windows. And a nice way to close up that long case, and Peter had more than earned himself the vacation.” 

Peter took up his role in the old debate. “You loved that rooftop! The beer, the radio, the breeze when the apartment got too stifling?” 

“I did,” Elizabeth admitted, then sat forward to peek through the takeout boxes in search of an eggroll. 

Peter looked to Neal, wondering whether they were being too engaged with their past—until Neal, it had been probably ten years since they had any single friends over—but Neal was already looking at him, somber interest holding his features slightly taut. 

“Chronically open windows?” 

“Yeah?” Peter’s voice reflected his curiosity over the thread Neal had apparently found in their storytelling. “I was doing some long term surveillance on this guy I suspected had some mob ties—I rented the apartment across the street from him, and just… Kept an eye out. It was a small case, my name isn’t even on the arrest sheet.” 

“He’s being modest,” Elizabeth cut in, bubbling with pride. “It was one of his biggest cases, at the start. He watched some guy Friday for two years, until he had solid links between him and a dozen petty criminals, and he used that to flip him on the mob leader. It’s why they started calling him the Archeologist, and both why they offered him White Collar when they opened the division, and why Organized Crime tries to poach him every year. Just because it wasn’t on paper doesn’t mean it went unnoticed. He took the vacation before he started the new job because he knew how busy he was about to become.” 

Peter didn’t allow the conversation to drift back to their vacation. 

“What is it?”

Neal tilted his head, a small dismissal. “Nothing,” he said. 

“Neal,” Peter pushed. “I know that look. Something occurred to you. What was it?” 

Neal didn’t protest further, but he equivocated in several different ways that it was probably nothing before admitting, “Something El said. About the windows, being always open.”

Peter understood immediately where Neal was going with this, and it was compelling on some level, but it didn’t truly sort logically. “It’s less an MO than circumstance, Neal. We checked, it doesn’t even appear in the FBI database, let alone link back to anyone. Criminals throw windows open for lots of reasons.” 

“Keller liked to have windows open,” Elizabeth said, her tone a shade too high and her voice a single degree too congenial for her ease to be sincere. It was rare for her to talk about Keller, and Peter wondered why she had chosen to do so, now. 

“He couldn’t bear to be in the room where he kept me for more than a minute or two at a time—which I didn’t mind, I much rathered be with Grant—because the window didn’t open. He kept going out to the other room, where all the windows were open.” She hugged herself, and smiled weakly at Neal. 

She was trying to reassure him, Peter realized. She knew that Keller was in prison, and she’d drawn from the only example she had to assuage Neal’s worries. 

But it awakened a new worry, in Peter. 

He handed El his own empty container, and brushed her fingers with his. “Thanks, hon.” She smiled that she’d heard what he meant, and took the leftovers and the trash into the kitchen. 

Neal, also picking up on Peter’s cue, rose to his feet, stepping closer to the couch before he said, “She’s not wrong about Keller. He believed it kept him from being caught, always knowing what was happening outside. Plus, he does like the cold.” 

“Then he’ll continue being very happy in his Russian prison cell for another eighteen years and seven months.” Peter whispered back, still eyeing where Elizabeth was hidden behind the corner.

Peter could sense the tension change in the air between them before Neal even spoke. “What if he’s not?” 

“I’m perfectly okay with Matthew Keller being unhappy in his Russian prison cell.” Peter turned his attention back to Neal, dread palpably building in him.

Neal acknowledged the sentiment with a small nod and a reluctant smile. “I mean, what if he’s not in prison?” 

“I thought you said this wasn’t his style. Now you think not only that he might have escaped, but that I wasn’t notified?” 

“I think,” Neal emphasized the word, and Peter paid attention, “that some notifications were deliberately kept from you. This still doesn’t feel like Keller, but maybe there were others.” 

“Others like your anklet maintenance update.”

Neal nodded as Peter connected the dots. “Twirch.” 

Peter pulled out his phone and stepped past Neal, opening the first door to take this call in the entryway, hoping to spare Elizabeth the fear he felt brewing. If Neal was right, that might just narrow down their pool of suspects as for who was pulling the strings, but he’d have to prepare himself to go another round with this puppet master. 

“Jones? Um, yeah, but in a minute. Can you see if you can catch our liaison at State? I need to know if Matthew Keller was released, and if so why I wasn’t informed. And I’m sorry, Jones. I know it’s late. Thanks.” 

Peter disconnected the call and his hand shot to his mouth, as he thought through the likelihood of what they were suggesting. 

Elizabeth came back through the dining space at the sound of Peter stepping back inside. She placed a hand briefly on Neal’s shoulder as she walked past him, then went up to give Peter a kiss. “I’ll let you guys talk, I’ll go read upstairs, listen to some music. Decompress.”

Peter grabbed her by her shoulders, gentle but firm, protecting. “If this has anything do with Keller—”

“I know, hon.” She cut off his reassurances with a small smile. “I know. He hasn’t won against you two yet, has he?”

“No,” both Peter and Neal started to answer, and the couple looked over just in time to see Neal look sheepish for eavesdropping and busy himself with the papers scattered around the couch. Peter might’ve been annoyed if it hadn’t made Elizabeth smile. “He hasn’t. He won’t.” He reassured her, then pressed another gentle kiss. “I’ll be up to bed soon, promise.”

She hummed and whispered, “Try to get Neal to stay here tonight? So he’s safe?” in his ear before going upstairs, and Jones called back shortly after the door closed. 

Peter heard him out, and then sent him home with an apology for making him work late, followed immediately by a request he come in tomorrow even though it was a weekend and he wasn’t scheduled to work. 

Peter moved into El’s vacated seat, the one closest to Neal. “Keller’s still in prison. That’s one less thing to worry about. But that doesn’t mean Twirch didn’t intercept any other information I was meant to have. He may have been sabotaging you all along, Neal.” 

“I can’t believe Twirch wants me dead. Flores I’d understand, but Twirch?” 

Peter scratched along his hairline and sighed. “I think it’s fair to assume a large amount of money changed hands. It’s the weekend so Jones didn’t get very far tracking his financials, but he will. And we’ll hear back from Organized Crime, so tomorrow we may have a lead in that direction to pursue.” 

“And confront Twirch,” Neal added.

“That too.” 

“And find the bug.” 

“—and find the bug,” Peter repeated. He couldn’t believe that a little under twenty-four hours ago he was sitting in his car outside Neal’s place, bracing himself for sending him back to prison, and now he was uncovering a conspiracy of murder and corruption right at his own doorstep.

“Neal, we have to assume they know I no longer suspect you. I—” Peter exhaled hard and looked up, the self-recrimination presenting as frustration. “I made a point of it, to Twirch of all people,” he continued. “Maybe you should stay here tonight. El thinks so too.” 

Neal raised his eyebrows in doubt, but said, “Whoever’s pulling Twirch’s strings, their style doesn’t seem to be open attack. So far whenever it looked like you weren’t suspecting me enough, they robbed someone and blamed me. I wouldn’t be surprised if tomorrow a Georgia O’Keeffe gets stolen, and they somehow manage to make my anklet blip somewhere in the vicinity.” 

Peter grabbed a legal pad and began a fresh list, because this was gaining weight and speed, fast. He bulleted, Twirch, and Organize Crime, and financial records, and find bug. 

“That’s another thing. How are they pulling off these heists? It’s one thing to find a compromised probie who almost washed out of Quantico four times, but stealing a Rockwell, a Hockney? It was possible for Keller to pull off, but nothing a random mobster could think up, let alone execute on his own.” 

“Well, Organized Crime might tell us that,” Neal said. “Whoever these people  are, they know you haven’t arrested me, but not how much you do or don’t trust me. I’m guessing we still have some room to maneuver since Twirch, at least, still seems to think there's room to step in between us.” 

“Cute,” Peter said, allowing the play on words because Twirch had been especially annoying that day. “We’ll find the bug tomorrow, and then we’ll at least be able to neutralize Twirch before he can do any further damage. Let him come in to work tomorrow, deliver himself to the FBI.” 

“You’re chilling when you’re conniving, Peter,” Neal said, standing. He looked at the table. “Maybe we should… all this,” he gestured vaguely, “before El permanently rescinds my invitation to stay over.” 

It took them close to thirty minutes to clean up and reorganize the files, and it was only when Neal picked up the bulging trash bag that Peter realized he intended to go home. 

“You’re sure?” 

“As long as you don’t blame me for that missing O’Keeffe, I’ll be fine,” Neal smiled, tilted his hat with his free hand, and left with a soft goodnight. 

Chapter Text

Peter wasn’t woken by an urgent report of a missing O’Keeffe, and that was the only positive to the start of his morning. He had told Neal that they were going to meet up early, and he was eager to get to the office and sweep for the potential bug before the rest of the weekend shift came in, but he was so locked in the routine of his weekday alarms he didn’t remember to set one before going to bed. Luckily Elizabeth's alarm going off at six woke him up, but it meant that he was not only in a scramble to get ready, but that they were trying to get ready around each other.

He raced through his own shower, knowing that she needed more of the time and hot water, but it also meant the mirror was fogged over while he was shaving, and he nicked himself three times.

He heard his phone ding with a notification as he was buttoning his shirt, and glanced at the phone long enough to see Neal's name. He told himself that he was going to respond once he finished, to apologize for running so late, but then Elizabeth squeezed past him into their small walk-in closet and Peter was...distracted. 

He went downstairs and started the coffee maker, and decided to use its time percolating to quickly take Satchmo out—but in his rush he forgot to put the pot back under the drip. He came back through the front door to sizzling drips against the hotplate base and a gentle cascade on the linoleum floor.

Elizabeth came in as he was on his second dish rag and gave a gentle tsk as she squeezed his shoulder compassionately. "I need to go hon. I'll just grab a coffee at the café across from my office."

"Right, right, okay." He stood up and gave her a quick kiss. "Have a good day, don't let the Hastings party drive you mad."

Elizabeth laughed as she turned toward the entryway. "Don't let Neal drive you mad, either."

"Oh, the day he doesn't will be a cold day in hell." He teased back with a slight grin, calling out, "Love ya, hon!" as he heard the door open.

"Bye hon, see you tonight!"

Peter considered starting another pot, looked at his watch, and decided he didn’t have time. He went to gather his briefcase and only when he reached for it did he realize he was still holding the dirty dishrag. 

It was just that kind of morning. 

It wasn't until Peter was parking his car, glancing down out of habit and catching the gear selector glide into Park, that he recalled the message from Neal he had meant to respond to—or at least read—but there was no point in pulling it up now. Whatever Neal had tried to say to him, it could wait 30 more seconds, until Peter made it up to the apartment and asked him directly.

Peter smiled at the girl who rushed to the door, music still playing from the earbuds hurriedly shoved into her pocket, and strolled across the wide-expanse of June's entryway with a slight bounce to his step. He was looking forward to the Italian roast, his first actual cup of coffee of the day, now his only silver lining in the morning. He rounded the corner of the final staircase, his hand already half up to knock and an apology for his tardiness on his tongue, but then he froze.

There was a thin sliver of light coming through a crack in the door. It wasn’t fully latched.

Everything slowed down as Peter stepped closer to the door. 

His gut was churning into nauseating discomfort, wailing in warning that something was terribly, terribly wrong. He stopped just short of the door, too far away to really see inside yet. In a jaundiced enactment of optimism, he called out, “Neal?”

He received no response.

The siren of his intuition built up in his ears as he grabbed the doorknob with one hand and unsnapped the straps holding the gun in his holster. He blinked hard once, steeling his nerves both for Neal to snap at him for being dramatic so early in the morning and for…worse.

Peter pushed the door fully open and stepped inside, and the first thing he saw was the large, maroon puddle that covered the floor. His muscles all spasmed in response to the sight, a tremor that clenched his jaw and his stomach and his thighs and his toes in an attempt to give out, but years of experience in crime-scenes wouldn’t allow his body any further indulgences of weakness. 

The initial shock ran through him, and then the smell hit him. It was tart and acidic, and he realized suddenly—belatedly, he could see— what it was. 

Wine.

All of Neal’s expensive wine bottles had been knocked off the countertop, shattered glass strewn on the floor where the bottles had broken roughly, sprinkled in glittering shards where they were crushed more thoroughly. The wine had spread far, nearly to where Peter stood, and all the way to the living room set. 

A canvas lay in the wine, face down. Its sides were stained high by wine it had soaked up so thoroughly it was creeping up the wooden frame. It had clearly been laying there for a while. Neal’s antique easel laid a few feet next to it, knocked over. One of the side pieces had been snapped in the middle, a jagged, splintered crack.

Someone had to have gone out of their way to break it like that.

Behind it, the dining table was also tipped over; a broken mug, a shattered plate, a piece of toast with peanut butter, scattered papers, an upturned plant. Two chairs were also on their sides, as if to try and stall someone who was approaching.

Still hovering in the entrance Peter could see the far corner of the room, the tall glass doors that lead to the balcony. Both had been thrown open, but one of the panels was cracked. Peter knew those windows were strong. Neal had once told him they were the closest thing Byron could get to bulletproof glass in his day. And one of them now held the spiraling dream-catcher pattern, blooming with a scarlet center, of a head hitting glass. It was too high, Peter thought, for someone to have tripped; it was exactly at the height a taller man might forcefully slam another’s head against the glass. Hard enough to spiderweb reinforced—

Peter forced his mind blank of anything other than the task at hand. He pulled out his gun the rest of the way as he stepped into the wine, crunching on glass and pressing further into the small apartment. 

He checked both the bathroom and the closet, and a wave of relief followed by a new sense of grief hit him when neither room revealed anything. Neal wasn’t stuffed into some corner, hurt or dead.

But he wasn’t anywhere.

Stepping back into the main room, Peter went to pull his phone and call it in, call the Marshals to check Neal's tracker, and a volatile realization resurfaced. Neal had messaged him, first thing that morning. Peter had been buttoning his shirt, and spilling coffee, and dealing with the dog, and he’d completely forgotten to call him back.

Now wasn’t the right time, but he checked the message anyway.

Neal Caffrey

teo men one v talll knife know im here balcny 

6:18:27 a.m

It took Peter less than three seconds to piece that together, for it to seamlessly join the narrative of the wine and the furniture and the mess, and in those three seconds Peter’s clarity stretched out like thick, warm taffy, perfectly suspended before it smothered him in its collapse. 

He crossed the living room fast enough for wine to splash up his pant legs, but he didn’t slow down until he’d reached the stone bannister, and he stopped only because there was nowhere else to go. He heaved, feeling the need to vomit but resisting it at the same time, and the resultant gasps were pulled from his throat and then returned as long, breathless gulps.

Neal, he’d—he’d seen them coming, he—Peter turned around, looking at the balcony and noting that the patio furniture was upended here, as well, and Neal had run out here and texted Peter while they were still in the house, and he’d ignored—allowed himself to get distracted—had thought, it can wait 30 more seconds —while Neal was—

He was only just beginning to see the layers of his own culpability, starting with Salomone and piling up ever higher, and even though he was outdoors Peter felt smothered again. Even after everything, even knowing the deadly intent of those after Neal, even after suspecting Keller, Peter had allowed him to return home and not only hadn’t he been here where he was needed—Neal texted him because he thought he must be close enough to—he had ignored Neal’s cry for help, for what? Peter heaved but his body only managed a throaty cough. He bent over and breathed, and promised himself he’d allow himself to do this later, because right now he needed to—

The evidence team arrived first, and Peter waved them in, then watched helplessly from the balcony as they moved about, more careful than he had been not to disturb the wine as they meticulously photographed every inch of the apartment. They moved out to the balcony and confirmed what Peter had gathered from the text message, that the struggle had been taken outside. The windowpane, he’d been shown, had actually been cracked from the exterior; he forced himself to not look away as the techs swab the red center of the spiderweb and pull out strands of hair with their delicate tweezers. 

The Marshals arrived next, and satisfied that they’d be copied on the forensic reports, they left first; all they could offer Peter regarding the anklet was that it had stopped transmitting early that morning, right on the corner of Riverside and W107th. At a glare from Peter they allowed it was likely removed by a third party, and that they’d conduct a search for it in the vicinity. They passed the FBI weekend crew on their way out. 

That’s when reality broke over Peter like a wave of ice water. 

“Get out.” He snapped, his voice low and his tone iron. 

Peter stepped forward from his position on the balcony and into the living area, sidestepping the wine as he advanced toward the agents who had just come in. He moved past Diana, who was taking in the room, the bed, the devastation of the apartment with an expression just shy of professionalism; he maneuvered around Jones, who inhaled sharply, and was already moving towards the forensics guys, to get caught up on their preliminary findings; he strode up to the awkwardly smiling, quietly self-satisfied Agent that stood far too close to him, pointing with aggressive force over the man’s shoulder, at Neal’s front door. “Get out.”

Twirch plastered on a wide-eyed look Peter could now read as an act. “Sir, what? I haven’t, I know I don’t have a lot of field work but I thought this—“

Peter cut him off without bothering to address him. “You shouldn't have brought him here Diana. Take him back to the office.” He shifted his fiery glare to her just in time to see her close her mouth and swallow a potential protest. “Don’t let him leave, don’t let him out of your sight. The office and that’s it.”

“Boss, what—“

“If he protests, put him in interrogation. And take his phone.”

Peter turned around then, going back to helping the evidence collection pick out every little detail that was out of order, recalling for them how the apartment had been set up so they could recreate how it had come to… This. He redirected every violent urge to slam Twirch’s head against something into cataloguing every minutiae; Twirch might be a second on his priority list, but between him and Neal? The gap between first and second was huge. 

When the forensics guys left, Peter realized he’d done little else. 

“Jones,” Peter called, taking quick note of which agents were here, and what they were doing. 

And how they were doing it, he added, when he overheard Flores explain to Anderson, “I’m just saying, it’s a little pathetic to buy yourself a mug calling your coworkers dumb,” as he collected the shards into an evidence bag. 

“It was a gift,” Peter intervened, and both agents paused, wide eyes looking up at him as though they’d forgotten he was there. “From my wife.” 

Anderson shot Flores an angry look, and Flores muttered an apology. 

Peter let his attention slide to the others. With Diana and Twirch gone, that left only Rogers—who had returned from interviewing the household staff downstairs—and Jones, who was just coming to stand at Peter’s side.

“We’re almost wrapped up here, Peter. Rogers collected the witness statements; June spent the night with her daughter and granddaughter at their place, so the chef was allowed to come in late this morning, and they only arrived shortly before you did, the gardener was weedeating and the maid had her earbuds in on the first floor, so she didn’t hear anything. Neighbors weren’t home when Rogers knocked, but he left his business card and a note on their doors just in case.”

“You’re—” Peter rubbed a hand over his face, tamping down the fervor of emotions that threatened to boil over at any moment. “You’re telling me that no one heard anything? Two men broke in, smashed this place up, and kidnapped Neal, and there’s not a single witness?”

“Sounds pretty farfetched to me sir.”

Peter whirled on Flores then but forced his feet to stay grounded next to Jones. “What was that, Agent?”

“Oh, uh—” a brief hesitation before he continued, “It just seems too perfect to have happened, doesn’t it? And doesn’t Caffrey have a reputation for doing insane things to run? Faking a kidnapping isn’t—”

“Enough.” Peter snapped and turned to Jones. “I’m going to the office. Jones, you stay here and wait for June, okay? She’ll need someone sympathetic here to tell her about what’s happened.” He didn’t need to look over again to know that Flores got the message.

“Have June call… Neal’s friend. The little guy.” Jones nodded him a few steps further from the others, taking care to avoid the upturned easel. 

“About Twirch,” he said in a low voice. “I was driving when the call about this came in, Diana was at the office and she didn’t know you suspect him of… You know.” 

Jones was right, of course. He shouldn’t have snapped at Diana, and he should make sure everyone he wanted working on this was brought up to speed. Peter exhaled a long soft breath. There were so many damn balls up in the air right now, and dropping a single one—or another one—was out of the question. 

“Did you have any luck obtaining Otis’s financials?” 

Jones moved his hands to his hips, a gesture Peter recognized as good news. “Yup. I got the file for you in the car. And Organized Crime called, too. They’re processing your request, should have an answer for you soon.” 

“Good work Jones. Finish up here, and meet me at the office.”

Peter and Neal had planned to discreetly search for the bug that morning, under the impression that whoever was setting up didn’t want to escalate things yet; that assumption had obviously gone out the window, and the desire for subtly leapt after it as soon as Peter stepped off the elevators. 

He’d just turned toward the office, and through the glass doors he could see Neal’s empty desk; Diana, sitting at hers, both on the phone and working on her computer; and Twirch, sitting at his desk and doodling with an unconcerned air about him, like the slight frenzy of the other agents simply didn’t concern him. 

Rational thought vanished. 

Peter pushed through the doors hard enough for it to hit the limit of its range of motion with a loud crack of the hinges that made Twirch and Diana both look up.

Diana started to stand, tried to say something, but stopped short as Peter simply passed by her and took the stairs two at a time. He could feel the thundering drop of his feet a narrow breath before he heard them—too loud for this hour on a Saturday—and took a perverse pleasure in making everyone within earshot as uncomfortable as he was made by his own too-loud heartbeat.

He flung open the door to his office without breaking stride.

His movements were abrupt and messy, but also methodical; in two quick strides he was behind his desk, one hand slamming open the topmost drawer, the other knocking over the penholder. His hands shook slightly as he pulled each apart. The need to be thorough was a palpable pain inside him, a neighbor to the ache in his chest that appeared at Neal’s doorstep that morning. 

If he’d only woken up on time. 

Springs, ink chambers, and pen cases cluttered his desk and from there rolled to the floor, as Peter shoved them aside to make room for the paperclips he spilled out of their container, spreading them out in a thin layer. 

Nothing in either. 

If only he had checked his phone when it first buzzed.

The next drawer, and he shook his inbox/outbox files tray onto the desk. He grabbed stacks of papers and reports, flicking through them then tossing the files aside. 

Nothing. 

Why did he drive all the way there without checking his phone?

He pulled the drawers clear off their railings and placed them on his desk, tottering atop the clutter already there. He could hear Diana ask—she was inside his office, now—“Peter, what are you doing?” as he dug through them, but he didn’t answer. None of this would matter if he didn’t find the bug. He needed to find it.

Satisfied that the drawers were clean, he left them piled two-or-three high on his desk, and bent down to run his hand along the empty compartments they left behind, then underneath his desk. 

He overturned his keyboard, looked under his computer monitor, unplugged his office phone. 

Nothing.

Neal had been asking him for help and he ignored it.

His movements becoming more frenetic, he released all the blinds and ran his hands down them, and first lifted every framed diploma that hung on his wall, then dropped them haphazardly onto the thin-carpeted floor. At least a few cracked, but Peter didn’t bother to check which.

He shoved open the door to the conference room. He walked to the far end of the room and turned, surveying it. So many options. Too many options. 

Blinds, chairs, the underside of the table, the speakers set into the table, the television, the filing cabinet. 

He didn’t know if he’d have the time to check them all.

Hughes had gone into Peter’s office and now followed him to the doorway of the conference room, arms crossed and face slightly set in disbelief. 

“Burke, what the hell are you doing?” His eyes flitted to the glass wall on his left, and Peter followed the glance to see agents lined up downstairs, openly gawking as Peter prepared to tear through the conference room as he had through his own office. 

Peter walked back half the length of the room and, clenching his fists and releasing them, enunciated his words slowly and clearly, because he wanted to be overheard by whoever was listening. “Neal was being set up, by someone in this office. There’s a bug, and I’m going to find it.” 

The slight disbelief shifted into embarrassed incredulity. “Peter, that’s a very serious accusation. Do you have anything to back that up?”

Diana, however, didn’t bother with unnecessary questions; she moved from where she stood in the other doorway and got to work searching the room. 

Peter worried at his inner lip and shook his head slightly, but not in response to Reese. He wouldn’t be derailed by protocol, by the inane need for proof, not when Neal’s life was in danger and he knew, deep in his bones, who was responsible. 

“I’ll find it.” 

“I understand you’re upset at the possibility Neal ran, Peter,” and the blood thundered in Peter’s ears loud and red, “but it’s a little premature to assume the worst of one of our own. Even the Marshals aren’t sure he didn’t just cut his leash.” 

Peter tuned Hughes out. Last night, what had Neal said? That the bug would have to be in his office, in Hughes’, or in the conference room. He turned to look behind him, to gauge the distance. 

Hughes had stood in Peter’s office, the day he’d told him he and Neal were on a short leash, following the second robbery. There was no way a mic on the far side of the conference room would have picked that up, even with an open door. 

Chairs move around and are taken into other rooms, the underside of the table would put the bug too far back if it wasn’t to be discovered by an accidental hand or knocked about by a shuffling knee… 

Peter pushed past Hughes— are you even listeni— and first felt along the door jambs, then at the painting that hung right outside the connecting door to his office, on the conference room wall. 

He started by feeling along its edges, then pulled it forward slightly, running his hand along the back. Before he’d gotten halfway down the side closest to the door, he found what he was looking for. He walked over to grab a tissue from nearby then returned to the painting, plucking the small object off.

He held up the bug for Hughes to see, until the full weight of the discovery seemed to settle in him. 

“Premature?” He bit out, folding the tissue around the bug and turning to the main door of the conference room. 

He considered doing this on the floor, but decided he wanted everyone to see, and hear, what he was about to do. 

He felt Hughes come and stand a step behind him, and Peter waited half a beat to see if Reese would stop him. 

That was all the opportunity he gave him. 

“Berrigan,” Peter spoke loudly as he reached the railing. Even though he could hear Diana’s shoes falling directly behind, he wanted his voice to carry. 

“I just found a bug in our conference room. I need you to have it processed for prints.” 

She crossed her arms, and gave Peter the set up he needed. “Am I looking for anyone in particular?” 

“Start with Agent Twirch,” Peter answered, emphasizing the name so there could be no mistake. 

“Sure thing, boss,” Diana said, and took the tissue carefully, one in her own hand already, then started down the stairs.. 

Peter was carefully watching over the spectators.. 

Twirch himself had blanched when Peter mentioned the bug, but had since recovered. He was donning a look of dumb confusion, as though he had no earthly idea what any of this was about. 

Peter wasn’t worried about him; he’d garner a confession soon enough. 

But the others… They threw cautious glances at Twirch, but they were laced with more sympathy than condemnation, or suspicion. Peter even heard the name Caffrey float up from the murmur of the few agents out on the floor, and that name lacked sympathy entirely. 

It seemed that people—his people—were drawing the same conclusion Flores had, and looking down at them now Peter realized it was entirely his fault. 

He'd done this. He had no idea which of Neal's enemies had decided to target him, but he'd seen the culture of the office twist into something unkind, unforgiving, and unfair, and not only had he allowed it to happen, he had encouraged it to some extent. He watched them to blame Neal for Hughes’ decision to freeze the Gallagher case; he let Anderson say, to Neal's face, that he was unneeded. He looked the other way as they all piled their responsibilities on Neal, as though he truly was indentured to them. 

Peter had allowed an unknown party to cloud his judgment, and the indifference to Neal's fate, reflected back to him by nearly every face in the office, was his own doing.

If he couldn’t get sympathy, he’d take professionalism. 

“Coleman,” Peter called down, still holding the attention of the agents beneath him. “Escort Twirch to Interrogation Two. Take his service weapon.” 

The room seemed to hold its breath in a negative pressure of not just stillness, but active lack of movement. 

“Does the department head need to repeat himself?” Hughes snapped from behind him, and air in the room rustled back into its familiar stirs of action. Twirch didn’t resist, but he looked back at Peter with a wan smile that seemed to highlight something cruel and amused that had been hidden until now. 

Reese stepped forward and rubbed the balding crown of his head, a familiar, anxious tick. “You better know what you’re doing, Burke.” 

Peter hoped so too, for Neal’s sake. 

He was on his way to talk to Twirch, and had just stolen a glance at Neal’s desk out of habit, when a large manila envelope caught his eye. 

It was the only piece of mail on Neal’s desk, which was still piled high with files he’d said could wait till Monday. 

It bore no postage. 

It was addressed to Peter, in Peter's own handwriting. 

And it had today’s date. 

Time, air, even his heartbeat all stood still. 

He hadn't addressed that envelope, and there was only one person who could have copied his cursive with such exactitude.

Peter reached for the envelope and looked inside.

Chapter Text

At first the FBI received only the one still. 

At first Peter was able to hold it together, because he had what to do; leads to follow, riddles to untangle, dirty agents to interrogate.

At first, he was able to ignore the certainty that he had sent Neal to a death far more violent than a prison beating. 

Peter could plainly see it was meant to rattle him, and then, that first day, he was still confident enough to not give them the satisfaction. 

He tucked the photo back into the envelope and had someone run it up to Hughes. 

Then he calmly stepped into Interrogation Two. 

Twirch was sitting with his arms neatly resting in front of him on the table, his eyes—Peter was only now noticing were slightly sunken, giving his brow a more prominent focus as it cast shadows down his face—calmly examining his own reflection in the one-way glass. 

He turned his dark gaze to Peter, and offered his trademark unassuming smile. 

“Hi, Agent Burke. It's been a busy morning, huh?” 

Peter didn't move from his spot next to the door. He didn’t have time for games. 

“Why?” 

Twirch narrowed his eyes, considered how much to say, then shrugged. 

“Eh, at this point, might as well. Have a seat, I'll talk.” 

Peter pulled out the chair opposite Twirch and took his seat. 

“I'm not admitting to anything, let's get that clear out of the way,” Twirch started, hands still folded on the table as he adjusted himself in his chair. 

“But I'll talk hypotheticals with you. Hypothetically, the why would be money. You'll never find the financial trail, so I feel comfortable postulating. In theory, a government worker with two children and very little avenue for advancement could be very easily incentivized. They even hired me a lawyer, because they anticipated I'd be caught out. Don't know who, exactly, but they set aside a trust for someone from Whitney & Cage. Not a better law firm in the City, you know.” 

Peter chose not to point out that Twirch had fallen out of hypothetical language and was remarkably close to a confession. Maybe he did have time for games; Twirch, the real Twirch, was more preoccupied with telling his grand story than with protecting himself. 

Peter cast small bait to test the waters. 

“They?” 

Twirch pulled his face into a contemplative expression. “Well, that's a big question. I never properly met anyone. All my instructions were provided remotely. Skype is an amazing thing, isn't it? But I say they because it seemed at times there were several chefs in the kitchen, you know? Sometimes you get the sense an organization is running inefficiently, even when you don't really know? Yeah, you understand me.” 

Peter nodded blandly, his suspicions confirmed. Otis was a no one, a little man who wanted so desperately to have center stage he would implicate himself for the opportunity to grandstand. Peter had felt fire tearing through his chest at the idea that a man like this targeted Neal, but in those early hours after Neal was taken he had still been able to marshal his reactions. 

“Why Neal?” Peter asked. Short. Open-ended. Let him have his stage. 

“Oh,” Twirch laughed, a sharp, sour sound, “that's somewhat above my pay grade, but my instructions were very clear that it had to be him. And you know, you made it easy. I don't know if you know this, but you spend a surprising amount of time contemplating how little you trust your supposed partner. I honestly thought it'd take at least three months to get you to pull him off Gallagher, but,” Twirch snapped his fingers, and while Peter didn't react outwardly, the sudden sound set his heart beating too fast again, like it had just been waiting for an excuse to resume the panicked overtime that started on Neal's doorstep. 

“Just like that. A bloodhound after his prey.” He reclined back in his seat, putting on airs. “I was so sure you were going to arrest him yesterday when he came in. I think they did, too. Was a bit of a surprise you didn’t, but my bottom line at Sberbank is unaffected, and apparently they rallied, am I right?” 

Twirch’s tone was collegial, friendly, even. Peter experienced a stomach-churning sense of déjà vu from a dinner party he and Elizabeth threw at their home once. Twirch had talked to him the same way when he’d pet Satchmo. 

“Rallied how?” Peter asked, steering the conversation back to the bigger picture. “What's the plan?” 

“Like I said,” Twirch sat forward now. “My pay grade,” he raised one hand just above the top of the table, “and what you're asking for.” He set the other hand above his head, and tracked the distance between them with his eyes as he gave a high-pitched, lilting cartoonish whistle. 

“Way above. What I do know is that they planned for everything. It was foolproof, really. They were sure you'd arrest him for those robberies, and they were happy to send him back to prison where I understand there's a bounty on his head. If by chance you didn't, well, I guess you found out about their Plan B this morning.

“All allegedly, of course,” Twirch added after a pause. He sat back, reclasped his hands, and looked pleasantly back at Peter. “That’s Caffrey’s favorite word, isn’t it? Allegedly?”

Peter shook his head as he stood. “That's not how deniability works, Otis. We really should have let you sit in on more interrogations.” 

He turned to leave, and barely reacted when Twirch called after him in that pleasant, collegial tone, “Agent Burke? I’m terribly sorry for your loss.” 

But he reacted; a minor flinch that joined the churn of his stomach, and he was fairly sure Twirch smirked at him in the mirror when he did. 

The office was deathly quiet, a stillness of an inverse frequency to Peter’s nerves, the continuous suspension of the moment between thunder and lightning. Unease hung in the air around him like pungent ozone, like sour wine. 

As he headed towards the steps, Jones stepped out of the conference room. “Peter,” was all he said with a tilt of his head towards the open door. 

In the time Peter had taken to interrogate Twirch, Jones had sent the photo for digitization and analysis, and now the high resolution image of Neal smiled down from the flatscreen at the agents assembled in the conference room like a tight-eyed, terrified despot.

“This is exactly what we predicted he would do. We almost stopped him, too.” Peter didn’t respond, and Hughes gestured toward the screen, a sense of cold pragmaticism to his tone. “This isn’t looking like a victory lap to you, Burke?””

“No, it isn’t.” Peter said firmly, addressing Hughes but eyes on the screen. He was scanning the picture for details, anything to gain him forward traction; but he was also using the moment to swallow his relief at seeing Neal alive; between the details of the bounty and what Twirch had said about his handlers rallying, Peter had been half-certain Neal was dead already. 

The picture had been taken with a too-strong flash, and the result was a washed-out Neal against a nearly blacked-out backdrop. Neal was pale, the blue of his eyes abruptly prominent, his hair standing on end on one side, but strangely plastered to his head near the crown. The lighting made it impossible to tell for sure, but Peter knew that was where his head had been bashed into Byron’s reinforced balcony doors. His t-shirt clung to him, as though he was sweating. Behind him, piled on the floor—basic, common wood flooring—was what could only be described as loot: a haphazard pile of the missing art they’d been investigating, and some it seemed they’d overlooked. Maybe these guys had attempted to frame Neal for thefts that never came across the FBI’s radar. Peter tried to make a mental catalogue of the art, the plain, windowless, whitewashed walls, but his attention kept being drawn back to Neal: His eyes too-wide for a genuine smile, his mouth strained; it was a grotesque imitation of levity, and Peter couldn’t see how it could be interpreted otherwise. 

The relief quickly tangled itself into a knot of dread somewhere deep and unreachable inside Peter. 

With his eyes still on that disturbing picture, Peter answered Hughes. “Twirch confessed to working with a larger party to frame Neal, set him up. They wanted him sent back to prison.”

“And you don’t think Caffrey’s affiliated with that plan at all?”

That got Peter to turn his gaze away from the photo. “What? No, of course not. He texted me for help . He thought I was close by. Why would—” 

“To give his story credibility.” Hughes argued back. “He was seeing how you’d respond, maybe checking how much time he had left to tear the place up.”

“And smash his head into bulletproof glass?” Peter stepped closer to Neal’s portrait, a mimic of the Neal he had seen just the night before, pointing at the flat hair that made Peter’s gut intuition roar. “Neal had heard rumors that there was a bounty placed on his head, a one million dollar contract that started the moment he stepped inside a prison and went down every day he wasn’t killed. Someone is after him.”

Hughes didn’t look all that swayed. “Caffrey told you this? Not Twirch? So we don’t know how reliable that information is. It could be just another con keeping you from sending him back.”

