Title: Watching You
Author: Puck
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mentions of violence and rape, h/c, fluff.
Word Count: 6,205

Summary: Admitting you care is a tough thing to do, but sometimes actions speak louder than words. Because of his careful surveillance, when Neal is hurt during his stay in prison, Peter is the first one to know. Now he has to figure out how to help a friend he didn't even realize he had. (Pre-series genfic. An explanation for how a non-violent, 4 year prisoner ended up in supermax.)

Author's Notes: Whenever I watch the Pilot, I always wonder why the hell a non-violent prisoner with only a four year sentence ended up in "supermax." In supermax you are in your cell 23 hours a day with no outside contact. Now, obviously, it's just Jossing itself since the type of cell Neal is in is NOT the kind of cell they have for supermax prisoners. Plus if he was in his cell 23 hours a day he would have had no chance to steal all those things, order shit off the internet, etc. And if the WHOLE prison was a supermax (like Attica) then they wouldn't have prisoners doing work because they stay in their cells ALL the time. BUT some prisons are just maximum security and have a supermax wing. So here is my take on how someone like Neal might have ended up in a type of prison system that many people consider cruel and unusual. This is my first White Collar fanfic so I will love you if you comment!

REQUEST FOR BETA HELP: I am looking for a White Collar beta for a novel-length fanfic that will be Peter/Neal and OT3. It starts just after Judgement Day, but Neal never made it onto the plane. There is a twisty kind of plot that involves Kramer fucking with Peter and Neal's heads. It had non-con, dub-con, kink, and violence but it mainly hurt/comfort and has a HAPPY ENDING. HELP ME, PLEASE I BEGGETH OF YOU! Feel free to comment on this post if you're willing to help or email me at or just message me on Tumblr. Thanks so much to anyone willing to help!

Watching You

By: Puck

Peter was buried up to his armpits in paper and the mountain just kept growing. At this rate he would be lucky if he made it home at all tonight, much less to dinner. Looked like he'd have to call El and cancel, again. God, if he could only get a lead on this case… His wife was patient, but everybody had their limits. At least he'd remembered their anniversary this year. Okay, so maybe last week's dinner at Donatello's hadn't been the most memorable of evenings, but if it he hadn't gotten a card less than a week before the big day with the words 'Congratulations to you AND your better half!' on the front, the return address that of a maximum security prison, Satchmo would probably be sleeping on Peter's side of the bed right now and he would be outside in the dog house. Neal Caffrey, marriage counselor. Peter grimaced. That sounded *so* wrong.

There was a soft knock at the door and Peter looked up from the sewer of memos and case files dirtying his desk. His new probationary officer, a young and very intelligent woman named Diana, was standing just outside the partially cracked door, a serious look on her face.

Peter gestured for her to come in, then used the moment as an excuse to stretch, making a satisfied sound as his neck gave a soft 'pop.' "Agent Barrigan, what can I do for you?"

Diana stepped into the room, her whole body reverberating with tension. Peter frowned. This couldn't be good. Diana wasn't like some of the probies he'd had in the past who cowered every time he walked by their desk. She was a little spit-fire, actually, and pretty much nothing got to her. Clear headed and clever, just the way he liked them. If she was looking at him that worriedly, something was up.

"Boss," she said, her voice hesitant as she held up a manila folder. "You know that guy you put the watch out on? The one in Sing Sing?"

Peter sat up straight, fists automatically tightening. "You mean Neal Caffrey." It wasn't a question. After all, he didn't exactly spend his days ordering surveillance over every two bit thief he came by.

Diana nodded. "Yeah, him. Well… we got a hit from a guard who used to be one of our guys. Something's up."

"Something's up? What does that mean? Did Neal—I mean, Caffrey—do something?"

Diane shifted nervously from foot to foot, hands gripping the folder tightly. "Not exactly, sir. More like some guys did something to him." She stepped forward, licking her lips nervously as she held out the folder. "It's not pretty, Boss." She took a steadying breath, looking a little sick. "Very not pretty. And considering the face that one has, that's sayin' somethin'."

