A/N: Takes place at the beginning of season two sometime.

Author's Frustration!: Honestly, if you've read the summary (and I hope you do read summaries before reading a fic) you know what happens in this story. You know Peter puts Neal in a time out. I didn't think it was that over the top, and it was what I personally wanted to write given the surrogate father-son trope is what draws me to the show. In this particular story, Peter is a handler literally handling his charge. Emotions are high, traumatic things have happened, Peter takes steps he wouldn't take in the show because the show wouldn't go this far. Thus, this is a fanfic. Now, if you like the story and want to say so, that's awesome. But if you're just going to harp on about this brief scene and how it RUINED the story, go read something else. I've already deleted a review, and to that irritating anonymous person and everyone like them: you knew what this was. It says it in the summary. I was giving you too much credit to not add "don't like, don't read" apparently, but I'm saying it now. If you don't like the idea of Peter exerting some surrogate parental authority over an adult Neal after an extreme event, don't read this fic. Please, for the love of fuck, don't. For the rest of you, onward.

The Fantastical Notion of Being

"That was a stupid thing you did."

Neal Caffrey doesn't care. Is he supposed to care? He's sitting in his handler's office, in front of Peter's desk, and the chair is hard, and rigid and Neal is squirming on it. This doesn't feel like the kind of chair an adult should sit on, and this look that Peter's pinning him with doesn't feel like the kind of look an adult should receive.

Neal is an adult, though. Just because he's managed to maintain a child's sweeping sense of curiosity, and an adolescent's fantastical notion of indestructability, doesn't mean that he is any less of an adult. He is cunning and evasive and not yet dead, so he must be doing something right.

And he doesn't care. He doesn't care how stupid Peter thinks it was, or how carelessly he carried out the plan. The plane's nothing but a few ashes on the ground now, and Wendell Smithington may be thieving and conniving and egomaniacal beyond all common reason, but it's not like he's killed anybody or anything. Worst case scenario: The Bureau has to wait a few more years to bag the guy. Some people lose some valuables. Neither of these things happened.

Even if they had, it would have been no worse than Neal George Caffrey sans anklet, riding on wings of freedom.

"We got him, didn't we?" Neal asks, his voice soft, his blue eyes bright with mutiny.

Peter stares at him, his mouth slightly open in that aghast kind of way that indicates he can't believe Neal has the nerve to be even more frustrating, even after he's already been warned that he's in for an epic bout of Peter Burke's Supreme Displeasure.

"He pulled a gun on you, Neal. And he fired."

Neal remembers thinking he could feel it, like a shadow, that bullet rushing by his ear.

"He missed," Neal says.

"You were half an inch away from being dead."

"He's never killed anyone before. He wasn't aiming to-"

"He was. I saw. His hand was shaking, Neal. A desperate man's failure at a first attempt saved you. Do you know how…" Peter trails off when Neal shrugs. There's a beat of silence in the room before the man's large hands slam down on the surface of his desk. "Damnit, Neal!" he barks, and Neal almost flinches.

I'm not supposed to care, he reminds himself. It's all gone. The fire burned it all away.

He's staring at the floor, he realizes, at Peter's shoes, because Peter is now in front of his desk and not behind it. Neal's teeth find his lip for just a moment, gnaw for the nerves that don't know their place, and then he's back, he's looking up, and his smile is as charming as ever.

Peter is half-sitting on his desk, his arms crossed, his eyes caught somewhere between fury, disapproval, and…concern. And they're trying not to be any of these things. They're going for the stern nature of an authority figure and Neal doesn't know what to do with that other than to con them into seeing a different sort of reason.

He drops the smile, adopts some regret he doesn't feel. "Look, Peter, I get it. I was reckless. And I'm sorry that I jeopardized the case by going off script. I still maintain that it worked out, but in the future I'll try my best to-"

"This isn't about the case, Neal," Peter says.

Okay, Neal thinks. Sure. "I'm sorry I didn't listen to you."

Peter grits his teeth and looks away. It lasts for what feels like minutes to Neal, and he doesn't realize he's holding his breath until Peter grunts, "Go to your desk and stay there," before abruptly exiting his own office.

Neal is bewildered, but he tries not to think about it. There's no sense in worrying, after all. Whatever happens, happens. He blinks, lets his mind numb. His eyes grow heavy. He hasn't slept well in months, but the fatigue does little to assuage his subconscious. He catches his hands, ever defiant, shaking on the way to his desk and shoves them in his pockets.