Peter wasn’t sure if Hughes meant the act or the man. “It wasn’t. He’s not.”

At first Hughes conceded to Peter’s certainty about it.

At first he let Peter run point, call the shots, and direct his team in the ways he saw fit for the case.

Peter didn’t go home that night. He spent most of the day working in the conference room. He looked over every pixel of the photo of Neal, then rewatched the recording of the interrogation with Twirch. He spoke to Organized Crime and had them double-and-triple check any enemies of Navarro’s, but they were adamant that the few that weren’t in prison had ceded the field to him years ago, and were no longer even in New York. He gave Coleman the impossible task of reviewing the office call logs, to try and find any directed to him but intercepted by Twirch. Jones continued his work going through all of Twirch’s records and statements, while Diana went through his desk and work computer. 

They found evidence of Twirch being hired out, call logs from hidden numbers at regularly scheduled times, meetings on his calendar at odd hours. They brought his wife and his teenage son in for interrogation. Their stories were the same; they talked about Otis’ attitude change in the recent months, cockier, more brazen. They spoke of increased spending, working later hours, more stress that he blamed on the job; but no concrete connections or leads to follow there either.

There was nothing that got them any closer to finding Neal; they were filling in blanks behind them, not moving forward. 

Peter called Elizabeth that night while he put his office back together. He apologized for interrupting the Hastings party, and something about that statement alone had Elizabeth leaving her meeting to find somewhere to receive bad news. He stood amidst the uncollected pens and half-sorted files, forced to admit to Elizabeth what had happened, to confess that he had failed Neal in just the way she had asked him to prevent. The unfiltered truth was no longer avoidable under the guise of busywork and postponement: nearly twenty-four hours had passed since the last time he saw Neal, and he had nothing to show for it. No progress has been made. 

And while he’d spoken to the warden himself, the fact that Twirch’s blood money had been deposited in Russia’s largest bank wouldn’t allow him to take Keller off the board as a possible player in this. He told Elizabeth to take Satchmo and go stay with Dana and John, in Jersey. They owed her one, for getting Peter to take on John’s case, after all.

El would be safe, but Neal was gone. He had asked Peter for help, and Peter had no idea how to do that now.

Sunday passed in much the same unbalanced haze of impotent doing, the passage of time marked in increments of relation to Neal’s disappearance. 

The 24-hour mark of Neal’s text message— buttoning his shirt, how had that been more important when he knew there was potential danger?— found Peter waiting for a warrant to come through for the search of Twirch’s home. 

At the 24-hour mark of opening the photo, they received the three-month report of Neal’s tracking data, to rule out any chance of a run around, as Hughes had put it.

And at the 24-hour mark of having to make that terrible phone call to El, Hughes had pulled Peter into his office.

“Have you slept at all Peter?”

“I’m fine, Reese.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Hughes tapped his fingers along his desk a few times. “I’m sending this case to Missing Persons. You’re dismissed.”

Peter nearly felt the floor give way beneath him. “Sir, you can’t —”

Hughes was apologetic, but unmoved. “You’re too emotionally involved in this Peter. You’re not running this case with a clear head. You’re…” Hughes shook his head as though negating something to himself, then said out loud, “You’re only running this investigation like a kidnapping, even though we haven’t gotten any ransom demands. We can’t even be sure Neal wasn’t working with Twirch in the first place—all you have is Twirch’s vague… pontificating.” 

“And Neal’s apartment? The blood and hair came back as Neal’s.” 

“I saw the report, it was only a preliminary match. I also saw the report showing his tracking anklet conveniently going offline during a reset Twirch initiated from the FBI. Do I need to remind you how creative Caffrey is? You’re not the only one who chased him, and you’re not the only one who knows him.” 

Peter inhaled, ready to argue that he was the only one who ever found him, but Hughes cut him off. 

“And you know what, you’re not the only one who’s worried, either. We’ve all worked with him, we all value him. If this is somehow a way to target him, no one wants to see him hurt. But it is better for everyone if the search for Caffrey is handled by another team. Everyone here is taking this hard, and it’s clouding judgements. Your team could be missing critical details because of their worry. Maybe a fresh perspective on his past crimes is what this investigation needs.

“Your team will keep looking into the art thefts, and Donberry over in Missing Persons can look into Neal’s disappearance. If the two overlap, he’ll bring you back in. Plus, we have people monitoring all of your other active cases and any information that comes through your desk, and they will gauge if it has anything to do with Caffrey and get back to you if it does. Until then though,” Hughes stood and walked over to the door, opening it. “Go home, get some sleep, then see your wife. Eat something too, damnit. I’ll tell you if we find anything.”

Peter thought he was following through, but he managed only the first of Hughes’ orders, and only briefly at that. He returned home, but Elizabeth had already left for Dana’s. The thought of ordering in—had Neal had anything to eat since the Chinese El had ordered Friday night?—was worse only than the thought of stepping into the kitchen and doing something as regular as cooking when Neal was missing. 

He shrugged out of his jacket and slipped it onto the back of a chair, and caught a covered plate El had left for him to reheat. It had been sitting out since the previous night, before she left for Dana’s, and Peter was touched by the gesture but glad that he didn’t have to decide whether or not to submit to her judgement and eat. Neal certainly wasn’t being given homemade spaghetti bolognese.

Peter took the plate to the kitchen and tossed its contents, and when he stepped back into the living room his eyes slid across the entryway, the sofa, the mantel. 

Guilt, ice cold and leaden, swept over and through him. It was so sudden and acute Peter’s first thought was stress-induced heart attack, before his mind caught up with his emotions and he realized with horror what he had reacted to.

Neal’s sunglasses, unusual but necessary after his night drinking himself into oblivion, then unneeded as the day progressed and they’d come back to Peter’s to finish working, had been left behind when he and Neal parted. It was such a regular piece of Neal, as unremarkable to Peter’s eyes as the specific make of his suits, but now it might be the last piece of him to ever remain in Peter’s home—and that, a reminder of how Peter had failed Neal in the weeks leading up to that night.

His heart was still threatening rupture, but he didn’t even dare sit. 

How could he relax on his couch when Neal was in some nondescript room, forced into that harrowing mimicry of a smile? How could he bear to look at his own perfectly mundane dining table, when Neal’s had been—maybe still was—tipped over, chairs toppled in Neal’s fruitless attempt to stop his pursuers? How could he lay on his bed when Neal was being kept from his? The possibility of eating became loathsome again, and even the thought of sitting down with a beer was nauseating when the bitter tannin-odor of Neal’s spilt wine still burnt inside of his nose.

Everywhere Peter looked was a test he was failing. 

He stumbled upstairs and sat on his bed—the only place he wouldn’t find traces of Neal—and as he did he caught the splashes of wine all up the legs of his trousers. A memory flashed—Mozzie holding up wine-soaked socks and throwing them into the trash—and part of Peter absently wondered if he’d need to get rid of this suit he’d been wearing since yesterday morning; most of Peter silently stood in acknowledgement of shame that slunk up his arms and down his spine at the cementing realization that that evening had been the crossroads to hell to which Peter had steered Neal: three nights ago he’d already been outmaneuvered by unknown conmen, and Neal’s fate was sealed then, by him, one way or another. 

He was tugging at his belt before he was fully standing, desperate to remove the trousers that had been soaked in Neal’s wine; before he fully stepped out of them his eyes had already clocked the pile of suits waiting to go to the cleaner’s, and he’d been reaching for one of those when he noticed an unevenness, the slightest mounding of one of the pockets like he’d forgotten something tucked in there—

He had hesitated before sliding the tail of the tie free from the knot, before pulling it from around Neal’s neck, had hesitated before even the smallest kindness so Neal could sleep more comfortably; he’d pushed the wine-freckled tie into his pocket as Neal thanked him— Peter froze, staring at the tufting pocket—he’d accepted thanks for not sending Neal to be murdered in prison, and then allowed him to be taken, likely murdered, anyway—

He was a fool to think he could avoid traces of Neal, reminders of how he’d failed him; he was the failure, and he was seeing reflections of himself. 

Peter retreated into the ensuite, and showered in cold water. 

He changed into clean, comfortable clothes—he couldn’t bear to look at his suits, even the unstained ones—and headed over to Neal’s.

This time it was June who opened the door, with a simple question. “Have you found him?”

Peter shook his head. “Nothing yet. It’s…complicated.” He didn’t want to make her lose hope by telling her he had been officially pulled from the case, and he didn’t want to give her false hope by reassuring her. He pulled a page from Neal’s book and redirected. “I came to clean up his place so it’s ready, for when we do.”

June nodded as she walked Peter over to the stairs. “I had the maids leave everything how it was, just in case anything else was needed.” She wrung her hands over the floral scarf she was wearing, gathering her composure. “Aside from the wine, of course. They soaked that up, but…everything else.” 

There was no need to elaborate. Peter remembered what the place had looked like, and he appreciated what it must have taken to work around that kind of mess, to ignore the story it told, just in case the FBI needed to revisit it.

“Right,” Peter said, one foot already on the stairs. He turned to fully look at June. “I appreciate that, it was the right thing to do. We’ve cataloged everything, taken photographs of every inch, and have extensive notes on all of the…damage. I promise, nothing will be overlooked or missed by putting things back. If I do happen to find anything while I work, I’ll make note of it.”

June nodded, and although Peter could tell she had had more to say, she only smiled at him sadly and gestured for him to go on up.

Peter didn’t give himself any time to hesitate going through the door that time, not daring to let the anxiety or heartache catch up to him.

Naturally, it still did, but Peter ignored the quickstep rhythm of his pulse as he set to work. The wine had been cleaned up just as June had said, but there was still a nauseatingly off putting red tint to the area it had stained. He  would make plans to buy an electric sander as well as some new stain. He could have the floors refinished in just a few days. 

Until then, Peter opened the balcony doors to air out the thick odor of stale wine, noting as he did that the broken pane would need to be replaced, too. 

Peter was able to keep his mind clear as he set about fixing the overturned furniture, first on the balcony, then inside. The dining table was still intact—though also stained from the wine—and setting it alright made the whole space feel marginally less ominous. Less a crime scene, more just…a mess. Peter even pushed the broken antique easel out onto the landing to carry down with him when he left, and when he turned back to survey the space he expected to feel some small amount of satisfaction, maybe even reaffirmation that they’d be able to bring Neal home, now that it looked more like a home.

But his eye seemed to glide past the table and couch and chairs and instead seemed forcibly drawn to Neal’s clothes, half laid out on the bed, the only area of the apartment that hadn’t been ransacked by—by his kidnappers. A dress shirt, still on the hanger; the suit jacket, laid neatly beside it, with two ties stretched out across both. 

Neal liked having options for his ties. 

He was probably waiting for Peter to come—he’d been sleeping in while Neal had been waiting for him to come—to ask him to settle between the two options.

He’d thought Neal had been wearing a t-shirt, but it was his pajama shirt, Peter realized, and he didn’t know why that was important but the thought dragged Peter’s momentum of non-stop movement to a harsh, whiplash of a halt; over thirty-six hours of no sleep, little food, countless coffees, and incessant bracing against the neverending thrum of fear, guilt, and panic that burned under his skin like a root fire, all caught up to Peter like one, enormous, unstoppable wave.

He needed to do… something. Anything. Peter tore his eyes from the clothes on the bed and pulled out a chair by the table, careful to avoid the outline of the wine stain when he could. Somehow, that felt important too. 

He needed to refind momentum. 

He needed to do anything.

He just needed to refind—

He needed

Chapter Text

Peter wasn’t sure when Mozzie first stepped into the loft. He knew he’d been sitting there for some time, and that he had heard his phone ring at least two separate times, but he couldn’t seem to look away from the wine-stain that was directly in his line of sight, as though it had spread out from his feet. He knew that he had to do— anything— but no matter how hard he tried to push forward he couldn’t turn away. It felt as though his thoughts were happening to him, like they were an external force, a punishment, locking him in place when he had to, but couldn't— anything —to find Neal. 

He only became aware he wasn’t alone when Mozzie slammed shut the cabinet above the sink, the noise startling Peter into blinking, into looking up. Mozzie turned to the next cabinet and from it he pulled two ceramic mugs with a resigned, it’ll have to do, and set them down on the counter. He turned back toward the secret panel and pulled out a bottle of wine, and poured generously into either mug.

Peter wanted to say something, to show Mozzie that he was in control, that he was on his game, that the FBI had made some headway. These were all things he wanted to say, things he wanted to be true.

He couldn’t stop himself before his eyes flicked back to the wine stain that stretched out between them. He didn’t know how Mozzie could stand the drink any longer.

“Well, I wish I could say I was surprised to see you here.” Mozzie murmured as he replaced the wine bottle in the secret compartment. “I’m guessing by the state of your resolved action that you haven’t made any more progress than I have.”

He waited a moment for Peter to respond, his back still to Peter, and at this second ignored overture he added, “I admit, Suit, I don’t understand why you’re here. Surely you haven’t given up hope. Or do you already have proof of his death?” 

“No!” The shock at Mozzie’s question broke Peter from his daze, setting him back firmly in reality with a sickening sweep of his stomach. “No, of course not. He’s…I’m…damnit.”

He childishly swiped at his face, fighting to regain some semblance of dignity, to recover the composure that had drained from him in the lost time since he sat down. He briefly considered the party line he had given June, the delicate balancing of truth and obfuscation, the controlled drop between the distant hope he wanted and the despair he’d been living in for a lost amount of time. However, as he shook his head to block out his own helpless guilt, he caught sight of two things; Neal’s suit on the bed—taken in his pajamas—and Mozzie’s face.

The shorter man had now turned to him, and for the first time since he entered Peter could read his expression clearly, and he knew that he could not lie to him. Not only would it be ineffective, Mozzie might be the only person able to wholly recognize the grief Peter was in, a kindred, desperate spirit.

He told the truth.

“I’ve been pulled from the case. We haven’t been able to pick up any trail, none of Twirch’s information led anywhere, and…Hughes said I’m too emotionally invested and transferred it over to Missing Persons. No doubt with the asterisk that Neal might not even be missing.”

If Mozzie was surprised by the conclusion, he didn’t bother to express it. He sat, stoned face for a moment, pondering, before he sighed out, “This is exactly why I don’t trust any of you suits.” 

Peter couldn’t fault him. 

Mozzie took both mugs to the dining table and set them down, an elegantly simple mug for himself, and a kitschy I Heart NYC mug for Peter. He wondered idly if Mozzie knew Peter had gotten that mug for Neal when their deal first became official, if the choice of drinkware was a simple reminder of the stakes, as Mozzie lifted his messenger bag over his shoulder and set it down, as well. He took a long sip before he sat and crossed one ankle over his knee, leaning back. He held the simple mug between his hands like it was warm tea, and looked directly at Peter.

“You people get locked in a belief, you think you’ve figured out the answer and then refuse to look at or consider any new evidence, and Neal gets screwed over by it. Twice in recent history, more so over the years.”

Peter sighed, an exhalation that seemed to pull the support from between his very bones, like all that had been holding him up was air and he was now made heavier without it. Like all he was was dead weight. 

“You think I don’t—I know, alright? I…I know. And I’m trying to fix it but—“

“Are you, Suit?” Mozzie pressed on. “It doesn’t look like you are to me. It looks like you’re hiding.”

Peter was appalled. “Of course I am Mozzie, I’ve tracked down every lead imaginable, I spent hours reviewing information, interviewing everyone connected to our only suspect, the better part of my day was wasted working through Twirch’s apartment, every single one of his belongings, Jones and Diana have overturned every spec of his digital information—“

Mozzie interrupted him quietly, a low breeze that swept over Peter’s bonfire of rage with a delicate shake of the head, a low uch, the gentlest eye roll; it had Peter reeling as though he’d been slugged. “What is wrong with you, Suit? I truly don’t understand. Have you already let these guys compromise your integrity, your instincts so badly?” His voice carried disbelief inlaid with what would have sounded like genuine worry, if only it weren’t so deeply cut with disappointment. 

“Since when do you chase down all possible leads when it comes to Neal? Missing Persons is gonna handle it, I’ve exhausted the digital blah-blah- really? From you? You know Neal better than anyone. Present company excluded,” he caveated with a small gesture at his own chest, “and you’re satisfied with, my one obvious lead was a dead end, I’d best wallow?

“You’ve made it your life’s mission to find Neal, whether he wants you to or not. You tracked us down in Cape Verde, and God knows there was less to go on than the literal weeks of evidence you had leading up to…this.” Mozzie gestured around at the apartment, as though he could still see the violent disarray it had been left in.  

“You’re currently guilty of the exact one-track thinking I just generalized against all suits. And I wasn’t even talking about you! You’re doing exactly what it was that got Neal taken in the first place!” Mozzie’s tone had been getting higher, the cold calmness briefly gone, and he was gesturing emphatically with his hands until the mug spilled some wine onto the already-stained table and seemed to snap him out of it.

He paused and forced a deep breath, then set the mug down. “You’re looking exactly where they want you to look, at what they want you to be looking at. It’s a classic misdirection, and you keep falling for it.”

Mozzie looked up at him then, the same cold look on his face that Peter had seen only three nights ago. “You need to stop reacting, and do something.”

“I have been doing something Mozzie! For days all I have been doing is trying to do something —”

Mozzie held up a hand to stop him, and Peter obeyed. He watched as the other man swallowed hard and looked away, considering his next words carefully. He almost resented Mozzie’s ability to regain his composure while Peter was so evidently incapable. “Why did you come here, Suit?”

Peter didn’t know what Mozzie wanted to hear, but for some reason the question seemed to make his heart remember it had been racing, and now tried to make up for lost time. “I—they sent me home and—” 

“You could have hidden in your backyard, or gone to a bar. Why did you come here, of all places?” 

“I don’t—it needed to be cleaned and—”

“We both know that’s not all it is,” Mozzie rebutted, uncrossing his legs and facing Peter more directly. He considered Peter for a moment, all too intense and unwavering in comparison to how threadbare Peter was feeling. A grandmaster considering where to move his next pawn, but Peter felt more knight than opponent.

“In three matters a person is known, Suit.” Mozzie finally spoke, once again disarming Peter with an abrupt segue, before he leaned over and pulled the laptop from his bag, and said, ”In his cup, in his pocket, and in his anger,” as he started to type. “I’ve seen you drink, I’ve seen you be generous, and I’ve seen you angry.”

He spoke with that gently condescending tone of his, one that Peter could recognize as an act just like he could tell the languages of Neal’s smiles. He just didn’t understand what Mozzie’s goal was.

“None of those have ever stopped you from doing what you think is right, regardless of consequences But never have I seen you… This. Passive. Obedient.” Mozzie typed a few more things, then clicked a few definitive times. “Why did you listen when they told you to leave? Why didn’t you keep working?”

“ I don’t know! Alright? Hughes is my boss, I couldn’t stay—”

“Why didn’t you go home?” Mozzie pressed harder. “You could’ve kept working there if you wanted to, or you could’ve gotten clearly needed rest to—”

Peter hardly recognized the sound he made as laughter. To be lectured by Mozzie about what he should be doing? 

“Rest? While Neal is—” He pulled up the picture of Neal and the art on his phone, and slid it toward Mozzie. “The FBI isn’t even sure he didn’t run. I can’t rest when we don’t even have a lead.” 

“Oh,” Mozzie chuckled, and the barbed sarcasm cut Peter before he even heard the rejoinder, “and staring off into the middle-distance in his empty loft is panning out well, I take it?” 

I was trying to help and I didn’t mean to waste time and you don’t know what this is like and I was sent home and it made me sick to be there all battled to be said, but a combination of shame, anger, and helplessness stopped any of them from being uttered. 

Mozzie kept pushing. 

“Were you even thinking about the case or just mentally composing his obituary?” 

“That’s not fair—” Peter had been doing everything in his power—he’d left no stone unturned with Twirch, he hadn’t wasted any time after Neal was taken, he wasn’t giving up, he was trying to—

Mozzie, unrelenting.

“Why did you come here instead of helping him?” 

“Because none of this makes sense!” The words came out of Peter suddenly, emotions he hadn’t even realized he was feeling transmuted into words in an instant. 

“And because I don’t know what to do!” Peter hadn’t intended to raise his voice, but Mozzie smirked and leaned back in his chair, smug, like he had intended for it to be Peter’s reaction.

Peter realized he probably had. Dammit.

“I came here because I used to have such, such…” Peter looked around, trying to grasp the thread that had come loose when Mozzie mentioned being angry. Because he should be angry, and instead—Mozzie was right, again, and maybe that was equally angering—he was this. 

“I have always had such clarity regarding my cases. I got a sense of the suspect, or of the crime, or of the methodology, and I always knew which way to follow, always. Especially with Neal. He, he could shake me, or misguide me, but…" Peter shook his head, too much unknown and uncertainty to even begin to put into words. "I came here because three nights ago, I thought I had it all figured out with Neal, and I was standing right there,” Peter pointed to a spot beyond the far end of the table, “and even though it felt like I had fallen through a rabbit hole where Neal Caffrey gets blackout drunk and you pour me a drink, it was the last time I felt like I had any sort of clarity. I know, I know you can’t recreate intuition like that, but,” Peter sighed and massaged his temple, in defeat of ego, but not resolve, “I’m just… lost now.”

Peter put his head in his hands and took a deep breath, feeling all at once just as he had when Mozzie first appeared in Neal’s empty apartment; lost as to what to do next, lost as to what to think or feel, lost in himself. All he was was lost.

“I don’t know what to do Mozzie.” He finally admitted. “I’m letting Neal down. I’m failing him. I’m– I’m failing.”

He received no answer.

For a moment he wondered if Mozzie had left. Maybe he had realized Peter was no help in this situation, that whatever thread had held Peter together had completely come undone and he was now useless both to himself and to Neal.

But, when he looked up, Mozzie was still sitting there, holding his mug in one hand, Peter’s phone, still showing the picture of Neal, in the other. He held it up for Peter to see, as though it wasn’t already burned ruthlessly into his mind, as though he didn’t see it every time he closed his eyes.

“You’re not lost Suit, you’re…muddled. You keep listening to other people instead of doing what you do best. So what you need to do is stop acting like all the other suits, stop listening to their input, doing as they say, covering ground you already covered, and do what you practically have listed under special skills on your resume: find Neal."  

Peter could’ve laughed as Mozzie’s goal became obvious, and now, for the second time in three nights, Mozzie of all people was serving as Peter’s voice of reason. 

He had been reacting, he had been passive, and he had been conducting the investigative equivalent of roadblocks and wanted posters. When had he stopped trusting his own judgment to such a degree that he’d fall back on the freshman-class Quantico playbook? 

“You’re right.”

Peter could wait to investigate why he’d needed Mozzie’s help to steer his ship back on course, but for how he could only be grateful. He may still be lost, but at least he could see the stars. He could find Neal, that was a certainty that predated nearly all his career successes. “You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. I always am.” 

Mozzie pushed the phone closer to Peter, adjusted his glasses and looked up, his expression shifting to his normal, neutral shuttered look. “And because I always am, you’re going to do as I say now, got it Suit?”

Peter ignored him. “I’m going back to the office. I don’t care if they took me off the case, Neal is my responsibility. I can probably get a team together, at least—”

“Le Suit,” Mozzie interrupted him again, and Peter paused with his phone now in his hand, about to call Jones. 

“What?” 

“You’re forgetting that I came here with an assignment. You need to do exactly as I say and call the following number: 510-7256.” 

Peter just stared. When Mozzie didn’t elaborate, he added an impatient gesture, tilting his head and spreading both hands in a very clear, if tacit, demand for an explanation. 

“Just do it Suit. You got my best friend kidnapped, after all.”

Peter’s mouth dried instantly and dropped open, but it was a farce, because no extra air was getting in. He just stared at the accusation, openly laid before him with no preamble, no equivocation. 

“Too soon?” Mozzie asked, as though he were commenting on some news story not, not—“510-7256,” he repeated, as though the problem was Peter’s hearing. “Trust me.” 

Peter dialed the number. 

While the phone rang, Mozzie set down the mug he’d been holding and pulled Peter’s I Heart NYC mug closer. “Come, bring hither quick a flagon of wine, that I may soak my brain,” he said, and drank heartily from that one, as well. 

Peter ignored the mild pang in his chest at the sight of the mug. “Isn’t that for me, so I can get an ingenious idea?” Peter asked, waiting for the line to pick up, but still compelled to complete Mozzie’s quote. 

“On second thought, no. It was, but—” 

“Tito’s Pizzeria, what’s your order?” 

Peter hung up the phone. 

“Mozzie, what is—“

“As I was saying,” Mozzie answered in a put-out tone, as if Peter was purposefully being difficult. “You don’t need wine, you need food. I could hear your stomach growling from the stairwell. You clearly are starving, and I can tell by the bags under your eyes and the pallor to your skin that you’re exhausted, Suit. You’re going to sit and eat, fill me in on the case while you do, and then either drive home or rest here.”

“Neal has been kidnapped and there are no leads, how can I possibly sleep when he’s—”

“Once we find Neal I will support any self-flagellation you deem necessary, but punishing yourself now isn’t going to help him.”

Peter must’ve still looked apprehensive, because Mozzie tilted the laptop in front of him slightly shut to meet Peter’s gaze directly. “Suit, do you know what Neal tells me every time I suggest we run, every single time? Peter’ll find me, Moz. It’s not worth it. Maybe you are to blame for all this, but punishing yourself into an exhaustion-coma will only guarantee you’ll never find him, and that’s not an option. As much as I hate relying on the system, you’re his only hope right now, so it also hurts him if you weaken yourself. Plus, eating is the only thing that can be done while we go over this case from scratch, and I know that you’re a man of…” Mozzie gestured vaguely, “an unrefined palate. Hence, Tito’s. Pizza will do you good. Order me a cheeseless veggie.”

Peter wasn’t sure how to react, and to which part of that. That Mozzie was trying to feed him, or that his contrition was so apparent that even Mozzie could read it, or that Mozzie seemed to take it as a given that he was responsible for Neal’s abduction, and that left little doubt in Peter’s mind that Neal would think that, too. 

Then his stomach made itself known with the angry cry of a pterodactyl, and Peter realized he didn’t need to comment at all. Mozzie’s points were fair, and the least Peter could do was follow the voice of reason when presented to him, if he couldn’t be that voice to himself. He was no closer to finding Neal than he had been 39 hours ago, and he wasn’t working with a clear head any longer. He raised his phone and dialed again.

“It’ll take forty minutes for the pizza to get here. I’ll stay and eat, but after that I have to get back to the office.” 

Mozzie looked at him, his own eyes a darker blue than Neal’s but somehow more piercing, and infinitely more calculating. 

“We can work with that!” Abrupt, bright, and certain. Mozzie fully opened his laptop and said, fingers dancing in the air above the keyboard, “Catch me up.” 

As they waited Peter told Mozzie about the photo, and by the time the pizza arrived, Peter had already scribbled out a bullet list of all the important information Twirch revealed in his confession and slid it over to Mozzie, who hummed an innocent, ”Sberbank, huh?” 

Peter nodded. “We double checked that Keller is still in prison,” he started, and Mozzie picked up before Peter realized he’d trailed off. 

“But that hasn’t stopped our chess-enthusiast from orchestrating kidnappings in the past.” He started typing with fresh vigor. “Allow me to double check Keller and this Twirch’s bank account with my contacts.” 

As he typed away, Peter kept his head in his notebook, rewriting what he knew of the case, but only the facts and none of his previous surmisings, conclusions, or assumptions. 

There had been so many assumptions.

Salomone was murdered after a struggle, left handcuffed in his bedroom, with a single knife wound to the throat. At his murder, and all the robberies, the windows were left open. They all shared the same security system, and were preceded by a blackout. Twirch had been passing the information along to someone—no, a team of people, all to frame Neal Caffrey and send him back to prison to be killed.

A plot that was incredibly well-funded. 

Wildly. 

Almost inconceivably. 

Peter had three slices of pizza, two glasses of water, and half a permitted beer as he worked on the next list.

It was a list of questions, the ones he’d wanted to ask but hadn’t, either because it wasn’t his case and he wasn’t in a position to ask them, or because he’d been led to ask the wrong ones, over and over again. 

But not anymore. 

This case first came across his desk because they’d been trying to frame Neal, and he’d been locked in that angle ever since. But Peter needed to go back to the basics, approach this case as he would any other: Asking the questions that arose from the case, not just how had Twirch done it : Who had the funds to hire Agent Twitch to help run such a long, risky con, as well as boast about covering his legal fees? Who would want to frame Neal for the robberies so they could order a hit on him in prison? How did someone structure regular blackouts across multiple neighborhoods? Those were the right questions. 

And who would be interested in such an needlessly elaborate way to target Neal? 

It was the last question that buzzed through Peter’s mind as he lay down on the couch.

Chapter Text

Peter woke up to the frantic buzzing of his cellphone on Monday morning, 50 hours after Neal had been kidnapped.

It took him a minute to find it; it had been placed on Neal’s kitchen counter and plugged in to charge. Mozzie gestured towards it from his spot still at the dining table when Peter stood from his spot on the couch, confused and bleary eyed.

Peter had been expecting Elizabeth’s call, a morning check-in after her night out of state, but instead Diana’s name flashed across the screen.

“What—what do you have for me Diana?” Peter wasn’t sure if the lump in his throat was typical morning funk or if the fear that twined its way through his body had already tightened into a noose around his throat.

“ Check your email. ” Diana’s voice was hushed but urgent, and Peter crossed over to the dining table in two steps, ignoring Mozzie’s outrage as he pulled the laptop away. He slammed on the speakerphone and set the phone down on the table just in time to hear, “— ived another letter this morning. ”

With slightly shaking hands, he quickly typed in the address and pulled up the newest email from Diana, and that now familiar vice-grip seized around his heart again as the email loaded four attachments.

The first two were new pictures of Neal; the background had changed, the loot spread around the otherwise blank room to make room for a cheap bedframe and a mattress covered in some plasticky sheet. In this first photo Neal looked nearly identical to how he’d looked in the first one delivered by Twirch. His hair was still slightly plastered to one side of his head, eyes were slightly too wide with the edge of panic, and they had made him smile again, the constrained brightness failing even more fantastically than it had before. But now Neal lay on the bed, his wrists handcuffed together and tied around one of the iron bars at the top. 

At that moment he was at least alive, and overall still put-together. 

Mozzie had come around to see what Peter was doing, and when he caught sight of the photo he gasped and took a step back, but Peter could feel him lean closer again, just as overcome by the need to know, and Peter opened the second attachment. 

It was another photo, and something was truly wrong. 

The lighting of the room had changed, and it seemed that there were windows that weren’t in the shot; it looked like natural light lent the otherwise nondescript room a soft, almost homey illumination. On the bed, Neal was soaked; his pajama shirt clung to him, either tinted with the liquid or so transparent in its saturation as to show Neal’s skin tone through the fabric. The picture had been snapped immediately after Neal had been drenched. Long drips were still forming along the edges of his hair, and a soft glittering could be seen across his eyelashes. 

“Suit,” Mozzie begged, but Peter had nothing to offer. 

He clicked on the third attachment, a video, and Peter’s heart stuttered as he hovered over the play button. This could be—the conflicting agendas, maybe they just wanted him to see, for some reason—

When Peter took too long to act, the shorter man took it upon himself to click the mouse. 

There was a bright light behind the camera drowning out any natural lighting, but Peter could tell it had to have been recorded hours after the last photo; Neal was in far worse shape. 

Redness had formed around his eyes and lips, looking almost like deliberate, localized burns. His eyelids were swollen, and even though the video had no audio, Peter could tell by the stagger of Neal’s chest that his breathing was hitching irregularly, an ever so slight tremble to his bottom lip. It was a short video, three breaths total, and Neal seemed to struggle for each one.

“They’re torturing him.” Peter sighed out to no one in particular, the heartbreak he felt too visceral to not vocalize. “They’re—Oh my God…”

“ Boss, did you open the last link? ” Diana. Diana was still on the line. 

Mozzie pulled the laptop away from him and scrolled to the bottom, and clicked on the shortened hyperlink. 

A blank screen loaded in a new tab. Mozzie refreshed, closed it, and tried to open it again, but it remained merely a blacked-out screen.

“What—what’s this supposed to be? The link?” Peter asked. “Nothing’s showing here.”

“ Dammit .” Diana sighed, her voice still hushed. “ It was a live stream, Neal on that bed, struggling–I’m not in the conference room anymore. It must’ve gone offline since I left. ”

“Diana, I need more than that,” Peter said, holding his gaze firmly on the phone because he needed her to be absolutely clear, and he had no way to convey that other than the tautness of his tone. “Struggling how?” 

Struggling against someone? Struggling while he was being drowned? 

“ Boss, it’s—” She raised her voice a fraction. “ Struggling against the handcuffs, but still alive. That’s the best I can say .”

It was a paltry best. 

“I’ll be there in 15 minutes.” Peter said as he put more weight on the table, grateful for it. He wasn’t sure he’d have been able to support himself otherwise. “I want every technical agent tracing that link, you hear me? We have a direct line to the son of a bitch who has Neal, we better be following it.”

Diana didn’t respond regarding his instructions, one way or the other. “ Boss, am I on speaker?” She asked, and Peter raised his eyes to Mozzie. 

This wasn’t the clarity he’d wanted, but for the moment, he was operating without a single doubt. “I’m here with Mozzie, you can talk.” 

Her voice hushed again, as though she’d covered the receiver with her hand. “ Peter, the email came into Twirch’s account. They knew we’d be monitoring it. I think they fed him to us as a misdirection. This is much bigger than him and Caffrey. Hughes is still saying that Missing Persons has the lead on this. He had them forward you the email as a courtesy because it was addressed to you, but…” 

She didn’t finish, but she didn’t have to. They forwarded the email as a courtesy, but Peter was supposed to let the other department be in charge of  what was being done to Neal, and focus on his own caseload. 

“Thanks Diana. Understood. We’ll talk when I get in.”

She hung up, and Peter looked at Mozzie as he quickly gathered the few papers with notes he wanted to have on him. 

Mozzie looked back, piercing. 

“Will I see you back here today, Suit?” 

Somewhere, Peter found an unamused laugh. “No. There’s work to do. Be in touch if you find anything…?” Peter gestured toward the computer. 

“I haven’t found much,” Mozzie said. “But I was able to get in touch with someone who was able to get in touch with Keller. He passed along a message.” 

Peter just stared. 

“Right.” Mozzie shuffled some papers around before pulling out a report with writing scribbled over it. “He said he says he was contacted about an offer to attain vengeance on the man who put him in prison, but the buy-in was too high.” Mozzie paused, then amended. “What he probably meant was, I like to take care of my own business, eh, Moz? Or something equally colloquial, and— That’s the gist, anyway.”

Peter heard the way Mozzie intentionally fogged over information and reached over, pulling the note from Mozzie’s lax hold.

Tell Burke I send my condolences. Must be hard to lose his golden goose.

Peter crumpled up the paper and threw it. The man was in a Russian state prison —

Mozzie reengaged his focus. “Does the name Albert Mellinson mean anything to you?” 

Peter let out a deep breath. If Keller was telling the truth, and he wasn’t a main player, he couldn’t let the man get under his skin. ”No. Is that who approached him?” 

“An alias seems the likely surmise, but yes. I leave it in your hands to track it down; as detestable as I find Matthew Keller, I believe him. Neal never made enemies who would do that to him, Peter.” Mozzie looked back at the computer screen, and crossed his arms over his own chest in a gesture that seemed to be in lieu of a hug.  

Peter was beginning to suspect that was true, and if it was—

“I’ll be in touch if I hear anything new, Mozzie.” 

If it was—

Peter tried not to contemplate the conclusion that was beginning to grow roots, like a creeping vine looking for a hold, as he stepped into the office. 

Peter paused to change into the fresh button down he kept in his trunk, but his slept-in blue jeans would just have to do for the day. By the time he arrived at the FBI it was already busy with Monday morning activity. Jones, he saw, was already at his desk and he shot Peter a meaningful look as he strode purposefully by, on his way to Hughes’ office. He looked like he’d been about to hail Peter, but then he thought better of it and instead excused himself from the group of agents he was talking to and caught up to Peter at the foot of the stairs. 

