jet44

Tsunami, Ch. 1: Turnabout is Not Fair Play

jet44 — Wed, 09 Apr 2014 14:47:27 GMT

Author: Jet44

Genres: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Whump, Humor, Friendship, Gen

Relationships: Peter and Neal bromance, canon pairings

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: PTSD, drowning, physical assault, prisoner abuse, a sprinkle of swearing. I'm not going the stereotypical "beaten and raped in prison" route. What happened to Peter and Neal was much more frighteningly close to legal treatment.

Spoilers: Potential through end of S5

Summary: After Peter was jailed for murder, he changed. Neal prods Peter about his experiences in jail and shares a trauma of his own, but Peter won't stop lashing out at him. When it can't get any worse, the two are caught in a tsunami in the middle of the night, Neal drowns, Peter rescues and resuscitates him, and from there on out it's all about survival, reconciliation, and healing. My aim is to explain why Peter acted so cruelly in season 5, and how they wound up so close to normal by the final episode. If you're willing to go along for the ride, I promise a happy ending and a rebuilding of trust and friendship. And cuddles.
#Clickable Index and Summary#

PETER

Peter's head spun, his vision blurring around the edges. He stopped breathing. And everything hit him at once. Horror, shock, pain, fear, guilt, helplessness.

Frantic desire to defend himself, coupled with the inability to form basic words.

His arms were shaking. He couldn't even feel the handcuffs, or his feet, or remember what day it was.

More than anything, he wanted to cry. He kept waiting for it to end, but first the walk through the lobby, past his team and strangers, then the ride to the office, sitting in the interrogation room facing a dirty agent all seemed to stretch on for hours.

And when the cell door closed and no miracles had come for him, when he was finally alone, he did cry. He told himself all the ways it could work out just fine, and tried to silence the horror of all the ways it might not.

He wished desperately for El and Satchmo and his living room and his life. His FBI, Jones and Diana and Hughes and bad coffee.

And Neal.

Oh, God. All the times I've done this to Neal. I knew it hurt. I didn't know it could be this bad. That is one tough, loyal, forgiving son of a bitch.

NEAL

His breath caught when he saw Peter in an orange jumpsuit, looking - more than devastated, more than terrified, more than hurt. He'd seen Peter on a stretcher with his heart stopped. Peter with his wife in the hands of a ruthless kidnapper. But never Peter broken. Never trying and failing to look brave and calm.

The sight broke him.

This time there were no jokes about irony, just his best friend sitting raw and wounded.

Neal sat down and tried to meet Peter's eyes, but he wouldn't look up. "Peter."

It took a good minute for him to respond. "Neal."

"We'll get you out of here, you know that, right?" Neal didn't know what to say, not to Peter. Not to this.

"I'd put myself in your shoes instead if I could. Peter, tell me what I can do, what I can say, anything."

Neal felt desperate. He was used to having a plan, or at the very least someone to turn to. He hadn't really absorbed until just now how often that plan involved Peter, or the fact that most of the time, he was that someone to turn to.

"How did you handle it?" Peter asked finally. "I - am - trying everything I can to be brave, and strong, and have hope that this will go my way. And every minute feels like someone is beating me in the heart with an baseball bat. How. How did you handle this?"

Neal leaned forward on the table, as close as he could get, and held his cuffed hands. "It's different, being guilty. When you arrested me on that diamond heist, that was a whole new level of pain. If I were in your shoes right now, I'd be crying myself to sleep every single night."

Peter gulped and closed his eyes. "I do."

"Peter." Neal was remembering the gentle, compassionate, utterly reassuring FBI agent who had eased some of the worst pains in his life. "My turn. How did you manage to help me so much? How did you know what to say and what to do all those times it was me in here?"

He was starting to understand the emotions behind that wrenched expression Peter gave him so often. To be worried about someone you felt such deep empathy for, and to be helpless to pull them out or charge in with the cavalry or even stand by their side...

"I - I really didn't know. I cared about you. I knew I couldn't change the circumstances, so I just - tried to show you I cared and that your world wasn't gone."

Peter's voice sounded so lost and faint at the last part that Neal wanted to hug him.

"Okay. Listen to me. I know - what this brand of fear feels like, and there is no way out from under it. There is something about losing control of your future, not even being able to see the future, that's - if some thug kidnaps you and holds you at gunpoint, the world is at your back. You may not know what's going to happen or if you'll survive, but you know he's the bad guy and you're the good guy."

Neal looked at the ugly tiled walls, the bars, the guard standing outside. Thought about all the hate his fellow inmates had felt for the "screws" running the place, for police and FBI and everyone in a suit or a uniform.

And about the affection he had for those very same people. With the exception of the corrupt and cruel ones, the criminals who had figured out it was easier to get away with if you wore a uniform, they had ten times the heart of Brutus the meth-addicted chop-shop owner.

And finally, about the pain of having them look at him like he was dangerous, untrustworthy, and something less than completely human. It had to hurt Peter exponentially more.

He gripped Peter's hands tighter. They were cold, and felt weak. "When you're arrested, the world is against you. You don't know what's going to happen to your future, but you know nobody cares and you just have to take it, because you're not the good guy any longer."

"That's - exactly it," said Peter, giving him a deeply grateful look. "I've been captured with armed men ready to kill or torture me, and - I'm ten times as frightened by being in a clean cell with humane treatment and lawyers and - I can't fight them, because I won't. I don't know how to do this."

"Listen. El, Mozzie, your FBI crew - me - all those smart, creative, caring minds that have solved so many cases are working for you now. You just remember the passion and effectiveness and magic of everything we can accomplish together, and know that you mean the world to all of us," said Neal.

