Neal was being interviewed by SA Ritter from Missing Persons, and Peter's anger was building by the second.

Because Neal was recounting with unflinching polite precision, having been beaten and shocked in a van by his mortal enemy. There was no trace of self-pity, and very little of his usual grandstanding. He was being - well, professional.

He wasn't rattled. The only thing he'd shown even a pang of worry about was Peter chewing him out for leaving the scene without his anklet.

So? Peter challenged himself. If it were you, would you be sitting there looking shell-shocked and complaining about it? Of course not. Don't make Neal out to be a fragile wimp just because he dresses like an insecure cartoon and complains about bad coffee.

But Peter knew if he'd been betrayed the way Neal had, he'd be furious. It was Neal's lack of anger that brought Peter close to rage. Not at his friend, but at the totality of circumstances that made him this accepting.

Ritter handed Peter a camera. "Neal would probably be more comfortable having you photograph the injuries."

"Neal doesn't care," said Neal, rolling his eyes. "He also would like to remind you that he is, in fact, present in the room."

"Go ahead, rub my nose in it," muttered Peter under his breath as he took the camera from Ritter.

Neal plainly thought he hid the flicker of resigned annoyance that flashed across his face when he stood and removed his shirt. The exaggerated statuesque pose he struck got both the agents grinning.

He also thought he hid the tiny relaxation of his shoulders when Ritter left the room out of respect for his privacy.

"What was that you said?" asked Neal.

"Nothing. Hold still and try not to look like you're trying to recreate a Michelangelo in living form," said Peter.

Peter wasn't thrilled about this either. The last time he'd had to photograph injuries on a crime victim had been a brief and sickening stint in Violent Crimes early in his career.

Bruise. Click. Electrical burn. Click. Another bruise. Turn so the light illuminates it. Click.

There was something dehumanizing about reducing a living, breathing human being to evidence. Neal's robotic cooperation with Peter's requests to show him the various injuries made Peter acutely aware of how many times he must have been stripped and cavity searched. Probably with the same self-aware humor that held him posing as David right now with an arch grin on his face.

Peter finished and set the camera down. "All done, Neal. Thanks," he said, hoping his soft tone of voice would convey all he wanted to say.

You aren't just evidence. You aren't just a crime victim, or a prisoner, or a tool in someone's belt.

Neal went out of his way to catch Peter's eye. "I always did wanna take up modeling. Free Versace? I'm in."

"Neal."

"You should have more fun in life, Peter," said Neal, tossing his shirt back on.

"Modeling Versace? I think not," said Peter with feigned indignation. "Armani all the way." He caught himself grinning, and in the throes of a familiar feeling. Affection and admiration for this irrepressible human being who took responsibility for cheering him up instead of moping.

Neal called Ritter back in with such a cheerful bounce to his step that Peter almost believed it. It was so easy to ignore that there was something broken in Neal Caffrey. It allowed a brilliant man to make decisions certain to harm him. It looked calmly at Peter in an empty apartment and accepted that he was going to have to do this whole 'going to prison for four years' thing all over again.

It wasn't lack of self-esteem; Neal esteemed himself way the hell too much. In Neal's ideal world, the world revolved around Neal. But regardless, something was broken, because to him, this was normal.

"So Agent Rice didn't discuss this with you at all beforehand?" asked Ritter.

"No."

"Were you wearing any type of transmitter, or have any other means of contacting her?"

"No."

"Were you given any briefing, or instructions at all?"

"No. It doesn't exactly take a ten-point briefing and an instruction manual to get kidnapped," said Neal with a wry grin.

Until that broken thing was fixed, Neal would never be reformed. It was possible that this was a rare opportunity to access it, because for once it wasn't Neal's fault. The blame could be placed squarely elsewhere.

Neal would dismiss himself politely when all the paperwork was done, and show up at work smiling tomorrow. He wouldn't show any weakness.

He'd been betrayed by an FBI agent, kidnapped, punched, shocked...anyone short of a hardened soldier or a career violent criminal would be affected by that, but Neal didn't have enough trust in the FBI to show it. There was always going to be the lurking threat in his mind, and unfortunately not an invalid one: If he couldn't handle FBI work, he would go back to prison. Another place where it didn't do to display vulnerability.

LATER THAT NIGHT

Peter knocked on the door of Neal's apartment, and held up a large pizza box and a sack of snacks. He hadn't seen his CI eat a thing since before the kidnapping.

Something dulled in Neal's eyes. He wasn't happy to see Peter. He sighed. "Okay, let me have it."

"What?"

Neal's eyes slid downwards, to the anklet. "I said, what'll you have? To drink?"

"No, you didn't. You thought I was here to chew you out about 'forgetting' your anklet? I already did that."

"Then why are you here?" Neal's expression was less friendly than usual, and his cynical side was on full display. You're here because you want something from me, or want to reprimand me. So get it over with.

"Moral support," said Peter bluntly.

Neal's expressive blue eyes widened, then narrowed. Then the forced smile. "Well, come on in. I'm assuming you need support, 'cause I'm fine."

"That's right," agreed Peter. "This much paperwork makes me all shaky inside. Flashbacks and all that."

Neal eyed the pizza with wary approval. "You really get Lombardi's? Or is that just a used box you shoved Dominos into?"

Peter snorted. "You're the only guy in the world who'd suspect me of forging a pizza."

Peter watched Neal pour himself a glass of wine and fetch a beer out of the fridge. Shoulders relaxed, movements natural, not betraying the slightest hint of soreness. But there was bound to be pain, which meant Neal was hiding it. Expertly. While safe, at home, with someone he trusted, who knew all the ugly details.