“Diana filled me in,” Jones said, with no segue. “I’m already handling the case assignments for this week, and I have Rogers wrangling the probies’ assignments for right now. I told them you’d address Twirch’s arrest in a briefing this morning.” 

He glanced at his watch. “I called it for nine. I’ll gather everyone in the conference room so we’re ready to hit the ground running when you’re done with Hughes. Oh, and I cancelled your end-of-the-month Department Heads meeting. Figured we might have some other priorities today, we can pick up after the general briefing.” 

Peter looked toward the open office door at the top of the stairs. “That depends on how this meeting goes.” 

Jones shifted his weight, worried at his lower lip, and adjusted his suit jacket. He was gathering courage to say something he thought one of them wouldn't like. 

“Does it?” Jones’ incredulity was only barely disguised as a question, and even that seemed to have exhausted his tolerance for what he was suggesting. He let his question hang briefly between them before continuing. 

“You mean to tell me in some world Hughes convinces you to drop this investigation, leave Caffrey to his fate?”

Peter narrowed his eyes at Jones. He had begun to loop him in about Twirch, and Jones had his own brand of razor sharp intuition, but Peter still hadn't expected this. 

“No,” he answered Jones simply. 

Jones tapped the bannister once, and turned back toward his desk. “Then I'll see you at nine.” 

Peter hadn't expected equal goodwill from Reese, but he somehow left the meeting reeling with disappointment, anyway. 

Hughes had started the meeting with a resigned, “Shame about Caffrey,” and invited Peter to sit. Peter did, unsure whether Hughes was being slightly cavalier about a member of their team being tortured—not for information, for ransom or for leverage, just… tortured—or whether he still intended to push his just another con read of the situation. 

Turned out, it was a foul combination that offered the reassurance of neither and the bitterness of both. 

“I take it you saw the video and the new photos,” he'd said, and when Peter merely indicated he had Hughes continued, “I admit, it's looking less and less like he's pulling the strings or even a willing participant in these crimes, but that's for Missing Persons to rule out, not us. We can't ignore the fact that we haven't actually seen anything that couldn't be achieved by makeup and a bit of Caffrey's flair for the dramatic, after all… Not that I'm saying that!” He quickly offered, a staying hand already raised placatingly to ward off Peter's objection. 

“But you know how this works, Peter. We follow the evidence and we don't jump to conclusions. I've personally spoken to Donberry in Missing Persons and requested he treat this as an utmost priority. If it is real, no one wants Caffrey to suffer unnecessarily. They’ll get to the bottom of this.” 

It was meant as an assurance, Peter knew, but the mixture of equivocation and platitudes seemed to force a numbness on him, a protection against the indignant violence he could feel boiling inside. He wasn’t sure he could contribute to this conversation without disrupting that numbness, without the rage hissing through the cracks. 

Makeup and a dramatic flair? Peter didn’t even need to close his eyes to see how Neal’s chest hitched irregularly, struggling maybe for days without being able to draw a real breath, he was hurting and being hurt, systematically and on camera, and that harrowing smile —

“You'll be kept looped-in on their investigation, I know you won't have it any other way. Missing Persons is still monitoring Twirch's email, but they'll want to know if you receive any further photos of Caffrey. I told them that wouldn't be a problem. So, you're free to resume your own active cases, until we learn more.” 

It seemed Peter needn't bother with contributing at all. 

He thanked Hughes and pulled the door shut after him with unfeeling fingers, a numbness that seemed to hollow him out and sweep the workspace in grey as he went to his own office, checked his mail, and waited. 

The numb hollowness carried him through most of the briefing on Twirch's arrest, the department all squeezed into the conference room, even secretaries and IT guys who worked on the floor. Peter looked at them all but wasn’t really seeing any of them when he spoke— “As you know, I arrested Agent Twirch Saturday morning, shortly after 9 a.m., after Neal Caffrey—” a chill washed over him, a wave that hit his spine and retreated even as he suppressed the shudder his body craved— “and I had discovered reasonable cause to suspect he had gained access to confidential information he was not authorized to have, and that he was passing that information along to parties outside the FBI.

“We’ve gone through all of Twirch’s personal items and bank statements and haven’t found anything to guide us as to who these parties might be.

 “At the moment the charge is espionage but it may escalate to conspiracy to commit m—” His heart, a free fall between beats, then the numbness reasserted itself with barely a stutter to attest to its momentary lapse— 

“Depending on how the Caffrey disappearance pans out, Twirch may be charged with conspiracy to commit murder. OPR will likely be chatting with everyone in the office over the next few weeks, but there’s nothing to worry about since in all likeliness Twirch alone had been compromised here at White Collar.”

Peter dismissed them and stepped into his own office, drawn to his email again. There were no new messages, so he looked at the one that had come in late last night. 

On his own, with no performance to maintain, the images knocked away the protective numbness, and Peter was grateful for the crushing pain in his own chest as he forced himself to examine them more closely. It reminded him to stay focused, to fuel the energy Mozzie had sparked the night before.

Stop acting like all the other suits, covering ground you already covered

Peter forced his eyes away from Neal and started scanning the background, looking for anything the tech team would have missed by paying attention to the obvious.

Neal and the art were obviously in the same room as before. It wasn’t exactly nondescript, but it looked like any number of old apartments in the older residential areas of New York. 

He had no real reason to think so, and Peter would never limit himself operationally by such a narrow focus, but there was something about the slightly crumbling walls and the jutting supports that tried to blend into them were more Brooklyn than Queens. He wrote that down, but left a question mark beside it. 

If it was an apartment, there was a fair chance that someone saw or heard something. Whoever these people were, they managed to pay off an inordinate amount of people, but they couldn’t reach every pair of eyes behind every Venetian blind, inside every bodega, and on every rooftop. 

It was too early to think about canvassing, but at some point it may prove useful. 

Peter pulled out the folded list of assumptions he’d carried out from Neal’s apartment and added the new questions and the name Albert Mellinson , and had just flipped open the report Jones received from Organized Crime, when there was a low knock on the connecting door to the conference room. 

“Boss? We’re ready for you,” Diana said and turned away immediately, as though Peter knew what she was talking about and letting him know was just a courtesy.

“Ready?” He questioned, but stood to follow her. Inside the conference room, most of the division had left, leaving only Diana, Jones, and two probies, Anderson and Rogers. 

The indistinct murmur of low, chatting voices blinked into stillness the moment Peter crossed the threshold of the conference room. Diana stood from where she’d been leaning against the table while Jones moved a file he’d been holding from hand to hand, and the two probies seemed to have stopped breathing. 

“You’ve all been dismissed,” Peter offered, his uncertainty at what was happening lending the statement the aura of a question. 

The four agents exchanged looks, and the two younger ones looked down first. Jones and Diana took another beat with one another, before Diana accepted the dubious nomination. 

“Yeah, we know, Boss,” she said, shifting her weight slightly forward, like she wanted to take a step toward Peter but wasn’t sure she should. 

“But Caffrey’s in trouble, and with due respect to Missing Persons, and to the fact that he’s a pain in the ass,” she added with a tip of her head, “he’s one of ours. We know him better than they do. We can’t just walk away from this one.” 

Peter appreciated what she—what they all—were trying to do, and he wanted nothing more than to be able to accept it. 

“Hughes was very clear that we have other cases. You’d be risking your jobs if you joined me in investigating this.” Peter didn’t bother denying that he was working on Neal’s case, and that he was possibly forfeiting his career to do it. His job wouldn’t matter if he found Neal in time, and nothing could matter less if he didn’t.

Jones spoke up then, and said, as if reading Peter’s mind, “Some things are more important than the job.” Then, to ensure there would be no misunderstanding, “Saving someone’s life is one of those.”

Agent Anderson nodded and stood as she addressed Peter. “I came to the FBI to, to help people, sir. I’m not just going to stand down and do nothing, I won’t let Missing Persons have final say over what happens to him.” She holds her hands up placatingly and added, “Not that they’re not capable, but—”

“Caffrey’s one of us.” Agent Rogers finished for her. “He’s our responsibility, at minimum. Plus, I’m sure he’s expecting us to be the ones looking for him. Well,” He gave a small shrug of his shoulders and an expectant look to Peter, “he’s expecting you, and you need a team.”

“Exactly.” Anderson nodded. “He needs you, and you need us. Sir.” She added the final note of formality before she sat back down.

Diana watched the probies’ maudlin apologia with a small, amused smile, but she grew serious as she addressed Peter. “What they’re trying to say is, we’re all in. Coleman and two other senior agents agreed to handle all the department’s active cases for the next few days, and everyone,” she tilted her head slightly toward the glass wall and the bullpen below it, “has agreed to put in overtime to cover for us. Even Flores. We’re the full-time Caffrey team, but everyone is on board.” 

For the second time in as many days, Peter stood face-to-face with overwhelming evidence that he’d been—how had Mozzie put it?—muddled. When he’d left the office last night it had been with the despairing knowledge that he alone would be looking for Neal, and that he would be doing so woefully lacking in direction, tools, and allies.

How could he have thought so little of Neal? He was his own best defence. 

Here, in the heart of the FBI, in what Peter had once feared would be Neal’s crowning achievement of a con, Neal hadn’t managed to fool anybody; he had created for himself a network of loyalty that ultimately weathered the worst of the machinations against him. Peter was grateful for the extra bodies, the extra eyes, and the hands to knock on doors. Those were often what closed cases. But more than anything he was grateful for the drive , not to catch Neal but to find him. 

That was what solved cases. 

Peter allowed himself a small smile, a small nod, and a small ray of hope as he looked at this small, dedicated team. 

“Let me catch you up.”

[Bonus end-chapter vibes:]

Chapter Text

It was almost lunchtime by the time Peter finished walking them through everything he knew, but no one even suggested they stop, not even to order in. They hadn’t even left the conference room to refill their coffees. Peter could read—or maybe recognize, like a mirror—traces of shame on the faces of Diana, Anderson, and Rogers as they realized they had been unwitting pawns in the sick game of chess launched against Neal. 

Jones merely grew more determined. 

Taking both Neal and Mozzie at their word that there were no ghosts from Neal’s past capable or willing to inflict on him the degree of punishment they’d seen in those photos, Peter instructed all four agents to compile a list of enemies made during his work at the FBI, with special attention to those with a specific grudge or specific wealth. 

The list was long. Lawrence-of-Arabia long , Peter absently thought as they looked it over, then sighed and asked Rogers to add Steve Price to the list. 

Peter took over Coleman’s review of possible calls intended for him and taken by Twirch. The office received hundreds of calls a day, but only the ones dialed directly to the extension were catalogued as his; those that came in through the switchboard—the vast majority—were merely listed as calls placed to the White Collar offices. 

It had been a fool’s errand when he assigned it, and Coleman had done his best, but there’d been little headway. 

But Peter couldn’t let it go. 

Coleman had already thinned out the call sheets by several hundreds of numbers through the reduction of home phones, personal calls, and calls directly to extensions other than Peter's, but the remaining logs still reflected thousands and thousands of numbers.

The logs went almost three months back, and even if they had the time to trace each caller and ask whether they'd tried to speak to the head agent but left a message, there was no reason to think they'd remember.

Peter needed to tackle it differently, or they'd never make any progress; and something told him this mattered.

Are you asking the right questions now? An absent voice asked, and Peter raised his eyes, half-expecting to catch a vintage suit and a ghostly smile, or a well-tailored waistcoat over rolled up sleeves. His office was empty, of course, and the fleeting vision didn’t last; but the question stood. What information would be detrimental for him to miss? What message would anyone have interest in intercepting?

Peter sat back and raised his fist to his chin, keeping his eyes lowered so he might at least pretend he was brainstorming with —

Where was the interest?

Keeping more robberies from him wouldn't suit the purpose, since they'd been trying to frame Neal; so it wouldn't be calls from the PD. It would have to be something to either exonerate Neal, or blur the traces of Twirch's puppet masters; if there had been something capable of exonerating Neal, Neal would have found it before giving himself alcohol poisoning, so Peter began to consider the second option, instead. Under what circumstances would a call like that come across his desk?

Peter set aside the call logs and reached for the Organized Crime file, instead.

The report they'd sent had been succinct; it listed names of Navarro's enemies—all dating back at least a decade—and where they were now. A quick scan told him they were essentially scattered. Scranton, Miami, Dayton, even Kansas City and Odessa. There was nothing remarkable about the list for a long moment, until Peter realized that he should have seen at least some version of it before.

All the names on this list had been major players back in the day, and if they had already been released then surely some of the minor players—secondary and tertiary associates of Navarro's enemies—would have been released, too.

And Peter should have been notified on some of those.

He looked up quickly but the office was still empty, and the excitement at this possible lead fled, leaving behind it mere resolve.

He had the switchboard connect him to the Corrections Liaison's office, and the lead froze solid in the span of seconds. "Do you have any idea how many inmates and former inmates we keep track of? Without a date of when we called, we have no way of tracing what information we called to give you."

"The agent to be notified is ‘Burke,’ can you search any notifications you left for Peter Burke in the last three months?"

"We could, if our files were digitized. Which they're not. And I do not have the manpower to set someone to sift through three months of files looking for your name in the notification rubric. Give us a name and we’ll tell you when we called, or give us a date—even a week—and we'll be able to tell you who we called about."

The agent hadn't even said goodbye before hanging up.

Peter began scanning the long, pressed columns of phone data for the number of the Corrections Liaison's offices, but his vision swam and there were thousands of numbers and even though he handed half his stack to Jones, and even asked him to try his luck with the Liaison's office independently, it seemed again like an impossible task. 

“Jones,” he said a few minutes later, thumbing through his half of the list, “when you speak with the Corrections Liaisons, see if they have any associates from that list Organized Crime sent over. They might be able to pull data like that…” He trailed off as he pulled out his phone, already tugged toward his next task. 

It was an update from Missing Persons, and Peter hurried to cast it onto the big screen for the others to see. 

Tech had cracked the link from earlier, and now had access to the live chat. They provided Peter with a link that would allow him to view a mirroring of the chat on the FBI servers. He wouldn’t be able to respond, but he wouldn’t be visible to them, either. Hopefully one of the participants would say something to indicate where Caffrey is being held. 

It was signed “ —All the best.” 

Peter made a choice not to waste energy on the blasé attitude of the email. 

He clicked the link. 

Diana stood by him, shoulder-to-shoulder, and warily eyed the screen. 

At first, the chat moved too quickly to follow. 

“Boss, there’s gotta be 200 users here, they can’t all…” 

She didn’t finish.        

Anderson came to stand by Peter, and Rogers flanked Diana from her other side as they all read the quick-moving text, stunned silent at what they obviously weren’t able to see. 

31215824         Lol that hurt

27844725         Haha mf didnt liek that

79794640         jesus slow down or youll kill him 

79794640         no actually don’t ahaha

32768520         make him beg again or i want my $$$ back 

42724033         I’ll write you a check. And he’ll beg when I want him to.

83660711         Is he crying???? 

57069391         no dipshit its the gasoline

83660711         watch ur mouth or youl get fucked up

57069391         is dipshit gonna cry

The chat then devolved into a good few minutes of people taking sides on the dipshit debate, and in the silence Anderson’s oh, God, carried perfectly. 

“Peter,” Diana breathed, eyes still glued to the chat, “the live feed, from earlier. It’s… entertainment. ” 

Peter swallowed back the sourness that coated his mouth. “Pay-Per-View,” he corrected her, his lips barely moving. He wasn’t sure what exactly had primed his intuition, and he didn’t want to tug too hard on the thread for fear it would break; but something in Peter’s gut told him that out of all these chat members, only a handful were actually part of the plot against Neal. He scrolled back—member 42724033 at least seemed to have some directorial privileges on whatever was being done to Neal. 

no dipshit its the—

“Agent Anderson,” Peter said abruptly, turning his face away from the screen, “find out about gasoline burns. I want a to get a picture of what’s—

“Yes, sir,” she said promptly, and Peter had the sense she didn’t want to hear the end of his sentence any more than he’d wanted to utter it. 

He’d taken it for water. 

He thought Neal was being tortured when he believed it was water, but gasoline—the redness, the swollen, his eyes—

He braced himself, emotionally and physically, putting in the conscious effort to stand tall. There was no time for him to lose control now, no space for it on the path forward. He’d wasted enough of Neal’s precious time by getting caught up in his own emotions; now was the time to stay focused, resilient.  He had a team to direct, the team that was going to save Neal.

“Diana,” He started his orders, “see how far back you can scroll. User 4033 is one of our masterminds, I know it. See if you can isolate anyone else, anyone who seems to have more of a say in what’s going on, rather than just reacting. Maybe we can at least figure out who on the chat is calling the shots. 

“Rogers, talk to tech, see if we can get access to the video, and where they are with tracking it.” 

What else? 

“Where’s Jones?” 

“I’m right here.” Jones stepped into the conference room with the certain step of urgent bad news. “I couldn’t get Corrections Liaison on the phone, but they’re gonna call me back. What’s this?” 

They caught him up, and Peter set him to work with Diana on trying to sift the perpetrators from the spectators. He pulled out his phone once again and forwarded the email from Missing Person’s to Mozzie.

It’s a live stream. Can you trace it or get us access to the video?

That’s all he could get himself to write. He couldn’t even articulate a full warning. He told himself that Mozzie had seen the photos with him that morning, so he probably would be just as prepared as Peter had been.

By the time he hit send, the chat rose to a peak again on the projected screen. 

53130629         Ugh

53909286         oof

50931367         thats fucked up

83660711         jfc is he dead

—Peter tensed, every muscle contracted as though standing still enough might stop time—

57069391         no dumbass hes just passed out

83660711         I said u watch ur mouth

98778435         If the two of you don’t immediately

98778435         SHUT THE HELL UP

98778435         I am going to personally ensure you become the next stars of a very similar
                        production

79223691         Well i won’t be late for supper if he’s passed out anyway 

32563896         ya same here

21399175         Same

91374579         same time l8r?

26804390         prbly depends on when crazy8 is ready for more amends

Most of the members logged off then, but a handful remained online, though they said nothing more. 

Peter couldn’t blink for fear it would set off a reaction he couldn’t afford; but he felt now, even more acutely than before, the truth in Mozzie’s admonition: staring numbly into space wouldn’t help Neal. He took another deep breath, restacked his spine, and picked up where he left off before the…distraction. 

“Rogers,” he said, eyes still scanning over the still screen, and the list of active users; only five remained online. “What time is it?” 

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Jones flinch, as though the commonplace question was itself an affront to what they’d just seen. But Rogers answered, “Four-thirty. Almost. In a couple of minutes.” 

Peter nodded. It was what he’d thought. “Who do we know who eats supper at four-thirty in the afternoon?” 

Jones breathed hard, as he realized, “Prisoners. Prisons serve an early dinner. Peter, you think—” 

“Yeah. Yeah, prisoners make up our audience. That’s who they’re selling this to.” Peter had almost sent him back there, to hundreds of people who were paying to watch after their bounty target hadn’t come in.

“I think we need to find out who these last five users are." Peter gestured to the last numbers remaining online. "They’re our shot callers.”

“I’ll call the liaison’s office again.” Jones said quickly. “Tell them we’re looking for a group, cross reference different prisons who have multiple inmates with you as their arresting officer from the last—

Peter cut him off as he stepped closer to the television, reading the last message over. “Someone called Caffrey Crazy Eight.”

“That user apparently called him that a few times.” Diana offered, holding her composure as she scanned the chat logs with an effort Peter could hear. 

“No, I mean,” Peter tapped the screen before turning to face the conference room. “On a case, he was called Crazy Eight by someone.”

The room was silent for a few beats, Diana shifting her focus to look through files, combing through cases Neal had been on, Anderson silently watching as she waited on the phone with medical, and Rogers quickly scanning their lists of Neal’s FBI and criminal nicknames and aliases. 

Jones broke the silence with a crisp snap of his fingers. “Eight whales in one day. I was listening in the van. Philip?” He asked, looking at Peter, but before Peter could even orient himself as to what case they were talking about, Jones self-corrected. “Phillips. Avery Phillips, the boiler room scam and the deadly comic room? One of his lackies called Neal Crazy Eight whenever he could.”

“Are we thinking it was the lackey?” Rogers asked, skepticism obvious.

Peter shook his head. “I’m pretty sure he took a plea deal, no sentence in exchange for flipping on Phillips. Plus, I don’t think he’d be angry enough at Neal to participate in something like this. He was a simple guy.” 

“Not that Avery dude, though,” Jones said, mostly to the other agents. Of those assembled, only he and Peter had been on that case. “He was angry and vocal. Sounds like you were right about these guys being old cases of Neal’s.” 

“When you pin down someone at Corrections Liaison, start wherever he ended up.” Peter grabbed one of the stray papers and a pen, writing down Avery Phillips. 

His involvement could at least partially explain the amount of money that was funneled into this operation. Avery had been incredibly successful, both in his legitimate trades and with his criminal activities when he finally came on the FBI’s radar, and he had had enough smarts to send a large portion of his earnings to offshore accounts. Twirch’s lawyer alone would cost a fair share of that, though, so Peter didn’t think Avery was the only benefactor. 

“Any other identifying information Diana?” 

“Nothing definitive yet,” she said, one hand scrolling on her own laptop, another taking notes.

“Jones, help Diana. Identifying who’s behind this is critical, and you know about Caffrey’s earliest cases with us.” 

Peter turned back to the screen with a deep, thorough exhale. What next? 

He checked in with Rogers, who had been told by tech that as far as they could tell there was no video feed, but they did forward her some analysis of the speech markers on some of the most frequent commenters. Peter knew those would be helpful later, when it came time to build a court case, but right now it was extraneous information, at best. 

Anderson went to print something, and when she stepped back into the conference room she nodded Peter toward his own office. She swung the door halfway shut, not enough that they wouldn’t hear the others, but enough for a little bit of privacy. 

“I heard back from medical.” She handed Peter one of the identical, collated sheaves of paper she was holding. He leafed through it as she spoke. 

“The first page is a general report. I sent the doctor on-call those images we received this morning, and she said we’re looking at first- or second-degree burns. As long as there’s no gasoline contact on an open wound—”

The spiraling dream-catcher pattern caused by a head hitting glass, the gasoline caught mid-drip down his hair—

“—the absorption through skin is minimal, but inhalation can be deadly, especially if he doesn’t get treatment.” 

The quiver to his lip, the shudder in his chest, shallow breaths that were blatantly fought for—

“Get in contact with Hazardous Response,” He said, forcing away the worry. “Explain to them the situation, tell them to be on stand-by if we call for their assistance. Give them my number. Ask them about the protocol too, what responding agents would need to know before they go in.”

He laid the papers down on his desk to resist any further catastrophizing. Neal was alive, as far as the most recent chat logs had said. That was the information he needed to focus on. The painful details had to wait. 

She nodded and went back to the conference room, and Peter took a breath before he shut the door and pulled out his own phone. There was another person working on the case that needed to be filled in on everything that had happened.

“Auspicious timing, Suit. That gut instinct of yours must be back online.” Mozzie’s voice answered before the first ring even finished. “I’ve just about cracked the video feed. Two…maybe five more minutes. Get your computer ready .

Peter sat down at his desk, quickly typing in his password. “Great work Mozzie, how did—do I want to know?”

“No. I doubt you would truly understand even if I did tell you. ” All Peter could hear for a moment was the fervent clacking of the keyboard before Mozzie spoke again. “Tell me what you’ve learned while I do this. Maybe it’ll help.” 

Peter jumped right to the salient points; the Crazy Eight reference having given them their first solid lead, the tasks he had sent Jones, Diana, and the probies on, and, reluctantly, the outlook of Neal’s projected injuries.

Mozzie, a little surprisingly, took those far better than the team at the office had.

“Three… going on four days of gasoline exposure, and it hasn’t killed him yet? They’re doing something behind the scenes. Cleaning him up, airing the space out, something.” He gave a low hum, a small, plaintive sound. “ All things considered, that’s a good thing. It gives us time. ”

“Yeah,” Peter agreed through the twisting of his stomach. “If they’re broadcasting it to an audience, whatever they’re doing, it must only be done while the camera is on.”

“About that, Suit, ” He could hear Mozzie type in the pause, pulling information up, “I noticed something interesting trying to get the camera feed, myself. It isn’t just that the broadcast goes down, the entire system goes offline it seems, completely disconnects. They’ve got a hell of a network of spoof signals, taking me from everywhere between San Francisco to Neptune, but the entire woven network goes down at periodic intervals, then pops back up as a unit. They’re either going through every single element and unplugging it, computer, modem, router, the entire system, the moment they want the livestream to end, or they’re turning their power off—not just at the fuse box but at the grid . It’s giving me hell to trace, but I’ve had my ways of making progress. Progress which…Yes! I’ve got it! I’ve got— Oh. ”

Peter could hear it in the silence that followed that one word alone. Barely a word, just the sound, the breath. He could feel the pain in his own heart, an ominous sensation worse than fear crawling up his skin, an anticipation worse than dread spiraling through his center. Whatever Mozzie saw had to be—

“Send it to me, Mozzie. The more eyes on it, the more help, the sooner we will get him. The sooner he’ll be safe.”

For a moment, Mozzie didn’t respond, and Peter did truly fear the worst. That somewhere in that silence Mozzie had realized that they were entirely too late, that despite the feeble comforts the live chat had offered about Neal’s life, maybe they were wrong. Maybe they hadn’t noticed. Maybe that head wound, maybe the gasoline, maybe—

The sound of an email pinged in his inbox.

“I’m coming there, Suit. I can trace his location there just as well, and I may need access to more powerful servers than I have here.” Mozzie’s voice was now grim in tone as he spoke. “Whatever happens next, whatever you do, I’m coming with.”

“Okay.” Peter knew better to argue. If he hadn’t already been aware of Mozzie’s devotion to Neal, him voluntarily coming into the FBI to assist on the case was more than enough evidence. 

“Okay. I’ll see you in fifteen. ”

Mozzie disconnected the call, and Peter stood once again, quickly pushing back into the conference room. “We have video access.” He announced, pulling one of the laptops forward to pull up his email, a strange déjà vu from the morning echoing through him. Once the email was open, he gave a quick glance around the room. “Prepare yourselves.”

He said it like it meant anything. 

He opened the link. The big screen buffered a moment before it switched from the live chat to the video feed, taking up the top three quarters of the screen with the chatbox—now silent—below.

Neal lay on the bed. The first thing Peter noticed were the handcuffs on his wrists, the metal chain looped around the thin metal poles that made up the headboard. They were dented, bent forward. Two to the left shared the same damage. Even with the distance of the camera, the quality of the footage was high enough that Peter could see the raw skin on his wrists and the thin trails of blood that came from them.

His ankles were out of frame, with the camera raised up and angled downwards. His clothes were wrinkled, wet, torn, and bloodied. One of the legs of his suit pants was raised up around his calf, revealing blood around the hem, and Peter took it as evidence that his ankles were restrained much like his wrists. There were fresh red welts and bruises of all colors and sizes littering Neal’s leg.

Neal’s eyes were closed, his head flat against the mattress, but he was far from at rest judging by the panicked, desperate rise and fall of his chest. His lips were moving but there was no sound coming through the video. For a moment Peter considered it a small act of grace before a profound sense of shame replaced it. He could not be grateful that he couldn’t hear Neal’s cries.

“Our objective hasn’t— it hasn’t changed.” Peter declared to the room, momentarily forcing his eyes away from the screen to address his team. His voice at least sounded strong, his performance as their leader holding. 

“Mozzie will be here soon to continue helping us in our investigation, and Neal is, he’s counting on our help. There has to be something in this—in this video that will help us, some kind of lead. We just have to find it.”

Mozzie did arrive shortly after, a pallor to his skin but determination in his eyes as he took a seat amongst Peter’s team without question or complaint from either party. 

Peter went back to trying to find dates when Corrections Liaisons called the office. 

Having the torture on the screen was bad enough; Peter desperately tried to balance the tightrope that bridged watching and knowing what was being done to Neal, and focusing on the lists of numbers in front of him. It didn’t take him long to admit that not seeing was worse. 

Peter could tell Mozzie was similarly struggling. His eyes kept flitting from his own screen to the one on the wall, and at some point of this tireless, fruitless journeying his eyes must have landed on Peter’s call logs. 

“What’s the 0979 number you have written up on top?” 

When Peter explained what he was searching for, Mozzie simply said, “Ah.” 

He leaned over, his eyes flitting across the page, and said, “Rows 168, 193…” he flipped the page, “hmm…” flipped it again, “445, 667, 701…” 

At some point he grabbed a highlighter and just marked the relevant instances. 

He’d saved them hours. 

With solid dates to inquire about, Peter had Jones hunt down their contact at Corrections Liaisons again. 

Every fifteen minutes or so, the screen would go entirely blank. The first time Peter had jumped from his seat and demanded to know—of people who had no more information than he did—what had happened. 

“Is it on our end? Did they shut down—why did they shut down, did anyone notice anything before—”

“As you were, Suit,” Mozzie said, looking up only for a flicker before returning his attention to trying to trace the feed. “It’s those mini blackouts I was telling you about, that disconnect them from the grid. Sometimes it's down for hours at a time, sometimes it comes back up within minutes.” 

Peter exhaled, hard, and dropped back into his seat. 

“Thus setting back to square one in my attempts to find them, but otherwise not inherently harmful.” Mozzie anxiously tapped on his keyboard a few times before he grabbed a small stack of case files and started to go through them himself, glancing at the screens every few moments to make sure the feed hadn’t come back.

“Right, okay.” Peter nodded. “I’ll make a note of that, irregular power use could narrow down a location if we get a—” 

Peter found grip on another loose thread in his mind. This one he pulled, hard. “Diana, do you have the file on the East Coast Hydroelectric case?”

After a brief shuffle she pulled out the file and handed it over to him, and he flipped through quickly before finding the information he wanted.

He looked up at the screen. “Rogers, pull up the chat transcripts. The very end.” 

Rogers began scrolling up the last few messages, and Peter tried to read along, in reverse order, to try and identify what it was he was looking for. 

If the two of you don’t immediately
SHUT THE HELL UP

Peter never forgot people who were rude to his wife. 

“That’s it.” He turned back to Diana, flipping the file so she could read it. 

“Andrew Stanzler,” he announced, tapping the man’s picture, “is user 98778435.” 

He found the paper and pen from earlier. “Corrupt energy trader, a real piece of work,” he added for the benefit of the junior agents, “used his company to make back door deals. He already made connections once to—”

“Cause rolling blackouts, it was during that heatwave.” Diana finished. “And each of the robberies were preceded by a blackout. You’re thinking he has the kind of pull to persuade an employee to knock out the power for a predetermined neighborhood, even from prison?”

“With enough money? Absolutely.” Peter pulled back the file he’d laid before Diana and flipped quickly through it. “Not that Stanzler himself was very wealthy. Whatever he’d made on the energy trades was seized in Asset Forfeiture, and the rest went to his now-ex wife. And I don’t think Avery could have funded all this on his own.” 

Peter put down the file, and looked at all the others spread across the table; for a moment, he forgot to whom he’d assigned what earlier in the day. 

“Who was sorting through financial capability?” 

“Us,” Rogers said, and handed Peter a stack of files and a list. Peter flipped the list to the bottom of the stack and began quickly rifling through the files, cracking one open to take a look at the picture inside when the name failed to ring any bells. He hadn’t realized just how many rich and powerful men they’d managed to piss off over the last few years. 

Wilkes had assets but little liquidated funds, Pierce Spelman was surprisingly wealthy—a trust fund kid—but she had no reason to resent Neal to this degree, the Chinese Triads? They certainly had the cash, but Neal’s cover was still intact… Peter piled the files he vetoed, and moved the financial maybes (Ghovat, Frank De Luca, Halbridge/Price, David Lawrence, God, there were so many ) to the bottom of the stack he was holding. 

When he was done he was still holding a formidable pile. 

Time to tackle it from the other direction. 

“Diana, pull the chat history of the five members still online. You know—no, let’s focus on the four we haven’t identified. Let’s see if anything in their language triggers something from these,” he said, patting the stack in front of him. 

It was a dark task. 

He, Jones and Diana, who were most familiar with the department’s past case load, had read through the vile comments of those four members, two of whom seem to have taken turns directing the violence ( do it again, more gasoline but slower, ask him how he likes this demonstration; he’s a liar, he should admit that; pitching wedge, it’s the—exactly; use the bag again i wanna see his face; I want an apology. Again, like he means it. Again. With a smile. ) and one who seemed to be enacting it ( you paid good money for this show, he’ll do it as many times as you want him to; any tips on choosing a club?). 

Club? 

“Diana, you play golf?” 

Diana looked up from her own research. “I know how, I wouldn’t say I play, per se.” 

“Is a pitching wedge…?” Peter wasn’t even sure what exactly he was asking, but he allowed his intuition to lead. 

“A golf club, yeah. Used for shorter distances. Why?” 

He was filthy rich. They’d never recovered all the money from his crimes. He’d taunted Neal about hitting golf balls from the top of the world. I’ll write you a check, he’d said, easily, like it was his solution to all his problems. 

User 42724033.

Peter reached across the table for the stack he’d placed between him, Jones and Diana, flicking through the files until he found—

“Edward Walker. Robbed five banks, on top of his success as a hedge fund manager. He was charged with the bank robberies, but the money trail went cold. There wasn’t a lot of push to keep dedicating resources to it with Walker behind bars.” 

Peter tapped on Walker’s mug shot. “My gut is telling me he’s helping fund this. Rogers, I want you to contact Agent Farrow, he was the one in charge of tracking Walker’s financial records. Get all the information you can, and start going through it for any housing, rental information, storage units, anything that could hold Neal. If he is our funds, his records may lead us to where they’re keeping him. And check if there’s a money trail to Twirch!” Peter called after him, as Rogers left the conference room to make the call from his own desk. 

Jones left after him, to take a call on his cell, and when he said, “Peter,” upon returning, Peter dropped what he was doing. 

“Most of the calls from Liaisons’ checked out, but on March 6th they called to inform you that one…” he looked down at his notes, then up at Peter. “Ross Lewis was released and back in New York State. As far as they know he’s up in Nyack, but they had it on file that you wanted a call when he went free. They said he should have been free years ago, but kept getting time tacked on to his sentence. They left a message with Agent Twirch.” 

Ross Lewis. 

The man whom Peter flipped for the much bigger fish in the organized crime pond, and earned himself a promotion in the process. 

The man who had chronically open windows. 

But he wasn’t, couldn’t be, capable of orchestrating this—

“Jones, pull me that file, now.” 

Jones was already halfway out the door with a quiet you got it before Peter finished speaking, and Anderson took the opportunity to approach Peter. 

Her manner was tentative, and Peter, hovering at the cusp of a breakthrough he couldn’t quite see or feel or imagine, had no patience for deference. They still had two more users to identify, and Peter felt, like a thrumming under his skin, that knowing who was behind it would unravel everything: why, and how, and where. 

“Yeah? What is it?” 

“Agent Burke,” she started, her eyes wide as she gathered herself to push forward despite whatever it was she saw in his face. 

“I was thinking about what you said. About finding people who have a specific grudge, and tackling it from another direction.” 

Peter raised his eyebrows and nodded, wishing she’d get where she was going. There was so much to do, and it was just the five of them. 

“Well, the gasoline. That’s terribly specific, and messy, and dangerous to be around,” she held up the report from medical, as proof. “Even for the perpetrator. So I thought I’d try to link the MO to the criminal, rather than linking a criminal to Caffrey.” 

“That’s… Good thinking,” Peter said, impressed. “Did anything come up?” 

She shifted again, and the uncertain look returned. “Well, that depends on how good we are at chemistry. You had a case once with that power fixer, I forgot her name but I have it somewhere here…” 

She trailed off as she tried to shuffle through her papers without putting any of them down, but the name she was looking for didn’t matter. 