Peter's eyes were filled with tears, his hands shaking. "Thanks." His voice broke twice just trying to say one word.

"You're loved. You're missed. There's a Peter Burke-sized hole in your world out there, and we aren't going to stop until you're back in it."

"I miss all of you, so much," Peter whispered. He still looked unbearably devastated. A metal door slammed, and he flinched.

Neal wondered if he should tell the truth, and finally decided in favor of it. "You know what kept me going sometimes?"

"What?"

"I'd think about my worst fears. That I would be here for life. That I'd die here. That I'd be shipped to some mythical hellhole where I'd live in solitary confinement, beaten and raped every day. That everyone would forget me or hate me. That I'd never experience joy again."

"Pretty much been doing that," said Peter dryly. "Shockingly, it's not wonderful for my spirits."

"Then I'd decide how I would handle it. Sometimes it involved suicide. Sometimes I realized I would be okay. But I had a plan for each of my fears. So far, I haven't had to use one of them. But it helps, not shying away. And then whenever I was having a really horrible time, I'd think forward to a year, five years, whatever distance I needed, and look at how small and forgettable it was going to seem in the future."

"And Peter - try not to grieve for what you've lost until you've really lost it." Neal hesitated. "If this were an undercover assignment. Getting thrown in here as a prisoner for a while. You knew it wasn't real. Would you find it particularly hard to cope?"

A flash of spirit entered Peter's eyes. "No. Not at all."

"Con yourself, Peter."

FIVE WEEKS LATER

Neal stepped out onto the balcony and let the harsh, frozen wind tear at him. It stung his eyes and let him pretend the water in them was just the weather.

There'd been so much joy in his life, so many exhilarating experiences, so many challenges of the good kind.

But those were hard to see when there was this much pain with it. He'd handled everything that was thrown at him as a child and a teenager. He'd handled prison. He'd handled losing Kate. He'd handled getting to know his father and finding out the man was a worse human being than his nightmares had dared suggest. And all the smaller things in between.

He'd handled all the pain and worry and stress and humiliation of being Peter's ankleted CI, because those had been some of the best times in his life.

What he couldn't handle was having the one person he'd ever truly trusted, the one safe person, change.

Neal bit his lip, put his head down, gripped the edge of the stone railing, and cried.

He knew crime and criminals. He knew traps when he saw them, and had always been smart enough to steal the cheese without springing them. With Hagen, he'd walked right in, stepped on the trigger, and let it fall. He'd known he would be paying for it and he didn't care.

He'd known Hagen could bring it all down. Had known that if he did this, and Peter suspected, it could end everything. But he couldn't bear to see Peter suffering so deeply, and it had seemed like a worthy sacrifice at the time. He'd meant every word when he said he'd put himself in Peter's shoes if he could.

Because Peter was the other cardinal rule of criminal survival he'd broken. You never let anyone get close enough, or let yourself care enough, that there was anyone or anything you couldn't throw away.

If you put your trust and faith and heart in someone, they would use you, abandon you, and break your heart. They always wanted something, and would always walk away when they were done with you. You didn't let someone in close enough to genuinely hurt you. Ever.

He'd not only let Peter in, he'd placed his trust and love and loyalty in him. He'd let Peter hurt him, control him, shape him. Because he adored the man and what he was doing. And he'd been conscious the entire time.

For no reason other than simple affection and decency, Peter had been trying and succeeding to save Neal. To pry him away from the criminal world and show him a life that had all the challenge and thrill and exhilaration, but added security and trust and love and moral authority to the mix.

Peter was the only man he'd ever met who never acted out of malice or selfishness or revenge. He was honest to the core. He never preyed on the weak or hurt people when they were down. He was never cold, never turned his back on people who needed him.

He cared. He simply and plainly cared.

And Peter had turned into a smug, hard, phony, career-climbing suit. The joy of life had gone out of his eyes, his affection for people and compassion replaced by a fake smile and a hard voice. A life and death bond of friendship had been deliberately and brutally severed.

Maybe it had been the pain and betrayal of false accusation by the criminal justice system that underpinned his life. Maybe it had been what he'd encountered in jail; what had been relatively easy for Neal the con artist could have been a nightmare for Peter the FBI agent.

But the bottom line was that Peter was smart and he was tough, far tougher than Neal. And if Neal had been able to get through years in prison not only with his spirit intact but the ability to forgive and adore the man who put him there, Peter could handle spending a few weeks in jail without being warped beyond recognition.

He'd always affectionately slapped Neal in the face with the anklet, and in doing so gracefully diverted the uncomfortable truths that Neal was somewhere between his pet and his slave. He'd managed to make it funny, fun, and somehow, impossibly, cool and dignified.

This time, he'd slapped Neal in the face for real, discarding him and handing him over to be controlled by someone they'd never met. Like a master selling a slave. That was possibly the most painfully humiliating thing Peter could do, and he had a hard time trying to convince himself that Peter was dumb enough to be unaware of the dynamic.

He'd even used the anklet to do it, in a way. New anklet, new "handler," new Peter. Goodbye.

This was sick, and it hurt. This was not the Peter Burke he adored and trusted. That man was gone, that friendship and trust was gone, and he was left sobbing on a balcony.

Because he was a criminal, and he'd broken the rules of being a criminal. So much for redemption.

