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Contrary to popular belief, Neal Caffrey did, in fact, know shame, and certainly knew guilt.
The first time Peter arrested him, being reunited with Kate was enough to overpower all else, even staring down the barrel of half a dozen guns and the years of prison that may (and did) come. He didn’t fall into a trap, he simply decided the bait was worth the consequences, and if he bowed his head as he was led away, it was out of resignation (and maybe a not insignificant amount of relief), not shame.
The second time Peter arrested him, he had nothing to be ashamed of except being too slow to catch her before she disappeared once again. The $3 he’d taken from the prison truck was hardly going to be the reason whatever employee had left it couldn’t put food on the table, and anyone who handed off a car like that with a $100 tip and without a second glance could afford for it to be borrowed for a little while. The couple was leaving for a month; they (and the police) wouldn’t even have had to know it was ever gone.
The first time he was falsely arrested, when the bastard first came to disrupt their lives, Neal kept his head high and gaze forward, pointedly ignoring the stares of the surrounding FBI agents as he was marched through the bullpen, bolstered by the righteous indignation of the falsely accused (the betrayed) that he rarely had the opportunity and justification to feel.
He might have been arrested after the explosion, but being taken away then was more something he was aware of before and after than something for which he was consciously present. One moment, fire, and the distant sensation of Peter holding him back; the next, prison. Presumably, he had been transported from point A to point B, but he could be forgiven if his mind at the time had been rather otherwise occupied.
When Sara had him arrested, he wasn’t even worried, let alone ashamed. Involving her had been a more or less harmless means to an end, a necessary move to get his answers. Though he was perfectly aware that possession of stolen property was more than enough to put him away, he hadn’t even been the one to steal it, and the part of him that had grown so quickly to trust Peter Burke with his life and fate was sure Peter wouldn’t let the mission be jeopardized over some petty theft.
Now, the fifth time he felt the cuffs go on for real—not to keep a cover, not a physical representation of the command to “stay”—resignation again dropped his head like it had what felt like a lifetime ago (her lifetime ago). This time, though, his body was on fire, shame and despair threatening to overtake the rage and desperation that had been coursing through his veins a moment before. Distantly, he wished he could have removed his jacket before Diana pulled his arms behind his back. His hands were still shaking—that bastard caused that. Neal Caffrey’s hands did not shake; he hardly could have accomplished all that he had if they did. And yet, ever since that day…
His hands clenched into fists as for a moment, he missed the gun, cursing himself for letting the man go. He killed her, he killed her and Neal had let his lies and excuses shake him, let Peter drag him back, let them make him feel guilty in the aftermath when he had been so close to getting…
“Revenge or justice, right? Neal, as long as I’m involved, it’s going to be the latter.”
“What if justice isn’t good enough?”
“It has to be. It will be.”
Neal looked over at Peter, breathing deeply, hands unclenched, pliant, cooperative as Diana finished with the cuffs and Peter finished his instructions.
“Take him back to the office. I’ll figure out what to do next.”
Neal knew better than to look for hope in between those words, the implication that there was still anything to figure out. When Neal admitted to Peter that he’d taken the Haustenberg, when he showed up at Peter’s house after running from the judge’s chambers, when he sent Peter the fax after breaking into the clinic—when Neal had turned to Peter, having broken countless laws but no bones, asking for help and praying for mercy—then, there’d been room to figure out what to do next. But now, just considering the headlines and ignoring all the petty crimes in between, he had stolen a gun, ditched his anklet, and infiltrated a private event to try to murder Fowler.
He had almost murdered Fowler.
Peter had said he would regret it for the rest of his life. Peter had said he wasn’t a killer. Peter had said this wasn’t who he was. (Peter had said he wasn’t gonna get away with this.)
And Fowler might not have murdered Kate.
He could have killed him for nothing. His finger had been on the trigger, ready to pull. Peter and Diana would have had to shoot him.