Oh God, no. Peter reached out, taking the folder slowly from her hand, staring at it like it might decide to bite him. His eyes met Diana's again and he swallowed hard at the hollow look in her gaze. It couldn't be that bad. Could it? Nah, no chance. Neal was fine. He was *always* fine. What was that song Elizabeth used to play? The one from the jazzy jail musical… Chicago? Yeah. It went something like… 'I know a girl, a girl who lands on top. You could put her face into a pail of slop and she'd come up smelling like a rose. How she does it, heaven knows.' *That* was Neal Caffrey. Always comin' out on top.

Peter bit his lip as he stared down at the folder, trying to convince himself to open it. It couldn't be as bad as Diana's tense shoulders and worried frown were promising. After all… 'he knew a guy, a guy with so much luck. He could get run over by a two ton truck, then brush himself off and walk away. How he does it, couldn't say…' Neal's theme song. Right? Right.

Peter took a deep breath and flipped it open, spent one horrible instant processing what he saw then choked, automatically turning his face away. Oh God, Neal.

Diana shifted uncomfortably, obviously not sure if she should stay or go. Peter wouldn't mind the company, but no. No, this was his problem. Neal was *his* problem. He would handle it. He had to handle it. Somehow.

"Thank you, Agent Barrigan," he said, voice a little too quiet. "You can go now."

Diana nodded sharply then paused on her way out the door. "You… you need anything, Boss?"

Yeah, he needed the image of Neal's mutilated face scourged from his mind, but he didn't think she'd be able to help with that. "No, thanks. I'm good."

"Okay, Boss."

For several minutes Peter just sat there, staring dully down at the photo in his hands. He hardly even recognized the man. Both of his eyes were black, his lower lip was badly swollen, and there was blood in his teeth. What the hell had happened?

With a steadying breath Peter flipped to the next page in the file. It was definitely no better than the first. In fact, it was even more disturbing, despite the lack of detail. It was blurred and fuzzy—probably taken from the security feed—but you didn't need to see clearly to know what was happening. Three oversized lugs were standing around watching, laughter on their faces, as a fourth held down a slim form that Peter would recognize anywhere. He'd spent three years one step behind the man—he didn't have to see his face to know it was Neal. The next few photos were just a perverted procession from there, with each of the men taking turns as Neal lay there, apparently motionless. As horrible as it was, Peter really hoped he'd been unconscious, at least for some of it. He didn't know how else you'd survive.

"'I know a girl who tells so many lies, anything that's true would truly cross her eyes…" Peter sang softly under his breath as he turned the page again, this time to the medical report. Cracked ribs. Dislocated shoulder. Severe bruising. Anal penetration. Oral penetration. On and on and on like some horror story. "But what that mouse is sellin' the whole world buys. And nobody smells a rat."

Peter blinked, surprised to find tears building up in his eyes. This shouldn't have happened to Neal. This wasn't what Peter had put him away for. He'd put him away for justice's sake, because it was the right thing to do. Neal was supposed to serve his time for the crimes he committed, learn his lesson, and start over as an honest citizen—or that was the dream, anyway. Maybe the scenario was a little idealistic. But being gang raped by a bunch of thugs… That was *not* part of the deal. No way, no how. Dammit!

Peter slammed his hand down hard on his desk then swept the stacks of paper off in one furious swoop, sending dozens of sheets fluttering into the air. The mess would probably set his investigation back about three days but, at the time, Peter didn't really give a shit. They'd been after this guy for nine months. Three more days was just frosting on the cake.

Peter took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing nerves. This was NOT the way it was supposed to go! Neal Caffrey was *his,* dammit! He had been the one to chase him, to catch him. The bastard was supposed to serve his time, not the perverted whims of a bunch of sons of bitches who deserved to hang! He'd stolen some some paintings, forged some stupid documents, not mutilated kittens or jumped little old ladies in the night or… or… whatever the really bad guys did!