Tsunami: Summary and Index

jet44 — Wed, 09 Apr 2014 14:41:50 GMT

Author: Jet44

Genres: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Whump, Humor, Friendship, Gen

Relationships: Peter and Neal bromance, canon pairings

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: Potential through end of S5

Blast Zone, Part 1 (Handcuffs Series)

jet44 — Tue, 08 Apr 2014 20:12:31 GMT

Author: Jet44

Genres: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Humor, Friendship, Gen

Relationships: Peter and Neal bromance, canon pairings

Rating: PG

Warnings: Discussion of suicide (not actually done or attempted). Canon character death.

Spoilers: Out of the Box, Withdrawal

Summary: Collection of one-shots, each based on a time Neal has been handcuffed (usually by Peter). Less kinky than it sounds, these aren't slash - although if you ship the two I'm sure you'll enjoy them ;). Lots of hurt/comfort/angst/adorableness.

#Clickable Series Index with Summaries #

When the plane went up, it was so fast, so forceful, so jarring, that for a horrifying second all Peter could see was Neal framed by fire. A second after that, he was clinging to his CI, who was trying to charge straight into the inferno.

"Let me go, Kate's in there, let me go!" Neal yelled.

The heat was so intense it was almost thick and tactile, but Peter's body felt cold to the bone, his hands and legs numb. The image of Neal being consumed in the explosion was seared into his subconscious even as his conscious mind helped him restrain the very alive, frantic, furiously struggling man in reality.

"I have to save her! I have to save her." Neal was screaming, struggling with more sheer strength than Peter could have imagined. It was an animal struggle, a blinded grief and horror, a mind convinced that if he could just run into the jet that no longer existed, he could save her.

He didn't hit Peter, or kick him. Not even once. Neal could fight, and well. But even in a blind primal panic, hurting a friend was off the table.

Neal stopped fighting around the time the first fire and police vehicles reached the hangar. Peter was pinning him face down on the ground, one arm around the front of his chest and shoulders, when he collapsed.

He went limp on the pavement, put his face against Peter's arm, and sobbed. Peter was lying on him, pinning him, and didn't let go. The heat and the smell of burning jet fuel were choking in their intensity, and tiny pieces and flakes and chunks of ash and debris were tinkling down on them like a light, fine rain.

When an assortment of firefighters, cops, and FBI agents practically picked them up dragged them away, they were both scraped up and bleeding from the life-and-death wrestling match on rough pavement. And Neal was shivering uncontrollably in shock.

"Peter, Neal Caffrey's being remanded to prison pending a full investigation. You're also being suspended during this process."

Peter stared at his boss blankly. "What?"

"I'm sorry to hit you with this now. I'm only doing it because I know Caffrey's your partner, and I have a narrow window to let you have any control over this at all. Once your suspension is official, what happens to him is completely out of your hands."

"So how do I keep him out?"

Hughes shook his head. "You don't get me. There's no keeping him out. There's just breaking the news gently, as opposed to the Marshals chaining him up and putting him in the back of the van they have waiting out there."

"No. No, no! Neal is in our custody, under my supervision. He just watched the love of his life be murdered. We are not sending him to prison. If OPR or whoever it is wants him supervised, reduce his radius. Put him under house arrest. Put him under arrest at my house if they like, but he is not going back to prison."

"He's fleeing suspect in his girlfriend's murder. He's a suicide risk. Caffrey's not on parole, he belongs to the prison. He's an inmate on a very conditional supervised work release. If you both get cleared, you can see about reinstating it."

Neal was on the floor of the surveillance van, curled up on his side in the fetal position, crying into his arms. Peter sat down next to him, lifted his head off the floor and tucked his own jacket under it as a pillow, and started rubbing his shoulder and upper arm.

He tried to speak, several times, but the guilt was too strong. He couldn't prattle on with anything comforting with this knowledge in his head. Not without feeling like he was betraying a trust. He took a deep breath, thought about El and Neal and his own career, and prisons and heartbreak, and incinerating heat and tears.

"Neal, I've got to tell you something, and it's probably the hardest thing I've had to say in my whole career," said Peter, bracing himself. The tears were already glazing his own eyes.

"I heard," whispered Neal. "We're in the van. You're wired. I heard it all."

Diana entered the van and stood trying to hide what she was holding. "Guys - the Marshals are out there. They - we - Neal has to be patted down and restrained."

She held up handcuffs and leg irons and the chains that hooked them all together. Prison issue. "NO!" said Peter. "No. No. No. We are not doing that now."

She braced herself against Peter's impassioned protest. "You can do it, one of us can, or the Marshals." She looked at Neal. "Any preference? I'm sorry."

Neal just shrunk about two sizes and huddled closer to Peter, braced for assault and looking like he'd rather be shot. Peter looked away and reflected on the two biggest mistakes in trying to manage Neal Caffrey: Thinking that he wasn't vulnerable or didn't care, and forgetting that he was tough and resilient. This was as vulnerable as it got.

Diana held the restraints out to Peter, who didn't budge, just glared. Finally Peter pointed to the floor, and she dropped them there.

Peter's hands were clenched into fists. "You walk out and you tell them I'm doing it. And Diana, if I ever hear you chained up someone you care about within an hour of them watching the love of their life go up in flames, you're off my team. You go out there and tell them this young man is my partner, he's one of our most valuable consultants, he's my friend. This is acute grief, survivor's guilt, trauma, and physical shock, and putting him in prison in this state is mental and emotional torture. We'll come out when we're ready, and if anyone has a problem with that, they'll be facing a Peter Burke you've never seen and don't want to."

"Wow, Peter. You're scary," said Neal, a hint of smile behind his agonized blue eyes. It was the first coherent thing he'd said since the explosion.