An hour goes by, and Neal pretends to glance over old case files, a pen in his hand. This is what work looks like. You don't really have to do it if it looks like you're doing it. Jones and Diana pass by once each, lean over his desk and cuff him on the back of his head, mutter something about him being a pain in the ass - which he is, Neal is aware - and promptly proceed to roll their eyes when he smiles at them in a way that denotes that they love this character trait with a such a force that it's evident to anyone with the slightest hint of intuition. It is especially evident to Neal.

Diana has just had her turn, has rested her head in one of her small, beautifully-structured hands to give it an irritable shake at Neal's insufferable nature, when Peter finally makes his way over.

The smile drops from Neal's face when the agent points at him with a gruff finger and says, "Get your things together."

Ice, plunging from his chest to his feet, and his mind floods with the memory of a small space where the only color is orange. Where desperate men have desperate thoughts and Neal is a pretty thing in an ugly place.

"Boss…" Diana sounds far away.

Metal bars and bland food and no Kate. No Kate ever again.

"Neal," Peter says, and none-too-gently grabs Neal's shaking hands up in his own. Coarse fingers squeeze down until Neal looks up and there is Peter with his mouth set in a firm line, his eyes saturated with concern. "I'm just taking you home, kid. C'mon."

Neal pulls his hands away from the older man's grip, smiles as bright as the sun. "Of course, Peter. I'll be ready in a jiff."

Neal is ready in a jiff. And Peter takes him home, but not to June's.

Elizabeth is already in the kitchen, in the process of creating something so delectable that Peter won't even be able to fathom it – the man has such poor taste, Neal thinks derisively. And then feels guilty, because this is Peter, and Peter is his friend. Not his best friend, not like Mozzie. Peter is something altogether different. Peter is obliged.

Not obliged to like him, though. And Neal is usually quite sure that Peter does, indeed, like him.

The broiled rock bass with fennel seed is beyond palatable, and Neal does his best to clean his plate despite the sinking feeling in his gut. Peter hasn't spared him so much as a glance during dinner, only lifting his head from the meal to silently communicate with his wife. There is something Neal doesn't know going on right now, something that will take place in the near future. The worst part is, it has to do with Neal.

"I think I should get going," Neal says, once his plate is close to clear. "Do you need help with the dishes, Elizabeth? Here, allow me-"

"No, sweetie, that's okay," Elizabeth brushes his hand away from her plate like it's nothing more than a pesky fly.

Peter ungracefully wipes his mouth with a napkin, and Neal feels a slight pang of resentment when he notices the man's eyes are finally on him. Now he's good enough to look at?

"Peter?" he asks, and his voice is polite and curious.

"Family room," is all Peter says, and aims a brisk thumb back at said room, doesn't make a move until Neal is already up and obeying the terse order. Whatever this punishment is, it already feels cruel and unusual.

Neal listens to Elizabeth puttering around the kitchen, the click of utensils, clang of pans and plates pervading the open space. Peter follows him into the room, and when Neal turns around, he quickly takes a step back to the kitchen.

"Maybe I should help her-"

"Neal." Peter says, and puts his hands up, pushes Neal gently back by the shoulders.

"She's doing all the kitchen stuff, Peter," Neal argues. "It's making me feel sexist. I don't like feeling sexist. It's ungentlemanly."

But Peter's not having it, not any of it. He raises one brow and a stern look settles into his eye. And he says, "Kid?" but it's not really an inquiry, Neal knows, because it immediately turns into an order of, "Sit."

Neal sits. Satchmo is a beautiful and faithful canine, resting at his feet for as long as he can before Peter notices him, and then it's, "Satchmo, bed," sending the yellow lab scampering up the stairs and away from his troublesome charge.

The agent crosses his arms and looks at Neal. Then uncrosses them and looks away. Then sighs, and paces.

Neal lets this go on for quite some time before he grows tired of it. Tired of everything. It's not hard for him to grow tired of everything, not these days. Not hard at all. He grows so tired that he doesn't care anymore about Elizabeth in the kitchen, or Peter's stern, but fidgety nature. He doesn't care about that empty space where Satchmo just was, where there is only now an absence of comfort.

Neal doesn't care what his handler has planned for him.

So he asks, "What is it, Peter?" and rubs a tired hand over his tired face.

And Peter doesn't look at him. He's turned away from Neal, focusing on one of the books on the shelves or something, but his voice is present, and Neal can practically feel the tension he sees in his partner's shoulders. "That was a stupid thing you did today," the man says quietly.