“Landon Shepard,” Peter said. “She’s a manipulator, not a sadist. She keeps her hands clean.” Ish, Peter supposed, but her tactics were still a far cry from having a man doused in gasoline.

“No, I wasn’t thinking of her,” Anderson dismissed Peter’s objection. “But remember the client she’d been working for, when you met her? The real-estate developer.” 

Peter remembered, he saw where she was going and he’d been so foolish not to tackle this angle sooner—

“Delancy,” she said, finding the name. “Neal testified at his trial and according to the transcripts gave a big presentation involving benzene, which Delancy used to lace soil samples. I know that gasoline and benzene aren’t exactly the same, but—” 

“But for a guy like Delancy the difference is academic. Damnit.” 

He went to flag the chatroom user who had directed the use of the gasoline, but stopped after two steps and turned back to Anderson. “That’s really good work.” 

They worked all through the night. The video feed came on and off, running for fifteen minutes, then off for seemingly random amounts of time before returning. Peter could feel the collective dismay that filled the room with each return of the screen; all the progress they made felt like it was being countered by seeing the real-time torture of Neal, each second they worked feeling more precious than the one before it. 

There were larger breaks that would’ve been random to anyone who wasn’t Peter Burke; at 6 p.m. there would’ve been a head count, 8 p.m. would’ve been the start of nightly phone time allowance, 9:30 p.m. would’ve been the start of lights out. As the numbers of the audience ebbed and flowed around each of these times, the video feed took longer breaks. When it would return, Neal would be in moderately better condition, or at least, not visibly worse; his eyes wouldn’t be squeezed shut and he wouldn’t have fresh blood seeping from his injuries.

The video feed went fully dark just after 11. Neal was, momentarily, lost to them again.

They kept pushing.

Jones returned bearing real coffee, food that Agent Coleman had ordered for them, and information from Barksdale’s Corrections Liaison shortly after midnight—Neal had officially been kidnapped for four days—Delancy and Avery Phillips were both serving there. 

Rogers traced Walker’s money to dozens of properties purchased within a sixty-minute drive of the City. 

Diana connected Walker to Twirch, and Mozzie connected Twirch to Avery Phillips; Jones had tried to secure interviews with the four criminals they’d potentially identified, but they had apparently foreseen this and had refusals from their lawyers already on file. 

The picture they were building—the scope of this plot—was terrifying. 

Peter spoke to Donberry at Missing Persons around 1 a.m., and they’d decided that Peter would try to narrow down the possible locations, and they’d hit the streets first thing in the morning, checking out Walker’s properties. 

But still, something wasn’t lining up. 

Of the five users that seemed to be involved in this, they’d identified four: one with a real-estate empire, another with connections to allow the power outages that enabled much of this conspiracy, two with money to fund it, and the fifth, the executing hand of the operation, and likely the mastermind—the one user that was still unaccounted for.

Process of elimination meant it was the guy in charge, the one running the camera, but none of the possible suspects were lining up. Anyone from Neal’s caseload who overlapped with Avery, Delancy, Stanzler, and Walker, was still in custody. Peter had Anderson check, double check, triple check their files in the database.

They were missing something.

It was shortly after 4 a.m., and they were expected to meet with the Missing Persons task force in just under three hours, but Peter still couldn’t shake the feeling that unless he found what was missing, unless he had the whole picture, they would misstep; and Neal didn’t have the time for that. Peter wouldn't allow himself to be late, not again. 

He had taken to pacing the length of the conference room and his own office, then back again, running through everything they knew, everything he suspected, every thought and association that twinged at his memory and then faded over the last four days. It all started with Salomone, an outlier event, murder and robbery. One of Narvarro’s top men, slaughtered, his body staged in his bedroom, and then robbed. He was a personal choice, somehow.

The day he was robbed was the day Twirch intercepted that call about Ross Lewis. 

He took a sip of cold coffee, trying to keep himself awake, to stay focused. Narvarro, and Salomone by association, had plenty of enemies. Peter had to narrow it down, ask the right questions, if he wanted to find the right path. An enemy of Navarro’s who somehow had a strong enough grudge against Neal to be satisfied if he was killed in prison or outside it, who wanted to hide Lewis' release, but also wanted to make sure Peter saw. The letters had been addressed to him, after all, and—  

Mozzie suddenly sat up from his laptop. “Suit, does the name Gil Foltrop mean anything to you? Twirch sent a check to him out of his Sberbank account back in…”

Peter didn’t hear the date. He didn’t care when Twirch first made contact with him, he didn’t care how much money had exchanged hands, he didn’t even care who was funding whom, at the beginning. He was fighting through the curious sensation of blood both pounding in his ears hard enough to make it feel like he might lose an eardrum while simultaneously feeling bloodless, boneless, powerless; and the curiouser still realization, resonating as clear as a well-worn and well-tuned church bell, that understanding, true understanding the therefore true power over this situation, was finally within his grasp. 

“It’s—of course .” His legs were leaden but they got him back to his office. The door slammed against the wall behind it as he pushed inside, but it swung only halfway back. He raised his voice as he searched through the files on his desk. “Jones, where’s that Lewis file? Anderson, Rogers, go through internal department files, pull out every file under the names Gil Foltrop! Jones, do whatever you need to do to get every financial record related to them. Mozzie, do— whatever it is you do that I can’t know about, I want everything you can find on them. Diana, wake whoever you have to in Corrections Liaisons, even of it's their Section Chief, I need to know right now whether—no, when—Foltrop left Miami, and the current address for him and Lewis. He’s not in Nyack… And I wasn’t lead on the Foltrop case, of course I wouldn’t have been notified about him.” 

He’d been circling this for days now, and it had taken him so long to see. 

Everyone returned to the conference room within fifteen minutes.

“We’ve been looking at this from the wrong angle the entire time.” Peter announced as he replaced the darkened live feed with mugshots. “This was never about Neal. This is about me.”

Chapter Text

Gil had expected his audience back online hours ago. The last couple of nights had been like clockwork—lights out at eleven, show starts at eleven-oh-five. Latecomers were welcome, but they pay a tardiness fee. At $300 a head per session not including late fees, and averaging at least four sessions a day and over two hundred heads a session, had made this an incredibly lucrative set up. Each session would start with one request from each of the benefactors, followed by a sort of Q&A, or suggestions from the audience. Most of those were variations of more! again! harder!, but he’d also gotten a few gems that way: it had taken some maneuvering of the equipment, and the angle hadn’t been great, but it was an audience suggestion to hook Caffrey’s arms up on the busted shower head pipe. Watching him half-drown, buffeted by the aggressive spray as he dangled helplessly for ten minutes had been such a hit that it became a semi-regular end to the sessions, when time allowed. 

The only downside had been Ross, standing in the doorway of the small ensuite, fucking shouting instructions at Caffrey; open your eyes, it’ll help them wash out better! The spray is weaker next to the wall! 

Gil rolled his eyes. His cousin was so simple sometimes, he just didn’t get the dynamics. But since his back was to the camera, and there was no sound, Gil let it go. It wasn’t Ross’s fault he was confused. 

But the long, cold, shower was personally satisfying to watch, and Gil even had Caffrey thank him—so scared to look at him that he kept his eyes on Ross—through deliriously chattering teeth, for washing off the gasoline. 

He’d have to consider making this a recurring service-for-hire when he was done with this one. 

After he’d thoroughly, irrevocably, burned Burke to the ground. 

It was already 2 a.m. and still no one was online, but Gil was on their dollar now, so he stayed awake while Ross dozed in the chair by the bed, and Caffrey remained passed out. He’d be ready when they were. 

He took the time to review any requests that hadn’t been filled yet, or that have been requested to make an encore. 

The gasoline Delancy had insisted on as the price for purchasing this property and facilitating its untraceable sale to Walker was, annoyingly, a crowd favorite.The mess it made might’ve been awful, but the effects were so visual, from the chemical burns to the way it made him breath heavily, wretchedly, the crowd always begged for more. He still had four gallons of that on-hand, which was plenty. 

He personally didn’t enjoy the suffocation with the heavy zip-lock bag as much as that eager little psycho did—he was a more hands-on kind of guy—but it had the benefit of making a good show, even several times in a row. 

Even though he’d done it dozens of times by now, it never failed to amuse Gil how the mere sound of snapping plastic was enough to set the man’s breath racing. At first it was a deliberate hyperventilating, an attempt to prolong his ability to hold his breath; Gil had cured him of that. Over the last few demonstrations those early breaths were nothing more than clean panic, the knowledge that he’d twist his head and inhale against taut plastic two, three, four times, he’d struggle and his eyes would go wide, but it would make no difference; the bag would be held there until Avery Phillips bade him to release it. Gil couldn’t be sure, but he was pretty sure the little nerd was sitting in a cell lined with cartoon Wonder Woman nudes and masturbating as he watched the man suffocate. 

It was weird shit, but he was paying. 

He had enough rope, towels, Walker’s expensive golf set (he briefly wondered if there was another sexual fantasy at play here, before dismissing the thought; the man was nothing more than a sore loser who had gotten too brazen and was caught). He had nothing on Burke, certainly not like Gil had, but his money was good. He, too, would get what he wanted. 

Gil actually found he liked Andrew Stanzler. He’d been wronged, lied to like Lewis had been, and all he wanted was the apology he deserved, in whatever manner it took to get it. And he wanted to hear it as often as possible, which Gil could respect. 

He’d been so happy when he’d come on board. 

Gil had been quietly searching out others who Burke had wronged, but all his arrests prior to Gil were minor catches, guys who learned a lesson and didn’t try to underpay their taxes the next time around. 

He had no use for them. 

And nearly everyone after his arrest was either still in prison, penniless, or more obsessed with this Neal Caffrey than they were with Peter Burke. The first one to come on board had been the nerd with the girl’s name; he’d offered a moderate payday for Gil to kill Caffrey and send him a video of it. I’m owed one suffocation to death, he’d said, like it was a significant secret he was sharing. 

Gil had almost agreed, but before they could work out the exact terms he realized that maybe he could kill two birds with one stone, and not even have to pay for the stone out of his own pocket: he’d rounded up people who wanted to make Caffrey suffer, who could either buy in with cash or with connections; and he’d decided to turn that suffering into Burke’s undoing. 

Everyone but Stanzler had wanted him to make his move months ago, and Stanzler had been pushing to make the move against the wife, not the snitch. But in the end Gil prevailed, partially because he was by far the most ruthless of the bunch, and if they learned anything in prison it was that money could only take you so far in the face of true power. But he was also right, and he managed to convince them that taking the wife would bring down immediate heat on them. There would be no kicking it to another department, no “let’s wait and see.” Gil knew from the beginning that he had to work with Burke to make him betray his partner, just as he’d made Ross Lewis work with him to betray Gil, all those years ago. 

I promise, I’ll give your cousin a fair deal, and if you don’t help me find Gil now, Violent Crimes will get him and they won’t be holding back, and trust me, I promise you this will be for the best. 

And Ross believed him, because Burke had him dead to rights on a hundred minor charges, and because Ross was loyal as hell, but simple, and because Burke had preyed on his love for his only family. 

And all those promises that he’d get a fair shake, and that he only wanted to help, none of those stopped Burke from barging in on him with Stacia, from handcuffing him to the bed, naked, while he waited for backup. 

That humiliation had followed him around for years. Burke had covered his nakedness—barely, and it was the only reason Caffrey was allowed clothes now—but his backup had taken photos before releasing him, and those had circulated. By the time he made it to prison to await trial he was already known as Folbottom, even by the guards, and those pictures had been waiting for him together with lewd grins and lewder promises of what might be done to him naked and handcuffed in others’ beds. 

He’d taken care of those with a neatly hidden shiv and quick hands, and Salomone had certainly come to regret calling him that, but it took him a decade to feel at peace in his own bed, and even after prison, in his own home. 

Eventually Burke would find out what had been done to Caffrey in his home, where his bed had been, and then maybe he’d understand what he’d taken from Gil.

Fourteen years was a long time to wait for revenge, but it was worth it. 

Gil looked over to the bed, and was again almost flabbergasted how well his plan had worked. He had sold it to the others as fool-proof, but he’d had his doubts. Getting Burke to arrest his little pet and then having him killed in prison was actually their plan B. This, getting their hands on him, recording it so one day Burke could watch it, and know that this was his doing? 

Karma was rewarding him for his patience. 

He checked his watch—nearing three already—and after pacing the length of the bedroom and the small living space beyond, he went to splash his face with water. 

The bathroom sink had been pulled from the wall long ago, but the shower—tucked into the corner, there wasn’t even a bathtub in this shithole—still worked. The showerhead had been smashed, too, and there was a lone, rusted pipe that ended in a jagged edge that sprayed cold water at truly magnificent—and if Caffrey’s garbled screams were any indication, painful—pressure. 

Gil decided against using the showerhead and opened the last bottle of water, instead. He’d just send Ross to pick up some more from the bodega when he woke up. 

Caffrey was still out of it, but he checked his ropes again, anyway. The little shit had slipped the handcuffs four or five times that first day, before Gil realized he’d need a different solution. He’d sent Ross on another run, this time to the hardware store, and had him pick up heavy-duty gloves, rope, and razor wire. Gil had twisted the last two together (a prison trick he learned, from a guard), and used that to bind Caffrey’s hands when they weren’t filming. He got a lot less slippery after that. 

In truth, until then he considered this just another step in getting to Burke, and if Caffrey got caught in the crosshairs of this plot, well, a snitch as collateral damage wasn’t the worst thing in the world. 

But the whole of that first day, first cuffed to a chair, and later to the bed, the man wouldn’t shut the fuck up. 

Why are you doing this and who are you and I can get you money and I can make you money, Gil had borne all those with aplomb, he thought. 

But then he’d changed strategies and started saying I work with the FBI and Agent Burke will be looking for me and—it had made him mad, but the next one made his blood boil— Peter’ll cut you a deal, he’s fair. 

Foltrop had laughed in Neal’s face at the suggestion. Fair , said the man who was at least allowed the dignity of clothes as he lay cuffed to a bed! A deal, as though a dirty deal with a confused, scared Ross wasn’t what had gotten him arrested in the first place! 

He hadn’t been on the clock yet, not for punishing the whiny little dick, but Gil was pretty sure no one would resent him taking a headstart. 

And he would learn this lesson. 

Gil didn’t want to use any of the materials of his benefactors, and he hadn’t brought anything along for himself, certain as he had been that this would be technical compliance for him; but he did have his leather belt. 

He pulled it from the belt loops in one smooth motion, and took a step back from the bed. He needed the space for a proper arc. 

Caffrey’s eyes widened, he saw what was coming and that had a sweetness of its own. 

“No, wait, I’m sorry, don’—”

“Do not,” the belt swung flatly through the air, and hit Caffrey on his raised arm with a weak slap, “ ever,” he took another half-step back, raised his arm more slowly, and brought it down harder, down on his midriff, only a gasp of pain, “mention Peter Burke,” this time he got it right, and was rewarded with a satisfying whistle as the belt sailed through the air, with a genuine scream instead of a muted cry of pain. 

He hit Caffrey along his midriff and legs three times more, now that he’d perfected his technique, and from that point on repeated the act whenever Caffrey brought up Peter Burke. It had taken most of that first day, but it was a lesson well-learned. 

Caffrey learned to watch his mouth, but he hadn’t shut up. 

So much whining, and begging, and pleading, it almost overshadowed the screaming, and the gasping, and the spasming. 

Almost. 

Gil took his seat—only three fifteen, time was standing still —and noticed that Caffrey was awake. He was gently twisting his wrists, either in an attempt to find a more comfortable angle, or to free himself; either way, it would be futile. 

Caffery seemed to reach that conclusion, too. His wrists relaxed, but he couldn’t help pulling on them as he shivered sporadically. He’d had a shower after the last session, and though it was several hours ago now, the plastic covering the mattress, to keep the mattress from absorbing the gasoline, kept him from drying completely, and the windows were still thrown open. It was an innocent peculiarity of Ross’s that he indulged; whenever the two of them were on a job, Ross would open the windows, and after he finished his tasks he would stay near them while Gil finished the dirty work. He didn’t like the smells or the sounds, and instead he did his best to focus on the world outside, the street and the birds. He’d even warn Gil when sirens would go past, just in case. Gil couldn’t remember whether that predated prison, if he had taken such a young Ross along on those dirty jobs, but the cool night air kept Ross calm and it kept Caffrey damp and uncomfortable, so as far as he was concerned it was an all-around win. Gil could even see that the plastic cover still held shallow pools from the buckets of water he’d had Ross clean the bed with.

Caffrey’s eyes wandered, first to Ross, still asleep in the chair beside the bed, heels resting on the edge, mouth slightly agape, and snores of intermittent intensity causing his head to rise and fall in an inconsistent bobbing movement. Then, he found Gil. 

The two of them locked eyes, and Gil was pleased that Caffrey looked away first. 

It made him want to seek him out again. 

“Sleep well?” Gil asked amiably, as he sat down on the bed. The plastic squeaked wetly beneath him, and cold water soaked into his clothes, but he didn’t mind; the catch of Caffrey’s breath was more than enough to make up for the slight discomfort. 

The red-rimmed, slightly unfocused blue eyes glided toward the ceiling. Caffrey was ignoring him. 

“I asked you a question.” Gil placed a delicate hand on Caffrey’s cheek. Caffrey drew his head aside. It wasn’t far, he didn’t have enough slack for that, but it was still rude. 

Gil’s hand snaked down the front of Caffrey’s neck, to the outline of his right hand that already decorated the fair skin in a lovely, purple-and-red bruise of perfect accuracy. Caffrey flinched at his touch before he graced him with his full attention.

Gil was a hands-on kind of guy, after all. 

He squeezed, lightly at first but with increasing pressure, as he leaned in close. He spoke low, but had to raise his voice to be heard over the undignified gasping, squawking noises Caffrey was making. 

“How many times do I have to tell you that when I ask you a question, you answer it. When I tell you to do something, you do it. And you do it politely. I may have spent time in prison but that doesn't make me an animal, and you may have been performing as Peter Burke’s pet, but that doesn’t make you an animal, either. Do you understand me?” 

Gil held on a breath—his, obviously, not Caffrey’s—longer, but didn’t truly wait for a response. 

He merely pulled his hand back and asked again, “Sleep well?” 

“Yes,” Caffrey choked out, barely any sound to his voice. “Thank you for—for letting me rest.” 

“Now that’s much better.” Gil gave him a friendly tap on the cheek before he leaned back. “Since you’re awake, let’s chat.” 

And they passed nearly two hours in what could be considered pleasant conversation. Gil asked Caffrey about Burke’s career, about his arrests, about his team; he asked him about the things he’d done in Burke’s service and what punishments he thought he deserved for them; he bragged, just a little, about the lengths he'd gone to to make sure Peter would suspect his little pet CI; he shared with Caffrey what he’d managed to gather about the flailing direction of the investigation, and reassured him that they wouldn’t be interrupted for days longer. 

Twice Caffrey mentioned Burke by name (once it was the missus, but it counted because she took his name)—and Gil grabbed his belt and enjoyed the opportunity to correct him—but otherwise it was a very illuminating conversation and it provided ample entertainment until, finally, the others came online just after 5 a.m. 

When they came on, though, it wasn’t with their usual enthusiasm. 

Gil reengaged the live stream as the first name popped up. 

26804390        they trashed my cell looking for my phone and kept me up all night 

26804390        at least put the bag on his head while we talk 

26804390        we can make up for lost tim e 

Gil remembered he was visible on camera just in time to catch his own eyes from rolling. The kid literally couldn’t keep it in his pants. 

He didn’t bother answering, but he rose and grabbed the large, heavy-duty ziplock, and snapped it open with a brisk wave of his hands. He chuckled at the sharp intake of breath behind him. Every single time. 

Gil kicked Ross’ legs off the edge of the mattress, waking him as he walked past, and looked down at Caffrey. “Up to you how much this sucks. This is staying on while I have a conversation with your friends, so I suggest you don’t panic.” 

Caffrey played the same stupid evasion game he always did with his head, he begged his little no, don’t, pleases, but just as always it was useless. The bag went on, but this time Gil wasn’t holding it shut. As long as Caffrey timed his breaths correctly, at exactly the right intensity, he’d be able to get some air in with every huff. It was his problem to figure out.

Gill retook his seat and caught up on the chat. Avery apparently had gotten distracted with his favorite bag in play, and he’d stopped responding, but the others were now online, sharing more or less the same story about why they were delayed. 

4505107        Same here. They kept me and Phillips separate, but they tossed my cell too.
                      Made a fuckig mess but they got nothing ( @GFolt telling us where to hide them
                      was solid). This ain’t  a coincidence. This whole divide and conquer shit they
                      pulled? It’s got the feds, Burke, written all over it

9877843        I agree. Similar circumstances here. 

As always, Andrew Stanzler was the only one who was capable of anything resembling getting to the fucking point. Gil hadn’t been overly worried that Avery and Delancy were both singled out, since they were in the same prison. But if Stanzler was, too, way up in Five Points, that was more than a coincidence. 

Behind him, the poof of the bag being expanded away from Caffrey’s mouth and the wheeze-fwap as he inhaled until the plastic hit his face again had changed its cadence into an annoying drawn out gasp, accompanied by the grating sound of metal-on-metal as the handcuffs and the razor wire of the rope rubbed against the poles of the headboard. It was like nails on a chalkboard. 

“Ross, shut him the fuck up,” he called over his shoulder, and turned back to his customers. If what they suspected was true, well, it meant it was almost time to strike the match of the grand finale. 

With four gallons of gasoline, he could do that both figuratively and literally. 

Walker was the last to join, and as always the asshole had the least to say but used the most words to say it. 

42724033        I see we all shared similar experiences last night. Looks like our Agent Burke
                        finally connected the dots, and we’re about to be shut down. As, well, as one of
                        the chief investors, I’d like to suggest one final round, one request each, to really
                        get our money’s worth before we shut this down and let our Mr. Foltrop end this
                        however he wishes. We have deniability only as long as they don’t find us with
                        our phones, and I’d say that after last night that’s becoming more likely. We still
                        have forty-five minutes to breakfast. I’d like to take this last chance to enjoy the
                        fruits of our labor, and then part as friends.  

So Burke was on to them. Gil thought he’d have another day or so, at least, considering how far he’d managed to push the smug asshole off course, according to Otis Twirch; but maybe one final session before he enacted his own endgame was the right thing. He wished he knew for certain whether Burke had managed to crack the video feed link they’d sent him. He’d paid a guy to set this up, some college kid from Polytech who thought he was setting up a podcast about condemned buildings. He couldn’t exactly bring him back and ask him to run diagnostics. 

Well, Gil would assume he had, and if it turned out he hadn’t, he can always send Burke the tape later. 

In fact, he’d do that anyway. He certainly had enough raw material of Caffrey suffering to send Burke’s way for years to come. 

So he agreed to Walker’s suggestion, and the others quickly followed his lead. As much as they enjoyed these little shows, they had no desire to be implicated in them. 

26804390        wait whys thw bag gon?

Gil registered what he hadn’t been hearing for the last few minutes. He whirled around, and saw Ross sitting in his chair, leaning slightly forward, talking to Caffrey in a low voice. Caffrey was inhaling deeply—too deeply—his eyes unfocused and staring blankly up at the ceiling. The bag was pulled high on his forehead, like an ill-fitting shower cap. 

“What the hell’s…?” 

Ross looked up. “You said to shut him up while you were talking on the computer. This was the fastest way of doing that.” 

“You—” 

Gill closed his eyes, exhaled, bit his lip. 

Ross was trying, he reminded himself. He was just in over his head. Smashing up a room, throwing valuables into a bag, those were one thing, they were clean cut, they made sense; but multi-day torture, toeing the line between life and death in a satisfying way, that was too complex for a man like his cousin. In fact, it was the exact complexity Burke had forced upon him, even though he couldn’t be expected to handle it. 

“I meant — Never mind. We’re gonna start the real fun soon. Get out of the frame.” 

Gill went back to the computer and activated the paywall, and while the few lucky users who had thought to check their morning news logged on, he took the final requests from his benefactors. 

No audience input today, not with Burke possibly on his trail.

He took down the requests of his benefactors, then quickly ranked them in order of execution. Delancy’s gasoline first, so they’d have enough time to see the effects; and personally, he wanted Caffrey thoroughly ready to ignite by the time Burke got here, whether today or tomorrow. 

Then he could get to Walker’s golf ball thing, mostly to get it out of the way because they’d done it a thousand times already; Phillips had asked for the plastic bag again, and even the others had groaned that he was wasting his final opportunity on something he’d seen a hundred times already, and as recently as five minutes ago. 

While Stanzler told him what he wanted—just an apology, the man was a class act—Avery reconsidered, and returned with a request worthy of the youngest guy to get a seat on the New York Stock Exchange. It was inspired. Artistic, even. Caffrey, or Burke at least, were sure to appreciate the beauty.

Foltrop made sure the list of suggestions was closed, because once he started he wasn’t sure he’d remember to check again. 

98778435        Make it count 

Gil would never disappoint a man like Andrew Stanzler, and certainly not with the possibility that Peter Burke was watching. 

He made it count. 

Watching gasoline being poured was rather dull in itself, but Gil had read once in prison an article on gamification. 

“Type up what I’m asking him,” he instructed Ross, and remembering his penchant for taking things a shade too literally, added, “And also what he replies.” and Ross took his seat by the computer, transcribing loyally. 

“Hey, Caffrey. Why are we doing this?” 

It was an old question, a practiced one, and he answered immediately, his eyes already squeezed shut, knowing what was coming. 

“Because I’m a liar.” 

“Right you are.” Gil lifted the two-gallon jug and tipped it over Caffrey’s legs. 

“What did you lie about?” 

Another easy one, to set him up with a few early wins. 

“I—I lied about my name. I’m sorry. I lied to Delancy about who I was, I’m sorry, and I lied to Stanzler about what I do. I’m sorry.” 

Gil didn’t bother answering, but splashed some gasoline on his shirt. 

“What can you do to make amends?” 

This was a new one, and Caffrey’s eyes almost opened in surprise. “I—there are no amends. But I’ll do whatever they ask.” 

Gil was actually impressed. It was a fairly good answer, and would lead in nicely to Avery’s request. 

But it was time for Caffrey to miss one, so Gil next asked, “Who do you think is looking for you?” 

He smirked as Caffrey tensed. He knew his options were either to lie, or to mention the FBI. He knew better than to name Burke himself. 

He landed on the lie. “No one.” 

“That may be the truth, but you think you’re lying to me,” Gil said, and tipped the canister over Caffrey’s face. It was a slow, deliberate pour, and he made sure to stay with Caffrey any which way he tilted his head. 

Behind him, he heard the chat blow up. Everyone loved a rigged game. 

“What do we say when we lie?” Gil pressed on, most of the container still terribly full, and less than an hour to get through everything they had planned. 

“I—I’m sorry,” he tried to speak without breathing. “I’m a liar.” 

At first, Gil had merely been following the script his benefactors had paid for, but now? After three days with this snivelling excuse of a snitch?

“If you want this to end,” he said in a lie neither of them believed, but amused him nonetheless, “you apologize loud and clear for the camera. There’s no sound, so enunciate. And don’t forget your manners this time. None of that last name bullshit.” He shook the gasoline canister, the sloshing inside stepping up as a warning. 

As always the same one, two, three-four stuttering breaths, before he realized he had no choice but to comply. 

When he spoke his voice was low, tattered and rough from all the screaming of the past few days and the ingested gasoline, but he mouthed the words clearly, his head slightly angled toward the camera. “I’m sorry I testified against Mr. Delancy, and that I lied about who I was.I apologize to Mr. Stanzler for lying about my name and what I do. I lied to you abo—” 

He was enunciating so beautifully, and he was such a little prick, that Gil couldn’t resist the temptation to step in. The irritating voice was cut off again with a hefty splash from the two-gallon canister.

The head turned away from the camera, eyes shut against the burning liquid, and Gil had had e-fucking-nough. He leaned in closer, ignoring the way the fumes clung to his own airways coated his tongue, clawed down to the pit of his stomach, and pulled Caffrey’s face back where he’d told him to keep it a dozen times at least . “Listen you little shit,” he hissed, “I am tired of telling you to keep stil—” 

He didn’t see it coming. One minute the eyes were screwed shut, the mouth pursed against the splash, and the next gasoline was being spat into his face. “ Damnit!”  

He dropped the container, its contents spilling onto the bed and, since Caffrey was already pretty thoroughly soaked, dripping onwards onto the floor. Gil lifted the container and chucked it against the wall, just to watch the little prick flinch again, before he moved out of frame of the camera to grab his phone. A quick message to Andrew and soon the familiar whrrr of the electricity in the building going out filled the air.

“You disgraceful sack of shit , fucking spitting in my face .” He grabbed one of the spare towels and weakly scrubbed at his face before he forced his eyes open, ignoring the weak burning. “You fucking missed, but you certainly fucking pissed me off now.”

The threat didn’t seem to register at first. This fucker was either whining, or totally out of it. He supposed he was grateful it wasn’t another round of, why are you doing this, but this dazed confusion was hardly better. 

He came around real quick, though, when he felt the weight shift on the bed. 

“Wait, wait wait—” He panted, desperate, and tried to resist, but Foltrop was much stronger, and so sick of his constant whining. Gil slid his right hand around the throat once more. 

It was always deliciously satisfying to him, feeling the thrum of Caffrey’s heartbeat under his fingertips going up and up and up until it lowered again, the tightness of muscles going slack as he first pointlessly struggled, then gave up. Strangulation beats suffocation every time, hands down. 

“Uh, Cuz?” Ross’ voice cut through his idling thoughts, and dragged him back to the moment. Caffrey had gone limp under his grip.

“Damn. Should’ve had you still filming it, would’ve made a nice extra buck from the weird kid.” He let go, grinding his teeth as the desperate gasps for breath filled the room. “He’s so fucking annoying, even semiconscious. Help me, sit him up, since he’s fucking out. It’s time to prepare him for what the others wanted.” 

Ross nodded and pulled the handcuff key from his pocket, while Gil put on the heavy duty gloves and began unwinding the rope and the wire.

The power came back on before they were finished positioning Caffrey, and the chat exploded again when they saw what was being done. Gil was proud even though it wasn’t his idea. He had been the one to buy the materials, after all, so he felt it appropriate to take some credit, at least. 

He’d grabbed more rope and wire, like Avery had requested, and was twisting them together in full view of the camera. 

Caffrey was limply leaning forward against Ross, his now-freed legs dangling off the side of the bed, as Gil pulled one arm behind him and began tightly winding the new length up one arm, down his torso, back up all the way to his chin, and down the other arm. Ross had proven too soft to do the job effectively, so he’d held Caffrey still once he came to (between recovering his breath and the gasoline fumes, it wasn’t much of a task; he was back to dazed, automated resistance) while Gil wound the wired rope tightly enough to draw blood through the now-sheer wetness of his t-shirt. Too deep a breath or a misguided bob of his Adam’s apple, and his throat would be bleeding, too. 

Then they tied him with his arms pulled behind his back, now sitting up, to the poles of the headboard with the original rope and the handcuffs. They left his legs free, but with his arms, neck, and torso so thoroughly restrained he wasn’t going anywhere. 

He left Caffrey to recuperate for a moment while he cleaned himself up. It was more fun that way, anyway. 

Gil grabbed the towel he had been using and a water bottle, dumping half the content onto the towel before pouring the rest on the floor to wash away, or at least water down, some of the excess that had spilled. 

“ Use fucking gasoline ,” he mumbled as he threw the other towels around, some on the mattress, some of the floor. “They don’t have to fucking smell this shit.”

He rubbed at his eyes with the wet towel in one hand and with the other he briefly checked the chat—lots of positive feedback, but nothing that seemed like Burke—and typed, with one hand, a question to his benefactors. There wasn’t time for both Walker’s request and the second half of Avery’s, and although he had a clear preference (and he’d be doing Avery’s regardless, because it was fantastic), he deferred to them. 

Their answer had been unanimous. 

We’ll skip breakfast. Both. 

Gil smiled as he turned back to Caffrey. Sometimes group projects weren’t half-bad. 

While he wasn’t much of a golfer, Walker had supplied him with a truly stupendous amount of custom-made golf balls marked with his signature A, and had been content, over the last few days, to watch as Gil swung at Caffrey. It had been worse than Phillips’ obsession with suffocation, but Gil fucking made it work. He’d worked begging into the routine, apologizing, and even having Caffrey recite Shakespeare as he was pelted by golf balls in close quarters. 

He deserved every fucking dollar they paid him.

The act at least created a luminous array of bruises all down his arms, legs, middle, even his face; but it was numbingly repetitive. 

The wired rope made it marginally more interesting. 

“You asked how you can make amends, Caffrey.”

Each time he swung, each and every time, Caffrey flinched; each flinch dug some part of the rope and wire deeper into his flesh; each ball that hit did the same. It had taken close to forty balls the first time they’d done this before Caffrey begged for mercy. Now, wrapped as he was with the wire, each breath became a cry of pain, each cry a deeper hurt than the last. After ten balls he dipped his head and sobbed; he didn’t even flinch as the next three balls hit him squarely in the stomach and bounced back, coming to rest on the bed before him. 

The picture of Caffrey, his head hung low in defeat, shaking in rending despair that injured him further, was instantly burned for posterity in Gil’s mind. 

This would be the DVD cover when he sent Burke the footage. This image, right now. 

The moment quickly fled, though, when Ross insisted he get a turn. Gil allowed him, even though he was less of a golfer than Gil was. If Gil made one shot out of every two, Ross made… none. None at all. 

But Gil let him have his fun, swinging the golf club wide, while he finalized the finishing touches on the second part of Avery’s request, the last encore, the curtain call of Caffrey’s life as a liar, and Peter Burke’s career. 

Gil made sure the lighting umbrella was set up properly for this, balancing out the cold grey light of the sunrise. He moved the camera so it was fully positioned before the bed, and he attached the external microphone to it; they had all deemed it too much of a risk to trust that two hundred inmates would successfully keep the volume down for days of sessions, but the time for such caution had past; this part needed to be heard. Then Gil double checked with Avery what he wanted the message to cover. 

He’d been given fairly free-license, but he wasn’t going to pass that luxury onto Caffrey. 

He wrote down exactly what he wanted him to say— I can’t read, my eyes, he’d complained weakly, so Gil had read it out to him, too—and reminded Caffrey what the punishment would be for deviation. Gil wanted to make sure he delivered this just as well as he had delivered all their other requests for the final, most crucial act.

Neal Caffrey’s final words. His final will and testament, to revoke all others. 

His dying statement. 

When Caffrey finished, Gil took the opportunity to thank his benefactors, his audience, and his star. 

“I consider this a community event,” he finished, “and all seven of us thank you for your patronage. We each did our part, but it wouldn’t be the same without you all. If something like this ever happens again, it’s good to know there are such loyal fans out there.” 

He checked his watch, and decided it was time to address the one audience member this was all for. 

“I have to assume you’re watching by now, Agent Burke. If I’m being generous, I’d say you have about two hours till I’m done wrapping up here. And when I leave, I’m going to strike a match and Caffrey’s going to burn.” He glanced over his shoulder, saw that Caffrey’s head was sagging low on his chest, and stepped back to pull it up by the hair. 

“Wake up.” 

Eyes flitted open to small slits, then weakly squeezed close again against the burn. Standing this close to him, even Gil’s eyes were watering. 

“Until then I’m going to wash him in gasoline. Bathe him.” He spoke up, making sure Burke heard every syllable of what he was saying. “ He’s gonna suffocate and struggle against these ropes as he burns to death. He won’t even be able to scream as this melts in his mouth,” Gil said, leaning forward and collecting a golf ball from the bed. It had rolled in the gasoline that had pooled there, but Gil truly doubted that could make a difference at this point. 

He let go of Caffrey’s hair and squeezed his cheeks, and forced the ball between his teeth, then shoved against it with an open palm until it was fully in his mouth. He gagged at the pressure on his tongue, but the rope-wire around his neck stopped him from moving any more than that in an attempt to dislodge it. Gil grabbed a length of plain rope and tied the ball in place. 

