Summary: Less than a month before the end of his sentence, Neal takes on a dangerous assignment against Peter's wishes. As usual, Neal is hurt and Peter suffers, while Elizabeth picks up the pieces. Originally written for my round one hurt/comfort bingo card, as well as for the anonymous kink meme, for a h/c fic inspired by the illustration in the link.

Spoilers: Nothing specific really-this was started after I'd only seen season 1, and was horribly new to the fandom, so be aware that this is now rather AU. Sara is not in it-you may feel free to believe that either she didn't exist (she didn't, when I started this), or that she and Neal broke up amicably (and she's now in Tahiti being fabulous, so can't visit, although she texts Neal from time to time), and are simply no longer together. I am not sure I can work her in at this point, so it may be best not to try.

Warnings: References to sexual assault and violence, although not described in detail. Also please note that this is unbeta'd and incomplete as yet.

Pairings: None really. References to Neal/Kate, and Peter and his wife are rather more affectionate with Neal than I would be with a convicted felon I worked with, but. You may (and likely do) consider that as you will.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, or this universe. I am writing this for fun, and because like Neal, I have no self-control and covet other people's things.

A/N: Thanks to the prompter who inspired this. Unbeta'd. Comments, positive or negative, particularly if I've messed up the canon, are always very much appreciated. Thanks for reading.

To be honest, in the end, Neal hadn't hated being incarcerated as much as he ought. He didn't like the institution, certainly. The loss of dignity, of freedom, of wearing decent clothes—these things grated, as they ought, as they meant to.

But there were also some perks. He was a con man, used to evaluating situations, and he couldn't deny there were perks. He had his own cell-Peter had made sure of it-a structured routine, a wardrobe provided by the state. He even had friends, of a sort. The institution-supermax, expensive, a jewel of correctional services-held many inmates, including several that he told himself were sort of like him. Not exactly, of course, but there was Ben, who was in for homicide, who was a rap artist and had the soul of a poet. There was Tony, in for real estate fraud (albeit rumoured to have gang affiliations), who liked Beethoven and Schubert and had been an accountant, a long time ago. There was Robert, who liked fast cars and beautiful women-too much, and in all the wrong ways, if the gossip was to be believed-but the man liked his clothes and was well-read. There was Raju, who confided that he could have been an investment banker, and who was ever obsessed with good wine and fine dining. The list went on, but there were those with whom he could talk about art and poetry, the food wasn't great but it was available and kept him alive, and he had a place to sleep every night. It wasn't anything to write home about—not that he had a home to write to, except for Kate—but it wasn't the worst place he'd ever been, either.

The holding cell, on the other hand—the Gateway, they'd called it, minimum security and with little funding-he'd been put in before his transfer, after the explosion that had killed Kate—that was a totally different story. He didn't want to go. He'd heard the stories. But no one cared.

He was there a little over six weeks. During that time, he spent nineteen days in the infirmary. There, were, apparently, innumerable delays—including one when he'd been there just under three weeks, just after Peter had been cleared and so even he believed he might have been transferred out, but for the fact that he'd been in the thrice damned infirmary at the time, and so he missed his chance. And his was-apparently-considered a priority transfer.

Everyone knew, of course, that all the new inmates at the Gateway ended up in the infirmary, routinely, for different reasons—the big guys for instigating fights to establish their dominance, the pedophiles for being beaten, the gang boys as part of being re-initiated. The guards at the Gateway were too few to manage, and didn't waste their resources on trying to interfere in the general inmate shakedowns. Neal was young, clean, in for pansy crimes as opposed to violent ones (depending on the prevailing inmate theory about the plane)-and he'd been an FBI snitch. Not only was he grieving and distracted, as an added bonus, he was too damned pretty for his own good. It was clear, from the moment he'd arrived, that he'd end up hurt. The guards, some of them, were kind—tried to warn him, keep an eye on him, told him how to take precautions in the showers, at nights. But it didn't matter. He did what they said, tried to be hyper-vigilant and slept like a soldier (when he slept at all), but he knew it wouldn't matter in the end, and so did they.