You've already said that, Neal wants to retort, but stops himself. Instead, "Tell me something new."

The shoulders go rigid with agitation. Peter growls, "Don't be a smartass, Neal."

Neal looks at his hands.

Peter looks at the shelf. Neal looks at his hands. This is how men talk when they mean it.

"I'm sorry," Neal says.

Peter sighs. Neal can practically hear the shake of the guy's head. "For what?"

"Being a smartass," Neal says, and looks up with a smile that is both dazzling and sardonic.

But Peter doesn't see. Peter doesn't need to see, Neal reminds himself. It would only make him angry if he saw. It doesn't matter, though – he's angry anyway. Conning is acting, and acting at its core is the study of the human animal. You don't excel at portraying emotion unless you can actually sense emotion. Peter is furious, and Neal feels it, dropping the smile from his face right before the man spins on his heel and marches over to him, leans down and grips Neal firmly by the knees.

"You almost got killed," Peter hisses, and the look on his face is so intense that Neal looks away. Not for long, mind you, because one of those hands vanishes from one of his knees and appears on his chin, turning his face back. "No, you damn well better look at me when I'm talking to you, Caffrey. That shot was so close. It was so fucking close to hitting you."

Neal flinches. The language is coarse even for Peter.

Peter sees it, and softens. He sucks in a breath and releases Neal's chin, returns it to rest on the empty knee. He takes a moment to get a hold of himself, and then: "If it had hit, Neal, there's no way you would have survived it. You would be dead. You would be a cold body in the morgue right now."

It's all Neal can do not to shrug.

And Peter…Peter's never that far behind Neal's line of thinking. Never has been. That's why he's so good, has always been so good.

"Bullet would've gone straight through you," the agent continues quietly, "and into me."

Neal stiffens. That was uncharacteristically tender of Peter. The guy's not one for big statements of fondness, but that…for Peter, that was pretty big.

"I'm sorry," Neal says, and means it a little more than before.

Peter's shaking his head, though. "Not sorry enough. You need time to think."

"I'll go home and-"

"No. You're not going to think at home. You're going to occupy yourself with something you shouldn't occupy yourself with. I know you."

"But-"

"I. Know. You." The words are a staccato through gritted teeth, and the look Peter gives him is one of warning before the man turns away just slightly and calls back over his shoulder, "Hon?"

El's voice sings back, "All done, hon."

"She always has such good timing," Peter says, love and admiration creeping into his voice as he pulls Neal off the couch by the wrist.

"Peter—" Neal says.

"Don't. This is happening," Peter says, and leads his young partner into the kitchen.

What's happening? Neal wants to ask, but doesn't because he doesn't have to. He sees.

There's a chair in the corner of the kitchen, facing the wall. And Peter's leading him over to it.

Neal feels numb, because seeing isn't believing. And feeling isn't, either, considering now that the guy's actually pushed him down into said chair, he still doesn't believe it. Peter's a liar. This is not happening.

He moves to get up, but Peter shoves him right down again, sticks a finger in Neal's indignant face.

"You get up, I swear I will physically put you right back here again, Caffrey, you understand me?" The look on Neal's face must be mutinous because Peter immediately barks, "Do you understand me?" in a way that causes the conman to squirm in his seat.

"Yes," Neal says, maybe a little less respectfully than the situation requires, and quickly rectifies, "…sir."

Peter either doesn't feel surprise, or he's amazingly adept at keeping it off his face because they're back in that position again, with Peter's hands on Neal's knees and the man says, "You're gonna sit here, kid, for ninety minutes."

"Ninety?"

"Ninety. You're going to sit and you're going to think about what it would have done to June if that bullet had hit you. You're going to think about her at your funeral, dressed all in black, her eyes as she throws dirt on your casket. You're going to think about El doing the same thing. You're going to think about Mozzie, all alone, doing what he does. All alone. Not even waiting for you like he did, because you're not coming back this time. You're going to think about-" Peter sucks in a breath. "-me. You're going to think about me, Neal, about how you would have killed me. You're going to think about the shell you would have made of me, kid, because I can tell you now-" another pause "-can tell you definitively…that there's no coming back from you."

Neal feels a little stricken. More than a little. And he's already feeling sorry. Really, truly sorry. He opens his mouth to say so, but Peter's not done yet: "You're going to sit here and you're going to think about all of that. In ninety minutes, we'll debrief."

And that's all Peter can take of this conversation. The man puts a large hand on Neal's head for a moment before nodding to himself and leaving the kitchen. Leaving Neal to sit, and to think.