“Look at him, Agent Burke. Remember him, the way he looks right now, because this is your legacy. This is the symbol of how you use people, and toss them aside. I may have pulled the trigger, but you are the gun. Remember that.

“And if I don’t see you in the next two hours, well, I’ll be in touch.” 

He gave a salute, and Andrew Stanzler used his powers to cut the power to the grid for the last time. 

Gil had to take a few minutes to punish Caffrey, because he had deviated. Not in any meaningful way, and he was probably a little loopy on gasoline fumes to have even noticed, but it was the principle of the matter. 

Then he prepared for Burke to arrive. 

By the time the government-leased Ford Taurus pulled up across the street, he was more than ready. 

“Ross? Take the fire exit in the other room all the way up. Wait for me on the roof. I’ll be up in a few minutes, and then we’ll be out of here.” 

Ross looked a little sad that the carnival was ending, but he was good people and he did as he was told. 

Gil looked to Caffrey, an incoherent pile of hurt that used to be a man, sort of, and smiled. 

This plan had been six months in the making, and today was his day of victory. 

Gil looked to Caffrey, Burke’s weak attempt to redeem his own conscience, reduced to a soft excuse of a man undone by the hurt and resilience of those from Burke's past, and smiled again.

Chapter Text

“I was a rookie agent.” Peter said as he spread the stack of papers from Anderson and Rogers’ pile across the table. The case had been so long ago it wasn’t digitally archived, beyond the mugshots and arrest information, so they had to look over the case old-fashioned.

“Ross Lewis,” Peter pointed back at the screen, gesturing to the ashy-blond man on the left, “had been a stepping stone, to his cousin, Gil Foltrop," the scruffy-looking brunet. "The two were suspected to be closely connected, but no one could ever prove anything. Foltrop had been running a business to rival the Navarro cartel, and he was far too cautious to get tagged visiting a cousin. 

“So I didn’t wait for him to visit. rented an apartment across the street from Lewis’ home and ran surveillance on him for two whole years. Eventually, I had enough evidence of Lewis’ petty crimes, misdemeanors and felonies. I brought him in, and flipped him on Foltrop.”

Peter grabbed a pen from the table before taking it to the Foltrop file, circling one, crucial piece of information he hadn’t considered all this time. 

Lead Agent: Murray Edison. 

“My boss at the time took credit for that case, even though I had done the case work and personally arrested Foltrop in the home of his… mistress, let’s say.” 

“An hourly mistress,” Rogers chipped in as he scanned the reports.

“Yeah, well, she flipped on him too, gave us enough info that we let her walk. And regardless of who’s name was on the paper, the higher ups noticed me. My promotion trajectory went from twenty years to five, and got me some pretty strong pull when I asked to create a White Collar division.” 

“So you taking him down got you everything you wanted, handed to you on a silver platter.” Jones nodded. “I can see why that would cause him to hold a grudge.”

Peter nodded solemnly. “I took his partner, made him betray him, ruined his life. Now—everything with Neal… He’s doing the same to me.”

“And pretty damn thoroughly.” Mozzie held up one of the reports with his left hand and typed with his right. He didn’t lift his gaze and Peter couldn’t tell whether the words were tinted with accusation or sympathy. 

“Helpful input, Haversham.” The night lights of the city were fading as Peter paced by the window, the pale gray morning light creeping into the room. 

“Somewhere in these reports, in their records, somewhere is the information we’re missing. They’ve been smart, but they’re not insusceptible. There’s an overlap with Walker or Twirch, we just have to find it.” He pointed over at Anderson and Diana. “One of you take Avery Phillip’s financial records, the other Walker’s. I’ll read through Foltrop’s. We’re looking for any overlap, any fucking signs of a location, the same property purchase, the same gas station, the same ATM usage, anything.”

It turned out that rich men couldn’t resist using their connections. 

Avery Phillips had used a spectacularly competent and stunningly unscrupulous law-firm to protect his assets when he went to prison, and they took on new clients only by referral; of Walker’s properties in the tristate area, six of the purchases in the last six months had paperwork filed by the very same Whitney & Cage. Once they flagged and divided those six files between them, it took them seventeen minutes.

Seventeen minutes, on the right path, to find their breakthrough

 “A recurring statement for…Staten Island Electric, under the name of Albert Mell—” Anderson said softly as she read through her list.

“—ilson—” Two voices exclaimed at once. Adrenaline flooded Peter’s system, it was actually palpable in the room as everyone looked between Mozzie and Diana.

“That's the alias they gave to Matthew Keller when they tried to recruit him,” Mozzie informed the room. “He’s listed as Project manager of Walker's—that's the one, that's the man targeting Neal!”

“I have his name on recurring payments to King’s Queen Country Electric.” Diana threw out quickly. “They’re both subsidiaries of the same corporation, aren’t they? ”

“I have a rental home in his name on Staten Island, on Smyth Street. The paperwork seems to be flawless, but there’s something… astray with the power usage,” Mozzie announced before he reached across the conference table in search of another paper. 

“And—and I have a record of escrow on some kind of property in Brooklyn, placed the same day he signed the Staten Island rental on Walker's behalf, and handled by Whitney & Cage, but it doesn’t say what or where. Could be another coffee shop, Walker's bought fifteen of those in the last year; and a townhouse up in Teaneck! ”

“That narrows down the options to three.” Jones started to say, “We could—“

Peter turned toward the door, half of him chiding the half that expected to see an agent panting painfully in the doorway; he’d have seen if someone had run in half-gasping as though each breath was breaking the surface of a deep pool. 

Then he registered that the sound was coming over the speakers—

That the feed was still active in the background—

That—

Peter stood as the others scrambled to find the remote under the files and papers, and Diana replaced the mugshots with the live feed.

She dropped the remote as though scalded. Jones muttered, Jesus Christ. 

Peter caught some movement from Anderson or Rogers, but he didn’t turn to see what it was; an exhalation staggered out of him, as though collapsing, but the sound was drowned out as Neal pulled breaths that sounded processed through a hollow tin can.

Neal was whole, technically, but what remained of him was shattered. He was now seated on the bed, his head lolling slightly but his back straight and his neck extended; not by merit of pride or inner strength, but a combination of arms pulled behind him and a barely conscious attempt to avoid putting any more pressure than necessary on the rope—laced through with some kind of sharp wire—that wound all the way from his waist to the top of his neck. He had already been cut in a hundred, hundred places, making his white tee look like it had been painted red with a sloppy brush. 

He was sopping wet again, and how could Peter have mistaken that for water? 

Peter scanned the room behind Neal, looking for anything, anything that might hint at a location, but he’d barely gotten past the old bed frame when Neal leveraged one of his painful breaths into speech. 

“My real name,” he needed two more breaths to continue, two more breaths Peter couldn’t take because Neal’s voice sounded… bruised. “Is Neal Caffrey, and I am going to die today. This is my dying statement.” 

The words, their implication stole the air from Peter’s lungs, his vision was darkening and he would welcome it if only he could share the lost breath with Neal—

“My only message is for—” Neal stopped himself with a sharp inhale, raised his unfocused eyes beyond the camera, before continuing. “—for Agent Peter Burke.” 

Peter was reduced to a pounding heartbeat in a world that had turned completely silent. 

“I regret the day I met you. Every night of my life, in my dreams, I regret my deal. I am going to die today, but you won’t care, and that is how I know you’ll go on using people up and throwing them away. You’ll never— " 

He coughed, tried to swallow and aborted the motion, and simply raised his head as he tried to breath, open mouthed, through the fit wracking through him. 

He lowered his eyes to the camera again, and though the eyes were still unfocused and squeezed to narrow slits, the glazed blue seemed to pierce straight through the spaces between them, to find Peter. 

“You’ll never find me in time. You should know that my suffering, when I go, will be enough to last a lifetime.” 

He paused again, and again sought something beyond the camera. Peter supposed it might be whatever they were using to dictate what Neal was being forced to say. 

He didn’t look directly at the camera when he resumed, and Peter was grateful he didn’t have to look Neal in the eye when he concluded with, “If you ever find my body, it is my last will and testament that you put these words on my tombstone.” 

With his message delivered, Neal released whatever last vestiges of control he had. Tension bled out of him as he relaxed, unfeeling, into the wired rope that bound him. 

Peter was somberly grateful for that relief. 

He sat heavily in his chair, and it wasn’t till he was fully seated that he realized he hadn’t guided the movement. Mozzie had pulled him down, in anticipation of collapse. 

But Peter didn’t feel weak, not in that way. His muscles were unresponsive, but taut, waiting for the instruction that would take them from inaction to justice. 

He didn’t care what Neal had been made to say. Time wasn’t out, not yet. 

When Gil Foltrop came into the frame and began thanking his viewers like he’d just finished hosting a telethon, Peter had time to think he got old before his attention was snapped back to the screen. “All seven of us thank you for your patronage,” Gil was saying, and Peter narrowed his eyes, recounting the suspects they had accounted for. Phillips, Stanzler, Delancy, and Walker in prison, Foltrop and Lewis on the outside… Had they missed—

He made the connection exactly as it was confirmed for him on-screen. 

“—Agent Burke.” 

It was him. He was the seventh man.

“If I’m being generous, I’d say you have about two hours till I’m done wrapping up here. And when I leave, I’m going to strike a match and Caffrey’s going to burn.” 

The—he meant that literally—the gasoline. 

Foltrop turned back and tore away the minor escape Neal had found for himself, and tugged him by the hair into awareness. 

“Wake up.” 

Foltrop was looking directly into the camera now, but Peter could only look at Neal. Foltrop’s threats washed over him, only key words making it past Peter’s helpless rage. Suffocate. Burn. Scream. 

“No,” Peter begged, when he saw Foltrop cut off Neal’s ability to breath through his mouth. He was barely getting enough air as it was—burning wouldn’t matter if he

Suffocate. Burn. Scream. 

“Look at him, Agent Burke. Remember him, the way he looks right now, because this is your legacy. This is the symbol of how you use people, and toss them aside. I may have pulled the trigger, but you are the gun. Remember that. And if I don’t see you in the next two hours, well, I’ll be in touch.”  

The screen blacked out. 

Peter stared at it for three long breaths, each one deeper than the last. 

Then he turned back to the room. 

“We have three properties to check out in two hours.” 

“Two,” Rogers said, breathing heavily as he pushed into the room, the exact visage Peter had mistaken Neal for. “While the stream—” he panted, “I checked with—” another breathy exhale as he tried to catch his breath, “Teaneck rebuilt, power.” 

For a moment, they all tried to piece that together. 

“He has two hours on the outside,” Mozzie said, his voice rising so by the end it was as close to yelling as Peter had ever heard him. “Spit it out!” 

Rogers took a steadying breath, and started over. “I ran up to 25 as soon as the feed was active, and forced the guys in Cybercrimes to check the locations in real-time. The place in Teaneck was torn down to the foundations and entirely rebuilt, and it hasn’t been connected to the grid yet, no power, no internet. It’s either Staten Island, or Brooklyn.” 

Peter checked the time. It was a few minutes after six. 

“Staten Island is the only street address we have, we check that one out first. Diana and Jones, call Missing Persons from the car and have them meet us there. 

“Mozzie, you’re riding with me. You two,” he said to the two probies, “stay here. Try to find out any more details on the property in Brooklyn. Call me the second that goes live again.” 

Peter didn’t think that would happen, but he wasn’t going to risk missing anything else

Peter flew through the early morning traffic, the blare of his siren barely creating enough space for the car moments before he cruised past. The few times he might’ve gotten a little too close to the other drivers, the beeping of the object detection sensor joined in with the wailing.

He was trying to concentrate on the road, looking three streets ahead to anticipate red or green lights, trying to judge the correct distance, the gaps between cars he could slide into, the timing when swerving into the left lanes occasionally, but his mind just kept playing Neal’s speech over and over.

This is my dying statement.

In my dreams, I see you and I regret it.  

I am going to die today, I know you'll go on using people.

“Did something seem weird to you about the way Neal was speaking?”

“Besides the forced suicide note you mean?” Mozzie asked through gritted teeth, one hand pressed against the dash and the other white knuckling the handle above his door. “It was…awfully poetic for a guy like Foltrop, almost lyrical even, but he’s clearly taking it to a whole new— whoa!”

Peter jerked the wheel hard while simultaneously hitting the breaks, taking a left at an intersection so hard the car skidded through the turn. More Brooklyn than Queens, he’d thought when he first saw those stills. He pressed the button on the steering wheel and the soft bing-ding indicated it was listening. “Call Diana!”

“Suit, what are you—”

“Not lyrical, Mozzie, lyrics! They’re lyrics!” Peter couldn’t help the grin on his face despite the pounding of his heart as he took the next left. “Neal Caffrey you brilliant—”

“Why have we turned around Boss?” Diana’s voice finally came through the speakers, and when Peter looked in his rearview mirror, he could see their car following.

“Neal was sending a message in that speech of his! Every night, in my dreams, I know you'll go on? He was telling us where he is!” 

“On board the Titanic with Celine Dion?” Mozzie asked, and Peter wasn’t sure if the shakiness cutting through the sarcasm was from Neal’s ingenuity or the high speed u-turn.

“Yes— no, I’ll explain it later, but he’s at Lewis’s old apartment. That’s the address he’s at in Brooklyn. Diana, Jones, I need you to call Missing Persons, EMTs, firefighters, hazmat— everyone.”

He rattled off the old street address easily before hanging up.

Peter was driving far too aggressively to dare remove his eyes from the road, but he could feel Mozzie's eyes on him and he lasted only a minute or so before he bit out, “What?” 

“Are you sure?” 

Peter exhaled and curled in protectively, as though the question had been designed as a blow. 

“I know you're trying your best, but you saw—what they were doing,” Mozzie's voice cracked on the final syllable, and when Peter risked a glance Mozzie was turned toward the window. He counted in 11 serial leaps until he reached a hundred twenty-one and, calmer, spoke again; but he kept his gaze on the thick cables of the bridge that were zipping by his window. 

“Foltrop said two hours till he killed Neal, but that doesn't mean Neal has two hours to live, not judging by the condition he was in. I need to know if we're wasting time on another clever distraction.” 

Peter didn't answer immediately. 

He listened, instead. 

He listened for the soft resilience of the alarms that had put him on Neal's trail in the first place; he listened for the clarity of the Archeologist cracking a case; he listened for Neal, and whether he had truly tried to pass him a message, as hurt and dazed as he'd been. 

What Mozzie was asking was more than fair, it was prudent. Peter had proven that he was susceptible to Foltrop’s manipulations, and there was simply no time for him to indulge another misdirection. 

But the more Peter listened, the surer he became that the needle was inching, a degree at a time, toward true north. 

He trusted Neal, and he now made the choice to trust himself. 

“I’m sure, Mozzie. I’m sure.” 

The remainder of the ride was short, and silent. 

Peter found it almost jarring the way first car-traffic, then foot-traffic faded as they drew closer. He knew it was no longer a thriving neighborhood, it hadn’t even been that when he’d been living there; his own building had been condemned to an afterlife of overpriced condos even at the time he’d moved in, but construction had been postponed the entire time he was there, and the state of the surrounding blocks hinted that maybe that had been a pipe dream. The few businesses that had once been there were now boarded up, and in their windows bright billboards promising Targets and Starbucks and two new locations of Old Navy. By the time he spotted the familiar bodega—somehow, still open—on his block, the slow erasure of cars and people had all but completed.

He came to a harsh stop on the street, the car's back tires drifting closer to the road than the curb. 9-6 except on alternating Sundays, Peter recalled.  

Despite having held himself rigid and braced the entire drive, Mozzie was out of the car before Peter had even unbuckled. “Which building is it?”

Peter got out and pointed to the brownstone two doors down from where he stood, as he started walking up to it. Someone had the windows open, and he was awash in painful, cold nostalgia at the sight of it. 

He had gathered breath to direct Mozzie to the right floor but something prevented him from releasing the words. Not just something, him. 

Him, himself. 

He had told Mozzie he was sure, and he had been, he still was, but… 

An urgent, near physical tugging in his gut, like the  needle he had been following was incessantly being pulled, degree-by-degree, in a different direction. 

He stopped, still standing in the street, his racing mind trying to catch up to what part of him had already figured out, to connect the pieces of a puzzle he already solved. 

Peter turned on his heel, slowly, putting Lewis’ apartment behind him, and looked up at the place he’d called home for two years. 

Understanding dawned, resolute and firm and true. 

It was about him. All of this was about him. Neal was terribly, terribly caught in the middle, but Foltrop was behind all of this, and what he wanted was to punish Peter. It wasn’t just revenge, it was retribution. 

“ Suit,” Mozzie voice was firm but tight as he moved to stand in front of Peter, trying to catch his eye, “which building is Neal—”

Peter caught a glimpse of movement in the ground floor entryway. Someone was coming towards them.

“ Get down.” He gritted through a whisper, grabbing Mozzie by the back of his shirt and dragging him down behind his car again. He positioned himself by the hood and pulled the gun from his holster, readying himself to take aim—

“Agent Burke?” A soft, familiar voice called out. “That’s— that’s you, right? You’re here to help Neal?”

Ross Lewis. Peter knew his voice clearly; he had spent several hours in an interrogation room with him, slowly befriending him in order to convince him to give up his cousin’s location. They talked about everything, Ross’ life, his parents, his schooling, his love life, and, finally, his cousin. He had been young back then, supported by Gil in return for being his criminal errand boy, and Peter could tell he was deeply loyal to him. So, over fries and burgers, he had been honest with him at what was at stake. What would most likely happen to Foltrop if he stayed the high ranking gang member he was.

Ross agreed that prison was better than dead.

Peter squeezed Mozzie’s shoulder gently before holding a hand up to Jones and Diana, who were just starting to pull down the street. He stood up slowly at first, scanning the environment, making sure Ross wasn’t bait, or another distraction. There were no signs of danger though, no other person hiding, peeking from behind a corner, no warning signal that something was wrong.

“It’s me, Ross.” He said as he stood upright. “I’m here to help Neal. He’s in my old apartment, isn’t he?”

Ross nodded quickly and started to approach the car. Peter’s trained response to raise his weapon and to maintain space kicked in, and Ross stopped at the lip of the sidewalk. “You, you need to wash Neal’s face first, okay?” Ross started, his speech rushed and quiet, like they could be caught, “His eyes especially, they really hurt him. I don’t, I don’t know how you can get the handcuffs off, I’m sorry, but if you can get him into the shower, you have to make him sit down against the wall and lean to the left. You might have to help him, he slides down. The shower head is broken, but it hurts to stand under it, he—he doesn’t like standing under it. Sitting is better, even if you have to hold him and get cold. We don’t—Gil used all the towels up so—”

“Okay, okay.” Peter walked around the car, taking the opportunity to signal Diana and Jones to approach. “Thank you, Ross, I promise I’ll take care of him, but first I need to know where your cousin is. What’s he planning to do when I go inside?”

Ross glanced back at the apartment. “He’s waiting for you, and then he’s going to go out the fire escape. Up to the roof and jump over to Mrs. Monroe’s building. Do you remember Mrs. Monroe?”

Peter didn’t, not at that moment and maybe he never knew her at all; it didn’t matter. There was only one building close enough to access through the roof. “I do, she lived in that one there, right?” Peter asked as he gestured to the neighboring building.

Ross nodded. “I’m—I’m supposed to wait up there for him, then we'll go to our car. But he’s…he’s not going to get away, right? You're going to arrest him? Stop him?"

Peter was practically vibrating with the need to get to Neal, inching towards the door as they talked; he didn't have the time to once again convince Ross Lewis that arresting Foltrop would ultimately be the right thing, but before he could even decide what to say Ross continued. 

"He needs to be arrested Agent Burke. He’s—none of this is right. He told me that— but Neal doesn’t— He’s not bad, Agent Burke. Gil kept saying he deserves this, that he’s bad, but he’s not.” Ross shook his head a little in either confusion or condemnation.

“You’re right, Ross. He’s not bad, he’s one of the good guys, one of the best even, and I’m going to rescue him. Is there anything else I need to know?”

“I think he tossed the gloves close to the computer. Please, hurry."

Peter didn’t have the time to decipher the first part, and the second part was the only thing on his mind. Hurry. 

Peter nodded quickly. “I will, okay? Listen, these two are Jones and Diana, they’re my friends. They’re Neal’s friends too. They’re also here to help him. Tell them exactly what you told me, and then you can sit in their car and wait, understand?”

Peter only waited long enough to catch the first hint of a nod from Ross before he went running toward the building. His first few steps inside were awash with nostalgia. The wide metal slit in the front door that had never been functional, somehow maintaining its golden shine when everything around it slowly decayed; the patchwork tile floor, because the landlord had always fixed it in increments when a tile broke or came loose; the sourceless, musty smell that Peter had always assumed came from someone’s apartment, but somehow it was still present, hovering, summoning old memories he hadn’t remembered he remembered and would have enjoyed on any other day. They played across his mind like a spliced film reel he had no control over: moving in the first day, grumbling about having to carry everything up eight flights of stairs, running through with El, laughing after a nice walk had left them in a sudden, freezing downpour, sweaty palms and a ring that weighed a hundred pounds in his pocket—

On the second floor those memories all took on the pungent taint of stale gasoline. He wished they would dissipate, but they lingered, fighting to coexist with this new, overpowering reality. His new legacy, overwriting the old. 

Peter pushed, harder, faster, timing his breaths, taking— 

The door to apartment 8E wasn’t fully latched, revealing a thin sliver of light.

He tried to take a steadying breath, but it was nearly impossible where he stood in the hallway. Instead of calming Peter, it only heightened his awareness of every muscle in his body, a tense quiver of a violin string ready to play. He drew his weapon from his hip holster before he slid his foot through the crack to push the door open slowly, keeping the gun in hand ready but lowered.

“Agent Burke,” Gil Foltrop called out at the movement, his voice as smooth as slime. “About time you’ve come to this little…house party.” 

When Peter had the door open enough, he could see Foltrop sitting by the open window, leaning against the old radiator that Peter used to have to kick to make it work.

He saw Peter’s weapon, and laughed. “Let’s not pretend you’re going to shoot me. Take a look around.” 

Peter didn’t take his eyes off Foltrop, but he did allow his surroundings to filter in. What had once been the combined living area and kitchen was now littered with stolen art, and not far from Peter’s feet was… a gasoline jug. He nudged it with his foot, and it tipped over. 

“It’s mostly empty because, well, I guess you saw what we were mostly doing it with,” Foltrop said in a mockery of humility, “but the rest of it is on the art, on the floor, pooled in the kitchen sink. You fire that thing in here not only do we die, your little friend in the next room goes up in flames.” 

Peter couldn’t help the glance he stole toward the closed bedroom door. The thought of him being the one to strike the match, of releasing flames that would consume Neal where he was bound, it was so easy to imagine that it scared Peter. He clicked the safety back on and holstered his gun. Even if Foltrop pulled a weapon on him, it wouldn’t be worth the risk. 

“I thought so.” Foltrop smiled boyishly, and it shaved the years off him. For a moment, he was just a handsome man who was playing heinous games because they were good fun. 

“Why?” Peter asked, and shifted his weight so he could tackle Foltrop if the opportunity presented itself. 

“I’ll answer that, but first I think you should know that this,” he held up a small, electronic device, “is a smart switch. You so much as blink too hard in my direction, flames burst in that room. Take a step back.” 

Peter believed him. He took a step back. 

“I'm just here to break the cycle. Someone has to have the balls to pull the veil off your "good guy" facade, to say the emperor is naked, or in your case, the FBI agent is as dirty as the men he puts away. Using my cousin to get to me? That was a nasty trick. He believed you, that you were helping by screwing us! And imagine my surprise to find so many others who have been burned by you, whom you’ve lied to, all for some greater good? Stopping you is the greater good. 

“Now, at first I thought that hurting Caffrey was merely the cost of doing business, but I’ve come to realize that everything he said in his dying statement was true, Mr. Highest Closure Rates. You were always going to toss him away when you were done. Hell, you were this close,” he said, raising the hand not holding his smart switch, the thumb and the finger about an inch apart, “from throwing his ass back in prison. He’d have been killed there bounty or no, don’t you think? Being a fed’s pet, encountering everyone you made him put away? Did you ever even consider that?”

Foltrop gave a slight shrug of his shoulders, piercing Peter with a slinked look as if they were competing at a game of darts rather than gambling a life. “The only thing I’ve done is speed up the natural conclusion to your so-called partnership. It's really a very fitting ending, for him and me both to bookend your wonderful career—the criminal who started it and the one who ended it."

Peter needed to be sure Jones and Diana had enough time to get up to the roof. He had to stall, to use Neal’s precious time to try and save him. “I meant, why are you still here? Why did you wait for me? Just to give this big speech?” 

Foltrop laughed, but it quickly became a cough. “Jesus, fucking gasoline, you know?” He blinked his eyes and turned his head toward the open window. “I wanted it all, can you blame me? I needed to wrap up in there, and I wanted you to see all my hard work first hand, wanted to see the look on your face as you came back to this place, and I wanted to know you had the pain of knowing you came so close to saving him, before you failed.

“My plan works best, you see, if you remain alive. I want you to see the state Caffey’s body is in once they get control of the fire. So I’m just here to tell you to leave, now, because in exactly… one minute I’m going to press this button and… prroo.” He mimicked an explosion with his hands. “Then I get to drive away knowing a part of you is burning too. Or all of you, if you stupidly still pretend you’re a hero.”

Peter pushed past the jab. “I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you.” 

Foltrop waved his little device, and Peter watched as the other man raised his legs over the radiator and swiveled his body out the window. 

“You have about fifty seconds now before I blow this popsicle stand,” Foltrop said by way of goodbye, and made a dash toward the ladder leading up. 

Peter raced toward his bedroom door. 

The overlapping memories flooded him again. There was a spot in the hallway floorboard that creaked under his foot, the one that he used to try to avoid when Elizabeth was sleeping, the phantom echoes of televisions playing Gilligan’s Island reruns far too loud; everywhere he looked was a ghost. 

Muscle memory kicked in as he reached for the bedroom door, and he pulled it forward as he grabbed the doorknob to get around the way it would stick. 

The gasoline fumes caused him to stagger back as he looked into the room. 

The room was darkened, despite the natural light that washed all through the living area. The bedroom had windows on the same wall, and no blinds, as far as Peter remembered. El had put up white curtains once, but they took them along when he moved out and they moved in together. Foltrop must have darkened the windows with the purpose of obscuring Neal.

Peter took a step inside, already raising his eyes to where his bed used to be. There was only one spot to put it, really, if it was away from the windows and not pushed up against the door to the ensuite. He saw Neal, but only the shape of him. His brain moved on its own, reaching out for the light switch—

That moment—as his fingers brushed the switch, daylight filtering in behind him, casting the room in the gentle glow of clean morning light without blinding him—Neal started struggling wildly against his bonds and screaming behind the gag—  

Peter forgot about the light, and ran to Neal. 

He raised one leg onto the mattress and reached behind Neal’s head to untie the rope, then held Neal’s chin and stuck two fingers inside his mouth, to help him eject the golf ball that had been gagging him. 

Neal heaved, his whole body held hostage by the desperate gasps that shook him. “Don’t… light,” he managed, and Peter lowered himself to try and catch Neal’s eye in the dimness of the room. 

“Neal? You’re telling me not to turn on the light?” 

Neal nodded, grateful. After another shaky breath, he rasped, “Socket.” 

Peter looked up. The light socket directly overhead, and the only one in the room, held one bulb. It was tightly screwed in, but the glass had been broken. 

It was set to spark. 

“That’s… Good work, Neal,” Peter said. It was stupid, he could hear it, but he didn’t know what else he could say. He put a hand on Neal’s cheek—he didn’t dare touch him anywhere else—and added, “It’s over, let’s get you out of here.” 

Peter left Neal’s side and tore down the dark tarp that covered one window, then the other, and opened both with the smack-push-yank motion he hadn’t used in fifteen years. 

Fresh air rushed in, so cold on lungs he didn’t realize were burning that Peter nearly choked on it. He spat out the window, hoping the taste of the gasoline would dissipate with a new breath. He was glad now that he’d had Anderson pull up that research, and that he’d arrived in time to recognize how to use it. 

That gladness curdled in his larynx when he turned back to Neal. 

He understood now, why Foltrop had stayed behind. He understood what he wanted him to see, and why he wanted him to see it. 

Peter had destroyed Neal. 

He—

It was razor wire, and it sliced him with every movement, every breath—

The bruises, perfect and round on his arms face and perfectly round golf balls littering the bed, an A stylized after Cyrillic curves—

His eyes—

Peter forced his mind blank as he rushed back to the bed. He knew what he needed to do, the steps he needed to take.

Uncuff him. Untie him. Water. 

“Neal, I’m going to start with the handcuf—” 

“No!” 

It was the loudest Neal had spoken since Peter entered the room, maybe even since before his—Peter wouldn’t think the word—statement, a voice shredded like broken glass and coupled with a motion that tried to shrug Peter off. 

“Neal, we have to release you, so we can get the rope—” 

“Rigged,” he interrupted, a whisper now that he knew he was being heard. “I think. Ross—” 

Peter held up his hands up passively, signaling to Neal to stop talking first, then to indicate he’d only be looking, He carefully leaned over Neal, and sure enough it was another fucking booby-trap, intended to set the room, and Neal, ablaze. The wheel of a lighter had been worked into the locking mechanism of the— 

They weren’t generic, he recognized these, he knew these, they were, he’d accused Neal of taking them, but they were here, used now to hold him, rigged to, to, rigged  

Something shut down inside. It was too much, it was too— it was—

If he’d been expected to hold it all, to shoulder it all, to do this alone, then it was another failure and that would have to be reckoned with, but not right now. 

“ Mozzie!” 

It was a scream, it was scared and raw and uncontrolled, and he wasn’t sure who was yelling but, "MOZZIE, PLEASE!” 

It was in the ensuing quiet that he remembered; gloves. Near the computer. 

He left Neal’s side to look for them, and regretted it immediately. Neal’s head seemed to pull after him, seeking any kind of comfort after days, an eternity, without. So when he found just the one glove, he didn’t linger to search for the second. 

He pulled it on and returned to Neal, and placed his ungloved hand underneath Neal’s chin, partially for the contact, and partially to support him as he tugged on the rope. There was nowhere else to touch Neal with so much pressure. 

At first, the wired-rope came undone easily. It wasn’t knotted anywhere—Foltrop must not have been overly concerned with Neal wriggling free of it once it had been looped so many times around him. He unlooped it from Neal’s left arm easily enough, but when he tried to do the same around Neal’s neck he met with bloody, fleshy resistance. He couldn’t create enough space to pull it back at the right angle with Neal still handcuffed, so he had to use both hands now, tugging as gently as he could at the razors across Neal’s skin—he had been thrashing to get his attention before he turned on the light—sometimes untwisting the rope from the wire for better access. 

By the time he was done Neal was bleeding from dozens or hundreds or thousands of cuts, Neal’s once-white shirt a horror tale of culpability, none of it his own. 

Peter threw the rope across the room once it was undone, but that still left the handcuffs. 

“ Where are you!” Someone screamed again and it clawed at his own throat, but he didn’t wait around for an answer. He raced to the ensuite and turned on the water in the shower, taken aback by the force of the spray without the showerhead.

You have surprisingly strong water pressure here, Elizabeth had said. 

Neal doesn’t like standing under it, Ross had said.

There was no bucket, not even a cup, and in the wild grip of a haze geared only to help! do! move! he did the only thing he could think of, and pulled off his shirt, careless of the buttons. 

He held it underneath the aggressive spray. It soaked through his undershirt quickly, and the cold of it numbed his aching hand, goosebumps appearing where the spray landed. He made sure the shirt was soaked through before he returned to Neal. 

His stomach turned at the sight.

Neal had gone slack again, now held up only by the handcuffs— his handcuffs, the ones Neal treated like a toy—he gently pushed Neal back, so he was leaning against the headboard— he arrested Neal both times with those handcuffs—and raised his shirt above Neal’s head, using one hand to squeeze the rose-colored water over Neal’s eyes. 

The reaction was immediate and visceral, and he had a front row seat to a show he never wanted to see, one that Foltrop wrote and directed just for him; the first drop of moisture hit Neal on the bridge of his nose and—

Neal begged of him, and he begged, too, but he didn’t have enough air in his lungs to scream. 

“Mozzie,” he said, his hands and the wet shirt still dripping as Neal tried to move his head away from the wetness. 

“Suit? Neal? Oh, God,” Mozzie said from the doorway, his eyes rapidly flitting over the scene. “I broke into an apartment downstairs, to have somewhere not soaked with gasoline, I thought I heard…” 

He trailed off in comprehension, then asked, “What do you need?” 

“The handcuffs,” a pleading voice, “they’re rigged, a spark wheel and flint, I don’t know— I can’t unlock it without—” 

“Go get me water. Not that, a lot. A cup,” Mozzie elaborated, when he was first offered the still-dripping shirt. 

He rose to do as he was told, then realized he needed to do something Neal would hate. “I’m sorry, Neal. It’s… It’s just me. And Mozzie, too, you trust Mozzie not to hurt you, right?” He passed the shirt to Mozzie then. “He’s going to put this on your face, to protect your eyes.” Mozzie did as he said, and he raced to the kitchen. 

The smell of gasoline was obscenely strong by the sink, which had been plugged and pooled. He didn’t waste time on releasing the backup. He threw cabinets open, looking for something to fill with water. 

A rusted colander with holes so big the spaghetti would always fall out of them, a plastic microwave-safe plate, a #1 Agent mug he thought he’d outgrown when he got engaged and promoted—

All of this, about him, designed for him, because of him. It started years ago, to hurt him, and Neal was just collateral—

He grabbed the mug, almost dropped it, and went to fill it. The kitchen faucets had been entirely pulled out, so he went back, his squelching shoes alerting Mozzie as he walked past to the ensuite, filled the mug up with the still-running water, and brought it back to Mozzie. 

Mozzie was kneeling on the bed, both of his hands busy. When he looked closer, one was holding a pin, and the other angling the handcuffs just so.

“When I say now, pour the water right there,” Mozzie gestured with his chin toward the flint, “a steady stream, but slowly. You got it?”

He nodded, Mozzie said now, it was such a simple solution and he hadn’t thought of it, and then Neal was free. 

They got him to the apartment Mozzie had broken into.

He choked on the fresh air, desperate breaths that were drawn in by some terrible, overpowering imperative even though they seemed to cause Neal more pain than relief.

“Gasoline fumes are heavier than oxygen.” He was told that, he repeated it now, he wondered if it was relevant. It had seemed so important to know, to be prepared, but the knowledge wasn't helping Neal breathe. 

They laid Neal on the bare floor, then pulled on his shoulder to keep him on his side—hands, supporting him while Mozzie tapped on his back.

“You’re going to be alright.” A meaningless whisper, unlikely to be heard over the struggling breaths. “It’s going to be okay.”

Time blurred after that. Seconds, minutes, hours, he truly didn’t know.

All he knew was that the scene before him was his fault. Every jagged breath, the burns, the cuts, the bruises, the begging and pleading and—-

“EMTs are here.” He suddenly heard Mozzie say. 

Help. Real help, that hadn’t had a hand in creating the damage.

Neal was taken away from his hold.

He was guided out.

Away from the place that had once been his home, the room that had once been associated with sleepless nights thinking about Elizabeth, and then that first sleepless night with Elizabeth, the kitchen he had learned to cook his pot roast, the living room he had worked countless cases in.

Foltrop was right, he would forever remember Neal as Foltrop wanted him to, tied up in his bedroom with his handcuffs paying for his sins. 

He waved the EMTs off because he hadn’t been in that apartment long enough to inhale a damaging amount. 

He first had Diana take Mozzie and follow Neal to the hospital, then he spoke to Missing Persons and let them take Foltrop away. He had Jones drive Ross, separately, to the FBI building. 