And even then, Neal wouldn’t have been reunited with Kate; he’d taken heaven off the table long ago.
Neal dropped his gaze again when Diana started leading him away, his throat tight, and for the first time, he kept it down. He didn’t look at the gawking partygoers or bystanders outside. He didn’t look at Diana when she loaded him into the car. He glanced up at Jones when they got to the office, but that was the extent of their interaction before Diana deposited him in a chair by their desks (the agents had decided to keep him close to keep an eye on him, and despite the circumstances, he couldn’t help but feel grateful they hadn’t just dropped him in an interrogation room or holding cell. On the other hand, though, maybe some privacy would be good; it would be the last he would get for a very long time). Neal just closed his eyes, tipped his head back, and listened to Diana and Jones drafting a statement about how the showing had been infiltrated, the FBI safely apprehended the suspects (Neal’s gut twisted), there was no need for alarm, etc. He remained in that position until he felt a modicum of calm (real calm, not numb emptiness) return, trying to sit still and quiet all his instincts screaming to find a way out.
He would not slip the cuffs. He would not run.
He owed Peter that much. Hell, he owed it to Fowler to face the consequences.
His jaw clenched. Okay, maybe not Fowler. But Peter had been right; it wasn’t who he was, and he would have regretted it.
Diana had paused when they’d arrived, fingering the key to the cuffs for a moment, but ultimately left them on when she guided him to sit, and neither she nor Jones offered to remove them at any point following. He didn’t ask. He wasn’t sure how they would respond if he did. He wasn’t sure they knew either. And, whether they had things on their mind to say to him or not, drafting the FBI response kept them occupied enough to not really interact with him, so it wasn’t until Peter arrived some time later, Fowler in tow, that anything changed.
Watching them walk in, Neal could feel his heartbeat throughout his body, his hard-earned modicum of calm forgotten as he fixed a glare on Fowler the entire time Peter walked him to his office. When, after checking in with Jones and Diana, Peter walked back to stand in front of Neal, though, Neal met his gaze.
“Neal.”
“Peter.”
“Stand up. Turn around.” Once Neal obeyed, Peter removed the cuffs with the same care in his touch with which Diana had put them on, but the look Neal was met with when he turned back around was stony.
“Your tracking data says your anklet was removed by the Marshals around 1 PM today, but almost immediately replaced. Less than a minute off, in your apartment the entire time, some movement around the house throughout the afternoon.” The demand for an explanation didn’t need to be voiced.
“I put it on Bugsy. I have the key.”
“You have the—of course you have the key, why wouldn’t you have the key?” Peter threw his hands up in frustration. “When and where, exactly, did you get a key?”
Neal swallowed, glancing at Diana and Jones before answering, “I have Deckard’s key.”
Peter shut his eyes with a small sigh and shake of his head. “Damn it, Neal.” Opening his eyes, he continued his interrogation. “And the gun?”
“Akihiro's Antiques.” The shop name was a detail several steps too far to disclose without direct inquiry, but disclosure, if only a fragment, was all he had to offer as penance. Besides, he didn’t say he stole it from Akihiro’s Antiques, just that it was from there. Akihiro wouldn’t press charges, and Peter could pull Neal’s tracking data if he wanted, anyway; the only risk was Peter knowing another contact of his, exposed for questioning about any…future endeavors, but that was far from the top of Neal’s list of concerns at the moment. Wouldn’t do him much good back behind bars, in any case.
Peter didn’t probe further. Instead, he put out his hand expectantly. “Hand over the key.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Neal—”
“It’s in my apartment, in a book. Black cover, very bottom right-hand corner of the shelf.” Weeks, he’d held on to the key, and all it had gotten him was a few hours. For all earlier that day felt like an eternity ago, he’d been off-anklet for less than he was on some undercover operations, and now he stood helpless as Peter gave the orders to take his lifeline away.