Heart pounding, Peter stood abruptly, slapping the file closed as he dug into his inner pocket for his keys. He couldn't take any more tonight. He was out of this damn office. He just needed to go home, curl up with with El and exorcise the images from his mind forever.

Peter winced at a sudden stinging on his finger. What… He slowly pulled out a little square of card stock, his breath catching as he stared down at it, sucking idly on the paper cut it had given him. It was slightly crumpled, but the letters on the front were still bright, the little stick figure couple staring up at him with big grins. He swallowed hard as he fumbled to open it, staring silently at the words inside, in all their twisting elegance.

Hi Peter,

Just a little reminder, in case you forgot again. Make it a good one, friend. Try flowers. Women like flowers. If you get really desperate, drop by. I might be able to tell you a place where you could allegedly find a fabulous 15th century brooch. Tell Elizabeth I said hello. I really would like to meet her someday.

XOXO,

Neal

Peter gave a choked laugh, rubbing at his eyes. The insolent little brat. He had a creeping feeling that, when Neal got out, he'd come home one day to find the bastard sitting on his couch, petting his dog or something ridiculous like that. He was such a sassy son of a bitch. He took another long breath then stuffed the card back into his coat pocket, fishing out his cell with the other hand and hitting the speed dial.

"Hello?"

"Hey, hon," Peter said, trying to sound as much like his normal self as possible despite the sickening images still running through his mind.

"Oh my God, sweetie, what's wrong? Are you okay?" Peter winced. El sounded terrified. Apparently he wasn't good at playing things close to the chest.

"Nothing, honey, I'm fine. I… I just don't know what time I'll be home tonight. You shouldn't wait up for me."

Peter could practically see El frown. "Oh, don't think you're going to get away with just that. I may not be an agent, but I am your loving wife and I can deduce when something's got you seriously upset. What's going on?"

Peter let out a sigh, running a hand worriedly through his short hair. "It… It's Neal."

There was a moment of silence then El spoke again, sounding a little confused. "Neal? Neal Caffrey? Please tell me he hasn't escaped again! I was just getting used to actually having my husband home at night!"

Peter blushed a little at the words, though he knew she was just kidding. "No, it's nothing like that. It… it's pretty horrible. He was attacked in prison. By other inmates. Four other inmates. They… they did some pretty bad stuff to him."

"Oh my God, that's terrible! I hadn't even thought… But then I guess that prison is not the skinny, artsy type's natural habitat. Oh, God, Peter, how did you find out?" El sounded horrified. Peter could empathize.

"Actually I, uh, had surveillance put on him. Not on the Bureau's dime," he added quickly. "Just a couple of guys I know from up-state who started doing some work at Sing Sing when the Bureaus's 401K wasn't doing it for them anymore. Obviously it's not twenty four-seven or this would never have happened. But they keep an eye out for me. You know, just in case."

El made a soft sound of amusement. "You put Neal under surveillance? Maybe I *should* feel threatened, Agent Burke."

Peter allowed himself a tiny smile, ever grateful for his wife's ability to keep his spirits up when things seemed the worst. "Oh, Mrs. Burke, you have nothing to worry about. But… I am going to go see him tonight. I know it's stupid. I mean, we're not friends—I'm the man who put him away for God's sake. But it… it just seems the right thing to do."

"Hey, you know that you don't have to justify yourself to me, hon. If you feel like you need to go see him then you should."

"Thank you," Peter said quietly. "I love you, hon."

"I love you too. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Bye, hon." Peter put his cell phone back in his pocket with a sigh, looking around at the papers he'd scattered all over his floor. Leaving his office like this would be really irresponsible. Hughes would not be happy. Peter glanced back down at the file on the desk, Neal's broken face haunting his mind.

Fuck it, he'd make sure it was cleaned up in the morning. That's what probies were for, right?

o-o-o-o

Peter took a calming breath as he followed the guard down a narrow, poorly lit hallway, trying to keep himself from looking around too much. Every cellblock and rec room in this place looked exactly the same, so it was way too easy to imagine the things that had gone down in those photos happening everywhere he went.