Police tape went up. The Hazardous Materials Response Unit cleared the apartment, and then insisted on clearing the entire building. When they had declared the site safe and the apartment decontaminated, Forensics went up.

He guided them back to the apartment, sharing what he knew with professional dispassion. 

He’d explained what the camera had been for, where the art had been stolen from, how the razor wire had been used. Whose blood stained the mattress cover. To sweep the top of the pipe that served as a showerhead for DNA evidence. 

He went back downstairs, his hand slipping on the bannister, but sticking as he pushed the door open

“Let me through, my husband is— Peter!”

That was—him. 

For some reason, that startled him. It felt like a secret, like a stripped privilege. 

He turned to see Elizabeth ducking under the police line, blue eyes— ones not burned, so swollen they nearly shut, not bordered by perfectly round bruises—narrowed in challenge against the uniform who looked like he was thinking about stopping her.

Peter waved his hand to signal she was alright, and Elizabeth’s face shifted into worried horror. “Honey, oh— Peter.” She said the name again like it carried a weight, heavy and hard to say.

He wondered, for a moment, how he managed to upset her too, then realized he hadn’t seen her in days. “Oh, El, I’m so sorry I haven’t—”

“You’re bleeding!” She interrupted. She pulled off the cardigan she had on, a soft, purpley one, and grabbed his hand with it. “You—why isn’t anyone helping you? ”

“I—” He stopped himself from admitting he didn’t deserve any help. “I’m helping the case, they’re collecting evidence, I was telling forensics—”

“They’re big boys Peter, they—they’ll figure it out themselves.” She squeezed his wrapped hand gently and Peter was suddenly aware of a pulsing, burning ache there. “Come on, I’m taking you to the hospital. You’re going to need stitches. You have your keys, right?”

He didn’t need to lead her to the car. It was still parked directly across the street, and in such a derelict neighborhood there were very few onlookers. El took his key and gently guided his drifting to the passenger side, but as he reached to open the car door he realized one hand was wrapped in fabric, the other was still holding the mug he’d thought he’d grown out of.

A weakness washed over him, all the adrenaline of the past twenty-four hours, of the past four days, draining in an instant. Suddenly not only did his hand ache, but his throat, his head, his legs, his chest, every inch of him. He scrambled to open the car door with his left hand and collapsed into the seat as his lungs seized up, only allowing sharp, short breaths.

The other door slammed shut, a blur in the corners of his vision, and then Elizabeth was at his door, pulling him into a hug. She squeezed him tightly, as if her arms could hold him together.

“It’s okay,” she tried to tell him. “It’s okay. You got him in time. Neal’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. Everything—everything will be okay, hon.”

It was a pretty lie to be told.

Chapter Text

“Are you…sure?” Elizabeth asked him, rubbing his arm as they stood in the elevator. “You don’t want to go up at all?” 

“No, no I—” he took a deep breath, steadying himself more. He’d been given a small dosage of pain medication for the injuries on his hand, which had been temporarily numbed for the twenty stitches scattered over different cuts and gashes across his hand and arm. It helped with the subtle ache in his chest from the gasoline fumes. Between that and being given a mild sedative, from El’s gentle insistence that it would help him relax, he felt slightly… removed. That, combined with all the stress and minimal sleep, was definitely pushing him into woozy, but it wasn’t his only reason for wanting to leave. 

“I want to go home. You heard what Mozzie said, he’s—he’s going to sleep the rest of the day, with all the medication he was given. I want to go home, be with you, take a shower, eat whatever I can, and go to bed.”

She eyed him warily, as if knowing he was lying, but she couldn’t exactly argue against Peter wanting to eat and sleep. “Alright, if you’re sure. We can come back first thing in the morning then, right as visiting hours start.”

The medication Peter was given did its job well, because he managed to push through thoughts about water pressure and get into the shower, scrubbing at his skin until the dried blood washed away and the scent of gasoline was a faint memory. It was still there if he sought it, though, even when obscured by the smells and flavors of the lunch Elizabeth made him. She waived the no-food-in-bed rule, and when he finished eating she pulled him to lay against her.

Peter did his best to relax, and finally being in his own bed, with his wife, a full stomach, and a small dose of pain medication, it wasn’t long before he fell asleep.

“No. ” He tried to pull away, twist his head away from the water-logged shirt. “I’m a liar, please—”

“I have to, I’m sorry, I have to.” his own voice followed, squeezing more onto Neal’s face.

Neal couldn’t move far with his hands still cuffed to the bed behind him, but he pulled on them anyway, eyes squeezed shut. “I’m sorry,” he tried again, “I’m a liar, I know, please, Pe—” 

Peter sat up in bed, heartbeat thundering through his ribs, the memory of gasoline a phantom pain in his lungs and a coating on his tongue, making him heave. He could hear footsteps rushing up the stairs as he stood, and he had to push past Elizabeth at the landing to get to the bathroom first, kneeling in front of the toilet just in time for the taste of gasoline to be overridden by his lunch coming back up.

Elizabeth wet a washcloth and placed it on the back of Peter’s neck— water so cold it burned his hands, Neal flinching at every drop that hit his face

“Don’t.” Peter begged, reaching behind him to pull it off. “Don’t— please.”

“Okay.” Elizabeth agreed easily, placing the washcloth in the sink, then lowering herself onto the bathroom floor next to him. “Okay, I won’t.” She rubbed at his back instead, with careful, nearly hesitant strokes.

Fifteen minutes later, she followed him back to the bedroom, softly golden in the setting sunlight. He collapsed back in the bed while she quietly grabbed the wastebasket and brought it closer to the bed.

“Do you want some peppermint tea?” She offered. “It might help your stomach.”

“No, no, I just…I just need to sleep.” Peter had never felt so heavy before. His thoughts, memories, feelings, they all had a bulkiness to them, a weight that pressed against Peter’s skull. He felt trapped between thinking about that morning, all of his mistakes that had led them to it, and forcing himself to not think about any of it. There was nothing he wanted more than to not have to think.

El gently brushed his sweaty hair away from his forehead before she pressed a kiss to the newly exposed skin. “Well, I’ll be right back then. I was just doing some work downstairs so as to not bother you, but I’ll go hit save and come back.”

Peter was asleep before she returned.

He startled awake again. Not a nightmare that time, but the rhythmic bzz bzz bzzz…bzz bzz bzzz of his phone plugged into the night stand. He didn’t remember putting it there.

He almost ignored it, the pull of sleep just within his grasp, before the bzz bzz bzzz repeated itself and he let out a small sigh. He reached out into the dark room, the sun long set, and unplugged the phone to pull it closer.

Four texts from a number not in his contacts.

Peter went to put the phone down, assuming it was someone from Missing Persons wanting to speak to him, but as his hand lowered the phone there was a pull in his gut course-correcting him. He brought the phone back and opened the messages.

1-210-555-1415

whre u?

1:48:34 a.m.

can u come hete?

1:49:13 a.m.

NC

1:49:54 a.m.

pls 

1:52:03 a.m.

Peter dropped his phone as though the sharp sensation of shame came from it, as though distancing him from those messages could somehow protect him from the reality of what he’d done; now, on top of everything, he was forcing Neal to beg him, in earnest. Would it take another fifteen years and for Neal to be tortured in this bed before he actually managed to do something right? 

He woke Elizabeth by dressing in a near-panic. He should be there, Neal should not have to ask, what had he been thinking—

He told her he was leaving, but she insisted on either driving him, or having him take a cab. 

“I have one friend in the ICU already, I don’t need my husband to join him.” She’d tried to say it lightly, but the harsh, necessary truth of the statement provided enough sting that Peter backed down from his argument immediately. He didn’t feel the drugs anymore, but she was probably right that he shouldn’t be driving. 

Her assertion was confirmed when he tried to get in the car and encountered multiple problems; he went to open the door with his right hand and a tight, sharp pain laced through his palm and fingers. Twenty stitches made themselves known then, and again when he attempted to reach for his seatbelt.

He wouldn’t have been able to drive with his hand like that, but Elizabeth’s driving could’ve rivaled his earlier racing through the city. The streets were more empty with the late night hour, so she was able to speed across, the streetlights and illuminated windows blurring in Peter’s vision as he watched out the window. 

He called Mozzie from Elizabeth’s phone on the way. 

He too thought they’d have at least a full night with Neal too sedated or tired to fully wake up, but told Peter he was too tied up at the moment to return to the hospital. 

“Taking care of loose ends.” 

Peter didn’t ask for a clarification. 

“You’re going, though?”

“I’m on the way already. About 10 minutes out.”  

“Good. Keep me posted if anything changes.”

Peter told him that he would, and it was almost jarring to him that when his attention focused on the outside world, the rushing lights had become of the individual windows of the hospital.

Behind one of those windows was Neal, who should have been asleep but wasn’t. Neal, who shouldn’t have been alone, but was. Neal, who should have been home if Peter had just—

Neal couldn’t possibly have had time to register, let alone process what had happened to him, and truly consider Peter’s continuous failure of him in every way that mattered, but it couldn't have evaded him entirely. If Foltrop had given him even an abridged version of the accusations he'd hurled at Peter, Neal couldn't be far behind him in coming to the same conclusion. Peter wasn't sure whether it was momentary blindness to Peter's role, or whether he required something specific of him, but he assumed it had to be one of the two for Neal to ask for him; once he either came to his senses regarding how much of this was Peter’s fault or received what he needed, he wouldn’t want Peter near him again. For a selfish heartbeat or two, Peter wondered if coming to see Neal was the best course of action, whether giving him space would be best for both of them. Then he realized that what Neal had or hadn’t processed shouldn’t be  his main concern: either way, Peter wouldn’t be able to take another pleading text message from Neal.

The hospital’s antiseptic scent tried to trigger the spasms in Peter’s lungs once again, the first breath of it causing his stomach to flip, but he forced himself to take a deeper breath and push through it. Neal was up there, somewhere, waiting for him.

It took longer than it should have, three people, two nurses stations, and Peter holding out his FBI badge as permission to come after visiting hours, before he was given a room number in the ICU.

“Is she FBI too?” The receptionist asked, pointing the tip of her pen at Elizabeth.

Peter was just about to answer yes without a second thought when Elizabeth squeezed his hand gently. “You go on ahead honey. I’ll go wait in the car until you find out more, and if you decide to stay longer I’ll head home.”

Peter hated leaving her behind again, after he had sent her away over a threat that was never about her, but he nodded and kissed her a gentle goodbye before heading in the right direction.

One nurse was standing outside the room, helplessly hovering as though she hoped the ruckus from within would resolve itself before she had to intervene. 

Peter didn’t let himself hesitate before walking through the door.

“—rey, please,” the nurse inside was saying, less like a request and more like a demand. “Be reasonable. You asked for us to remove the bandages, so we did, but you still kept struggling! These restraints aren’t a punishment, they’re keeping you safe. As long as you’re struggling, you’re risking dislodging the ventilator, and that’s life threatening. Do you understand that?” 

Peter wasn’t sure how she expected Neal to answer with the ventilator filling his mouth, his throat. He breathed mechanically, reclined against the raised back of the bed, eyes still firmly shut but less swollen and a little less red. His wrists were secured to either side of the bed—the straps had plenty of slack, like the nurse said, they had probably only been intended to stop him from disrupting the tubing that was helping him breathe—and a whiteboard rested on his lap, but between the dim yellow light and the state of his eyes, Peter couldn’t really see how Neal would be able to use that, either. 

Peter belatedly realized why those messages from Neal, usually an immaculate speller and typist, had been so sloppy.

He couldn’t see. 

Peter was already well inside the room before either of them noticed him, but he took a step back and knocked on the open door, anyway. 

“Neal?” 

The nurse turned to look at him, the contents of the big stainless steel bowl in her hand sloshing slightly as she did. 

Neal turned his head towards him as well, and Peter barely saw his eyelashes flutter against the terrible paleness of his skin before the nurse intervened. 

“Eyes! They stay closed, or the bandages go back on, remember?” 

Neal shut his eyes as she demanded, but reached for the dry erase marker in his lap. He uncapped it and wrote on the whiteboard, in sloping lines, please stop her. 

He held the board up for Peter, but as the nurse, who was standing not far from him, read it, she let out an annoyed huff.

“What’s going on here?” Peter asked, as he stepped closer to the bed. He hesitated. He wanted to reassure Neal that he was here, and here for him; but he knew his touch would be unwanted, and that voicing those sentiments would only advertise Neal’s vulnerability to the nurse, which would be almost as bad. In the end, Peter pressed his hand into the side of the bed, signaling his closeness, before he put one hand on Neal’s leg. 

Neal flinched at the touch, and Peter withdrew his hand.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” She demanded back. 

“Agent Burke, FBI.” Peter said, fumbling for his badge before reaching for it with his unbandaged left hand. “Mr. Caffrey is my partner. Why is he being restrained?”

“Well, maybe you can—actually, can we speak outside?” 

She looked significantly at Neal, then at the open door. She obviously didn’t want to discuss whatever was going on with Neal in front of him. 

Peter didn’t care what she wanted though, as he looked down at Neal. He may not be ready for Peter’s—or anyone’s—touch, but if Neal had gone out of his way, had worked so hard in his current state to get Peter to flash his badge and advocate for him, then Peter wasn’t going anywhere.

“We can talk here. I don’t make medical decisions for him unless he’s impaired.” 

She pursed her lips, looked to Neal, back at Peter, and decided, apparently, that she wasn’t going to mince words. “Well, he might be impaired.” 

She described to Peter how Neal had woken up hours earlier than anyone had anticipated—his own doctor wasn’t even on shift at the moment, and the on-call physician hadn’t been able to come around yet—and, in her words, frankly, lost his—mind. The way she paused before that last word made Peter think she’d substituted it at the last moment.

As she continued describing what she termed a violent response, Neal wiped at the board with broad strokes of the palm of his hand, and soon he held up a sloppy couldn’t SEE. Peter was looking anyway, but Neal nudged the hand resting on the side of his bed, and Peter, at first surprised at the initiated contact, recovered quickly and squeezed Neal’s leg lightly to let him know he’d seen. 

He’d seen, and he was livid, mostly at himself, then at his nurse, and a little at Mozzie.

Neal had woken up alone, with a tube deep in his throat and his eyes covered? Peter did not need an overactive imagination to see how quickly that would have been interpreted as another, newer game of Foltrop’s. 

“...obviously had to restrain him,” the nurse was saying, “because he was pulling at his bandages and the ventilator, no manner of explaining where he was helped. I understand that he was brought in under special circumstances, but Mr. Caffrey, just…” She lowered her voice and cast a look towards Peter, a condescending, belittling version of compassion. “He isn’t really in a position to be calling the shots, medically speaking. Case in point,” She held up the stainless steel bowl again as though that should mean something to Peter. 

He checked in with Neal, who had nothing to add via the whiteboard, then turned back to her, blankly. 

“We’ve attempted to wash him already, to remove the remaining gasoline from exposed surface areas,” Neal flinched at the casual mention, and Peter squeezed his leg more firmly. This nurse was starting to get under his skin. “He was fine while we washed his body, but I came back with warm, clean water to wash his face and hair, and he started—”

“Losing his mind?” Peter asked, and the nurse nodded, almost in vindication that Peter saw her point. 

Instead what he saw was Neal, holding completely, abnormally still, the only movement his chest expanding and deflating dutifully, with his brow furrowed as he followed the conversation. 

Peter’s nightmare was still fresh enough in his mind to fill in the missing pieces. 

The drops of water, dripping from Peter’s shirt to Neal’s face, sliding down as he begged, no, I’m a liar, please. 

At what point in this ordeal had Neal texted Peter? When he’d first woken, unseeing and unable to speak? 

When they tied him down? 

When they tried to reenact the worst days of his life? 

And Peter had almost ignored him. 

But he was here now, and he needed to do something. “First of all, he’s calm now. Can he be untied?” 

“He clearly can’t be trusted alone while he’s awake. We could possibly give him a bed outside in view of the nursing station, but we need eyes on him to stop him when he tries to pull out the ventilator again.” She turned to Neal and asked, with grandiose kindness, “Would you like us to move you to the hallway?” 

As though letting him choose between privacy and autonomy was a generosity. 

Peter answered her.   

“I’m staying with him,” Peter said, “I can stop him, if I need to.” He said with a reassuring squeeze of Neal’s leg. “And I can do that, too.” 

He pointed to the bowl, when the nurse still watched him skeptically. 

He realized her skepticism was entirely earned. He was taking liberties with Neal’s comfort that he hadn’t, couldn’t possibly have earned. With the exception of Gil Foltrop, Peter might be the last person Neal would trust with such a task. Peter didn’t know how much he remembered from his rescue, but he clearly remembered enough to resist the nurse's administration of care. 

He addressed Neal. “I’m sure you’d rather I didn’t either, but we have to get the gasoline off you, Neal. Will you let me wash your face, your hair?” 

Neal seemed to gather himself, but after a few moments, he nodded. He picked up the pen, scrawled he can do it and held the board up.

“Are you…sure Mr. Caffrey?” She said Neal’s name but she looked at Peter. “You had quite an intense reaction before, do you really want your… friend to see that?”

For a second, Peter almost regretted offering. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to feel Neal pull against him again, for him to want to plead the way he had, for Peter to once again be an accomplice to his harm. 

Before he could think anything further on the subject though, Neal held up his board. I trust him.

Peter could tell she took Neal’s words as censure of her own trustworthiness, and she either expected or hoped for the attempt to go poorly, but all she said was, “Well, that’s fine with me then,” with an exaggeratingly sweet tone, obviously relieved that Neal would temporarily be someone else’s problem. “I’ll get you fresh water, then. This batch has gone cold.” 

She left, and as soon as she was out the door Peter turned more fully to face Neal. 

Peter assumed he was still undressed from the first sponge bath, but he wondered idly if they just hadn’t bothered with a hospital gown at all with Neal in the state he was in. Neal’s torso was wholly wrapped in what looked like one, continuous bandage running from waist to sternum. His arms were similarly wrapped, individual fingers through to his shoulders. Only his neck was exposed, and even it had patches of smaller bandages covering what they could. There were even a few loops of bandage around his head, making his hair stick up in slightly odd directions.

Peter wondered just how many stitches Neal had needed, then found he was afraid of finding out. 

He had twenty, just on his own hand, from handling the wire for maybe three minutes. But Neal?

With the nurse gone, Peter got to work undoing the buckles around the wrist restraints, taking in Neal’s appearance as he did. There was a deep, aged bruise of a handprint peeking between the bandages across Neal’s neck, along with more bruising littering his face and the small sections of skin further down. Chemical burns created swollen welting across his eyes, slick with a layer of some kind of ointment.

There was a pull deep inside him as he inventoried Neal’s external injuries, of the consuming numbness from earlier, similar to the one that got him through emotionally taxing missions or necessary kills, but amped up to an uncharted degree. It tried to slink in, reassert itself, comprehend him in a hug that would shut everything out because sometimes, it was okay to take a step back emotionally to get the job done. 

Peter shook it off. Neal had asked for him to come, had asked Peter to be there, and for as long as he was wanted, as long as he was capable of being useful, he would be here. Fully.

“I’m sorry, Neal,” Peter started. There was so much to be sorry for, layered and compressed and compounded, but he started with, “They told us you’d be out till morning. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I had El take me home—” 

Again, Neal wiped at the board, uncapped the marker. OK. 

“It’s not. Someone should have been here.” 

Neal didn’t bother with writing. He just held up the board again, giving it an exaggerated shake that made Peter smile in a way he was glad Neal couldn't see. It was bitter, and filled with loathing. 

Neal, offering him the same grace of forgiveness Peter had betrayed over and over again. He'd allowed himself to fall for Gil's manipulations, had sent Neal into drunken despair, and allowed him to be taken and tortured by his own enemies. Gil had been right, Peter really was the seventh man in their crew, an equal a partner of their successful torture of Neal. He took days to find him, then left him injured and alone in the hospital; and Neal either didn't fully comprehend the magnitude of sins he'd suffered, or worse—he decided it was safer to suffer them in silence. 

Peter couldn't possibly accept what Neal was trying to give him, but he also couldn't add undermining Neal to his list of transgressions. “Alright, I hear you.”

Neal laid the white board back in his lap and ran his finger across it, approximating where his last message would have ended. He used his left hand as a reference point while he added something, a quick motion, then held up the board again.

OK?

Peter’s mouth went dry and his heart ached solemnly, but he reached forward to squeeze one of Neal’s newly released, heavily bandaged wrists, an instinct that bypassed his reluctance to add unwanted touch where there had so recently been so much of it. “Me? Yeah, yeah I’m okay.”

He kept Neal’s wrist in his hand until the nurse returned, holding out two bowls and a towel. She demonstrated on Peter’s own arm the gentle pressure to put on Neal’s face, then showed him how to go about washing Neal’s hair. 

Peter was sure that offering was the right thing to do, but now that he stood faced with the task, he wasn’t sure how he could complete it. His right hand was bandaged, and it would take some maneuvering to keep it dry. 

He tried a few options, but in the end he just threw two latex gloves over it and set to his task. 

The first time water hit his forehead Neal tried to pull his head away, as far as the ventilator would let him. Peter let him, and waited until he composed himself enough to lay back once more before he tried a different method. He dipped his unbandaged hand into the water, shook off the drops, then carefully ran his fingers across Neal’s face. “It’s okay, yeah? It’s me. I won’t hurt you.”

Peter was never very good at comforting people, but he said what he thought Neal needed to hear, and Neal gave a slight nod as he listened, letting Peter continue. Neal kept his eyes shut and his head high and back, and Peter kept the bandaged hand gently touching his face while he washed with the other. He didn’t beg, didn’t flinch, but his hands stayed bunched into the sheets strongly enough to pull them clear off the corners of the mattress, so Peter went as slowly as he could. 

It took nearly thirty minutes to wash his face, inch by inch, drop by drop, before he moved on to Neal’s hair. He washed it in a similar fashion, wetting his hand first and then carefully running it across the strands until it was saturated enough for shampoo. The hypoallergenic shampoo smelled like nothing, and Peter almost resented the lack of scent as the newly wet hair emanated the smell of gasoline, but as he worked the lather the soap did its job, and the scent slowly faded away. 

Neal tensed under his touch only once more, when Peter’s fingers approached the perfect, two-inch square that was bandaged near the crown of his head. The injury Foltrop had given Neal when he’d taken him from his home had been shaved down and covered. Peter had grazed the strands too close to the wound, and Neal flinched away from his touch, this time a reflex of pain rather than worry. Peter washed that section more quickly and precisely, so that he could move on faster.

Peter knew that he barely saw what Neal had been through, how the gasoline had been used, what he’d been forced to say when it was. But, with the little he did see, and what he saw now as Neal suffered for the sake of recovery, he thought Neal must be the single bravest man he knew. 

When they finished, Peter set the bowl aside and ran his fingers through Neal’s hair. It was a poor replacement for a proper comb, but he didn’t think that Neal would want to be seen wild-haired. 

Especially not when he couldn’t see himself. 

“Have the nurses or doctors told you anything about your eyes?” Peter asked as he gently pressed the towel to Neal’s hair. “Other than vague threats to keep them closed, that is?” 

Neal wiped the board clean, and wrote, some damage. tomorrow know more. 

It was infuriatingly vague, but Peter knew it must be worse for Neal, so he let it go. He gave Neal’s hair a few more careful squeezes with the towel before he folded it up and set it aside with the bowls. He fixed the raised corners of the fitted sheet and pulled the blankets back down around Neal’s legs before he moved to sit in the chair next to the bed. 

“Alright, we’re done with that now.” He said, then stopped. “I’m sure you’re tired, that was…I just mean you probably want to sleep?”

Neal froze again behind the steady breathing forced on him. 

Peter understood the meaning of the tension, and answered an unasked question. “I’m staying either way, Neal. Was just wondering if we should turn off the light.” 

Neal erased the board again, and wrote a longer message. Parts of it overlapped as his handwriting drifted, but it was easily readable. soon. not yet. Beneath that, he wrote, thank you for coming.

“Of course Neal. I should’ve talked to Mozzie, should’ve known you were on your own—”

Neal cut him off with a slight wave of his hand before he quickly scribbled on the bottom of the board a single word. there.

“There?” Peter asked as he reread the message, with understanding snapping into a harsh focus. thank you for coming there.

Accepting thanks from Neal over his rescue felt grotesque, worse even than the memories of Neal begging. Foltrop had offered thanks on his behalf, thanked him for the role he played in putting Neal in that place, and now Neal was thanking him for getting him out. He wanted neither; Foltrop’s thanks were a cynical mockery of Peter’s intentions, and Neal’s were a fundamental misunderstanding of Peter’s volition in saving Neal. He’d had no choice. Doing otherwise could never be an option. 

He shook his head, remembered Neal couldn’t see, and said, “We can talk about all that tomorrow. In the meantime, you really should rest.”

Neal felt around the bed until he found the remote and lowered it into a flatter position. but he kept shifting. His hands twitched, curling against the sheets, his legs shifting underneath the blankets Peter had just fixed. Peter didn’t know how he had the energy to be restless; even regardless of the meds he received when he arrived, he should be physically exhausted. 

Peter slid his chair a little closer and rested his hand on the side of the bed; not touching Neal exactly, but letting his weight lay on the bed so he could tell he was there. That seemed to ease some of the tension in Neal, as the restless fidgeting slowly stopped.

He was halfway through texting Elizabeth that she could leave when Neal suddenly jerked, as though he’d fallen asleep in a meeting and was trying to pretend he hadn’t. Peter paused his typing, watching as Neal, briefly, reached for the tube; but before Peter could say anything, Neal’s hand changed direction, feeling across the bed. His head tilted towards Peter, his eyes cracked open and shut just as quickly, once again before Peter could remind him of the nurse’s instructions. 

Neal wasn’t restless, Peter realized. He was worried. Worried that if he let his guard down, he might wake up alone again. 

He sent a quick text to El with a request, then he started shifting more, moving the chair he was in, crossing and recrossing his legs, clearing his throat more often than he needed, anything to create a constant hum of noise that showed his presence so that Neal could hang on to it. Neal’s own restive twitching stopped. 

When his phone buzzed with a message from Elizbeth that she was waiting by the nurse’s station, Peter told Neal he’d be stepping into the hall for a moment. Tension flooded Neal’s frame, from his locked knees all the way to his taut jaw. 

Peter hesitated. He didn’t think Neal would appreciate any overt displays that would highlight just how far his masks had dropped, but he knew for certain that he couldn’t walk away as though he hadn’t seen Neal’s distress.

“Here,” Peter took out his phone, unlocked it, and pulled up El’s number. He slid it into Neal’s hold. “Elizabeth’s number is dialed in, if something comes up. But I’ll be just down the hall, and then right back. ”

Neal’s hand squeezed around the phone, then he suddenly stilled again. For a moment Peter’s anxiety rose, worried Neal truly didn’t trust his word, but then Neal held one hand up while the other reached around the bed and under the mattress. He pulled out another phone, small and cracked, and offered it to Peter. When Peter flipped it open, he was greeted by a charming photo of the nurse that was there when Peter first came in.

Another regretful smile pulled at Peter then. Despite everything Foltrop had done to him, after all the ways Peter had failed him, Neal’s core—the bravery, the determination, the intuition—remained unshaken. Everything that Foltrop had managed to undermine and dull in Peter remained brightly shining in Neal.

He deserved better.

Peter returned the bowl to the ICU nurses’ station, taking the chance to quietly slide the phone in an inconspicuous but discoverable location, then headed towards the entrance to the wing, where he gave Elizabeth a quick kiss and apologized for keeping her waiting for so long. 

“It’s okay, hon. I knew Neal needed you, and I’m just glad to be useful, too,” she said, as she handed him the book. “I didn’t bring my card or anything, so this is the best I could buy with the cash that was in the car. Give Neal my love.” 

He returned to Neal with a novel, a silly book adorned by a buxom woman and a muscular man contorted around one another.

“El picked up a book for me to read,” Peter said when he returned. Neal returned his phone to him as he sat down. “Apparently hospitals and airports have similar options.” 

He settled into his seat, using the edge of the bed to balance the book so he could turn the pages with his good hand, and read, “Pride and Privileges…” 

When Neal raised his eyebrows in response, Peter smiled. “Well, when Mozzie comes he can read to you something with a bit more class. Proust or Dostoevsky, maybe Kierkegaard if you’d prefer something light.”

He read it aloud until Neal dozed off, and then he continued just in case Neal would snap awake again in that same, incoherent worry. 

By the time Peter dozed off, resting his hand on crossed arms on the bed, it was nearly six a.m. 

It was the best sleep he had in five days.

Chapter Text

Peter woke up before Neal, gratefully, and managed to meet the doctors at the door when they’d tried to come in for their early rounds. He stepped halfway into the hall to talk, but stayed angled enough to keep his eyes on the bed.

Peter was given a catalogue of injuries and suspected damage, of probabilities and statistics, of short term risks, long term risks. So many things that depended on so many others—how strong Neal’s system was, whether he responded to early treatment, how much, if any, ameliorative care he’d had during the days he’d been tortured, how much gasoline had been inhaled or absorbed through open wounds—that really it amounted to we’ll have to wait and see. 

When Peter told them that Neal had barely rested at all last night, and had only truly fallen asleep a few hours ago, they agreed to bump him to the end of their rounds. 

Peter looked back at Neal, wishing desperately he could reclaim the quiet calm of these last few hours, but he knew it was already gone. Neal would soon wake up into his reality of pain, discomfort, and fear; and Peter had to navigate the dual responsibility of having put him there, and getting him out. 

Still in the doorway, he texted Jones for updates on what was going on in the FBI. It hadn’t been an active decision, but somewhere along the line, even before Neal’s kidnapping, he’d completely disengaged from a majority of his professional responsibilities. Now it was time to resume them. 

Peter silenced his phone before he went to sit by Neal again, so the incoming barrage of email notifications wouldn’t disturb his sleep, and he returned to his spot resting against Neal’s bed.

Jones had let Missing Persons handle the evidence from the crime scene, partially because it was more their wheelhouse, but mostly because no one at the office had wanted to review nearly 18 hours of Foltrop’s sessions with Neal. The little they had seen in the small hours of Tuesday morning had been bad enough. 

Peter received the reports, though, and he knew he couldn’t delegate those, or ignore them. 

They were painfully detailed. Approximation of how much gasoline had been poured on Neal; minimum exposure in minutes based on the videos; the length of each ice-cold shower; total minutes of oxygen deprivation, sorted in charts by method (suffocation or manual strangulation), duration, and time till loss and regaining of consciousness where applicable; blunt trauma; forced emesis; penetrating trauma; and based on the testimony of Ross Lewis, also degrees of starvation and sleep deprivation. 

Peter scrolled to the next report before the current one could catch up to him. 

Foltrop wasn’t saying much of anything, but since he’d been arrested on the roof with a smart switch and a thumb drive of all the raw footage, and they had the equipment he’d fully intended would burn, they didn’t need a confession from him. 

Ross Lewis had been giving his statement from the time Jones took him in and until four that morning, with only brief breaks to confer with his lawyer. He hadn’t asked for one, but Jones insisted. He didn’t want any grounds for the testimony to be dismissed. 

Apparently, he regretted his involvement about half a day after they’d grabbed Neal from his apartment. He had been mad at Peter, and he’d been on board with the break ins, with paying off their marks’ neighbors, and with hurting Neal to achieve their joint revenge, but Foltrop’s games had grown too cruel, even for him. 

He gave a thorough account—too thorough, at times—of each day he and Foltrop had had Neal. He’d detailed for Jones the violences that had happened off camera, the “conversations” Gil had held with Neal to keep him from sleeping, the punishments Neal would incur for angering him. 

He also laid claims Peter wanted to believe, but didn’t dare to: small kindnesses like helping Neal rinse out his eyes, washing the gasoline away from the bed, sneaking him food when Foltrop was in the bathroom or downstairs for a smoke. Lewis even claimed that he’d promised Neal he would call Peter for him, and swore that he tried.

That last claim, at least, should be easy enough to verify. 

The rest of the emails were forms for him to sign (or Diana to forge), reports to file, and a post-op declaration of resources used. Peter glanced through those, but he knew they could wait. 

Peter shared the relevant details with the nurses, doing his best to ignore their horror as they took down notes for Neal’s file, then returned to Neal’s side and reread the reports. Peter owed him the respect of being proficient in his injuries. 

It was the least he owed him, but it wasn’t possibly enough. Peter paused when he caught his own name in the reports. He perused a little onwards, eyes flitting across the rest of the page, words like belt and lashes as he gained a picture of the context. Then he looked away 

Peter was interrupted only twice: once was the nurse from last night, now slightly frazzled after a nightshift as she went room-to-room asking whether she had left her phone there. Peter took some delight in her mild inconvenience after her approach to Neal, but he made sure his features were carefully neutral as he suggested he may have seen it by the front desk. The second time was the doctors who had finally completed their rounds, and could not put off waking Neal up any longer. 

Peter took a few steps back, trusting Neal with them, but before Peter could even recognize the uninformed energy at which he approached Neal, a young doctor—an intern he thought—shook the foot of the bed and loudly sing-songed, “Mr. Caffrey!” 

He was too late to stop it, but indignation cut through his incredulous stupor, and Peter was fast to act. 

He pushed back through the gaggle of doctors, and was at Neal’s side just as his eyes sprung open. A combination of sleep, time, and the salve had done much to reduce their swell, and he was able to open them wider than he’d been able the night before. 

The unfocused terror was written there in a red and blue map. 

Peter held on to Neal’s wrists before he could reach for the tubing, and leaned over so he was within his line of sight. “Neal, it’s me. You’re in the hospital, they brought you in yesterday, do you remember? You’re okay, you’re safe. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. The doctors are just here to look you over, that’s what woke you up, but you’re safe.” 

Peter had run out of things to say as Neal’s eyes frantically searched everything they could register, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Peter threw a glare behind him at the intern who had shaken the bed, then refocused on Neal, who was now looking at him. 

“You need to keep your eyes closed, remember?” Peter tried to remind him gently. “Or that terrible nurse from last night will be back in here. Oh—and here’s your board,” Peter reached for the board he’d moved off of Neal’s lap when he fell asleep last night, and placed it in his hands. 

He waited a beat, and when Neal shut his eyes Peter supposed he was back with it. “I’m not going anywhere, okay?” repeated. 

Leaning close, Peter whispered, “Even when you can’t feel me, it doesn't mean I’ve left.” Then he stood. 

“You,” he singled out the doctor who had given him the update earlier. “You’re Neal’s physician?” 

The oldest doctor of the group nodded. “These are the doctors currently assigned to the ICU,” he pointed to one group, “and these are the interns,” he said, gesturing at the other. 

“Maybe that works in the other rooms, but not this one.” 

He pulled up his badge, and held it steadily in front of the group, making a point to make lingering eye contact with the intern nearest the bed. “Everyone out. Not you,” he clarified to Neal’s own doctor. 

In the end, two more doctors stayed behind, but Peter was assured they were both department heads—an ophthalmologist and internist—and brought in specifically to consult on Neal’s case. 

Peter took his place by Neal, and he didn’t say anything and Neal didn’t raise the board for him, but he could see the thanks written there, and it hurt less that time.

With just the three doctors, and Peter, Neal was far calmer, and the examination proceeded quickly and without further incident. 

Neal’s doctor, a pulmonologist in his fifties named Sumner, started by asking whether Neal was still nauseous and dizzy. Neal shook his head, and Peter felt a fresh stab of guilt that he hadn’t even known Neal had suffered those symptoms when he’d been brought in. He said he’d let Neal complete twenty-four hours on the ventilator, to make sure the gasoline fumes were fully drawn out, then begin the weaning process. If that went well, they could remove the tube before lunch. 

The internist explained the delayed risks to the liver, pancreas, and kidneys, and told Neal that they’d be ordering more bloodwork, and left early with a sample from Neal’s catheter bag. 

The ophthalmologist was far kinder than the other two, and consequently scarier. 

