"No, we're not going to lunch, I'm going to lunch. You're going to stay right here and get through the research I gave you," said Peter.

"But I didn't bring anythi-"

"Sit down, be quiet, and do your job."

"May I suggest lunch and a heavy dose of Valium and whiskey?" asked Neal.

"You can go eat lunch in the Sing Sing cafeteria line, if you want," said Peter, triumphant at being the holder of the undisputed trump card.

"Come with me," suggest Neal. "We can share a table, hang out with all the coolest felons, I can show you where I hid last time there was a riot..."

"Do you want me to drag you downstairs and throw you head first into a holding cell, or are you just acting like it? Get back to work."

"We could get you a prison tat," suggested Neal. Peter's hard tone suggested he should drop this, and now. But it was too much fun, poking at his uptight new overlord. "Maybe Bugs Bunny as a naked woman? I know a guy..."

Peter snorted despite himself. "For your information, if I ever got a prison tat, it'd be of a baseball and bat. Also, you're about ten seconds from going back there in a nifty set of bondage gear. Stop acting like a juvenile delinquent with an ego problem, be quiet, and hope that by the time I get back I haven't called the Marshals to drag your ass out of here."

Peter walked out of the office, and Neal sat down at the FBI desk, his desk. He picked up a file folder and tried to pretend he wasn't tempted to crawl under said desk to nurse his wounds.

He was on trial. He had to prove himself to be effective. Trustworthy and enjoyable to work with. Tough enough to handle whatever they threw at him. An impossible blend of compliant prisoner and confident, independent asset who could think on his own feet as a pseudo-FBI agent...if FBI agents came untrained, unarmed, and with humiliating tracking devices attached to them.

He tucked his left leg with the anklet as far out of sight lines under the desk as he could and tried to forget it was there. It was like trying to forget a toothache.

He'd had all kinds of guesses as to what working with Peter Burke might be like. The guy was brilliant, relentless, remorseless, a predator of criminals. Harsh enough to leave him stinging with his ankle hidden under the desk. He was a criminal in Peter's custody, and it might not be pleasant.

But in his fantasies, he would win the friendship of the agent who'd carried him through his arrest and interrogation, who'd comforted him after his sentencing, who'd talked to him in the apartment, who'd squeezed his shoulder on the way out of their meeting in the prison. There was a softhearted and caring streak in Peter that took Neal's breath away.

But damn was this guy ever harsh. Even when he was smiling and trying to be nice, the message came out you're a prisoner, you're a felon, you aren't worthy of trust or respect, shut up and solve my case or I'm throwing you back in prison.

He tried to focus on work. It might be grunt work, sorting through purchase records for counterfeiting supplies, but it was something of a thrill. Grunt work, yes. But grunt work for the FBI. For whom he was a consultant.

He smiled and rubbed at the anklet. Realized what he was doing and stopped smiling. He hadn't expected the thing to mess with the drape of his pants so badly, or to look like the technology originated in the brick-phone era. It was large, hard to hide, and he could feel it every time he moved.

Peter's voice startled him. Shit. He yanked his hand away from the anklet and tried to act like he'd been pulling up his sock.

"Brought you a sandwich." Peter set down a white paper bag and a cup of espresso on Neal's desk before heading up to his office with a matching bag. Peter was eating at work too.

Why he couldn't have said that, instead of implying he was going out for lunch and leaving Neal to go hungry? Maybe he didn't quite realize that Neal had been a prisoner for four years, was still a prisoner, and was genuinely vulnerable.

Neal explored the bag and found chips, pickles, a brownie, and an absolutely delicious sub sandwich. He tasted the espresso. Exactly how he liked it, a piece of information he'd shared once. With Diana.

He glanced up at Peter's office to give him a wave of thanks, but Peter was eating and studying his computer screen. This wasn't just lunch. Peter was trying to make a point, Neal just wasn't exactly sure what it was.

I'm as hard on myself as I am on you?

Trust me without protest?

I know I sound scary and I hold your future in my hands, but don't be afraid of me?

Shut up and eat your sandwich?

Neal had to grin. Peter had been giving him a hard time earlier about being skinny enough to be a runway model.

He reached for the brownie, and the anklet smacked into the leg of the desk. He tugged it back around into the most comfortable position and tried again. Halfway through his sandwich, he got an itch under the anklet and tried scratching at it with his other foot.

Finished eating, started on the coffee and paperwork. It shifted every time he moved his leg, and he finally gave up and inspected the thing openly. He actually wished it were snugger, like a watch band, so it wouldn't shift around. But if it were, it would dig into his skin every time he took a step, and would be hard to fit socks under.

He huffed and gave up. He'd get used to it. Probably the only reason it was annoying him so much was the suspicion everyone he talked to was staring at it and wondering what horrible crimes he'd committed.

Or, maybe it looked like he was wearing an ankle holster. He grinned. He should try on a little swagger. An innocent, casual attitude of, What? Yeah, I work for the FBI and I could totally shoot you right now. Sexy, isn't it?

He nudged it around against the table leg, playing with the idea. He hadn't anticipated that wearing a completely innocuous device would bother him, at all. But it made him feel a little sick and a little scared.

The first time he'd been locked in a cell in Sing Sing had been the most viscerally and emotionally terrifying single moment in his life, and it'd taken everything he had not to panic completely.