"Okay, man, this is it." The guard ran his security key through the reader and the door popped open with a buzzing sound.

"Thanks," Peter said, carefully adjusting the 'Visitor' badge clipped to his jacket. "I really appreciate it… Bobby, was it?"

The man nodded, glancing through the door into the infirmary. "Yeah. I'm glad the kid's got somebody to come see him. Only visitor he ever gets is some chick, but we didn't have her phone number or nothing. He's not a bad kid. Nice guy, really. Polite. Easy-goin'. Maybe a little too artsy fartsy for his own good though." Bobby shrugged. "Anyway, just give me a ring when you're ready to go."

Peter nodded. "Will do."

Bobby nodded and walked off back down the hallway, leaving Peter standing halfway in, halfway out of the infirmary. He couldn't really see anything from here. Neal didn't know he'd come. He could still leave, go home, lie down with his wife and sleep. Nobody was forcing him. Peter could stay out here, far away from the reality of Neal Caffrey's bruised and broken face, and just pretend it had never happened. His visiting wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't heal any bruises or right any wrongs. But… it just seemed like the right thing to do. And Peter always tried his best to do the right thing.

Peter squared his shoulders determinedly. If Neal had lived through it, Peter could cowboy up and see it. Mind set, he stepped forward, letting the door swing shut behind him with a clank.

The smell was the first thing that hit him. It wasn't bad, exactly, but not really pleasant either. It had the antiseptic scent of a hospital but also an underlying hint of mildew. Most of the room was made up of a long line of beds on either side. An old, wrinkled man with a thick beard was sitting on the closest bed, humming to himself as he played with the bandage wrapped around his hand. The rest of the room was empty, except for a bed at the far end that had been haphazardly curtained off by hanging those awful paper gowns on IV stands. That had to be Neal's bed.

Peter swallowed hard and started forward, nodding uncomfortably as the old man with the beard when he shouted out a hardy, "Heeeello, sonny!" in his general direction.

He came to a stop at the end of the row, stomach churning. It was definitely Neal. The "curtains" hid his face, but Peter could still see the curve of his shoulder and that was enough to ID him. For Peter, anyway. He knew every inch of the man. Hey, it was always good to be thorough, right?

There was no real way to "enter" the area without collapsing half of the setup since the curtains were actually patient gowns, but Peter did his best not to send the whole thing toppling as he ducked in. Unfortunately he'd been so intent on not knocking over the curtains that his arm hit an IV stand that actually had a bag on it, the line running down to Neal. Adrenaline rushed through him as he reached out to try and keep it from toppling, but a small, stocky hand beat him to it, grabbing the IV stand and settling it back on his feet, though not before it had caught on one of the gowns, succeeding in what Peter had been trying to avoid when half the "curtains" fell to the floor.

"Hey, watch it, man! This is a place of healing, not a rugby field!" The words were followed by a hard shove to the chest, putting him once more outside what was left of the curtains. Peter actually had to look *down* to locate the source of the voice, a small man—the doctor, by the look of his coat—with a thick black mustache, a grey goatee, and a really bad toupee.

"I'm sorry," Peter said as he picked up one of the fallen gowns off the floor, trying unsuccessfully to rebuild the curtains, an effort which was rather inhibited by the way his eyes kept sliding over toward Neal's slim body then jerking away again before he could really process the horror of it. After a moment the small man gave an annoyed snort and grabbed the gown from his hands, effortlessly hanging it between an unused IV stand and one of the stirrups you could raise up on the ends of the bed.

"I'm Peter Burke, by the way," he said.

The man froze, shoulders tightening for a moment then relaxing abruptly as he spun around to face him, crossing his arms over his chest and jutting his chin in the air as if daring Peter to… well, Peter wasn't sure what the man was daring him to do, but there was definitely a sense of animosity about it all. "*Special Agent* Peter Burke?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah, that would be me. And you are?" He let the words hang, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

"I would be Doctor Stehlen, that's who I be. And if you're here to arrest my patient again, well, I am afraid that you're going to have to wait at least two to four weeks, because he's really not up for it."

