Peter was still licking at the sucker when he followed the crowd out of the storage facility, grinning. Stale, but flavored by delicious triumph.

He'd grown fond of Caffrey during the chase. Anyone who'd walk up to him and hand him a lollypop, send champagne to a surveillance van, and then shake his hand while being arrested held a certain amount of appeal.

Yes, he was a con artist to whom disarming charm was a sharply honed tool. But Caffrey was physically and psychologically nonviolent. The charm was a tool, where most people in his business used it as a weapon.

He caught up with Jones just as they were finishing frisking Caffrey and reading him his rights. The young master criminal gave Peter a fascinated look as he approached, and Peter returned it.

Caffrey looked cocky and playful, even under arrest. There was absolutely no resentment or hate in his expression; he looked more like he was finally meeting a friend from the internet in person.

Jones opened the back door of the FBI sedan and pointed. "Get in. I'm going to put my hand on your head so you don't hit it on the doorjamb."

Getting into a car cuffed was more difficult than it looked, but Caffrey managed it almost effortlessly. Jones fastened the seatbelt across his chest, and Peter joined him in the back seat of the sedan. He hadn't planned on riding with his prize, but his gut told him to.

Caffrey was shifting around uncomfortably in his seat, and Peter caught his eye. "Scoot forward on the seat and lean your weight back against your shoulders, not your wrists. It's putting pressure on those cuffs that's so unpleasant."

Caffrey took his advice and instantly relaxed, giving Peter a grateful glance.

"What happens now?" asked Caffrey as they pulled into traffic. "Rubber hoses and waterboarding?"

Peter grinned. "Well, I am taking you to the FBI for interrogation."

He saw a flicker of well-masked fear. "We serve a really good cheese danish and some pretty bad coffee. The coffee's usually enough to make anyone confess."

Caffrey gave him a sly sideways grin. "So the cheese danish is the good cop half of the duo?" Caffrey's eyes sparkled with humor, and his face was relaxed, but his arms were trembling.

"Are the cuffs hurting you?" asked Peter.

"Only my ego," said Caffrey flippantly.

Trust the gut. Peter put a hand on Caffrey's upper arm and left it there. It was easier to control one's expression than the body's physical reactions. This guy was scared. Peter didn't know if his touch would be reassuring or frightening, but his gut said do it.

Caffrey swallowed hard and looked away. He didn't shrink from the touch; unless Peter was imagining things, he actually moved a millimeter or two closer.

"Your world's about to get pretty scary and kinda unpleasant for a while," said Peter with genuine empathy. "But you're going to be fine. Keep your chin up and remember you're young and you'll be free again with a good life ahead, okay?"

Caffrey looked at him almost timidly, the coolheaded facade unmasked a bit by kindness. "You don't hate me?"

"Nah. I kind of like you. You hate me?"

"Nah. I kind of like you," said Caffrey, grinning. "Are you going to be the one to interrogate me?"

"If you'll let me," said Peter. He still kept the reassuring hand on Caffrey's arm. "They read you your rights. You understand you can refuse to be questioned without a lawyer present, right? The FBI takes this stuff seriously. If you ask for a lawyer, there won't be any questioning after that, no threats, no bullying. Nothing bad will happen to you if you request legal counsel."

Caffrey looked at Peter with deepening respect. "I've never been interrogated by the FBI before," he said. "If you want to question me, I'm up for it."

Peter smiled. This kid wasn't going to confess. He wanted to meet the guy who caught him. Peter was a good interrogator, but Caffrey was far too savvy to give him anything useful.

"I wouldn't mind meeting you, either," said Peter.

Caffrey looked a little embarrassed, and fell silent. With silence came a sober expression and the return of that uncontrollable tremor, affecting his whole body now, not just his arms.

"What are you most afraid of?" asked Peter quietly, so that Jones in the driver's seat couldn't hear.

"Brazilian wandering spiders," said Caffrey. "Followed closely by creepy dolls wearing polka-dot suits and clown makeup."

Peter smiled, but didn't say anything. Some time later, a much smaller-sounding voice answered his question. "I don't know. I honestly don't know why I'm trembling. I'm a little nervous, but I'm not that scared."

"You just lost all control over your life," said Peter. "For a guy used to planning for and controlling all the variables, that's gotta be like getting thrown off a cliff."

Caffrey looked down, and Peter gave his arm a compassionate squeeze. "You'll be fine. Don't try to fight any of this, just observe it until you find your footing."

"Why the caring?" asked Caffrey.

"Why did you send champagne to my van?" asked Peter.

"Touche," said Neal. "Hey, it was New Year's, we were having a party - I felt bad for you guys."

Peter realized he'd just thought of him as Neal, not Caffrey. When the car pulled into the FBI parking garage, Peter got out and waited while Jones got Caffrey out of the car.

It was a painful collision of two people trying too hard. Jones opened the door and unsnapped Caffrey's seat belt, then stepped back and motioned to him.

"Come on out." His next move was clearly going to be to steady Caffrey as he got out, but he didn't want to grab a compliant suspect and just drag him out of the vehicle.

The problem was his suspect was too compliant. Caffrey got his legs out and devoted himself wholeheartedly to obeying the order the second it was given, but he was nervous and not used to maneuvering in handcuffs. He slammed his forehead against the door frame, yelped, and fell backwards back into the car. He landed on his cuffed wrists and yelped again.

"I'm sorry." Jones and Caffrey said it simultaneously.

"People usually try to hit their heads on the way into the car, not on the way out," said Jones, worried and giving Peter an uneasy look.