The first time he was in the prison hospital for two days. There had been three of them, and Neal had never been with a guy before. But the infirmary was no sanctuary. The doctor—Dr. Crawley, whom none of the inmates liked but how could they protest-kept him an extra day for "observation", and had him make routine follow up appointments. He refused treatment where he could, but the doctor began threatening him with prescribing some of the more potent psychotropic drugs if he didn't comply, and Neal wasn't sure that he would have the right to refuse. No one in this world could be trusted—not the guards, not the inmates, not the medical staff. No one. There were no rules in this world, nothing but chaos and ugliness and horror. Every second he spent there was a second too long, and the day his transfer came through nearly cried in relief. In the weeks he spent there, he lost thirty-four pounds. It took him years to gain it all back.

Years later, whenever he had nightmares, the chipped paint of the Gateway's whitewashed hospital walls and the smell of antiseptic were usually the set dressing.

Years later, he was three weeks to the end of his contract, three weeks to freedom, and they had another mission. One which involved an elaborate conspiracy, blah blah blah, and one in which they needed a young agent as bait.

The mark was Arthur Rodgers, respected business man. He had built an empire out of the legitimate import and export of textiles, and the not so legitimate import and export of antiquities. He specialized in the ancients—early Greek and Roman pieces—coins, artifacts, tablets.

He also liked his partners young, gorgeous, and male.

Kaito was running the operation, and wanted Caffrey. It was right up Caffrey's alley—and, as Kaito told Peter, Caffrey would make the perfect bait. And he'd already approached Caffrey, and Caffrey had already offered to be the bait, when it was suggested to him.

Peter blew a gasket. Kaito had no right to approach his C.I. without his permission. None. And the mission was too dangerous, which is exactly what he told Neal when he announced to him that he wasn't going to allow it. Whatever Hughes said.

"Peter, be reasonable. Hughes has already authorized it."

"You should have asked me first!"

"Honestly, I thought he had. I thought you were okay with it. Listen, it's one last op. What's the issue? You don't think I'm gorgeous enough to fit the bill?"

"Neal, it's dangerous. This guy … he kills. He has no issue killing."

"I've been shot at before, Peter."

They kept arguing, and in the end Peter stormed off in a rage, but Neal knew he'd given in. What choice did he have? And what choice did Neal have, either? He did not want to go back to the Gatehouse—and particularly not after he'd continued to be an FBI snitch-ever. He'd had difficulty adjusting to life as the FBI's company man, at first, sure, but for the past three and a half years (give or take) he hadn't refused an assignment. He hadn't been late, or difficult, or anything. He wasn't going to mess that up now.

As for the op, it was part of his job, now, and for the next few weeks—afterwards, well, after was a different story, and again, not something he wanted to think about right then. Besides, Peter was the only one that didn't like it, but over the years, Peter had changed, and so had their relationship. Peter wasn't unbiased any more, so at this point, he didn't care what Peter thought, he didn't care what Peter said. It might be dangerous, but so was going back to prison, and if Peter couldn't understand that … well, Peter could protest about the mission, but Neal knew that Peter wouldn't, couldn't protect him if from going back if came to it, whatever he might say.

He couldn't, remember, now, when he'd become involved with Peter and Elizabeth, when he let them sort of adopt him as a kind of pet, or kid brother, or something. Couldn't remember. All he knew was that he loved Peter and Elizabeth, he did. Absolutely. And Peter … cared about him. Neal knew he did—five years ago, he wouldn't have cared that Neal was being put in a dangerous position. Cowboy up, Neal, he'd have said. Now, the thought of deliberately placing Neal in danger drove him nuts, even if it was his job. Even the other agents noticed and teased.

Then again, four years ago … four years ago … Neal hadn't known how horrible prison could be.

And now there was less than a month left on his contract. Less than a month, but even so, Neal wouldn't risk that chance. Not again. Because soon, soon he'd be free.

He wasn't even sure, anymore (Kate was gone, his old life was gone, and now he had Peter and Elizabeth and their puppy and June and Cindy-but Kate, Kate who'd loved him even at his worst, who wasn't bound to him by a tracker or a radius and $700 a month or even a ring, Kate who'd taken little more than a bottle and a promise was gone in a blazing gust of fire and broken promises and-and-) exactly what that freedom meant, but he'd deal with it when he got there.

He just had to get there first.

So Neal agreed. Kaito and his guys—Luis, Smith, Johannsen—explained the intel, got him suited up. And he was charming, and convincing. He met Rodgers about 45 minutes into the party, wearing Byron's fourth-best suit and sipping on cabernet while he pretended he was young and broke and interested in a shriveled old man with a pot belly who smelled of gin and tobacco.