Peter choked slightly. "What? I'm not here to arrest him, doctor. I'm here to *see* him. How did you know who I am?"

The man waved the words away. "You would be *amazed* by the things I know." He lowered his voice and leaned forward as if about to tell a secret. "Ask me about the JFK shooting sometime. The autopsy was *obviously* faked."

Peter shook his head in disbelief. "Okay, look, I'm just here to see Neal, okay? So if you wouldn't mind giving us some space?"

"Oh, you think you can just come in here and demand some 'space' with my patient? I think Mr. Caffrey has had enough people in his 'space' these last few days, *Special Agent.* Considering that you look like an aging Hulk wearing a bad suit and Mr. Caffrey looks like a sure bet for People's Sexiest Man Alive, I am guessing that you are *not* related—genetics don't lie, you know. So, officially, you have no *right* to see my patient."

"I'm a Federal Agent," Peter snapped back, his patience wearing thin. He could still see little glimpses of Neal through the curtains, but it was the thought of what he couldn't see that was driving him crazy. The pictures were burned in his mind, but that was nothing like seeing it in the flesh.

"And I am a medical doctor, solemnly sworn upon the seal of the great Asclepius, son of Apollo, himself!"

"Congratulations on that. It working well for you?" Peter snapped back, starting to get really annoyed. He wanted to see Neal, goddammit! There was no way that this short, awkward little man was going to stop him. He'd cuff him to a fucking bed if he had to, but he was *going* to see Neal!

"Actually it *is* working well for me," the man replied snidely. "'Doctors are just the same as lawyers—the only difference is that lawyers merely rob you, whereas doctors rob you and kill you too.'"

Peter's retort died on his tongue as he stared at the doctor in disbelief. "What?"

The man smirked. "Anton Chekhov. You should read more books, it's good for the soul."

Peter shook his head, taking a calming breath. "Whatever. Look, I know that this is… out of the ordinary, okay? But… I chased this kid for three years, okay? I know everything about him, from his shoe size to how he likes his tea." He bit his lip, glancing in the bed's direction. "He… he's a part of my life, okay?"

"Oh please," the doctor said, rolling his eyes. "You're not his friend, you're a Fed. I don't know what you want with him, but how about you wait until he's back on his feet before you start probing him with your Bureau tools? He wouldn't want you here."

Peter's face turned red, a sudden rush of anger surging through him. "I care about him, okay? I may not be family," he gestured around him, "but I don't see anybody else here! And no, we're not friends… but we are something, okay?" He reached into his pocket, yanking out the card Neal had sent him, and held it out like it was a warrant.

The doctor raised an eyebrow, glancing from Peter back to the card several times before he plucked it from the man's hand with two fingers, wrinkling his nose up like maybe it had some sort of disease on it. He studied it for a long moment then opened it, jaw clenching as he scanned the words.

Finally he spoke, his eyes still suspicious. "Alright, you can see him. But just for a minute, okay? He needs to *rest.*" He paused. "Plus he's kind of high. The morphine, you know." He crossed his arms again. "And confessions given on mind altering drugs are not admissible in court. You remember that!"

Peter rolled his eyes and took the card back, folding it carefully before slipping it into his pocket. "Thank you," he murmured as the doctor removed the makeshift curtains enough for Peter to slip through.

"Just remember," the man said as he hung the gown back on the stand. "The only people with whom you should try to get even with are those who've helped you. John E. Southard."

"I'll remember that," Peter muttered with another roll of his eyes. His annoyance, however, disappeared in a flash as he got his first good look at Neal, lying motionless on the slim bed. He was turned on his side, his back to Peter and his knees drawn up to his chest. Thanks to the much-hated-everywhere backless hospital gown, the only thing keeping his decency was a yellowed, scratchy looking sheet. His upper back was in clear view, covered in greenish bruises in patches, like someone had punched him over and over again. His hair had obviously been washed since the incident, because it had dried strangely, sticking up all over the place.