She took a step back, palms up in appeasement. Looked at Neal again. "Neal, I am so, so sorry about Kate. I mean that."

Neal tried to whisper an acknowledgement, but the words didn't come out.

She spoke again. "I care about you, so I don't like saying this in front of you, but I'm going to."

"Diana..." Peter warned.

She looked away from Neal and right at Peter. "It feels cruel. But as an FBI agent, remember that this is a desperate, emotionally distraught murder suspect caught in the act of fleeing a felony sentence. For the second time. This is a high-risk transport, like it or not."

Peter nodded. "Diana, come take my gun."

"Why?"

"Because I'm about to have a sit-down with my emotionally distraught murder suspect, and I don't want you or me worried about him grabbing it."

She stepped forward and pulled the gun out of his shoulder holster.

Peter nodded towards the door of the van. "Now get out. Nobody enters. I'll bring out my chained-up fleeing felon, but right now I'm going to talk to my partner."

Hurting a friend was not an option. Not for Neal at the explosion, not for Peter now.

Peter was breathing heavily, trying to get himself under control and his mind working right. He'd been purposely ignoring that he'd seen a woman blown up in front of his eyes, that a friend he loved had almost been part of that explosion, that his career was threatened, that Neal had been planning to run.

But now he let himself feel all that, briefly. Because he had very little time to get Neal on his feet, and he needed to know how to do it.

If El had been on that plane - nothing would console him. Nothing. He wouldn't be able to hear, think, cope, or react. Nothing would make it better.

But there were things that could make it worse. Like being investigated for her death. Like being put in prison. He probably wouldn't give two thoughts about being locked up, but the mere insinuation that he'd been responsible? Let alone an outright accusation? Added to the guilt the human mind was capable of all on its own, it would break any part of him that hadn't already snapped. Maybe for good.

And it could easily make him want to die.

Neal should go right into suicide watch. But that was possibly the cruelest treatment in the American penal system. Solitary confinement, constant monitoring, no blankets or sheets, no running water, no physical contact, no time out of the cell, lights on 24/7.

In theory, better in absolute misery for a few days or a week than dead. In reality, he wasn't sure he could ever forgive himself for putting Neal through that, or that Neal would or should forgive it.

Torture. That's what this kept coming back around to. And no. He wasn't going to let anyone torture his friend just because he might kill himself. There were choices you could ethically take from someone, and this was not one of them.

He put his hand on Neal's head, buried his fingers in his hair. It was full of ash and dirt, and damp with tears and sweat. "I've never heard you talk about suicide," he said quietly. "Is that an option you'd ever put on the table?"

Neal's eyes filled with tears again. "Yes. Is there anyone who wouldn't, if things got bad enough?"

"I don't know. I'm thinking about being in your shoes right now, what all of this would do to me if it were El, and - I know the potential would be there."

"Thinking about whether to put me on suicide watch?" asked Neal quietly, avoiding his eyes.

"I did," said Peter, stroking the side of Neal's temple with his thumb. It was a gesture more appropriate to a child or a lover, and he watched Neal's reaction closely for any discomfort. There was none, just a softened expression.

"I already decided not to. I know what it entails, and I could never send you into that."

Neal closed his eyes and drew in his breath in a gasping sob. "Thank you."

"You planning to die?" asked Peter. "Because I'm not taking that choice out of your hands, but if you kill yourself in prison, that's blood on mine forever. I honestly don't think I could handle that."

There was a long silence, Neal still with his eyes closed, Peter still stroking the side of his face with his thumb. It seemed to comfort him.

"There are people I'd like to kill more than myself right now, I think," said Neal finally. There was a slim trace of humor in the phrasing, and the voice.

"Okay." Peter drew a deep breath and let it out. "Okay."

He dragged himself back to the El analogy. Suicide was just the most extreme outcome. There was going to be unstoppable grief, guilt, and anger. Tears without end, inability to cope with or hear or comprehend anything.

At a minimum, Neal had to be able to hear and obey orders, and control his behavior around other inmates. He'd made friends on both sides of the law in there, an almost impossible task. There were prisoners who would welcome him with open arms, and guards who would help him and show kindness and compassion.

But there were also prisoners who would try to take him down when he was vulnerable, and surely a few assholes on the corrections staff who wouldn't mind the chance to break the irreverent goofball who'd get out of handcuffs just to hand them back to you with a twinkling grin.

The grief and trauma were going to last for months or years. Tears, sobs, rage, intense emotion were finite. He couldn't try to talk Neal down from the emotional ledge right now, he had to push him over.

"Neal. You grieve for her, right now. You need to cry and scream and sob, and beat the hell out of me if it helps. You remember everything you loved about her and everything you were going to be together and everything you wish you'd been able to say to her and what it felt like seeing that plane go up."

Neal was already shaking, gasping for breath, blue eyes overflowing with tears, but he managed to look Peter in the eyes.

I get it.

Thank God Neal was so intelligent. Perceptive, resilient, tough. If anyone could make it through this unthinkable mess, it would be him.

"I. Did. Not. Kill. Kate." His cadence was partly for emphasis, partly due to the fact that he was barely able to speak coherently. "I loved - her."

"I know you didn't," said Peter. "Kill her, I mean. I know you loved her deeply."

Neal did cry, and he did scream. He clung to Peter and sobbed, yelled at him, punched at him like a small child, crawled into the darkest corner he could find and sobbed some more.

They finally wound up with Peter sitting on the floor of the van, his legs outstretched, holding Neal. Neal was coiled up in Peter's arms, his face buried against Peter's shoulder, limp and exhausted. The debonair con artist looked and felt more like a war refugee.