This was the Neal who scared him. The sheer expertise with which he conned people, on reflex, regardless of need. But it made him feel for the Neal who'd had to learn never to show weakness or pain. That was a lesson almost always learned the hard way, for hard reasons, taught by hard people. And Neal was many things, but not hard.

He wasn't that statue of stone he'd been posing as earlier. He was a playful, optimistic, social, passionate human being. But stone was what his world had demanded of him, and there was no challenge Neal Caffrey wasn't up to.

Peter set the pizza down on the table, and set out freshly baked cookies, breadsticks with dipping sauce, and fruit-topped yogurt.

Neal smiled for real for the first time and handed Peter a beer. "It baffles me how much you think I eat. We having the Yankees over for a picnic or something?"

"I wish," said Peter, returning the smile.

It was a hard line to walk as an FBI agent, betraying no vulnerability while retaining the protective compassion people needed to see when they encountered an agent of federal law enforcement. Peter didn't even know what line Neal was trying to walk. Maybe Neal didn't either.

"You don't have to come in to work tomorrow," said Peter. "You're gonna be really sore, that's more'n a valid reason to take time off."

Neal just looked at him. Yeah. Right. I'm gonna call in sick because someone hit me.

Peter accepted the silent rebuke, and a slice of pizza when Neal wiggled the box in front of him enticingly and teased him. "Agent, feed thyself..."

"Neal - I'm here as a friend. Not an FBI agent, or your handler."

Neal looked away. Peter didn't speak or pester him.

"I'm pretty good at getting over things," said Neal finally. "Comes with the territory."

"I know you are," said Peter in the gentlest voice he could muster. Neal might well not talk to him. But he could talk to Neal, make sure he knew someone cared.

"It's that girl I'd worry about," said Neal.

Peter nodded while he finished a bite of pizza. "She's a civilian. She's the category of person who gets surrounded by horrified relatives, and sympathy and therapy and support. You and I are the category expected to suck it up and stroll into the office the next morning."

"That's what I plan to do." Neal picked up a slice of pizza and made a courageous effort to pretend he had an appetite.

"Being good at hiding it, and recovering from it, doesn't mean you don't feel pain and fear," said Peter. "I just - want you to know you have someone safe to show that to."

Neal looked at him with just a hint of longing.

"I know you're tough," said Peter. "I know you're strong, and I know you've had to go through a hell of a lot on your own. You don't have to do this one alone."

"I really am okay," said Neal, his face softening. His shoulders were starting to slump, the reserve giving way to a desire to trust.

"I know. But - you're in pain."

After a long silence, and half a cookie, Neal answered. "Yes."

"You were punched and shocked when you were down. You were used as bait by the person in charge of you. Those are both considerable traumas."

Neal gave him an annoyed look. There was tough Neal again, backing away from his mistake in opening up. "Do I have to play victim to get your approval? You love danger as much as I do. It's a rush, and I like that you don't try and hide that or moralize over it. Walking away with a grin isn't acting."

It was Peter's turn to be frustrated. Neal was being deliberately obtuse. "I'd like you to stop pretending being betrayed into kidnapping and torture are a rollicking good time," snapped Peter. "That's not adrenaline, that's trauma."

Neal bit into a breadstick like it was his enemy. "Being able to to rescue a kidnapped girl...is -amazing. It's an honor to be on your side for these. I'd ask to help."

"Would you ask to be betrayed?" asked Peter, making himself keep his voice soft. He wanted to kick himself for snapping at Neal. This was not the time to allow his frustration to show.

Neal's shoulders sagged, and he went for more wine. His conflict was evident in the way he walked, smoothly controlled movements interspersed with letting the pain show.

Neal was stuck in thought for a good minute when he returned. Peter broke the silence. "Talk to me. I'm here as a friend."

Neal gave him a look that held a slight flicker of vulnerability and anxiety. It was as close as Neal got to a pleading expression. "Please don't hand me over to other agents like that."

Peter felt chilled. Please was not a word Neal used lightly. "I'll try. But I don't own the FBI."

It was the one thing he couldn't offer any absolutes or assurances on. The FBI was a massive government bureaucracy far larger and stronger than Peter.

Neal's eyes dulled again. "You guys own me. Unless you developed magical powers to bend reality? Don't try to act like you can make it all better by coming here. I could be sent to prison for three years for screwing up someone's coffee."

"Neal - I'd never, ever do that," said Peter. He pushed Neal so harshly and needled him so badly partly for the same reason Neal tested every boundary he could get his hands on. To establish that it was safe, that conflict didn't mean prison. That power didn't equal danger.

Neal instantly relented, and gave him a soft look that was filled with trust. "I know. I - love working with you. I feel safe with you."

"But I let her take you."

Neal glanced away. It was a fact, and it hurt a little.

"What I said when Ritter handed me the camera was, 'Go ahead, rub my nose in it.' Feel like I put those bruises on you."

He hated that Neal was being exposed to people like Fowler and Rice, hated the idea that Neal might think that was the standard for anyone who wasn't Peter or in White Collar. "Most FBI agents are incredibly decent people. They're educated, highly trained professionals who value life and the law and ethics."

Neal rolled his eyes. "Slap an anklet on yourself and surrender your life and future to one at random. It'll be fun."

"Probably more fun than prison," said Peter. And then kicked himself again. He was defending the FBI out of reflexive loyalty, which was the opposite of what he'd come here to do.

Neal glared at him and looked genuinely stung. "You know the nice thing about being in prison? You don't have to dread going there all the time."