Peter swallowed hard, reaching out to touch him, then paused, hand hovering a few inches from Neal's shoulder. Should he touch him? If he was asleep it seemed cruel to wake him, and he definitely didn't want to scare him…

"Mmmm, Mah-hattzy, dat you?"

Peter jumped slightly at the sound of Neal's hoarse voice, his words thick and slow. "Um… It… It's Peter, actually. Peter Burke?" God, that sounded pitiful, but what was he supposed to say? 'Hi there! Remember me? The one who put you in this place? Just here to bring you some flowers! Get well soon!'

"Peter…?" Neal moved a little, moaning as he tried unsuccessfully to turn his head enough to see behind him. Peter saved him the trouble by quickly moving around the end of the bed to the other side. God… Both of Neal's bright blue eyes were surrounded by blackness, like… like holes in a skull. Peter's stomach turned at the mental comparison. His left cheek was blooming in the distinct shape of a hand and his lip was even more swollen than it had looked in the pictures. Actually, all of it looked worse than it had in the pictures and it made him feel ill, though Peter knew logically that this changing-of-color was a sign of healing.

"Hey there," he said quietly, smiling down at the man. Not that he looked like much of a man right then. He looked even skinnier than usual, which Peter guessed made sense. It had to be hard to eat with your face all busted up like that. Neal looked about sixteen, staring up at him with wide eyes. Without thinking about it Peter reached out to brush a strand of hair out of Neal's face. The man flinched and Peter started to pull back, but Neal's hand moved unbelievably fast—gotta give the pick-pocketing skills some credit—his fingers catching hold of Peter's wrist.

"Mmm… hi Peter. Peeeter." Neal smiled, a toothy grin that would have looked like it belonged on a silly little boy if it hadn't been so swollen and bruised. "Peeter. That's a good name. Yup."

Though he still felt a little ill, Peter held back a laugh, smiling fondly down at the man. That doctor had been right—Neal was definitely flying high. "Thank you, Neal."

"You're welcome." He paused, hand still holding Peter's wrist tight. "I didn't do it."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Neal shook his head a little, still smiling. "Nope. I allegedly did not do any of whatever it is you allege that I've done. Allegedly." His hand crept down Peter's forearm, fingers intertwining with Peter's.

"Well, I guess that this case is closed then, huh, buddy?"

Neal's smile grew even wider. "So you believe me?"

Peter chuckled. "Yeah, I believe you."

"You really believe me, Peter?" Neal actually batted his eyelashes and Peter nodded his head, grinning.

"I do believe you, Neal."

Neal stared up at him for a long moment, hand squeezing Peter's, then let out a sudden laugh. "SUCKER!"

Peter burst into laughter as well, a good excuse as any for the tear that was making its way down his cheek. Laugh until you cry, cry until you laugh. "Yeah, I guess I am. A sucker for *you.* How are you doing?" He reached out with his other hand, cupping Neal's palm between them, and softly stroked his knuckles.

"Mmmm, I'm not doin' so great, Peter," he said, a little too seriously for the silly smile on his lips. "They always say I'm a faggot, which is fine, 'cause I don't care, I'm an *artist* we are *fluid* like… like… paint on a canvas or a pot or… or… a, uh, car? I dunno. But it went a little toooo far. Not my kind of guys. Bad guys. Guys are fine, maybe if they're guys like you, y'know?" He laughed, bright grin back on his face. "'Cause you're pretty good lookin' for a Fed and mostly 'cause you're a good guy and I know you're a good guy. And, okay, you are *totally* hot."

Peter cleared his throat, feeling awkward and more than a little embarrassed. He'd seen enough security footage of Neal's hotels over the years to guess that the man swung both ways, but he seriously doubted he Neal would be pleased to know he'd professed Peter's 'total hotness' in a morphine-induced stupor.