Peter nodded and turned to Jones and Diana. “You two get his anklet taken care of. Bring it back here when you’re done; we still have some things to deal with.”
“You got it.”
The two agents headed out, each giving Neal a parting glance with a mix of emotions Neal couldn’t confidently decipher in his current state but could hope held some remaining goodwill. When they’d gone, Peter concentrated his attention back on Neal, and Neal forced himself to look him in the eyes, ignoring the heat running up his back as half his mind fixated on Fowler’s presence nearby and the churning of his stomach at the prospect of being ‘dealt with.’ A voice in the back of his head whispered that there would be no reason to bother with the anklet if Peter was sending him back to prison. Much louder, Peter’s voice in his memory told him he was a liability and insisted, “You’re not gonna get away with this. You’re not.”
“Anything else they should be looking for while they’re in your apartment?”
Neal averted his eyes as his mind immediately flashed to the box of bullets he’d left on the table. He said nothing.
Looking back at Peter, Neal found the appraising stare of a troubled handler and got the sense Peter was searching for something as he surveyed Neal. Whether he found it or not, he eventually gave a short nod and asked, “So, are you done doing stupid things for the day?”
Neal blinked at the bluntness of the question, off balance and a little indignant despite everything, before replying, “Yes.”
“Neal.”
“Yes.”
Peter gave him another long look. “Good. Neal, you—”
“I know. Believe me, I know. But—”
“‘But?’ Neal, there is no ‘but’ here! I need you to understand that you almost killed someone today.”
Neal flinched, heartrate picking up at the reminder, and his eyes once again found the floor upon hearing the raw truth aloud—hearing Peter say it. He supposed it was for the best that he’d accomplished nothing but blowing up his life with his moment of freedom today; what he’d almost accomplished was much, much worse.
When Neal looked back up, it was with an intensity mixed from the lingering, if cooled, flame of a desperate man still yet to be granted satisfaction and the rare imploring, earnest regret of a non-violent con man aware he had almost crossed a line he could never come back from. “I understand, Peter, I promise. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not the one you almost killed.”
“Peter, I am sorry. You were right.” Neal willed himself to just be the meek penitent, but as he glanced at Peter’s office and the man who’d ruined his life time and time again waiting within, he couldn’t help himself. “But even if he didn’t kill her, he’s involved, and…”
Peter sighed, softening slightly. “I know. We’ll get your answers. We’re gonna talk to him now, but Neal, if I'm bringing you in there with me, I have to be able to trust you to keep it under control.”
‘Trust.’
Neal nodded. “Under control,” he promised, putting as much solemn sincerity into the words as he could. For Kate, he had almost lost control today, and for Kate, he could pull it back now. Unable to put off the question any longer, though, before Peter could start towards his office, Neal began, “Am I…?”
Peter looked at him for another long moment. “We’ll see.”
Back in his apartment (still out of prison, if only for the moment), back on leash, the box of bullets—evidence of his crimes—still on his table, no one around to see him break down, the threads of self-control Neal had been clinging to finally snapped as it all rushed over him again.
Once again and at once, he’d lost both his freedom and Kate, and he would never get Kate back.
Fowler didn’t kill Kate.
They had no idea who did.
Not only had he almost killed Fowler, he had almost killed Fowler for something he didn’t do.
They hadn’t cracked the music box yet.
The music box wouldn’t bring back Kate.
He hung his head again, unconcerned with the charcoal smudged on his hands and face, tears staining the papers he hadn’t thrown from the table.
If he hadn’t stopped short of the plane…
If he hadn’t dragged her into his life…
If he’d left the gun in Akihiro’s shop…
If he’d left the music box in Diana’s apartment…
If he’d never lied to Kate…
If he’d never gone after the music box in the first place…
If Peter hadn’t stopped him that day…
If Peter hadn’t stopped him today…
Neal Caffrey knew shame and guilt, and on the rarest of occasions, in the weakest of moments, it felt like they were all he knew.