Peter realized that anything he wanted to say to Neal, he needed to say now. Later, anything emotional would risk breaking him down when he couldn't afford that luxury.

"Hey," said Peter. "I know you were running, and that hurts. But I'd leave anyone and anything for El. So when it matters, know I'm your friend."

Neal hid his face. "If - none of this works out, think you could still come see me now and then?"

Peter's breath stopped. Neal had never asked him to visit. It was too one-sided, too vulnerable. It was pinning your hopes on someone. Neal had called and written, and Peter had done the same. But he never got the impression Neal wanted to be dragged in front of him in a jumpsuit.

And most of all, it was an admission that Peter was important to him. Peter put his hand on Neal's back. "Any time you want me to. Any time."

"Careful, last person who made a habit of it got blown up."

"I'll take my chances."

"I wish - I'd never met her or proposed to her. I got a beautiful, brilliant, complex woman killed, and -" Neal's voice gave out. He struggled with it and spoke again. "Maybe I do just belong in prison."

"Oh, you belong in prison all right," said Peter. "But not for loving someone. You didn't kill her, someone murdered her. Was probably trying to murder you too."

"She wasted years of her life on - a guy in a cage." He tilted his head up and looked at Peter. "She's the reason I didn't break out and head for Brazil the first month. She wanted a life and a family, with me. She - said she'd run with me if I couldn't handle prison, but if I could, she wanted us to do it right. So I stayed."

"I don't think she wasted anything on you," said Peter quietly. "I think she shared a great love with a loyal, handsome, talented and gentle man who personified everything she dreamed of. And she never had that broken."

Neal started crying again, but more softly, more conscious and sober than his previous uncontrolled emotion.

Peter kept talking softly. "The next however many weeks or months are going to be torture. I don't say that hyperbolically, I mean it literally. I think putting you in a maximum-security prison after what you just saw and went through and are going to be dealing with emotionally constitutes torture."

"That's what I love about you, Peter." Neal's voice held a dash of their usual affectionately abusive banter. "You're so reassuring."

Much as he hated to, Peter passed up the opportunity to get Neal joking. "I'm saying that so that you know. When you're fighting the agony and guilt and grief and traumatic memories that I know you're going to go through without any support, there is nothing wrong or weak about feeling like it's going to kill you."

Silence. No sobbing, or pushing back. His breathing steadied a bit, and his desperately tense body relaxed. "It's that obvious?"

"Basic human psychology."

Neal rolled out of his grip and sat beside him on the floor, drained but calm. "I know how much the FBI means to you. I'm sorry about what you're going to have to go through being investigated."

Peter wasn't ready to think about that just yet. Easier to help someone else than try to cope himself. "It'll work out."

Neal took a deep breath. "I'm ready to go get tortured now. See you in a few weeks?"

Peter stole a sideways glance at the pile of gear Diana had dropped on the floor. It was for transporting high-risk prisoners. People adept at escaping, people like Neal. It was the perfect metaphor for everything that wasn't needed and didn't work on him.

They could hit him over the head with sentences and procedures and restraints designed for dumb, predatory thugs.

Or someone could have the patience to become his friend, give him things to care about, earn his respect and trust. And Neal Caffrey, escape artist, con artist, and just plain artist, would put his entire future in your hands if you told him to.

It was the loyalty, courage, sensitivity, and moral core in Neal that the criminal justice system was too blunt an instrument to access.

That godawful pile of gear was within reach, and Peter pulled it over. The tangle of leg irons and handcuffs and leg and belly chains was all snarled up, and Neal reached out to help him decipher the mess.

The act made Peter's gut skip a beat, like the sensation of being on an elevator at the start of a rapid drop. As if this wasn't heartbreaking enough, Neal had to go and do something adorably Neal.

Peter took a deep breath. "I know - that you would take this trip with me without a single piece of this nonsense. And that means a lot."

"I can see how much you don't want to use it, and that means a lot," said Neal.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the bench. "I have to know what happened. We have to catch whoever killed her. I think - I can get through this now by focusing on that."

"Okay." Peter reached out and gave Neal one last hug. Noticed again what a total mess his face and hair and jacket were.

He stood up, found a bottle of water, a roll of paper towels, a first aid kit, and an FBI jacket in Neal's size. Brought them over, and while Neal worked on cleaning the dirt and tears off his face, Peter managed to wipe the worst of the ash and debris out of his hair with wet paper towels. Helped him clean the scrapes and cuts left by rolling around struggling on rough concrete, and put on soothing antibiotic ointment and a few band-aids.

When they were done, Neal stood and zipped up the jacket, sharing a sideways grin with Peter at the irony of what the agent had dressed him in. A thought hit Peter. "That going to get you hurt at the prison?"

Neal shook his head. "Nah. I'll be in felony orange before anyone sees me. Hell, the Marshals will probably rip it off me in about five minutes from now."

Peter shook his head. "I'm riding with you."

Neal tried not to cry again. "You don't have to do that."

"Take a chance of a desperate felon escaping on the way to prison? You know my professional ethics would never allow me."

Neal ran his fingers through his hair and tugged down the windbreaker. "How do I look?"

Halfway alert and human, a far cry from his usual slick self but no longer looking like a bloody mop.

"Dashing and tragic, with a hint of impersonating an FBI agent."

"Perfect."

Peter knew how to use all this stuff. Didn't do so often, and when he did it was on seriously nasty people who would not only escape but cut your throat on the way out the door. Putting it on a heartbroken and traumatized Neal Caffrey felt absurd, cruel, and wrong.

