Untitled

(Or, I just don't like the name Rufus, okay?)

A/N: Unbeta'd crack-fic. You have been warned. :p

Disclaimer: Borrowed for entertainment purposes only, no infringement is intended, nor is there any profit made.

The gun that was aimed uncomfortably close to Neal's left ear (possibly his favourite ear, but those sort of statements take some serious consideration) was very large, and very shiny.

It was so shiny that had Neal saw it in a late-night private tour of a museum exhibit, he might have tempted to, well, maybe not take it home and show his mother, but fondle it a lot nonetheless. He reckoned it had a very long name. The sort of hard and callous title that would imply a specific kind of intent that comes with this sort of weaponry. He could just imagine a bloodthirsty engineer with some serious psychological hang-ups about certain physical shortcomings muttering to himself while he manufactured a more efficient way to control parts of the population without the assistance of mother nature.

Neal wondered if Peter ever named his gun, and resisted the urge to snigger, which would have been difficult to do anyway, because of his unintentional involvement in a headlock.

"Just put the gun down and we'll discuss this." Peter shouts at the armed man, which isn't exactly the most motivating way to start any conversation, and the sweaty forearm braced against Neal's throat tightened in disbelief. Neal attempted to yell "Hey! Your choking me!" but, roughly translated; it sounded like "wurgle."

The Gunman (whom Neal wanted to have words with -when this was over- about standards of hygiene) was not in the mood for discussion. He was very much in the mood for the matte black briefcase (fake leather) lying on the floor next to Peter's shoes (also fake leather, Neal noted despairingly). Unfortunately the FBI has procedure when it comes to hostage situations, and while Neal was all in favour of an easy swap, the pamphlet Peter made him read on a rainy thursday said a lot of things involving negotiations and surrendering and very little about actually letting the bad guy get away.

That only works for so long anyway, Neal knew.

There was a bit of noise outside of Neal's vision, which was becoming quite hazy-what with the lack of oxygen and all, and it sounded to Neal as if the entire warehouse was surrounded, hopefully by people on Neal's side.

"FBI! We have you surrounded!"

Or Peter's, Neal allowed.

The Gunman did not rise to the bait, and since his back was literally to a wall, wasn't concerned about anyone coming up behind him. He managed to executed (Which is not an appropriate pun, thanks.) a physical manoeuvre that found Neal on his knees in front of the gunman, with a fist in his hair, air sweeping into his lungs, and a gun that favoured his temple more than his ear.

Neal blinked up at Peter. Peter glared his best glare at the gunman.

"I hope your name is Rufus." Neal rasped cattily, and hoped that the lack of oxygen hadn't damaged him, because really, what?

"Shut-up." said the Gunman-Rufus, and returned the glare to Peter, with little effect.

It was then that it hit Neal. Him, defenceless, his only chance at being saved was in the middle of a staring contest, and he was on his knees (in dirt!) in six hundred dollar slacks, surrounded by Eau de Unwashed.

Neal knew then what fear was.

This was not how it was supposed to work. 'White collar crimes shouldn't get like this.' he thought wildly. It was the safest criminal career to have. He checked before joining. He had done research.

Good lord, he'd have to have a closed casket.

Rufus, he decided, was an asshole.

Several hours later, after Jones proved himself as the worlds greatest sharp-shooter (and wins Neal's loyalty and friendship for all of time, which made Jones nervous enough to change his credit card number)and Peter dragged him to his office ("There are forms for this sort of thing, Caffrey"), he found himself ensconced at the Burke's household next to Satchmo, much to Neal's delight.

Elizabeth, who was only slightly frantic with worry, fussed suitably over them both, before getting distracted by a phone call about a late florist and rushing off to the kitchen to arrange matters to her liking.

Peter and Neal were left by themselves on the couch with a beer each (Neal's beer tasted suspiciously like water), listening to the delightful tones of Elizabeth Burke in her element, that is, emasculating the slackers in the floral industry.

"So what do I call this?" Neal asked, comfortably. Elizabeth had given him a blanket in case he was still in shock, in lieu of anxiety medication.

"What?" Peter asked, settling himself back against the couch, letting the day's adrenaline seep from his shoulders.

"This. I was very nearly turned into a Jackson Pollack study today, if you don't recall." He paused thoughtfully. "It may have been traumatic."

Peter snorted "You had more trauma than that before, Caffrey."

"But it all adds up! You don't know which event going to put me off the deep end. Besides, ever since I've started playing on your team I've been subjected to an unprecedented amount of violence. I don't like it. It's unbecoming." He primly took a swig of his watery drink, which shouldn't have been possible, but he managed it.

Peter rolled his eyes "Cowboy up. You're going to have a psych evaluation tomorrow anyway. And you're a criminal, Neal, comes with the territory."

"No it doesn't. You can be criminal and sensible, well, not if your Rufus, but that's life for you. Or it isn't." Neal wondered if Rufus' violent tendencies had anything to do with low-self esteem. He should have showered more. Too late now, he supposed.

"Rufus?" Peter asked blankly.

"Moment of panic. I can do better." Neal assured him confidently. Peter decided not to comment, and reached for the remote, just as Elizabeth wandered in with her own drink, looking satisfied.

"Why does my beer taste like water?" Neal asked, moving to make room for her between him and Peter.

"Because you've had a very exciting day, honey, and shock can do those sort of things to your taste buds." El sat down and promptly stole half of Neal's blanket.

"Really?" Neal looked doubtful, and Peter raised his eyebrows in interest.

"No idea, but you look dehydrated, so I swapped liquids."

Neal rolled his eyes and failed to look annoyed at being mothered, while Peter snickered and turned on a Piston's game. "Settle your thing with the florist?" He asked contentedly.

El grinned "Free deliveries for six-months." Neal clinked their glasses together and Peter smiled, distracted by a penalty shot.

After a few moments of comfortable silence, interrupted only by the game's commentators Neal leaned his shoulder into El's, who leaned back, conspiratorially.

"So, has Peter ever named his gun?"

Fin

I…have no excuse. I was originally typing out some nice, nearly plausible season finale angst!fic, but I kept getting distracted by Thoughts. Or, lack thereof, I'm not really sure.

Anyway, all errors are all mine, constructive crit' is welcome.