"But these are bad guys and they don't like me much." Neal moved his shoulder in a way Peter guessed was supposed to be a shrug. "But I guess I better get used to it 'cause it's only been three months, ya know, and look where I am. Still got, uh, uh… thirty-ish days in a month times twelve months in a year times four but minus the three. Hmmmm… the math's kinda beyond me right now. But it's a loooong time. So I guess I better learn to like bad boys, huh?" Neal laughed again, but it was a little shrill and Peter could plainly see the fear in his eyes.

"Neal… You aren't going to have to get used to anything. I'm not going to let this happen again."

Neal sniffled and pulled his hand out of Peter's, holding it tight to his chest as he seemed to curl in on himself. "You can't protect me, Peter. You said it yourself. I made my own bed. I guess now I'll get fucked in it."

Peter physically jerked, the careless tone combined with the reality of the words were like a punch to the gut. No. No, that was not going to happen. Neal had done a lot of bad things, but nothing he had done came *near* to deserving this.

"Neal, look at me," he said, reaching out and laying a hand gently on the smaller man's shoulder, doing his best to avoid the bruises. Neal just ducked his head as if he was trying to bury himself in his own chest. "Neal, can you look at me? Please?"

Neal just lay there, long enough that Peter was beginning to think he'd fallen asleep, then he finally raised his head, silent tears streaming down his face. "I'm sorry, Peter," he said, voice hoarse and desperate. "Just tell 'em I'm sorry, okay? Please? For me? I'm so, so, so, so, so sorry. Maybe then they'll let me go? You think if I say I'm soooo sorry, they'll let me go?"

"I'm sorry, buddy," Peter said, shaking his head. "It doesn't work like that." And if, for just a moment, Peter wished that it did… It was totally understandable. The man was broken, for God's sake. For someone who always came out on top, Neal had fallen pretty far. Maybe he could make it through it this time. He was no wimp. He was a strong, smart, talented man. But Neal was right—this probably would happen again and again and again, and Peter wasn't sure that *anyone*, no matter how strong and smart and talented, could survive that.

"I know," Neal said, sounding defeated. "I was just being stupid. I know it doesn't work like that. I'm glad I met you though, Peter. I mean, I'm not glad you *caught* me, but I am glad I met you. I know we're not *really* friends, but I don't got a whole lot of friends anyway and none of 'em are *normal* friends, so you were kind of like a friend anyway." His hand reached for Peter's again. "It was nice knowing you."

Peter gritted his teeth. He did *not* like the finality of that. "Neal, don't talk like that."

Neal blinked at him, looking puzzled. "Talk like what?"

"Like you're dying. This is not goodbye, okay, buddy? You're gonna get through this, serve your time, get out of jail, and flaunt it in my face one day, okay?"

Neal chuckled. "I would totally flaunt it."

"I know you would. I look forward to it."

"How'd you even know I got hurt anyways?" Neal asked, brow furrowing a little as he stared up at Peter. "They call you every time a white collar criminal gets himself fucked up?"

Peter shrugged, a little embarrassed. "No. I, ah, put you under surveillance."

Neal's eyes got wide, a smile growing on his lips. "You been watchin' me, Agent Burke?" He laughed again. "You spyin' on me?"

Peter laughed. "Yeah, I guess I was." He took a deep breath. "Look, Neal… I want to help you—"

"Peter," Neal said, cutting him off. "Look, I know I'm kind of silly and high right now, but I get it. There's nothing you can do. I… I'll figure it out, okay? Just… roll with the punches, right?" He actually patted Peter's arm, his smile a little condescending. "I'm a big boy, Peter. I can take care of myself."

"No," Peter said sharply. "No, you can't. Obviously." He gestured vaguely and Neal scowled a little.

"Rub it in, why don't you?"

"I'm being serious, Neal. I don't want you to get hurt. There's not much I can do, but I'm not totally helpless. It's not a perfect solution, but I may have an idea."

"Aw, Peter, are you gonna help me escape?"

