Peter snuck up to Neal's holding cell deliberately, still in deep inner conflict. If he'd talked any other person down from the brink of murder, he'd arrest them. If that person was a felon who'd stolen a gun, he'd absolutely, positively arrest them.

No, that was wrong. If it were Diana, or Clinton, or El - he would find it equally hard.

It was corrupt, letting someone off because you knew them, worked with them, cared about them. Neal was an extension of the FBI, and this was how police violence went unchecked. Loyalty and compassion, justification, everything that made him want to save Neal.

But then there were all those lectures at Quantico about the human side of law enforcement, and making compassionate choices. About serving society and humanity, not acting as a functionary for punishing people.

He wanted to see Neal unguarded. See if he was waiting smugly to get away with almost-murder.

Neal was sitting in the corner, more still and quiet than Peter had ever seen him, with his arms wrapped around his chest, looking tiny. He wasn't cowering, just completely in his own world and withdrawn from this one.

Peter's heart tightened in empathy. This was the Neal Caffrey who'd served four years in prison, who knew how to cope with being locked in concrete boxes.

Neal's eyes were closed, and his cheeks were glazed with tears. He was clearly biting his lip, trying not to cry and failing.

Yeah, Neal was taking this seriously.

Peter remembered the handful of times Neal had called him from prison. Neal just chatted and joked around, but Peter had always known from the tightness in the young man's tone that he was having a hard time and needed to hear a friendly voice. Those calls had come from the version of Neal who was sitting in this cell right now.

Neal noticed him finally, tried to blink the tears out of his eyes, but there were too many of them, and he had to wipe them away on his sleeve, and sniff.

Peter looked him directly in the eyes. There was grief there, and love, and shame, and pure regret.

"Fowler isn't pressing charges. He saw your reaction, and he thinks you've been through enough. He's going to prison himself, and he's not in the mood to want to put you through what he feels right now."

Neal's eyes widened. If Fowler wasn't pressing charges, it was down to..."Peter?"

Peter crumbled. He couldn't look at Neal like this, tiny and heartbroken, and send him away in chains. Not Neal.

For all the times we've hurt him. For the time an FBI agent got him kidnapped, beaten, and shocked with a stun gun, and he never even threatened to sue us. For Fowler framing him. For throwing him back in prison the day he watched his girlfriend be blown up.

Making your own justice was a hell of a slippery slope. But as an excuse, a neat little self-con, it'd do.

Peter spoke softly, not wanting the tone of his voice to make the words hurt any more than they had to. "You remember what it feels like, sitting in this cell. You remember how sad and how helpless you feel, and how much you wish you could undo this. You remember prison."

Neal gulped, his eyes still shiny. There was hope in them, but not much of it. He was not counting on Peter to let him off, not by a long shot.

Peter shook his head. "I'm not charging you either. I know you, and I know having almost murdered an innocent man is - going to haunt you. What you've gone through today's punishment enough. You're staying here with me."

Peter unlocked the door and opened it. If it had been any other person in a cell, Peter would have thought he was being attacked, the movement was so fast and aimed so directly at him. Neal dove forward, hugging Peter with every ounce of his strength, so tightly it hurt. He pressed his face into Peter's chest, clinging to him.

"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. God, Peter, thank you. Thank you."

"All right," said Peter, patting him awkwardly on the back. Peter was a lot more comfortable hugging than being hugged, and a few seconds later he gave in and wrapped his arms around Neal, and could feel the tense, fierce sincerity in every muscle, and knew he'd made the right decision. Mercy and friendship were what reached Neal.

Neal had been scared to death, and heartbroken, and deeply hurt. No judge, no prison, could do more to beat this into his skull.

"You hold your head high and focus on moving forward. Be professional, seek justice for the right reasons. Got it?"

Neal drew a deep breath. "Got it."

"Don't get flustered around Fowler. Just be straightforward and work the case. Calm, professional, human. Got it?"

Neal nodded, and Peter pushed him away and cuffed him ever so lightly under the chin. "Up."

Neal grinned. "Oh. Yes. Hit me, that's very good for the confidence."

So Peter hugged him again instead. He needed that, after restraining a cooperative Neal so brutally and feeling him tremble, hearing the man he'd do anything to protect cry out in pain he'd inflicted. He needed to wash that out of his soul, and Neal's.

But Neal was smiling, in that incredibly endearing sort of delight he showed whenever Peter was affectionate with him. He seemed to recognize Peter's guilt, and melted against his chest in utter trust and forgiveness. Neal hurt easy, but he didn't traumatize easy. He had the bounce-back of a rubber ball.

Neal cocked his head to the side when they entered the elevator to go back up to White Collar. "Your tie's all messed up."

Peter straightened it, and rebuttoned a shirt sleeve that'd come undone, and smoothed his hair down. Glanced at Neal. "Button your sleeves over your wrists and rinse off your face, Sinatra. You look like I strung you up from the ceiling."

Neal grinned, and messed up his already-disheveled hair. "Okay, so now we need you to hit me in the face, just enough for some blood. Punch the wall a few times so your knuckles look scraped up and tuck your gun in your waistband. I'll practice my best emotionally scarred limp."

Peter held out until the very end, but he just had to grin. "So - wait. To hide the awful thing that actually just happened, you whip up an elaborate con to make it look like something ten times more blood-curdling?"

Neal waggled his eyebrows. "Ooh, whip. You should make a couple cuts in the back of my shirt."

"Neal!"

"Let's face it," said Neal. "We could both use a little help in the reputation-as-badasses department. This could be just the thing."

Peter flicked him on the ear.

"Ow," complained Neal, ducking away and throwing his hands up protectively.

"Yup. Total badass," said Peter.

"Hey," protested Neal, practicing his best crestfallen expression. "We're white collar badasses. Certain concessions have to be made."