The anklet reminded him a little of that, in a small way. It reminded him of leg irons, and of being heartsick, and vulnerable. This thing wasn't coming off his ankle for four years. And if it did, it was going to be as he went back into prison.

"Neal." Peter had emerged from the office, and summoned him upstairs.

"Sit," ordered Peter when Neal walked into the office.

"Do I get a biscuit?" said Neal, taking a seat and grinning at Peter.

"You get to stay out of handcuffs."

"You know, you should really apply for Public Relations," said Neal. "You'd be a natural."

"You're flipping out down there. What's wrong?" asked Peter.

"Sitting behind a desk doing my job quietly is flipping out?" asked Neal, raising his eyebrows. "Dear God, how do you cope when someone raises their voice?"

Peter pointed at Neal's ankle. "Is that anklet unpleasant to wear?" He looked sincerely concerned.

Neal shook his head, caught himself fidgeting with his foot again. "It's just a little annoying, like wearing a watch when you aren't used to it. I'll get used to it soon enough."

Peter seemed uncomfortable, in a sympathetic sort of way. "I was hoping you wouldn't be able to feel it."

Neal's face twisted despite himself. "Oh, I can feel it, all right."

Peter patted an empty chair. "Mind if I check it wasn't put on too tight?"

"It wasn't. It's not unpleasant, Peter."

Peter just looked at him, and finally Neal gave up and put his ankle on the chair. Peter slipped a couple fingers under the band, and Neal shivered at the touch. Not because he didn't like it. It felt wonderful, a warm, gentle contact that he didn't want to have go away.

No, because the last person to touch his ankle had been the corrections officer who'd put it on. Not unkindly, in fact the officer had been a friend who had followed its instruction manual with considerable care. But when the strap tightened, it sent an unexpected shiver up his spine, leaving him scared and humiliated at the realization that it wasn't coming back off.

"Flex your ankle," said Peter, exploring carefully all the way around not just to make sure the band wasn't pressing into his skin, but to feel what Neal felt.

Neal gulped, trying to hide not just embarrassment but his sudden and complete adoration of his handler.

Peter patted his ankle. "It'd annoy me too. It's bigger than I imagined, somehow."

Neal gulped again. "I don't think I got, until they strapped it on, that this thing was attached to me and I was never going to get to take it off."

And now Peter was going to hit him with something snarky about it being better than being locked in a cell, which Neal totally agreed with.

But Peter seemed to get that Neal was showing something vulnerable, and stroked the line under the band with his thumb. It was caring and relaxed, and Neal tried not to melt inside. The unaccountable trust he'd always felt for this intimidating but somehow very sweet FBI agent wasn't being broken, it was being reinforced.

"If you ever just gotta get it off you for a while, tell me," said Peter. "Strap has to be cut, but I have spares and override authority with the Marshals. Won't be a big deal."

And there was his out. There was the death knell to the primal terror of being irrevokably trapped. With a few words to a compassionate FBI agent, he could get the anklet off with no consequences, no being thrown back in prison or being hunted or even yelled at.

He'd never ask Peter to remove it. But that the agent would, and without mocking him, changed everything.

Everything.

Forget trying not to melt, he already had. This guy he so wanted to hero-worship cared about him, was sensitive and intuitive and didn't want him to suffer, even on a minor psychological level.

And now he knew what that lunch had been intended to say. Stop freaking out. I care about you.

"Thank you, Peter."

I'll follow you to the ends of the earth would have been closer to what he wanted to express, but he'd just have to hope Peter would be able to pick up on that underlying emotion as well.

From the soft, delighted smile he got in return, he guessed that Peter had. "You were worried about me," Neal teased.

"Nope. Just wanted to make sure you can't sue me." The amused, affectionate spark in Peter's eyes betrayed him. And the fact that he was still absent-mindedly petting Neal's ankle.

"Uh-huh."

"Get the hell out of my office." Peter gave him a final pat and an affectionate shove, and Neal grinned and jumped to his feet.

Peter smiled to himself, watching as his newly adopted felon practically bounced down the stairs. He'd learned how to reach Neal Caffrey, and it was the simplest thing in the world.

By accident.

He had sincerely cared when he'd first checked the anklet, but he hadn't been doing it to comfort Neal. It hadn't even occurred to him that Neal needed comforting. Why the hell would he? The man had a free pass out of prison, a luxury apartment, and the chance to chase his girlfriend.

He'd done it to make sure a guarded con-artist determined to prove himself and not show weakness wasn't hiding pain or discomfort from a device he couldn't escape. He'd done it because he was uneasy not knowing exactly what he was making this guy put up with.

And after a moment of worry, Neal's whole being had eased at that simple contact. His face and shoulders relaxed, his eyes softened, and he'd looked at Peter with utter adoration. Brilliant, snarky, confident, phenomenally multi-talented convicted felon Neal Caffrey needed to be reassured and cared about, and plainly loved to be touched.

God was this guy ever endearing.

He wasn't going to be soft on Caffrey, in the slightest. Give him an inch, and he'd take a continent and skydive off a cliff with it.

But he was going to be gentle with him, be a safe place to run to, because on some carefully hidden level, Caffrey was scared. And amazingly easy to reassure.

Neal ran when things got bad. The trick was going to be to make him feel safe enough to run towards Peter, not away from the world. Peter glanced down at the now far calmer Neal Caffrey at his desk and smiled.

This was going to work out.