Neal stood up and gave him a little smile, then stood motionless while Peter patted him down and then wrapped the belly chain loosely around his waist. The leg irons were connected to it on yet another chain, and Peter fastened them around his ankles. Neal held his wrists together, and Peter fit the rigid, hinged handcuffs around them carefully.

The cuffs had no chain linking them, just a hinge. They held the wrists closer together and limited range of motion more than standard cuffs.

"This does not look comfy," said Peter, feeling guilty. It was an understatement. Peter had worn them in training, and hated it. Pretty much any attempt to relax or shift position drove the unyielding metal hard against bone, pinning sensitive nerves and making the whole experience utterly miserable. Not a thing he'd ever wanted to do to a person he liked.

"Oh, believe me, it's not," said Neal. "It's almost like they wanted to restrict my movements or something."

Peter sighed. Fantastic. Put the guy in physical as well as emotional pain. Last part. The black box for high-security prisoners.

Neal's lips twitched in amusement. "They brought out the big guns."

It locked even the hinge in place so that there was no movement of the wrists, and blocked the key holes so they couldn't be picked. He hadn't ever been in one of those and didn't want to, but Neal didn't flinch when Peter put it on and linked it into the chain around his waist.

"Okay," said Peter, his words sarcastic but his voice gentle. "Transformation from grieving human being to high-risk felony transport complete."

Neal took several deep, deliberately controlled breaths, his face a blank. Shivered briefly, then focused his eyes and forced a relaxed expression.

"I feel like Hannibal Lecter," said Neal. "Can you get me a hand truck and one of those masks?"

"I can get you a tracking anklet and a deviled ham sandwich?"

"Even brains would be better than your sandwiches."

Fowler Intentions (Handcuffs Series)

jet44 — Tue, 08 Apr 2014 03:15:45 GMT

Author: Jet44

Genres: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Humor, Friendship, Gen

Relationships: Peter and Neal bromance, canon pairings

Rating: PG

Warnings: None.

Spoilers: None.

#Clickable Series Index with Summaries #

NEAL

Whatever he'd expected today, it hadn't been for Fowler to walk in and arrest him.

When Peter took responsibility for it instead and hauled Neal out of his seat, he knew he was being given a chance. A tiny, tenuous chance. Neal gulped, and hoped his trepidation wasn't visible to Peter as he tried, desperately, to use any seconds he might have to convince his handler of his innocence.

He held his wrists together to be cuffed, and Peter did it as a matter of routine, and it wasn't until they were on that it felt like he'd been punched in the gut. If he was one to whimper, he'd have done it then.

Peter's expression was stern, interrogating, but he caught the almost-hidden, split-second waver in Neal's pleading gaze when the cuffs went on. When Peter grabbed his jacket and draped it over his wrists to make the march through the FBI office a little less humiliating, Neal knew he was walking beside a friend.

It felt like walking beside a friend to the gallows.

He was used to being guilty when arrested. Not a little guilty, but running out of room on the charge sheet guilty. The concept of playing by the rules, giving this "being on the right side of the law" routine a sincere chance, and yet winding up in prison framed for theft sobered him.

He didn't get a chance to talk to Peter alone or do anything but show a blank face and keep his mouth shut until he was in the booking room at the jail, about to be handed over.

"Let me have your ankle." Peter's order was crisp and impersonal.

Neal put his foot up on a plastic chair, and Peter removed the anklet while Neal tried not to show how much the simple act hurt. He didn't want the thing off, not now.

"You can leave it on," Neal suggested. "You know, in case someone tries to claim I stole the Hope Diamond while I was in my cell."

"Not now, Neal." Cold. Humorless. Treating Neal like a suspect. A suspect he didn't like at all.

Neal was trying not to tremble. The panic when he'd learned he wasn't going to a Federal white collar prison, but to Sing Sing Penitentiary, was never going to leave a certain place in his heart.

Not because the prison had been that bad. In reality, it hadn't. But because it'd shown him the terrifying ease with which the criminal justice system could leave him shattered.

Peter had been there at his sentencing, had seen his panic and followed him back to the holding cell. Held his shoulders while he hyperventilated and tried not to throw up. When he could actually hear again, talked to him in a gentle voice, reassured him, told him he was a phone call away if Neal needed help. Refused to leave until Neal truly believed that he was going to be okay.

The guy he was being handed over to removed Peter's handcuffs and tossed them back to the agent, and Peter turned away to leave without a word.

The guard threw Neal off-balance, wrenched his arms behind his back, cuffed him, and let his upper body fall forward, kicking the insides of his ankles lightly to get him to spread his legs.

It wasn't as harsh as it looked, and after you'd been through it enough times, not particularly stressful. It was just a technique to keep violent and cagey people off-balance and shaken. Not a lot of fun if you had no intention of hurting the guy doing it to you, but not really abusive either.

But the absolute opposite of Peter's respectful treatment. Even though he was pissed-off and feeling betrayed, Peter had done nothing but touch him gently when he needed to and give plain, clear orders.

Neal struggled to brace his head and upper body against the wall while he was searched. With his arms locked behind his back, it was difficult, and he wished fiercely that he'd ignored his damn pride and talked to Peter when he'd had the chance, company or no company.

PETER

It hit Peter in the gut, too. Not the actual cuffing him, but seeing that flash of fear and pain. Neal Caffrey was nothing if not complex, and part of that complexity was a sensitive nature not well concealed in a shell as resilient as rubber.