Peter held up a finger, wagging it at him. "Do not even *go* there, Caffrey. Look, there is a supermax wing at Sing Sing. Some people think that there's nothing crueler than supermax since you basically spend ninety-ninety percent of your time in a cage. But they watch you careful there. There is no prisoner interaction. You'd be put in a cell, by yourself, and you'd stay there." Neal started to speak but Peter held up a hand. "Now, it is your choice. If you think that you can handle being in the general population, that you can make it work, then you are free to stay there. You *are* the ultimate conman—I'm sure you could win some of your fellow inmates to your side. But, if you really think that this could happen again, I can get you transferred to supermax."

Neal took a deep breath, something that obviously hurt, considering the face he made. Cracked ribs were no fun. "I… God, Peter, I dunno… Four years all alone in an eight by eight cell is pretty harsh." He gave a choked laugh. "But considering that I was literally a dead man for a few seconds there, it might be the best choice."

"Wait, what?" Peter said, blood going cold. "What do you mean, you were literally a dead man?"

Neal smiled stupidly at him, obviously still enjoying his morphine high. "Like a ten second zombie! Cool, huh? I got a friend who says one day zombies will rule the world."

Peter took a deep breath. "What do you mean, you were a zombie, Neal?"

The man attempted another shrug, then winced as his shoulder made a soft of popping noise. "Adrenaline… blood loss… my heart stopped beating… My cardiac got arrested!" He giggled then grinned up at Peter, obviously proud of his pun. God, talking to people on morphine was like riding a roller coaster.

"They didn't put that in the report," Peter said tightly.

Neal did his almost-shrug again. "Probably didn't want people to know I nearly got offed. Doesn't really matter. But I think maybe going to live by my lonesome would be best."

"Yeah," Peter said, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat. He hadn't realized how close he'd come to losing Neal. "Yeah, I think that would be best, too."

Neal smiled stupidly again. "Okay. Maybe now I go to sleep?" He sat up a little—as much as someone laying on their side could—and reached out almost wildly. "Give me a huuuug, Peter?"

Peter chuckled and nodded, leaning over enough for Neal to pull him into an awkward embrace. After a moment Neal released him.

"Was good to see you, Peter!"

"You too, Neal," he said affectionately, reaching out to smooth down the man's messy hair. "Oh, and I'll take my Visitor badge back now, too."

Neal pouted, his swollen lip making him look even more like a child. "Dammit, you always catch me, Agent Burke!"

Peter laughed. "I'm no sucker, Caffrey. You remember that."

Neal crossed his heart. "I will. Just like you remember your anniversary."

"So not at all?"

"Nope. Not at all."

Peter gave Neal's hand one more squeeze. "Goodnight, buddy."

Neal smiled up tiredly at him for a second then his eyes fluttered shut. Peter watched him for a long moment, his mind a confused swirl of emotions. Emotions that he shouldn't have, not for a criminal, not even one who had been part of his life for so long. At the very least it was unprofessional and at the most… Peter didn't even want to think about what it was at the most. But like it or not, Neal was a part of his life. He'd be watching him.

The "curtains" rustled. "The most I can do for my friend is simply be his friend."

Peter looked up sharply at the words. He was a little surprised at the gentleness in the doctor's voice, considering how antagonist he'd been before. "Thoreau," Peter said, voice a little hoarse. "Henry David Thoreau."

The little man actually smiled, though his mustache almost covered it completely. "So you do read."

"I actually do," Peter replied with a small smile of his own. He reached down to pull the sheet up around Neal's sleeping body, glanced up at the doctor, then looked pointedly back down at Neal. "Are you upset, little friend? Have you been lying away worrying? Well, don't worry… I'm here. The flood waters will recede, the famine will end, the sun will shine tomorrow, and I will always be here to take care of you." He gave Neal's hand a final squeeze then looked back over at the little man, challenge in his eyes.

The doctor stared at him for a long moment, mouth moving silently before shutting closed with a snap. "I… I don't actually know that one," the man admitted as he fiddled uncomfortably with the stethoscope around his neck, his face a little red.

Peter chuckled. "It's Charlie Brown." He winked. "Watch a little more TV. It's good for the soul." He smiled down at Neal. "I'll be watching you, buddy."

The End