But Peter’s job wasn’t to be scared. He asked the appropriate questions and squeezed Neal’s leg for support during the examination, like he had last night, and told the doctor that he’d discuss Neal’s options with him as soon as they were alone. 

Between the blood tests, the nurses’ coming in and out, and then the beginning of the breathing trial, Peter hadn’t had even a minute alone with Neal. He stayed by his side though, talking him through it, explaining in a quiet voice anything happening that Neal couldn’t see. He told him when Mozzie texted a check in, and Neal wrote a small message on his white board, saying he was okay but asked for Mozzie to wait. 

Peter explained to Mozzie, in so many words, the bedside manner Neal had been dealing with, plus that there were doctors almost constantly in and out. Mozzie agreed to come later, once the buzz had died down.

Then, it was time to extubate. 

Peter wasn’t allowed in the room during extubation and the medical staff didn’t trust Neal’s reactions without him, so they decided to anesthetize for the removal. Even though he had passed his spontaneous breathing, Peter was scared that Neal would come back with the damn tube still shoved down his throat, that he would have to face Neal’s disappointment and fear all over again; face even more of his suffering.

He didn’t, though, because Neal was rolled back without it, his breaths slow and even. After a few minutes Peter realized the beat was off; on his own, Neal’s breaths were a little shorter than they had been before. The artificial pacing Peter had grown accustomed to was now gone, and he had never been more grateful.

Neal had been in the recovery room for half an hour before being wheeled back, so they assured Peter that the anesthesia would wear off soon, but with Neal’s cumulative exhaustion still hanging over him, there was the possibility he would be out for a while.

Peter should’ve known better than to let his guard down when the initial fifteen minutes passed. Neal had been fighting to be awake since he’d been brought to the hospital. 

Peter had stepped by the window to text an update to all the critical parties: good news, Neal was breathing on his own and might be up for visitor—

“...Peter?”

The voice was small, hoarse, hesitant, and Peter had never been more grateful to hear it. He nearly dropped his phone entirely in his rush to get back to the bed.

For the moment he didn’t care that Neal was ignoring the doctor’s orders, because Neal was awake and he was breathing and he was looking at Peter. “Hi,” Neal breathed out.

“Hi.” Peter couldn’t tell if he was laughing or crying his relief as he pulled his chair closer. “You—your eyes are supposed to stay closed, Neal.”

“Oh.” Neal hummed, and he closed his eyes again. They remained closed for a few minutes, the grogginess of the anesthesia weighing on him. For a moment he patted across his lap, looking for the whiteboard, but then remembered he could talk—whisper, really—on his own. “Water?”

Peter probably would’ve gotten Neal anything he asked right then, his relief peaking anew every time he heard Neal speak, but he settled for grabbing the cup of ice chips the nurse had left with him. 

“Ice, not water.” He warned as he moved the small spoon to Neal’s lips. “It’s supposed to be better, to help the irritation in your throat go down.”

Neal took three spoonfuls before he held a hand up for a break, coughing a few times. It was almost like he could sense Peter’s worry as he did, because with the next breath— Neal’s breath, entirely on his own— he said, “I’m okay. Just…throat’s sore.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Been…through a lot.” Peter tried to calm his anxieties by reaching out for Neal again, a gentle hand on his shoulder, but he pulled it back before he made contact. He was thinking of his own comfort, not Neal’s. 

“Do you need anything else, or just some more rest?”

Neal’s hands smoothed over the bed idly as he considered. He took a deep breath, shallower than at his fittest but all human, and said, “Liked you reading.”

That was how Elizabeth and Mozzie, carrying a few bags of take out and one of Neal’s suitcases, walked in on Peter, caught up in reading a…vivacious scene aloud to a sleeping Neal.

“He’s gonna want to be awake for Penelothe’s quickening in the hands of Chadum. Might as well take a break, Suit,” Mozzie said as he drew near, his voice low. “But I laud your taste. Jane Heartstrong is an excellent writer.” 

Peter jumped a little as he snapped the book shut, embarrassed at what he’d been reading and mortified that he’d been so caught up in it he hadn’t noticed the others come in. “It’s—I was just—El picked it up last night, and Neal liked it,” he stammered, and stood to offer his chair to Elizabeth. 

“Seemed like you were enjoying it too, hon.” Elizabeth waved away his offer, leaning over to kiss him once he sat back down. 

“Should have known it was Mrs. Suit’s superior taste,” Mozzie seemed to chide himself, and Elizabeth smiled at him before holding up the bags she bore. 

“We picked up some lunch on our way, and I made some soup last night which should be safe to eat after extubation, just in case Neal has been cleared to eat?”

He had been, small doses, with careful instructions and numerous warnings of what to look out for.

Neither of them asked how Neal was doing, which Peter appreciated. After a few minutes of chatting in a low voice, Mozzie gestured for Peter to follow him out into the hall, and when Peter stood Elizabeth took the book from his hands. 

“Let me catch up,” she said and took his seat, already flipping past the title page. 

Peter followed Mozzie out, angling himself again so he could see Neal’s bed over Mozzie’s head. Neal had seemed better the last time he woke, but he didn’t think it was fair to either of them to have him snap into panicked wakefulness under Elizabeth’s watch. 

Mozzie cut to the chase. 

“I had a friend of certain… raptorial notoriety, who shall remain nameless, track down users who paid for the livestream. There were some within prison who couldn’t be found, but some used their real credit cards to buy in,” Mozzie said, handing Peter a file from within his messenger bag. 

“Some were watching on the outside, using their real phones on an anonymous browser.” He snorted the last two words, and handed Peter another folder. 

“And these last four,” he said, pulling out another, thinner folder, “are… Well, you know. It seems that they no longer felt safe in prison, and have signed confessions to their role in what happened to Neal in exchange for administrative segregation.” 

Peter opened the file, but couldn’t tear his gaping gaze away from Mozzie. “They just… Spontaneously felt unsafe?” He asked, a little desperately. He did not want to have to arrest Mozzie. 

Mozzie tilted his head back and forth in a little dance, as though physically oscillating on how much to say. He landed on, “Not only is Navarro out for blood against the people involved in the death of his enforcer, but Neal Caffrey has some unsavory criminal connections. A late-night visit from a lawyer explained the situation to them, and oversaw their confessions to the warden. I think you’ll find it’s all perfectly legal.” 

Peter dropped his eyes to the file. He flipped through four signed confessions, four orders of segregation. From four inmates in three different prisons. Sing Sing and Barksdale were ninety minutes away in opposite directions, and driving up and down to Five Points must have taken Mozzie most of the night. 

“I leave the pursuit of their legal ramifications to you, Suit. For however long they remain in prison, they’ll insist on staying in solitary, where their only company will be prison guards who weren’t too happy that they attacked FBI.” 

Peter raised his eyes to find Mozzie looking back at him, and as far as Peter was given permission to read him, he was being open, honest. No games. “Neal is off limits. That much is now clear.” 

All the things that Peter couldn’t afford to feel were fighting their way to the surface. He wasn't sure how much longer he’d be able to keep them submerged. 

“A vulture isn’t a raptor,” he said, and hoped that Mozzie was able to read him, too. 

“Whatever, Suit,” Mozzie answered, turning his back on Peter and leading them back into the room. “Oh, and you may want to push up your wife’s checkup on her car. It overheats on highways.” 

Peter huffed a small laugh, helpless but also grateful, and it caused Elizabeth to look up, slightly flushed, from the book. 

Peter tried to tease her back but Elizabeth very straightforwardly owned up to the parts she liked, which made Peter flush uncomfortably and Mozzie launch into a short but… vivid lecture on the historical depiction of sex in romance novels. Peter didn’t know how to react, and was very respectfully begging El to make it stop, when he noticed that Neal was awake, eyes open beneath lowered lashes, taking in the scene. 

He clocked Peter looking and gave a half-guilty shrug; the other half of it plainly said what can you possibly do about it? 

“Neal,” Peter said, not sure himself if the word was painted with more relief at how calm the transition from sleep to alertness had been, or more exasperated that he was already ignoring the doctor’s instructions. 

Neal dutifully shut his eyes with a sigh, like he was merely placating Peter, and said, “Hi Moz, El.” 

Peter stayed a little back, allowing the others a chance to visit properly with Neal, but made sure to remain part of the conversation just in case Neal still felt the need to be assured of his presence. 

Elizabeth was positioning the bedside table and pulling out the soup she’d brought when Peter’s phone buzzed. 

“I gotta take this,” Peter said, stepping forward to squeeze Neal’s leg, “but you’ll be alright with El and Mozzie?”

Neal smiled and nodded. “I’m about to eat for the first time in days. I’ll be okay.”

Peter felt how his leg tensed under his grip though, so he tried to hurry.

"Hello?"

" Burke ." Hughes' firm voice greeted him back.

"Hello sir," Peter stepped further away from the door to make sure no one inside the room could hear him. “If this is about my statement over yesterday's events, I'm working on it, but—"

" No, nothing like that ." Hughes quickly spoke over him, quieting Peter's explanation. " I'm actually standing by the nurse station here. They said you needed to be contacted about any visitors for Caffrey. " 

Peter had been directing all his resources to keeping his emotions around Neal in check that he hadn’t been prepared for the flood that washed over him, emotions tumbling one over another with such speed Peter could barely tell them apart; relief, shock, anger, confusion.

The one he recognized clearly was certainty, certainty that Hughes couldn’t come back to the room, not when Neal was safe and happy for the first time in days, or more likely weeks. 

“I’ll…come out and see you. We can talk.”

Peter was not only willing to fight for Neal’s privacy, he was almost hoping it would come to it, so he might finally undo the weight of having done nothing to protect Neal since the Salomone murder, within the FBI and without. But Hughes seemed to have worked out the delicate dynamic while he waited, and before Peter could so much as greet him Hughes nodded toward the hall that extended to his left. 

“There’s a sitting area down that way,” he said, and led Peter away from the ICU. “Jones and Berrigan are eager to have their turn, but I wanted to be the one to come and talk to you and Caffrey first. Oh, these are for him.” He held out a small vase of fresh flowers and a card.

Peter picked up his pace so he was walking abreast with Reese. With some hesitancy, he took the offerings. “Neal isn’t really up to visitors right now, Reese. It’s—”

Hughes raised one newly-freed hand to cut Peter off, and used the other to push a glass door open into a small courtyard lined with backless plastic benches. “I understand, Peter. I’m very aware of how difficult all of this must be for him, and for you, for that matter.” He paused, then chose the bench farthest from the door. He unbuttoned his jacket before taking a seat, and Peter, now holding the vase, had to sit, as well. 

“Reese—”

“No,” Hughes cut him off firmly. “I've read each report as soon as it was filed, reviewed the evidence cataloged, looked over the crime scene photos, I’ve read all the statements from Missing Persons’ personnel that recounted your actions at the crime scene, your injuries.” He gestured to Peter’s bandaged hand, and Peter felt the urge to hide it in his pocket, but it was holding the card. 

“I even,” Hughes hesitated for a moment, swallowing a breath more than taking it. Peter watched his Adam’s apple shift, wondering if he’d ever seen him display such uncertainty. “I watched a little of the recordings, but…it didn’t feel… fair, to Caffrey, I mean. Missing Persons are already all over it, he deserves the respect of as few people witnessing that ordeal as possible, especially when there’s other work to be done. 

“On that note, straight from here I’m actually heading over to Sing Sing, tomorrow I’ll be going to Barksdale, and on Monday I’ll be driving up to White Point.” 

Peter almost forgot to act surprised at hearing those names, and the delayed reaction seemed to confirm something for Hughes. A knowing look settled on his face, but he continued as though it hadn’t. 

“We had four sudden, very comprehensive confessions regarding Caffrey’s case last night. Donberry from Missing Persons and I are going to verify these face to face, get every detail we can.”

Peter nodded, slowly, carefully. “Something must have spooked them. Maybe they received some kind of heads up? Or something.” 

Hughes nodded, and Peter could see the small twitch at the corner of his lip while he struggled to maintain his professionalism. “Yeah, something. They’re all looking at conspiracy to commit murder. We’re going to recommend the DA asks for life, shouldn’t be a problem to prove. We have enough evidence to corroborate their statements, especially with Lewis’ thorough confession.”

“Oh, about that sir,” Peter said with a small rush of urgency. “He needs to be kept away from Foltrop. The moment his cousin gets his hands on him again, we kiss his information goodbye, and it’s all been critical for getting Neal the care he needs, for understanding the scope of his injuries. And, if Gil finds out how open he’s been, if Ross reveals that he’s been talking, again? It won’t end well for him.”

“Understood. I hear he’s eager to talk to you, personally, as well, but he understands Caffrey comes first.”

“I’ll get back to Lewis soon, get back to everything soon, but,” He gestured with the small vase of flowers toward the glass doors, in Neal’s general direction, somewhere behind the twisting halls of the building. 

“Neal is…When he woke up here, his eyes were bandaged over and he was on a ventilator. If you’ve seen the footage, I’m sure you can imagine how that left him feeling. Luckily both of those have come off by now, but he’s needed someone here, someone he trusted.”

“And there’s no better person for the job, and besides, your team has been performing admirably this week. I think we need to consider whether Jones is ready to lead his own team after this.” Hughes stood, and Peter rose after him. 

“There’s nowhere more important you’re needed right now. Just keep me updated.” Reese reached out and squeezed Peter’s shoulder, a tight, firm grip meant to convey more than either man could say.

“Oh, Caffrey better enjoy the gift card in that,” Hughes said, gesturing to the yellow envelope as he pulled at the glass door. “I had to pull some strings to get Montebello to even agree to give a gift card.”

When Peter returned to the room with the flowers and the card, Neal distinctly brightened. 

“From the guys at the office,” Peter said, holding up the flowers and the card before finding a place for them on the bedside table. He noticed a few plastic bags that El had unpacked, some empty, one holding silverware, and quietly shoved them into a drawer; it was silly, but he couldn’t stand the thought of those so close to where Neal slept. 

Only when he turned back did he remember that Neal’s eyes were still shut, on doctors’ orders. “They sent you some presents. Flowers, a card, and a gift card.” He decided to leave the reveal for when Neal could experience it himself.

El was sitting in his own usual seat, and Mozzie had taken the other chair to the opposite side of Neal's bed. Neal was sat up with the small overbed table pulled open above his lap. Mozzie’s arm stretched over it to rest next to a small plastic bowl on the tray, and as Peter watched he saw that Neal was using Mozzie’s arm as a reference for where the bowl was before he’d dip his spoon in.

“Wow, look at you go.” Peter laughed a little as he moved to the foot of the bed. He heard how that might sound and winced. He hadn’t meant to sound patronizing, so he tried to back pedal. “You’re making really good progress, looks like. The doctors will be glad to hear.”

“Only because El’s soup is a miracle elixir,” Neal gently deferred the compliment with one of his own. His voice was strained, barely a whisper but even so gravelly and rough. Dr. Sumner had warned Peter that intubation and extubation were both unpleasant procedures, and while damage to the throat was temporary the pain it caused wouldn’t be negligible. Peter had been so glad to hear Neal speak earlier he hadn’t stopped to consider that doing so must hurt, and that swallowing would be substantially worse. Coupled with the hand-sized bruise on his neck and what Peter knew from the reports about how often and with what force he’d been strangled, eating must have been a downright ordeal. Neal was still refusing any pain medications stronger than ibuprofen, and Peter was wondering whether it was his place to suggest something stronger, anyway, when Elizabeth reached out to put one hand over the bowl, the other on Neal’s, forming a gentle barrier between him and the next spoonful.

“How about you take a break, yeah? You’ve got plenty of time.”

“And the doctor’s did say to take it slow.” Mozzie added. Neal stayed a little too tense, clearly reluctant to move his spoon from hovering above Elizabeth’s hand.

“I probably don’t even have to refrigerate it,” Elizabeth mused mildly. “It’ll keep just fine here till you’re ready to finish.” 

Mozzie continued, ”Plus I have no problem sneaking into the staff break room and using their microwave to warm it up for you a little later. I could pull a Jack in Wonderland.”

Neal relaxed then, tension in his body dissolving as he put on a smile. “That would draw too much attention, but I appreciate the effort.” He gently placed the spoon down by the bowl.

“What about a Sweet Caroline? I could help run that one.” Elizabeth added, placing the tupperware lid back on the soup. “I’ve been practicing.”

Peter wasn’t sure which came first, his incredulous, “ What?” or Neal’s laughter, still low, still gravelly, but very real; either way, the slight unease in the air popped like a soap bubble, so abruptly and so fully that for a moment Peter wondered if it had even been there. 

No, he hadn’t imagined the delicate tension, but he wasn’t even sure what the problem had been. Either way, he remained where he was, standing slightly back from the others, and allowed himself to feel grateful for them. He wasn’t above recognizing the selfishness of his gratitude—without El and Mozzie, Peter was sure he wouldn’t have found Neal, and he didn't think he’d have been able to live with that, not for long—but he was honest enough to admit that he was mostly grateful for Neal’s sake. 

The ease with which they had read Neal’s discomfort, the casual fluidity with which they worked to neutralize it, Peter recognized those as things he lacked, and envied them. There had been no hesitation on El’s part before she put her hand on Neal’s, because she hadn’t had a hand in his suffering; there had been no hedging whether or not it was Mozzie’s place to offer comfort, because Mozzie was unweighted by the knowledge that he was to blame for the discomfort; on both their parts, there had been no guilt. 

They were able to offer Neal something he needed, something Peter couldn’t give. Something Peter couldn’t even see. He worried how many moments of unease he had failed to notice when he could have helped.

He spent the rest of the visit mostly observing, watching for the unease he had sensed but not properly noticed earlier, but it either didn’t return, or he was even worse at detecting it than he’d thought. 

All the same, when it was time to sit with the ophthalmologist the next morning, Peter made sure to maintain his watchfulness; when it came to Neal’s vision, he couldn’t afford to miss any signs of discomfort. 

“Okay, Mr. Caffrey,” Dr. Kent said as she looked over his charts. “The tests showed that the damage has gone down considerably, but there are still pretty significant corneal abrasions.”

“Does that mean I still have to keep my eyes closed?" Neal, voice still gravely and whispering slightly but better to Peter's ears already, complained. "It’s getting a little boring.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, tapping the edge of her pen against the clipboard she held. Peter wondered if she did that just so Neal could hear her consideration. “You were on a ventilator until…?” 

“Yesterday. It was mostly done out of an abundance of caution, until the gasoline fumes weren’t so…dense in my lungs.” 

“Mm. So you were officially transferred from the ICU to internal medicine immediately after?” 

“Later in the day, but yes. For monitoring.”

“And when are you getting discharged?”

“Tomorrow. Right?” He tilted his head toward Peter. 

“Yup. They’ve already started the discharge paperwork, but they want to run some final tests on him in the morning. He should be home by lunch, as long as there’s no hiccups.”

“Right, right.” She flipped through the pages a few more times, scanning over all of Neal’s results. “Okay. You’re going to have to make me some promises before I decide anything.”

Neal sat up fully then, crossing his legs where they rested on top of the hospital sheets, then held up three fingers, to the best of his ability with some of the bandaging still covering his hand. “Scouts honor, ma’am.”

She laughed a little, moving to sit on the edge of the bed in the space Neal had just created. “Okay, first promise: You will follow the prescription schedule promptly . If it says you take it every four hours, you take it every four hours, if it says to do it first thing in the morning, you will do it first thing in the morning. If you want to change any of this, like if your pain medications start feeling too frequent, you will talk to a doctor first. Promise?”

Neal smiled that easy, charming smile of his. “Promise.”

“Good. Second promise: you will take all of your allotted medications unless they say otherwise. If I see you in a month and you tell me you stopped taking your antibiotic eye drops because your eyes felt better, and then you’re surprised your eyes are still damaged, I reserve the right to call you an idiot. Promise?”

Both Neal and Peter laughed a little at that, and Neal sincerely said, “Promise.”

“I’m more than happy to chime in on that idiot thing.” Peter added.

“Good, I’m holding you to that.” She said, pointing her pen at Peter. “Okay, third promise: You will keep all appointments with the clinic I’m going to send you to, especially for the first month, after which point I’lI see you again and see how your eyes are healing. I will need , you hear me, need the information they’re going to take to accurately judge how your injuries are responding to treatment so I can proceed with the best care for them. I don’t mean to sound insensitive to your experience, I know it was awful, but you are in the incredibly lucky position right now where the damage looks recoverable with nearly no permanent issues.”

She leaned closer to Neal, slowly, so he could feel the shift in her weight across the bed, before she squeezed his knee. “Let’s not fuck it up by slacking off, got it? Promise?”

The slight tension that had built in the air crumbled with her last statement, making Neal laugh again, the smile that remained more natural, less performative. “I promise, I promise.”

“Good .” She gave a hard tap to her clipboard before standing up. “I’ll put an order in for some bandage contact lenses, antibiotic eye drops, and some regular saline ones. The bandage contact lenses stay on for a week at a time, and they’ll be replaced at the outpatient clinic I mentioned. They’ll take some images for me each time, ask you a few questions, but it should never take more than an hour, if that. You’re not allergic to penicillin, right?”

“No,” Neal and Peter answered at the same time. 

“Okay, so the antibiotics I’m prescribing are going to be per waking hour for the first week, you got me? After that you can drop off to four times a day. And I want you using a topical cream every morning and night as well. The regular eye drops will just be for whenever you need them, any time your eye feels a little dry. Dryness is going to be the biggest hindrance to your eyes healing, so be liberal with using them.”

Peter understood why she had been so adamant about Neal following her orders to a T then; the regimen even sounded taxing.

It was all worth it though, when she came back that evening—Peter knew it must’ve been after hours for her—and put the bandage contact lenses in for Neal.

She handed him saline drops, and Peter the prescriptions. “How’s that?” 

Neal blinked a few times, getting used to the feel of the contacts. He opened his eyes, a brighter blue now with the tint of the lenses, and for the first time in nearly a week, Neal Caffrey looked unwaveringly at Peter.

“Really good,” he said, with his rare, true smile. 

They never discussed it, but Peter stayed another night.

Chapter Text

The next day Neal, bolstered by the ability to see and all his test results showing undeniable signs of progress, felt well enough to argue. 

“Peter I’m— I’m fine. I can carry my own bag!”

“The doctor told you no strenuous activity while your lungs are still healing, would you just let me carry—”

“Boys!”

Peter and Neal stopped on the staircase landing, looking down the steps at where Elizabeth had been talking to June, but now was looking up at them with her arms crossed. “Neal, I know you’re strong and independent, but Peter’s right, you’re still healing and the doctors, plural, all told you to take it easy. Essentially bed rest, I think was the direct quote. Peter, I know you’re worried and want to help, but you’re gonna put Neal right back in the hospital if you keep trying to take the bag from him.”

“I’ll take it,” A voice said from the top of the stairs, and when they looked up, Mozzie was coming down the stairs. “I know where everything needs to go anyway.”

Peter and El left lunch for Neal and Mozzie, but didn’t stay themselves. El thought that Peter had to sleep in his own bed, treat his own injuries, and generally take care of only himself for a few hours. 

Peter thought that staying would be taking advantage of Neal’s vulnerability. 

He had no doubt that Neal had wanted him at the hospital, and he was proud, even gratified that he’d been asked; but he was also waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Mozzie had told him, almost in so many words, that it was his foolishness that had gotten Neal taken, and Peter had spent long hours watching Neal breath with mechanical exactitude mulling that over from every direction. Every step back he took only granted him a wider, more encompassing perspective. 

Mozzie, as always, had been right. 

The least Peter could do was allow Neal the space to rely on others, so he wouldn’t be bereft of support once he comprehended the magnitude of Peter’s involvement in what had been done to him. 

El changed the bandage on his hand and then urged him to shower. It wasn’t until he got out and she saw the soaking bandage that he remembered he was supposed to keep it dry and she realized that she’d have to freshly bandage his hand, again. 

Peter didn’t mind. Here, with her, he allowed himself to examine the cuts to his hand; he didn’t even fully remember getting the stitches (or the ride to the hospital, or what he’d been doing in the crime scene in the hours until El showed up), and he didn’t dare linger on his own petty injuries when he was with Neal.

The deepest gashes were on his fingertips and along his palms, where he looped the wire as he separated it from the rope, but he had two deeper cuts and numerous shallow ones along his wrist and forearm, too. El was gentle as she applied the antibiotic cream, and Peter wondered who was doing this for Neal. 

As though she was following his thoughts, Elizabeth said, “I hope Neal’s heal as nicely as yours. Some of these cuts are already fading,” and Peter abruptly drew his hand back. How was lingering on his own injuries any different just because Neal wasn’t here? The comparative scale of damage remained the same. 

“Thanks, hon,” he said, wrapping up the tail end of the bandage with his left hand. “I can close this up.” 

Elizabeth sensed the shift in his mood and didn’t mention Neal’s injuries again, but over dinner they did talk about Peter’s plans around Neal’s care, his return to work, and the men responsible for all this. 

They turned in early and Peter thought he slept well, until he woke abruptly ten minutes before his alarm, his chest heavy with some undefined foreboding that stemmed from a dream he couldn’t remember. 

He checked his phone for messages, but he had none; the lack of bad news didn’t ease the heaviness. Maybe because it was a Saturday. 

Peter wasn’t supposed to be at Neal’s until after breakfast, and since he had the time he did everything he could to make it feel different from last week. He disabled his alarm and let Elizabeth sleep a little longer, and went downstairs still in his pajamas. His bandaged right hand slowed him down anyway, but Peter took deliberate effort with the coffee, filling the water and replacing the pot and scooping the coffee grounds into the filter with mindful presence. 

Today would be different. 

Elizabeth came downstairs nearly an hour after him, and he was just finishing making the eggs. They sat together, and when El offered to drive him to Neal’s he didn’t argue the point; he had driven to Neal’s last week. 

Peter checked his phone as they ate, and as El cleaned up, and numerous times in the car; he reminded himself that no news was good news, because today would be different. 

June herself let him in, and when Peter reached the top of the stairs he could hear the scrape of dishes and the low, indiscernible hum of conversation. 

He knocked, and waited. It was Mozzie who called for him to come in. 

“Impeccable timing, Suit,” Mozzie said, placing the last plate into the sink, then taking a small cappuccino cup across the living space to where Neal sat on the sofa. He was already dressed, a black turtleneck over dark slacks, both of which used to have a perfectly tailored fit.

Neal took the coffee from Mozzie, and offered a low, “Morning,” without so much as looking at Peter. 

Something hard formed in Peter at the interaction. He’d spent days watching over Neal, with Neal constantly looking for him, relaxing when Peter entered the room. He knew that he didn’t deserve it, he knew that Neal would realize it eventually, but…maybe he just hadn’t been prepared for him to realize it so suddenly.

Mozzie, on the other hand, happily flitted back and forth between Neal and where Peter was hovering, either not noticing or pretending that he didn’t notice the undercurrents in the room. 

“Coffee, Suit? I daresay this is better than… Well, I’m sure you know. Eye drops, Neal?” 

He handed Neal the small bottle. Peter glanced at his watch, and sure enough it was the top of the hour.

Neal balanced the bottle on the arm of the couch. “I used them already, when you handed me the bottle three minutes ago?” He favored Mozzie with a soft smile. “I’m fine, Moz, you can go. I’ll see you later?” 

“Like I’ll commit to that with the Suit standing right here.” He shook his head at the absurdity, and slung the strap of his messenger bag over one shoulder and across his chest. “Goodbye.” 

He waved in no particular direction, and moved to leave. When he passed Peter, he slowed his stride enough to offer, “I’ll be back by four, and can spend another night. Call me if… Anything.” 

Peter nodded, and Mozzie left, humming lightly to himself. 

He seemed to take all the lightness in the room with him. 

Neal still hadn’t acknowledged he had come in, and Peter, to put an end to his hovering, fixed himself a cup of coffee after all. 

He reached for the I-heart-NY mug Mozzie had used the last time he was here, but then thought better of it. He pulled the generic one out instead, and took his coffee to the table. 

He slid a chair out, still mindful of where the wine stain had been even though June had the floors redone while Neal was in the hospital. He knew where its outline was, exactly where on the floor it extended, and it still made his gorge rise to step in that spot or drag a chair across it. Once Peter sat down, he took a sip, then felt delicately around Neal’s mindset with, “How was your night?” 

“Fine. P—” Neal hesitated. Like Peter’s name hurt him. He swallowed, closed his eyes, and took one, shallow breath, releasing it quickly. “Peter. It was fine.” 

A drop of molten emotion, twisted and scalding, fell into Peter’s stomach. Somewhere between dropping Neal off last night and now, something awful had happened between them, and Peter didn’t know what it was.

Neal picked up the eye drops from the arm rest, rolling the bottle in his hand. “You know, Agent Donberry from Missing Persons came by yesterday, to take my statement.” 

His voice carried a tone that Peter recognized, the few times Neal had emotions too big to fit under his mask but too much cleverness to reveal what they were. It was the tone he used when talking around something he was aware of to get a sense of how the other person felt about it. Peter tried to connect the dots. Getting Neal’s statement happened sooner than he would’ve liked, coming around Neal’s first night home, but Neal had agreed to give his statement after being discharged, and as far as he knew Donberry was a fine, respectful agent, and an excellent replacement for Agent Rice; he hadn’t played any turf games when he realized Peter was still working the case. In fact, he seemed to welcome the input.

When Peter took too long to comment, Neal raised his eyes to Peter’s, and Peter was taken aback to see not only anger, but betrayal. And hurt. 

“Neal, whatever he sai—”

Neal stood, and placed his untouched coffee on the dining table next to Peter’s, still looking at Peter with fiery eyes. “You won’t even deny it.” 

Peter nearly flinched as he practically spat the words at him.

Neal took a step back from the table, from Peter, and ran his hands over his face before he crossed his hands tightly over his chest, shoulders hunched. Now that he was looking at Peter, Peter could see that Neal looked lost, confused,  and exposed. He was restless as he stood, rocking on his feet, arms twitching and adjusting in his grip, reminding Peter of the way he’d been the night he asked Peter to come to the hospital. His sweater bunched around his fists, the loose fabric briefly pulled taut where he held on to it. His words were angry but his body language was all distress, poised to bolt but also like he was taking a final, painful stand. 

He was steeling himself against Peter. Whatever mistake Peter had made, it had been cataclysmic to Neal. 

“He talked to me. A lot. Foltrop,” he clarified. “I assumed it was all lies, that he was just messing with me, because he did that, too. But…” He shook his head, then met Peter again with those bluer-than-blue eyes. They narrowed a bit, as though Neal was having a hard time focusing on Peter, and he breathed heavily through his mouth, either not able to take in enough air, or unable to hold it in as the words tried to rush out yet were aborted somewhere along the way.

Finally, “Tell me he lied.”

“He— about what? What did he tell you?” Peter hated that he had to ask for clarification when Neal was so clearly distressed, but he couldn’t assuage his fear without knowing the root of it, and Neal wouldn’t accept general platitudes. 

Neal shook his head, as though that might dispel the realization he was trying to fend off. “Tell me that you didn’t kick the case over to Missing Persons the day I was taken?” 

Peter felt his eyes open wide in disbelief as his stomach dropped. “Neal,” he said as he stood, “no.” 

He started to move around the side of the table, hand starting to reach forward, but Neal’s shoulders twitched, so Peter aborted the move, remaining standing with the table between them. 

“He lied.” 

Neal scanned him. Peter could feel his gaze going over every inch, from his hands hanging open-palmed at his sides, the drop of his shoulders, the slight furrow of his brow; maybe it was what he saw there, or maybe it was the simplicity of Peter’s statement, but with a deep breath Neal dropped his hands, too. “Then why,” he almost whispered, desperate for a reason he could believe,“why was, why was Agent Donberry here? Where— Where was Jones? Or Diana? Why was he asking for my statement instead of them? Instead of you?”

“They didn’t—No one told us they were going to do this so soon. Your first night home—I wouldn’t have allowed it.”

Neal shook his head a little, a new kind of heaviness pulling at his frame, muscles more limp than relaxed, but he didn't say anything. 

“Neal,” Peter tried again, “when Donberry showed up yesterday, why didn't you call? I would’ve…” 

Peter could hear the impotence of the promise even before Neal looked away. 

“It's not your job to oversee Missing Person cases.” 

Bracing for the blow—days, days in advance—didn’t lessen its impact. Not your job , the words broke the Dutch tear that had settled into the soft spot where his ribs met, a million shards exploding there, consuming both his air and his composure. That Neal should think even for a second, an evening, the whole night that Peter's investment in this, in him, was professional, that Neal had run his own risk assessment and had decided to bear with Donberry’s interview rather than ask for—

“When I agreed to the interview, I thought it would be you.”

Shame. Heavy, guilt-ridden shame that he was getting to know so well. The emotional shards lacerated him from the inside, and Peter couldn’t stop the tears that burned at his eyes. Three times now, three times he was supposed to be there when Neal needed him, and each time he swore he would do better, be different.

He realized this morning wasn’t all that different from a week ago, not for Peter. The only difference was Neal didn’t text him for help when he needed it.

Peter forced a deep breath to try and regain his composure. Regardless of the too-high tension building within, he couldn’t afford to break, he couldn’t afford to put Neal in the position of comforting him. He thought he’d have a couple of more days, more days to be by Neal’s side before it became clear that Peter was the perpetrator of harm. He thought, maybe, he’d determine exactly how much he should tell Neal; where the line was between hurtful information and beneficial, between hiding his shame and projecting control. But apparently Missing Persons deciding to come so soon took away his deliberation time.

If Neal was pushing the point, distressed by not knowing, he deserved to know everything. Even Peter’s hard truths. 

“Can we sit? ” His own coffee was becoming lukewarm, but he picked it up anyway. 

Neal stayed standing. 

Peter took a deep breath, steeling himself against the pain of recollecting those awful days. “Neal, Foltrop lied. The first two days no one could so much say your name at the Bureau without clearing it with me first. We were working around the clock. But we…I messed up.” Peter looked up at Neal to see what effect his words were having, but he couldn’t quite get a clear read. He powered on. 

“I owe you—more than an apology, I don’t—I had the team chasing bad leads. I was so focused on Twirch I didn’t consider that someone like Foltrop could be pulling the strings. It led us nowhere, and on Monday morning Hughes ordered me to let Missing Persons take the lead.” 

Neal looked away as he nodded, a quick-paced motion that told Peter he was losing him. “So he lied about the timeline. That’s…” 

Neal trailed off, but Peter wouldn’t have let him finish, anyway. 

“He lied. Full stop. The team organized around Hughes’ orders, and we continued running our own investigation. Nobody stopped looking for you, Neal.” 

“You, Diana, and Jones?” 

“The whole team,” Peter clarified, with slow, gentle strength. 

Neal was looking at him now, tempted to believe. “Even Flores?” 

“Covered Anderson and Rogers’ jobs while they worked with me. Unpaid overtime. Volunteered.” 

Relief seemed to attack Neal, tackling him from behind and pushing him toward the table with a surprised, pleased smile. He pulled out a chair across from Peter. He didn’t say anything, but the way his smile faded into a pull at the corner of his mouth suggested he wanted to. 

“What else, Neal? What did Foltrop tell you?” 

Neal shifted in his seat but decided to bite the bullet. “Did you think I ran?” 

“Hughes wasn’t convinced at fir—” 

“You, Peter. Did you think I ran?” 

The fragmented shrapnel that tore through Peter at hearing Neal refer to his job began to reform from ache into a despairing rage. He’d seen the reports, hell, he’d seen Neal, and thought he knew every sordid detail of what Gil Foltrop had done to him. But to think he’d been tied to that bed, made to repeat under torture how much of a liar he was while he was being lied to about rescue coming , about the people he meant so much to, was infuriating. 

“Part of me wishedyou did. It would have been better than… But no.” 

“Not even when they sent those photos? With the art?” 

Peter laughed with incredulity. “Never. You—I could tell something was wrong by your smile. I know you too well. It didn’t even occur to me they were meant to implicate you until Hughes said something.” 

Neal hmmmed, unperturbed by the insinuation about Hughes. “I guess that explains the gift card. Did he have to twist arms at Montabello’s?” 