That scared, hurt waver hadn't been there the first time he'd arrested Neal. Hadn't been there the second time he'd arrested Neal.

Regret, sure. Not so grudging admiration, sure. Depression, sure. Nobody liked to be caught, but Caffrey took it better than most, with straightforward grace and humor.

Fear. Pain. Desperate, pleading denial. Easy to write off from a con man, except that Neal had never done that. Accusing him got you a sly grin, a twinkle in his eye, and a playful toss of the head as he said, "Allegedly."

If Neal actually was innocent, this could be one of the worst things anyone could do to him. If he was innocent, he'd been sincerely trying.

And he'd just been thrown up against the wall in cuffs for it. Peter gritted his teeth against the flash of anger he was tempted to unleash against the officer searching Neal. It wasn't painful, wasn't excessive force, just hard to watch when it was a friend. A friend who didn't deserve to be manhandled without so much as being given an order and a chance to cooperate.

A friend who might well not have deserved to be arrested in the first place.

NEAL

The official finished and pulled Neal back upright, turning him around. Neal's breath caught. Peter was still there, looking grim and hard.

"He's not violent," said Peter, focusing that hard look at the man holding Neal's elbow. Seems it might have distressed him to watch Neal being shoved around.

"This is my CI. I know him. He's an escape risk, and a con artist, but he is not a bad guy or a dangerous one. He may even be innocent. I need you to take good care of him for me."

The grip on Neal's elbow loosened, and Neal struggled to keep the wash of emotion and gratitude and love off his face. He got the idea he didn't manage too well.

"You got it, Agent Burke."

Peter stepped forward and hooked his hand around the elbow the guard wasn't holding. Tugged him lightly forward and across the room to a more private corner. The agent's face was if anything harder than before.

"I didn't do this," said Neal. He'd said it before and he would keep saying it, because it was the most important message in the world to get across.

"I'm listening to evidence. Not you. Evidence."

The agent's voice was tight, his body rigid, jaw set. Peter was hurting, and for the first time it occurred to Neal to be touched instead of scared. If all this upset him so much, it could only be because their friendship meant a great deal to Peter as well. I didn't do it wasn't the most important message to convey.

"Peter."

Peter looked him in the eyes. Neal held the gaze as intensely as he possibly could. It was con artist territory, but he didn't know any other way to show his sincerity. "I didn't betray you. I'll never betray you."

And that was going to be a hard promise to live up to. Irredeemable if broken. He modified it, reluctantly. "I'll try not to betray you. With all I've got, I'll try."

Peter's gaze softened. "You've got no idea how much I want to believe that."

Peter pulled Neal forward and wrapped his arms around him in a hug. Neal stood ramrod straight, frozen. He was a felon, a veteran of the prison system, being checked into jail. He could handle it, he didn't need to be coddled.

But dear God, did he want to be.

He let his head fall forward against Peter's chest. Let himself be hugged and comforted before he walked into an uncaring and harsh environment, his life no longer his own.

Peter patted him gently on the back. Gave each of his cuffed hands a reassuring squeeze, slipped a finger under each of the metal restraints to make sure they hadn't been applied too tightly, then just held him.

"It's okay for it to hurt," Peter said softly into his ear. "Just don't be afraid."

Footsteps approached and Neal pulled away, gritting his teeth.

"Agent." The voice was pleasant. It wasn't a surprise, the guards in these places could be quite friendly with the right approach. Be nice to them, don't hate them for existing, don't countermand their inbred entitlement to push you around, and have a sense of humor. How most criminals found that so genetically impossible, he didn't know.

"I'm sorry if you thought we were too rough on your CI."

Neal tried not to flinch. Being a baby about procedure was decidedly not how you made friends in jail.

"I didn't," said Peter bluntly.

Thank God. He should stop forgetting that Peter was smart.

"Cafferty, do you feel like you were mistreated?"

Neal looked at the guy. A Sergeant. Probably called in by the man who'd searched him, after Peter snatched Neal from the guy's clutches. Pleasant face to go with the voice.

"Not at all. I've been through this before," Neal answered. "I'm just - saying goodbye to a friend."

There was understanding on the Sergeant's face. Compassion even. "Ready to go back, son?"

"Yes, sir," said Neal quietly. He brought his gaze back to Peter. "I am now."

Handcuffs Series: Summary and Index

jet44 — Tue, 08 Apr 2014 03:00:21 GMT

Fandom: White Collar
Author: Jet44
Genres: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Humor, Friendship, Gen
Relationships: Peter and Neal bromance, canon pairings
Rating: PG
Warnings: None for main series. See individual chapter listings below for any chapter warnings.
Spoilers: None.

Summary: Handcuffs is a collection of one-shots, each based on a time Neal has been handcuffed (usually by Peter). Less kinky than it sounds, these aren't slash - although if you ship the two I'm sure you'll enjoy them ;). Lots of hurt/comfort/angst/adorableness.

What Hurts: Neal plays with Peter's handcuffs and Peter makes him think about the difference between catching someone and hurting them.
Don't Pick This: Neal's thoughts when he's drugged in the doctor's office and Peter handcuffs him to a chair.
Fowler Intentions: Fowler marches in to arrest Neal. Peter takes over and escorts Neal to jail, his reserve crumbling when they take Neal to be searched.
Blast Zone, Part 1: Peter tries to help Neal cope with the unthinkable. Kate just got blown to bits, and the official response is to send him back to prison. Warnings: Discussion of suicide, canon character death.