He let Rodgers maul him, that night, but he drew the line at anything below the waist.

On the second day, he went back. And Neal thought it might be fair to say that this might be the assignment he hated most, in his almost five years of working as a consultant.

For three days, he avoided Peter—Peter who was snappy and pissy and not something that Neal, with his frayed nerves and shaking hands could deal with along with the op-and spent his time flirting with Rodgers. He forced himself to be attentive and inquisitive and innocuous. Rodgers took him to the opera and back to his place after, where Neal sweet-talked his way out of anything more than a deep-throated kiss.

"Come on, pretty," Rodgers said. "We're having a good time. You know how much fun I can be, now it's your turn …"

"Ah," replied Neal. "A little mystery is good for the soul. I'm sure a man like you didn't get where you are without a little patience, huh? And oh, there are so many other things we can do … "

He couldn't help it. He knew it might have been suspicious, but he couldn't, he couldn't …

The very next day, he managed to find himself alone in Rodgers' office. The computer had decent security, he'd give it that—but he managed. He discovered the name of Rodgers' shell company, a partial client list, and almost had the location of one of his warehouses …

But Rodgers didn't get where he was by being a fool. He looked up, and Rodgers was standing in the doorway.

He was captured and beaten, with demands to know who he was and for whom he was working—which he couldn't tell them, of course, without signing his own death warrant. He was confident, though, that Peter would come get him. And he was also confident that these clowns could do nothing worse to him than had already been done.

They were slow coming to get him, he thought, as Rodgers' goons beat on him for what seemed like hours with fists and feet and sticks. When the cavalry finally arrived, Rodgers grabbed him and tried to use him as a body shield. He let himself go limp, trying to be deadweight—it wasn't hard, he was pretty sure he had a concussion, and everything was fading in and out—but the man was strong and Neal wasn't a huge guy.

Cowboy up, Neal.

The first gun shot was loud, and Neal blinked when he heard it. But it didn't matter, because Rodgers had let go by then and then he was falling, no strength to hold himself up anymore.

He didn't feel himself hit the ground.

He really hated guns.

Someone was calling his name. They were loud, and insistent, and commanding.

He hurt, and then someone pressed his side, right where he hurt. He nearly screamed, pushing at the hand and trying to twist away, but the hand didn't budge and another hand stopped him, he couldn't move, he was trapped and he panicked-until the voice penetrated.

"Neal! Neal! It's Peter, Neal, stop it! I need you to lie still, come on, lie still. It's just me. You're bleeding too much, kid, you've got to stop moving." He knew that voice …

"Peter?" It was hard to speak.

"Yeah, Neal, it's me. Just lie quiet." His hands were caught by a large, strong one and pulled away.

Peter. Peter was here. He stilled.

"…'urts …" It did. Really badly.

"I know it does, buddy, you were shot. I want you to just stay still, focus on your breathing. Fuck, I never wanted you here in the first place. An ambulance is on its way. Just stay with me." The words were angry, distracted, upset.

Peter's words didn't make sense—was he going somewhere? Had he done something wrong? -and Neal was tired, really tired. He was trying to stay awake but his eyes were drifting closed despite himself. He was pretty sure it was over and he'd done what he was supposed to do, though, whatever Peter thought, so now by rights he got to relax. He heard Peter calling his name, and knew he should answer, but the pain that had been so bad was floating away, until he heard … "hospital!"

"No!" He shifted, trying to rise, and the pain blossomed again while Peter cursed and grabbed him, and this time Neal did scream. When he caught his breath again, when he could, Peter's hand an inexorable vice on his side, he fought back the encroaching darkness to whisper, "No hospital."

"What's that?" asked Peter. "Neal, please. Just breathe." The ground underneath him was cold, really cold, and he didn't have the energy to move away from it, or from Peter's painful grip on his side.

"Please … I did everything … please, Peter. Please." Hospitals were terrible places-Mozzie understood, but Peter didn't know, didn't know that Neal had promised himself that like prison, he would never go there again willingly. He needed to explain it to Peter, but he was just so tired.

"You did. You did everything you were supposed to and more; you did an excellent job, Neal. You're going to be fine now. Just lie still and breathe." Peter didn't sound sure, he sounded anxious, and Neal was too tired to tell Peter that he didn't need to worry, he was okay, he just needed to sleep for a bit.

And then the EMT's were on them, but Neal didn't see them, because he was already drifting away.