Peter laughed again, this time amused. “More or less. What else?” 

Neal took his time, now, and Peter wondered just how many lies he’d had to listen to, how much detritus from Foltrop’s foul-minded games he had to sift through. But he knew exactly when he came to a decision.

Neal relaxed his shoulders and raised his eyes to Peter, his body so at ease that Peter knew it must be an act. “What did you think of my dying statement?” 

He said the words simply, unironically, as though he fully accepted that that’s what that terrible performance had been, and it made Peter’s skin crawl with fear that was past and disgust that was somehow still lingering. 

Neal couldn’t possibly expect him to provide a critical review of that indecent farce. 

Peter decided to focus on how brilliant Neal had been. “Do you know how we found you?” 

“I haven’t known anything until this conversation. All Moz has been answering is you should ask the Suit,and the Suit,” he gestured prettily toward Peter, to take the sting out of the impersonal epithet, “hasn’t told me anything at all.” 

Peter wasn’t sure when would have been a good time to broach the topic—when Neal was on a ventilator?—but he could see now that the vacuum left by his silence had let Foltrop’s lies fester. 

“Well, we were getting close, we had a few locations narrowed down, but we found you thanks to that video. I’m guessing you ad libbed those lyrics into the message?” Neal nodded, a slight smile on his face. “We wouldn’t have gotten to you in time if you hadn’t.” 

Neal looked pleased, but the smile faded as he raised a hand to massage along the high turtleneck of his sweater. “I’m glad, considering…” He didn’t elaborate on what recollection distracted him, but Peter had seen the handprint there, he read the reports. He knew. “But I meant the content. What did you think of what I said?” 

Apparently he did want a critical review. 

“It was bullshit, Neal.” 

Neal looked taken aback, either by the language or the honesty, and Peter tried to soften his statement. It was hard, without knowing why Neal was asking or what he wanted, or needed, to hear. 

“I’m sorry, but start to finish, with the exception of Celine Dion lyrics, there was nothing of youin that statement. It hurt seeing Foltrop use you like that?” It was phrased as a question, but only because Peter wasn’t sure he was saying the right thing. “I don’t know what else I can say about it.” 

“You didn’t believe it?” 

Peter made a little sound, not quite amusement but not far from it. “Of course not. Neither did Mozzie. Did—did Foltrop say anything about it? About us?” 

Neal shrugged with an obfuscated smile. He didn’t answer. 

Peter gave it another breath, but Neal didn’t elaborate on why he’d asked, or whether he got the answer he was looking for, and Peter started worrying whether he’d just confirmed for Neal Foltrop’s conviction that he was a liar. 

But Neal’s body language had relaxed again, far more naturally now, and he was sipping his coffee which must have been cold, and he was leaning in toward the table. Toward Peter. Which must’ve been a good sign.

Peter was reluctant to weigh down the mood again, to wilfully disrupt the small calm Neal had claimed; but he couldn't bear knowing that Neal's relaxed demeanor with him was unearned.

“I’m sorry, Neal.”

Neal's posture remained unchanged, but it tensed, a deliberate stiffness behind well-controlled breaths. 

He raised his eyes to meet Peter's, but said nothing. 

Peter tried to think back to previous times he'd apologized, to compare his words and Neal's reactions, and with a pounding like a hammer nailing a coffin shut realized he had no frame of reference for this. 

He looked away from Neal, unable to hold his gaze. He’d been failing Neal longer than he’d ever thought, longer than he ever would’ve realized without the catalyst of Foltrop’s cruel but accurate mirror.

“I—Donberry, leaving you at the hospital, letting you go home last Friday night, then—” Peter found he couldn't say the words, he couldn’t admit he'd slept in , not to the person who most deserved to know— “being late the next morning… Each of those have a reason, but all of them together? They're just excuses . I failed you, Neal, worse than I've ever failed anyone in my life. I can't—” 

Peter changed what he was about to say, but this time, at least, it wasn't out of cowardice. It was because this should be about Neal. 

“If you were anyone else you'd demand brass take away my badge after what was done to you, what I helped them do. And brass would do it, because there's no excuse, none at all, for my role in what happened. In what we did,” Peter corrected, when he realized he was hiding behind amorphic, passive language again. Like what happened was an act of God, and not a degenerate plot he played a pivotal role in. 

He caught neither word nor movement from Neal. Peter had compiled a much more thorough list of what to apologize for, spanning his unwarranted suspicions, the mood in the office, and every injury Neal had sustained, but he wouldn't go forward at Neal's expense. He needed first to be sure Neal was willing to hear him out. 

He quickly swiped at his eyes, trying to not burden Neal with his own pain, before he shifted his eyes back up to Neal. Peter was surprised to find his somber gaze still locked on his. 

No, not quite somber. 

Or, not only somber, Peter realized. There was a calculating edge to Neal's look, hidden though it was by years, maybe decades of habit underneath a carefully composed neutrality. 

“I'm sorry, Neal,” Peter said again, this time holding Neal's gaze. 

“You're a fed,” Neal finally said. “I forget that, a lot.” 

Peter tilted his head in sharp, surprised query. The words sounded like an accusation, but he couldn't quite hear what it was. 

“You're so used to straightforward truths and lies, black and white, that you can't feel around the edges of a con. You still take it all at face value. Peter you have to understand, and I cannot stress this enough,” Neal said, finally shifting to put both hands on the table and lean forward, closing the distance between himself and Peter with the same easy, relaxed grace of movement from before, “Foltrop lied.”

Peter sat back and shook his head. Neal, trying to protect him. After everything. 

“He never expected me to make it out of that room alive, so he'd brag to me. A lot. You know how Lauren got transferred upstate, to White Plains a few years ago? Foltrop found some young guy in Nyack, some suave drug dealer I think, and paid him enough to pretend to be her dream guy. He dated her for five weeks in the winter, to get information on us.” 

Peter knew about the Nyack connection, but—”Lauren? Cruz? She hasn't worked with us in years.” 

“And she was so unhappy about her transfer that she told her Twirch-trial-run boyfriend all about the gaps in our partnership that he might exploit.” 

Neal recognized Peter's intent to interrupt, and pressed forward. 

“That wasn't the half of his preparations, Peter, and I'll take you through them sometime, but you were targeted, expertly. I—” 

Neal paused, unsure. “I know better than most,” he finally said, with some caution, “that when we're backed into a corner we sometimes hurt the people we care about. You're the one who taught me that those aren't unforgivable offenses.” 

He blinked deliberately then abruptly broke off the eye contact to apply eye drops from a larger, generic-brand bottle that was sitting on the table. 

The wine-stained table.

“It didn't end there, Neal. I left you alone in that hospital. And before that, they came for you, in your home, and I—” 

“How's your hand?” 

The innocuous question, asked with so much pointed undertone, stopped Peter in his tracks. He swallowed hard, and looked at Neal. He didn't think he was expected to answer. 

“Twenty stitches, right? Do you remember how you got those cuts? What I remember is Fol—he left me… trussed. I couldn't move, and I couldn't breathe properly, he wanted me to see you flip that switch and know what would happen, and be unable to warn you. It… it should have worked. But you saw me, and even though I couldn't talk you heard what I was trying to say, and then you hurt yourself by releasing me. Peter, if you could have stopped any of this, you would have. I know that.” 

Peter realized he was flexing the fingers of his right hand through the bandage, and stopped. Fed or no, he tried to feel around the edges of what Neal was saying for some kind of con of kindness; he couldn’t detect any seams where truth blended into lie, and in a terribly delayed realization—not just in this conversation, but days, weeks overdue, he knew it was his job to listen. To listen to Neal, like he had in his old bedroom. Like he had that awful night when he’d come to arrest him. To listen, like Neal deserved. 

Whatever Peter’s fault in this, the greatest evil would be to add to it by repeating the distrust—of both his own intuition and of Neal—that had been the fuel of Foltrop’s plot. Maybe, maybe, he needed to entertain the possibility that it wasn’t kindness that had Neal sparing the deepest, most sensitive part of Peter's guilt, it was truth.

“I was… not exactly angry, ” Neal paused, casting for the right word, “but… I didn't understand. At first. About the hospital. I remember Moz and Diana being there, but then I woke up and my eyesight wasn't just blurry anymore, it was gone, and even though I could breathe I wasn't really—I didn't register that, you know? I tried to remember what I'd done to make him so mad… ” 

He trailed off, and Peter—he couldn't breathe either—

Neal caught Peter's reaction, and he quickly picked up. “Peter, no, that's not what I meant. I texted you in the middle of the night and before the nurse was even out of the room, you were there. As soon as I asked, you came.” 

Peter wondered if his weakness looked as pale as he felt. “You shouldn't have had to ask.” 

Neal shrugged. 

He didn't deny it, though. “A lot of things that shouldn't have happened, did. 

“And I heard El and Mozzie talk. I won't say—I can't be sorry that you're the one who found me, Peter, because if it was anyone else, even Moz, I would have burned in that room. But that was part of Gil's manipulations, too. He knew what it would do to you to see me like that, how it would hurt you. And I don't mean your hand.” 

Peter hated how easily Neal called Foltrop by his first name; like they were friends, like the time they'd spent together wasn't passed with torture. 

And he hated how much Neal knew; he was right, of course. Peter had come to realize that he couldn't remember the hours after the rescue because he'd himself been in shock. But he didn't think it was fair for Neal to have to make allowances for him. 

“Do you remember what I said to you after Keller took El?” 

Peter practically jerked at the non-sequitur, but Neal continued and in a moment the connection was clear, and despite Peter's determination to remain unforgiven, it made sense. 

“I asked you what to do. I couldn't—Keller had her, and I knew it was my fault, and I knew he did it because I wouldn't cut him in, and I couldn't think of anything to do or to say. And Peter, you weren't looking at spilled pasta sauce. You were looking at—” 

“You.” Peter finally found his voice, and it was low and scared, still, even though Neal was alive and safe and recovering. “I don't think I was ever so scared in my life, Neal. Not even with Keller. I'm so sorry, Neal.” 

“I’m not. You came to the hospital, and you came there. Even when he swore to me, just the night before you found us, that it would take you days longer to track us down, if at all. Between Delancy’s shady connections and Walker's elusive money trail, he really believed it, too. Sometimes I think I must have imagined it, I'm still in your old bedroom and that this,” Neal waved around him, then at Peter, at the open balcony doors and back to the coffee mugs that lay forgotten between them, “is just a final, dying fantasy.” 

He smiled and looked down, as though he was being hyperbolic. Peter knew he wasn't. 

“But it is real,” Neal rallied, almost too hard, like he was trying to convince himself. “Somehow. And the reason it is is because Gil Foltrop is a liar, Peter. Not only were you not part of his crew, you were working against him. Even before you knew whom you were working against.” 

Peter nodded, more out of a desire to let Neal know he'd been listening than because he fully agreed. He would have to revisit what Neal had told him, reconsider his role in what had happened, whether he really could claim any extenuating circumstances to his failures. 

But first… Neal had allowed him a glimpse at one of his deep, most vulnerable fears, and the least Peter could do was offer some kind of truth in return. 

“Do you want me to take you through the case?” 

A flash of surprise was chased away by what Peter could only call yearning. “I’d like that. Very much,” Neal said. 

Peter swallowed hard before he stood up, looking at the spot on the floor where the wine stain once sprawled. He was grateful Neal never saw the staining that once resided there, that Peter had first thought was— “Well, it started when I came over that morning.”

He walked Neal through every beat, every excruciating moment, leaving out only some of the most painful details. Processing of his apartment, leading into Twirch’s interrogation, and the start of the false leads. 

“Mozzie told me it…it looked like I was hiding. And, I wouldn’t have admitted it at the time, but I guess I was.”

Peter confessed to being sent home, his minor breakdown when got there, to the few hours he strayed off course until Mozzie guided his ship back, all the while pacing in front of the couch where Neal sat, patiently listening.

“And then Diana called me, telling me to check my email. She…she sounded scared, Neal. I went to the office in slept-in blue jeans, that’s how she sounded.”

They sat in sunshine on the balcony, Neal wearing sunglasses and a hat to protect his sensitive eyes from the light. It was a warm day for the start of May, a little too warm for the full coverage outfit Neal had on, but he seemed to revel in the heat. Maybe it was the necessary distraction, a clear distinction in location, as Peter built up to the climax of the story.

“Mozzie repeated your message, and that time I could hear the lyrics, and I just about scared the life out of him turning around to go back toward the bridge. We…it was close, yeah. Closer than…The rest of the story you know.”

It ended inversely of where it started, much later in the day. Neal sat on the dining table, his head tipped back as he did his eye drops, Peter standing across from him. The coffee had been replaced with lemonades, alongside a small tray of sandwiches sent up by June. 

The story, the rescue, the whole journey took Peter longer than he would’ve liked, but he could tell Neal felt better by the end of it. He did, too; they weren’t good yet, but better. 

And he could figure out how to fix the rest.

Chapter Text

Peter ran down the stairs, Satchmo happily bounding after him as went. “I’m coming!”

Neal smiled at him as he opened the door, holding up the bags of groceries he had brought. “Ready to help me cook?”

“Oh wow, here—” Peter reached out and took some of the reusable shopping bags from Neal’s grip. “Are we cooking a whole seven course meal or something?”

Neal let out a small breath of laughter as he followed Peter to the kitchen. “Thought it wouldn’t hurt to have plenty of options.” 

Plenty of options they did have, Peter thought, as he pulled out groceries and Neal revealed what he planned for each. A main course of steak, with salmon and stir-fried shrimp as alternatives; side dishes of potatoes—both broiled and mashed; green beans; a broccoli-and cherry-tomato quiche; and persian rice; and of course a starter course of salted soybeans (edamame, Peter. The pods are the point), hummus and fresh pita bread, and carrot-orange-ginger soup, which was to be served with a different type of fresh bread and butter. 

“Are we really cooking all of this for four people?”

“Mozzie and I are going to take home our portion of the leftovers.” Neal answered with the confident ease of having thought this through ahead of time. Neal had paid for the groceries after all, and it made sense he would want plenty to take home. 

“But, I also got these.” Peter looked up to see Neal pulling out a case of beer and a bottle of wine, smiling widely. “Doctor cleared me for drinking at my check up yesterday, my lungs are in good shape, I’m not taking pain meds any longer, and I finished up my last round of antibiotics. Dr. Kent said my eyes are healing exactly as she’d hoped. All that’s left is the contacts and the saline drops, but neither of those will interact with alcohol.”

Peter bit his tongue and turned away so Neal wouldn’t read his overly enthusiastic expression, which he simply couldn’t control, and he quickly pulled a wine glass down from the cabinet. Once they both had their drinks in hand, Peter held up his beer. “To…a good meal shared with friends?”

He had considered saying something more meaningful, but he couldn’t figure out anything specific quickly enough. There was so much for Peter to celebrate, almost as much as there was for him to regret. 

Neal was getting visibly better every day. He had returned to work just the week before, and everyone had cheered when he walked in. He was staunchly a desk duty consultant for the next little bit, but that might change soon, too. Neal was itching to get back in the field, doubly so since Gallagher texted him asking if he was back in town yet. Hughes was currently on Peter’s side of keeping Neal on the bench, but Peter could tell he longed to reopen that case and take down Gallagher’s operation.

Peter had thought there were plenty of cases to keep Nealoccupied in the meantime, but he had brought half the stack to Peter’s office on his first day back, solved or nearly so, and asked Peter if he wanted to go to Montabello’s for lunch.

But beneath the bashful smiles as he stepped into the office, and the knowingly proud grin as he set down the stack of solved cases, Peter was sure he could detect… something. It was a caution, an extra degree of calculation behind every smile directed Peter’s way, and a deeper consideration before every word that hadn’t been there before. As much as Peter longed to accept that this was nothing more than an unfortunate mess that was now weeks behind them, he knew better. He knew Neal. 

He wasn’t alright, and every day Peter witnessed it was another quiet reminder that he may have evaded judgement for his role in what happened to Neal, but that wasn’t the same as being innocent. Since Neal had come back to work, Peter checked to see he was at his desk perhaps a hundred times an hour, and he could tell it was grating on Neal’s nerves.

All the progress Neal had made, and Peter was the one thing he couldn’t recover from. Neal could get better, his injuries could heal, he could do just as impressive work as before, but he knew he couldn’t stop being a victim in Peter’s eyes.

Foltrop had been wrong; Neal lived, and he recovered, and he was here serving his sentence, picking up his life. But Foltrop had also been exactly right. Whenever Peter looked at Neal, he saw him as he was after he gave that loathsome statement, bound and bleeding and gagged into taking awful, insufficient, shallow breaths, a cacophony of bruises and welts and cuts that were each earned only by virtue of his association with Peter. 

Peter didn’t know how much longer Neal could stand having that superimposed over him, how much longer he could keep fulfilling Foltrop’s vile prediction. 

While Neal worked backlogged desk-cases, Peter spent most of his time wrapping up Neal’s case. Now that he knew what his involvement meant to Neal, he took it upon himself to actively assist Donberry, and even though things went smoothly there were a lot of ends to tie up. 

Twirch, who was begging for a deal that was no longer on the table now that the money trail had been found and seized, and all his benefactors had either confessed or been arrested. 

Overseeing restitution of all the stolen art, and restoration of the pieces damaged by the gasoline. 

Preparing for Foltrop’s trial, and carefully controlling the release of the torture footage in a delicate balance of protecting Neal’s privacy and ensuring he wouldn’t have to testify. 

And Lewis. Whom Neal had insisted on testifying for. He’d sat there in trial prep and with solemn neutrality had watched himself shake in his razor-and-rope bindings, dripping blood and gasoline as Foltrop handed the golf club to Lewis, and when the video finished playing he calmly practiced the request for clemency. 

The trial wouldn’t start for another month at least, but Neal had another prep session planned with the DA before then. It was immediately after that prep session that Peter had invited Neal for dinner. He needed to either override those memories of Neal with fresher ones, or… All he knew was that he couldn’t continue seeing Neal like that, and Neal was obviously still bothered being around him. They couldn’t go on like that. Something needed to change. 

It took a few days for all their schedules to align, and when Neal arrived Peter felt, at first, that this had been exactly the right decision. Neal was light on his feet, easy with his smiles, and comfortable as he flitted around Peter’s kitchen setting up the various stations he’d need for each dish. 

Peter deferred to Neal’s expertise, and set to peeling; it suited his skills. 

He started with the vegetables for the soup and was about halfway through a sack of potatoes when he realized that, leftovers or not, this really was far too many potatoes. It was more than triple what he thought they’d need for tonight, and Neal would be eating nothing but mashed potatoes for a week if he took home all that was leftover. 

And that was discounting the fish, vegetables, the quiche currently in the oven, the veggies Neal was slicing for the stir-fry, or the carrots and ginger waiting their turn to become soup.

Now that Peter had stopped peeling, he noticed Neal; he was standing at the counter, slicing the bell-peppers with the slow, deliberate methodology of an expert, his breaths matching each movement of the knife with the same deep, even beat. 

Too even, Peter thought. 

Almost mechanical. 

“Neal?” He wasn’t really sure what he was asking. Neal had been fine when he’d arrived, and he’d been his usual boisterous self as they set up in the kitchen and began their work. 

Peter wasn’t sure what he was asking, but he put down the peeler as he waited for an answer.

Neal raised the heel of the knife and brought it down, again, again, again, then swiveled the pepper and repeated the slow, smooth action. 

He didn’t miss a beat when he said, "You know, I don't think I've ever been hungry before. Not really." 

His voice was low, but steady, and Peter knew that if he kept looking at him a moment longer Neal would shut down. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what Neal was about to say, but he knew with unwavering certainty that it wasn’t his place to stop him. Peter picked up the peeler and moved in on the second half of the sack. 

"I mean, Danny didn't always have lunch money, and it wasn't hard to stay lean in prison, but really hungry?" 

Meticulous knifework, continuous chopping. 

"I would have eaten a cockroach if I could catch one.” Peter had no trouble following the association. He kept his eyes on the potato in his hand, and followed Neal’s movements by the sound of the knife on the cutting board. 

“I fantasized about it. And Foltrop... He was a close talker. He liked to get right up to my face," Neal paused and Peter looked up to see him holding a hand less than an inch from his eyes in demonstration, though his gaze never left the veggies in front of him. 

"To have what he called conversations. That’s when he would tell me—and lie, I guess—about the planning that went into his scheme, about the investigation, and you, about targeting others in the office, or make me talk about our deal without mentioning you or the FBI, stuff like that. One time, maybe on the second day? He leaned in so close, I don’t even remember what he was talking about, I think he just wanted to keep me awake, and he could smell the peanut butter french toast on my breath. Ross had let me have some... He got so mad.” 

The chopping stopped, and a knife slid against the smooth board. Peter put down the potato he was holding—shaved smoothly flat on one side—and took up another. He used the opportunity to glance at Neal and saw that he was sliding the diced peppers into the wok. He then grabbed an onion and began slicing it. 

“He started an unscheduled session right there. He went through the usual routine, and that was bad enough,” Peter caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and he could tell that Neal was swiping at wetness in his eyes, and he made sure not to move. He thought that Neal could stand to be seen, or he could stand to be heard, but never both at the same time.

“But he also,” Neal exhaled softly, a long breath that seemed to hold his reticence, his misgivings, his walls. “He forced me to vomit what Ross had given me. He found it so amusing he did again at the start of the next scheduled session.” 

Forced emesis, Peter remembered reading, and glossing over it because it had sounded less cruel than strangulation or suffocation. 

“Afterwards Ross told me he was going to call you. I wonder if he even tried.” 

The onions slid into the wok and Neal grabbed the mushrooms, but he seemed to run out of automated resolve. He held the mushrooms in one hand and the knife in the other, and kept his gaze on the space between them. 

Peter put down the potato and the peeler, and went to stand by Neal, facing him with his back to the counter. 

“He did. I checked the FBI call logs. Ross tried to contact me twice, from a payphone down the street, but Hughes had all my calls routed through Donberry, and Ross got spooked when a different agent answered. He tried his best, Neal.” 

Neal blinked hard, nodding. Then he pulled the mushrooms closer and restarted chopping, this time with a slightly quicker pace. 

“I remember lying on my back, trying to throw up on an empty stomach for maybe the third or fourth time in an hour, and being so sure I was going to die. And I was thinking of you, and Moz, and even that it wouldn’t be so bad to die where you proposed to El, all in all, but on top of all of those I thought, at least I won’t be hungry anymore. 

“I know this is too much, but I can't stand the thought of not having leftovers, for later. I know I won’t eat it, but I need to know I have the option to." 

Peter reached for the wine glass and finished its contents in a single gulp, and only when he was setting it down did he remember he had been drinking a beer; the wine was Neal’s. 

“I’m sorry, Neal.” 

“There’s more wine,” he graciously forgave Peter with a quick wink, and turned to take the quiche out of the oven and to put in salmon. He fussed with the food thermometer until it was correctly positioned, and closed the oven over its wire. 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

“I know, but I don’t want you to apologize for the other thing. We’ve talked about this Peter, it wasn’t your fault.” 

They had. The day after he’d been released from the hospital, Peter had spent the day going over the case and all his points of failure. Neal hadn’t allowed himself to take it in then, but maybe that was what needed to change. Maybe Peter needed to make Neal understand that he couldn’t brush this away with casual forgiveness; it wouldn’t work. 

“It took us so long to find you, and you were Brooklyn, Neal. You were being held fifteen minutes from here. That’s… You were targeted because of me, you were almost burned alive because you work with me. There’s no way to cut it where I’m not responsible for what happened to you. What was done to you.” 

Neal stopped cooking. He looked at Peter with a stubborn set to his jaw and asked, “Is that how you feel about Adler? About Fowler? Keller? They all went after you, after Elizabeth, because of me. Do you blame me? Think I’m responsible?”

“That— That’s different, Neal. I understood the risks of, I knew…who you were.” Peter hedged around what he was getting at; he didn’t want it to sound like an accusation.

Neal let out a soft breath through his nose, “A criminal, right? It’s okay Peter, I know. I know why those things happened. That’s why I’m asking if you blame me.”

“Those people are from before, when you were in that world. I knew the risks involved with taking you on, I had read your file. Hell, I wrote most of your file.”

Neal shook his head before he dumped the mushrooms alongside the rest of the food in the wok, then gave it a stir. “You’re really underestimating my intelligence, Peter. You keep talking about how well you know me, but I know you just as well, and I knew you back then. I knew the cases you worked on, the potential enemies you made. I knew the risks.”

“But you were supposed to be safe with me. I’m an FBI agent, I’m supposed to keep you safe, and I failed.”

“I’m a criminal associating with the FBI. I gave up my safety when I started working with you. I had enemies before who now know I’m willing to be a snitch, I have your enemies, people who either know me by name or know that I’m close with you. I’m almost never truly safe anymore, and I understand that.”

Peter shook his head a bit and took a step back. “That’s the problem Neal. It— you shouldn’t feel like that, you should feel safe some time.”

“Peter—” Neal tried, but Peter cut him off before he could lose his courage.

“I’ve been talking with friends in Chicago. There’s a job there, ready for you. Good agents who will protect you. I even looked around for a nice place, not as nice as June’s, obviously but… It’s a new life. I know,” he had to force himself to swallow the lump growing in his throat before he continued, “I know being around me has been getting difficult for you, and I completely understand why, so—“

"Peter.” Neal's voice was loud and firm, firmer than Peter had heard it in a while. He stopped speaking, and looked up at Neal. He stood in the middle of Peter’s kitchen, tall but rigid; forceful. 

“What did you think of that dying statement he made me read?”

Peter was floored by a wave of déjà vu, the last time he’d been asked that superimposing itself with now, Neal’s dining area and his kitchen fighting to coexist in this new memory that was forming out of the dregs of the same question. 

Then it was gone, and Peter couldn’t quite recapture why the question had hit him so hard just now. It wasn’t even in response to what he’d just offered Neal. 

“I told you, I didn’t believe it.”

“Why not?”

“What? Neal, what does any of this—“

“Just answer the question, Peter. Why didn’t you believe it? Because based on your behavior recently, you should have. You can’t have it both ways. Either you know when I’m lying and you could tell that I didn’t mean any of that, or you can’t, and you have reason to believe that I regret our deal.”

Peter froze. He and Neal were looking at one another in a gaze that locked a little too long, but neither looked away. He knew now what Neal had been asking then, what he was asking now; he wasn’t concerned with the particular lies he’d told, but with the fact that they weren’t his lies. Peter had said he knew Neal, and he did, but that meant knowing also what he would lie about. 

And he was right, Peter was trying to have it both ways. Because Neal had never lied to him, and he had never lied about him. It was dishonest of Peter to pretend he didn’t know that. Dishonesty in service of… 

Neal looked away first, but only briefly.

“Peter, for four years, I had very little control over my choices. Not where I went, or what I ate, what I wore, who I associated with.

“And…” Neal took a deep breath, curling his fingers at his side until he released it. “I’m not going to be gentle, last month I was Foltrop’s doll, okay? His plaything to break down, move when he wanted me to, breath when he wanted me to, make me speak when and what he wanted me to. He took my words from me.

“Taking this deal, working with you?” There was a small shake as Neal inhaled, his mask nearing its limit after the last statement. “Working with you is the only thing I’ve chosen for myself recently. I know it’s not all my choice, it’s not— you control where I live, my funds, hell you can see where I am whenever you want, check to make sure I’m in the bathroom if you wanted, but you don’t. Because you, you care about me. You’re one of the only people who’s ever seen me. Don't take that away from me because you want to punish yourself." 

Neal exhaled a long, shaky breath, and tested whether the carrots in the soup were soft enough to blend. He had finished what he’d wanted to say. At least, all he was going to say. 

He busied himself with the starters next, and Peter drifted back to his sack of potatoes, suddenly aware that he’d peeled about twenty potatoes in the time it took Neal to set up half a feast. He reached for another potato. 

Dishonesty in the service of punishment. 

He had needed to affirm his own guilt so desperately that he’d inadvertently begun undermining two of the truths that formed the core of his and Neal’s partnership: choice, and clarity. Neal’s choice to take the deal, and the bare, unembellished clarity that shone no matter how many false names or glowing smiles Neal plastered over himself, or how many crimes he committed: Neal was fundamentally good.

Peter focused hard on the last potato, peeling it with excruciating slowness so he wouldn’t have to look up quite yet. 

“I didn't believe that dying statement because I could tell it was designed to inflict pain. That’s not you. You feel strongly, but never cruelly.” 

That was the easy half. 

Peter looked up now, and found Neal closer to him than he’d thought, listening earnestly. He continued, telling Neal directly, “And I don’t want you to move to Chicago, either. Of course not. I just—I hate that you got hurt, Neal.” 

“We’d be having a very different conversation if you liked it,” Neal said, and Peter’s surprise at the joke was immediately cut off at the knees by the surprise of Neal initiating contact. 

His embrace was strong, and solid, and warm, and unwavering as Peter returned it in kind. Neal was here, Peter could feel his breaths, and he was telling Peter what he needed, and Peter’s responsibility was to listen. 

Neal didn’t offer a pat on the back, he didn’t pull away after a beat or two, and something in Peter gave way. He held Neal and shut his eyes as he inhaled deeply, but he couldn’t stop the tears from filling in his eyes, or the shake of his breath that broke into a soft, sorrowful sound on the exhale. The distance Peter had been keeping between himself and his emotions over the past month snapped into nothingness; a series of walls he’d constructed beginning with the very first robberies—between him and Neal, him and his intuition, him and his emotions—shook, and cracked, and crumbled. Everything he’d deferred, buried, and shouldered since Neal was taken suddenly wouldn’t suffer to remain inside. He grasped at Neal.

Neal’s grip strengthened against him, taking on some of Peter’s weight with the force of it. His voice was soft as he said, “It’s okay. We’re okay, Peter.”

Peter knew that, too. Not just intellectually. For the first time in a very long time, bantering in Peter’s kitchen, drinking Neal’s wine, holding a half peeled potato and seeing a path forward— their path forward, together—everything felt okay between them.

With the walls gone there was nothing to stand between him and the tears, and Peter found he couldn’t stop them; but that felt okay, too.

They stayed like that, Neal pressing into Peter with both hands, Peter holding on just as tightly with one, until he felt the wet potato begin to slide out of the other. 

“Sorry,” Peter’s voice wavered slightly as he pulled back, but he had just enough time to catch the shine in Neal’s eyes before he turned to place the potato back on the pile, and Neal stepped forward to resume his cooking. Peter swiped at his face with a dishrag before he reached for Neal’s wine glass and gave it a generous refill, making up for the one he stole, before he grabbed a fresh beer for himself. “To us, and to our partnership?”

“To us,” Neal said with a smile, a true one, crooked only by millimeters and bunched at the sides of his eyes, tapping his glass against Peter’s.

They both took a sip of their drinks then resumed their individual stations. Peter looked over his pile of potatoes. “So—should I dice these?” 

Neal looked over the pile of potatoes, some peeled so thoroughly their tops tapered off into a point, others left with large swaths of skin along any bumps and ridges. 

Neal inhaled, aborted, shook his head once and said, “Why don’t you set the tab—” 

“The table. Yeah.” Peter didn’t need him to finish that thought. 

“Before you make any more shivs,” Neal muttered, and Peter pulled a face he intended for Neal to see. 

Shortly after they heard the sound of the front door opening, and Elizabeth called, “Boys, we’re here! Oh, it smells great in here, what are—” she paused in the archway of the kitchen, a curious eyebrow raising up, sensing the emotional air to the room. “What’s going on here?”

“Nothing,” Peter started to say, but after he wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed the side of her head, he corrected, “I have to call my friend in Chicago and give him the news,” he let the statement settle for a moment, Elizabeth’s eyes growing a little wider, before he finished, “that Neal Caffrey will be sticking around New York a little while longer.”

“Oh!” Elizabeth said, but then as she processed the news she pulled away from Peter. She went around the island and wrapped her arms around Neal, his second tight hug of the evening. “Oh that’s great news. That’s— I’m so glad to hear that Neal, I was crushed when Peter suggested it. I would’ve missed you so much.”

“As much as I would’ve enjoyed a change of scenery,” Mozzie said as he joined the fray, pushing past Peter and into the kitchen with a comfortable ease, “I can’t say I would’ve enjoyed it either. There’s just no good way to make a lactose free deep dish pizza.” 

He glanced at the simmering pots and the dishes ready to be served, and asked, “Which seems to be the only dish you haven’t prepared for tonight? It is just us four, right? I am not prepared for large-scale socializing!” 

It had started as a joke, but Peter could tell that Mozzie was working himself into a panic at the thought of the imaginary guests, and that Neal was only half a step behind him; he couldn’t use the leftover line on Mozzie. 

“Calm down, Haversham,” Peter said, and pulled down two more wine glasses. He filled them both a quarter-way as he spoke. “Half the dishes have cream, milk, or cheese, and we wanted to make sure you also had non-dairy options.” 

Mozzie considered that. “Ah,” he said happily. 

Peter shook his head and handed Mozzie and Elizabeth their wine glasses. El took hers with a soft thanks. Mozzie looked at his, ignored it, and instead took up Neal’s glass, which was filled more than halfway. 

“Help yourself,” Neal said in defeat, and looked to Peter for sympathy in his mock-suffering. 

“There’s more wine,” Peter reminded him, and Neal pulled a face specifically for him to see. 

Peter had intended it to be a quiet dinner, a social gathering outside of work for him and Neal to cautiously feel around one another, to try and find any safe purchases left in their interactions; but after their conversation earlier it seemed that the entire tectonic plate had shifted, and the delicate equilibrium he thought he’d have to manufacture was in fact their baseline. Dinner was loud, and funny, and they spoke over one another in the delicate way that never interrupted, only augmented the experience of shared conversation. 

After dinner Peter volunteered to pack up the leftovers while El prepared some tea. They finished at the same time, and he helped her carry out the mugs. 

“For you, a splash of oat milk and one sugar,” Elizabeth said, handing Mozzie his mug, and settling down next to him with her tea to finish the conversation they’d started over dinner about whether Penelothe’s womanhood was defined by her sexual awakening. 

Peter stepped over to Neal. “They’re both the same.” He held out both mugs, allowing Neal to pick one. 

It was only when Neal took the one on the left that Peter noticed that El had used the #1 Agent mug he had brought home with him in his shocked stupor all those weeks ago. 

The mug from his old apartment. 

The mug he’d filled with water from that terrible shower to pour over the rigged handcuffs, in that awful place that used to be his hom—

“Oh, Peter, no,” Neal said, scandalized as he read the mug he’d chosen. “Is this from your Academy days? There has got to be a story behind this. Elizabeth…?” He beguiled her with a charmingly inviting smile to spill the beans. 

“Someone, tell me why Peter owns this mug.” 

Neal probably didn’t recognize the mug, but looking at him now, trying to glean the story of the cheesy mug with impish delight, Peter realized that Neal wouldn’t care even if did know where the mug had come from. 

He’d probably find it Romantic; it was a strange way of processing the world, but Peter knew him. Neal would find a way to find meaning in it. 

Something in Peter settled at the thought, looking at Neal cajole El and beg him and convince Mozzie there must be a good story there. A misalignment found its center, a directionless out-of-control spin locked on to true north. 

This was Neal. If Foltrop thought the other image, painful as it was, would be strong enough to shadow… this, it only proved he never had a good read on neither Neal nor Peter. No matter what past Peter had to tangle with, no matter how dark it was, it could never undo this much light. 

Neal was here, surrounded by people he loved, looking back at Peter with that true smile that he wore so rarely. Peter didn’t flatter himself that the smile was reserved only for him, but he was gifted it on just enough occasions to know that it, too, was a choice Neal made. He wanted to be here, he wanted to work with Peter, he was choosing this life. 

And Peter was choosing how he wanted to think of Neal. 

It was how Neal deserved to be thought-of. Peter would never let Foltrop dictate that for him, ever again.

And as long as Neal was choosing to have Peter next to him on the way forward, Peter would choose him right back.