Don't Pick This (Handcuffs Series)

jet44 — Tue, 08 Apr 2014 02:48:32 GMT

Author: Jet44

Genres: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Humor, Friendship, Gen

Relationships: Peter and Neal bromance, canon pairings

Rating: PG

Warnings: None.

Spoilers: None.

#Clickable Series Index with Summaries #

It'd hurt in that doctor's office. Drugged out of his mind, he could accept that what he'd just done was going to land him back in prison. Oh well. It'd been a fun vacation, but he'd always known it was temporary.

He wondered if he'd get his old cell back. Call him crazy, but he'd never minded the cell. It was kind of cozy after a little fixing up, and it was his. After tense days in the machine shop with friends who were only friends until a more beneficial partnership came along, dodging leers and advances from guys who noticed he was on the prettier side of manly, it was an okay feeling to be locked in for the night.

So why was his heart breaking? He looked into the FBI agent's frustrated, hurt brown eyes and knew instantly. The only true friend he'd ever known, the one person he felt utterly safe with. And he had to say goodbye.

"You're the one person in my life that I trust."

Thank you, Peter Burke.

The hand that patted him on the head and came to rest on his shoulder, affectionate and comforting, was all the reply he ever could have wished for.

And when Peter cuffed him to the chair, it hurt like hell.

"Don't. Pick. This." The order was sharp, stern, a message. We said goodbye. Back to business. Back to prison.

He was too dizzy, too weak, the world too blurred and his mind too slow to understand why Peter left him there. He tugged lightly at the metal shackles. Forget picking, this pathetic attempt at restraint could be slipped off in seconds. Peter knew that.

Peter was kind. Peter might not have wanted to cuff his hands up tightly behind his back in the only position that would make them hard to pick, while Neal was drugged and vulnerable. But he was a realistic enough agent to do it without hesitation. Friend or not.

So this had to be an offered escape opportunity. Neal Caffrey is left alone for a few seconds and does what he does best. Not Peter's fault if a heavily drugged and restrained guy wearing a tracking anklet somehow got away while his back was turned.

He tugged again, wondering if he should slip it off his wrist or the chair leg. Wondering how he was supposed to escape when he couldn't stand.

Don't. Pick. This.

That hadn't been a wink and a nudge. That had been an order.

Obeying orders had never been his strong suit, a flaw that led to an insanely boring amount of time in handcuffs and ankle chains and solitary confinement cells in prison. But an order given by someone who cared about him was a different matter.

He went to sleep.

Peter's pleasant voice woke him up again. God, I'm going to miss this guy. Maybe he could work with the FBI again, with Peter again, when he got out.

Peter said things that only sunk into Neal's brain on a time delay, while taking off the handcuffs. Wait. Had he heard that right?

"You stole that tape for me?"

"It's a regular Kodak moment." A grin, and Peter dragged Neal to his feet.

It'd been a test. Put yourself in my hands, trust me, obey me, and I'll save your life and your soul.

Okay. I'm along for the ride.

What Hurts (Handcuffs Series)

jet44 — Tue, 08 Apr 2014 01:36:18 GMT

Author: Jet44

Genres: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Humor, Friendship, Gen

Relationships: Peter and Neal bromance, canon pairings

Rating: PG

Warnings: None.

Spoilers: None.

#Clickable Series Index with Summaries #

Neal sat in the FBI surveillance van, playing with a pair of handcuffs. He knew how to use them, how to escape them, and most of all, what it felt like to wear them. There was still a fascination, mostly because of how emotionally loaded they were.

He didn't dodge Peter's amused glance. The agent found Neal playing with handcuffs as entertainingly ironic as Neal did, but underneath it were many of the reasons to love his FBI overlord. Sharp intelligence and perception. Deep kindness and empathy. Uncorruptible authority. Love of life, his own life, as lived.

He swung the ratcheted bar around and clicked the cuff closed around open air. When Peter sipped from his paper coffee cup, Neal grinned.

Ahh, inspiration.

He whipped his arm out and snapped the cuff around Peter's coffee cup.

Peter startled and glared at him, his eyes twinkling with humor at the exact same time. How that was humanly possible, Neal would like to know one day. "I forgot what a delight you are when you're bored," said Peter dryly, unshackling his coffee.

Neal swiped them away. "Your fault for forcing me to watch Big Brother: FBI. Seriously, the programming was better in prison."

"Have I ever told you how much I dream of the day your anklet has an electric shock function?" asked Peter.

Neal relaxed back against the wall of the van, glared at Peter, and sipped at his own coffee.

As much as Peter might torment him, tease him about the blasted anklet, and threaten to return him to prison, he never crossed over to emotionally painful territory. The tracker was open season. They both knew how easily he could cut it and run, which made it less of a restraint and more of a symbol of loyalty.

It stung, having it put back on after an off-anklet op. It frustrated his plans, embarrassed him, and could really mess with the drape of a good pair of pants.

But most importantly it had allowed him out of prison, saved his life repeatedly, and brought him the truest friendship he'd known.

"Is it weird that I kind of want to be the one to cuff one of our suspects sometime?" Neal asked, tossing them back up on the bench where he'd found them.

"Yes."

"I think it'd be fun. Especially if it were, say, Adler."

"Catching bad guys is about as exhilarating as it gets," said Peter. "You don't get to touch those until you know the difference between catching and hurting."

Handcuffs could hurt. Peter knew that, and in all the many times he'd used them on Neil, it had always been with care and respect for his dignity.

Hi Y'all

jet44 — Tue, 08 Apr 2014 00:54:36 GMT

So, I'm a decade or two behind the times, setting up an LJ account. The White Collar fanfic community led me here, we'll see what happens.