Peter pulled Jones gently to the side and took his place. The young agent had a good heart, but his head was still in the military. He lacked the right set of instincts for dealing with nervous people.

Caffrey was sitting upright again, his feet out the door. But his jaw was clenched and he was blinking over and over again in pain. Handcuffed, Neal was unable to touch his face to ease the pain and check for injury.

Moving slowly enough that Caffrey could see his intentions, Peter put his hand gently across his forehead and the bridge of his nose. Neal leaned gratefully against his palm, and the frantic blinking stopped a few moments later.

"I don't see or feel any blood," said Peter. "I think you're fine."

Caffrey's breathing steadied, and he pulled away. "Thanks."

"Hurt your wrists?"

Caffrey grimaced. "That stung. But I'm okay."

"Ready to try this again?"

Caffrey nodded. "Somewhat anxious to prove that I am in fact capable of exiting a car without giving myself a concussion."

Peter smiled and supported a cheerful-looking but physically wobbly Neal Caffrey out of the car.

Peter kept a firm grip on Caffrey on the way through the garage. Not just as a control measure, but because if he tripped with his hands cuffed behind his back, he wouldn't be able to break his fall.

They took a short flight of stairs up to the elevator, and Caffrey's legs betrayed him at the top step, which he tripped over instead of clearing. Peter was ready for it and caught him effortlessly, supporting his upper body while he got his feet under him again.

"Easy, kiddo, I got you," said Peter. "Stop trying so hard."

After that, Caffrey had a hard time looking anywhere in his direction. His cheeks were reddened with embarrassment, and he didn't look up when they entered the interview room.

Peter pulled back a chair and steadied Caffrey while he sat down, realizing as he did so that he hadn't needed to give the kid a single order. Peter uncuffed him, releasing his hands from the uncomfortable position behind his back.

"Thanks," said Caffrey, sounding surprised.

"What, you thought I was just going to leave you like that?" asked Peter, equally surprised. What on earth had Peter done to give him the idea he'd be mean enough to make a non-violent suspect sit with his hands chained behind his back for hours in a perfectly secure room?

He thinks he's going to escape.

The kid had such a high opinion of his own skills that he'd taken it for granted that the FBI would give themselves a fighting chance by at least leaving the cuffs on.

"Sort of," said Caffrey, rubbing his wrists and looking sheepish for doing it.

Peter grinned and resisted the urge to pat him on the head. But on second thought...he gave Caffrey an affectionate pat and rumpled his fingers through his hair, exploring until he found the hidden handcuff key tucked behind his ear like a pencil for con artists.

"Hey!" Neal yelped in protest.

Peter held up his trophy, and Caffrey feigned trying to snatch it from him. Even the way he did that was endearing, with a genuinely playful twinkle in his eye but a deliberate slowness to telegraph I am not going for your gun. I am not attacking you. I'm playing.

Peter slapped his hand away with equally reassuring slowness. I'm not retaliating. I wouldn't hit you. I'm playing too.

Dangerous game, but fun. They were both grinning when Peter sat down on the other side of the table.

"This place is nice," said Caffrey, looking around at the spacious, glass-walled interview room. Peter liked the space. It was deceptively sturdy, but felt open and relaxing and had a beautiful view of the city.

"Where do I go after this?" asked Caffrey.

"Federal detention center," said Peter. "Not so nice. But not really that bad, either. Get used to it, I don't think you're getting bail."

Caffrey grimaced. "Turn-down service?"

"Not even a mint."

"Wow, that is bad. Room service?"

"Think less silver platter, more school cafeteria."

"Damn. What's their Michelin rating?"

"Too exclusive to be rated," said Peter. "On the plus side, no reservations required."

He watched the flickers of fear and curiosity on Neal's - Caffrey's - face. Peter wasn't usually this concerned about suspects, but he saw distinct liking and trust in those hesitant glimpses. If Caffrey wanted to let him in, Peter wanted to be there for him.

"You ever been to jail?" asked Peter. He knew Caffrey hadn't been arrested in the US, but he couldn't be so sure about elsewhere.

The young man's eyes shifted sideways. "Briefly. In Italy. Less of a jail, more of a dungeon in the back of a country police station. It wasn't fun. Lots of punching, no garnish on the entrees, that sort of thing."

"Released?"

"Escaped."

"Ah. Don't try to escape from the detention center. On the plus side, I can pretty much promise no involuntary boxing lessons."

"It's a deal." Caffrey's eyes snapped back up to his. "I don't see any cheese danish."

Peter had to grin. "Are you as hungry as I am?"

It was past dinnertime, and his stomach was growling now that the adrenaline of the sting was wearing off. Caffrey gave him a cautious look, then nodded.

"Pizza, or Chinese?" asked Peter. "I'll order in."

"Pizza," said Caffrey instantly. "Chinese food is too bad-cop-movie, given the current situation."

"Pepperoni?"

"Of course."

Peter pointed to the glass pane on the other side of the room. "That's one-way glass. Above it is a camera. There are agents watching you, and the door locks behind me when I leave. If you try to get out while I'm ordering dinner, I'm just going to have to come cuff you again."

"I won't," said Caffrey, not too convincingly.

"It's pretty, but it can hold you," said Peter. "Be good."

"If it's so invincible, why are you trying to convince me to stay put?"

"Because I'd rather not see attempted escape on your charge sheet," said Peter bluntly. "You keep this strictly white collar, you get off a hell of a lot easier."

That hadn't been the answer Caffrey'd been expecting. There was that flash of unmistakable respect again. The fact that Peter wasn't trying to screw him over or hurt him clearly surprised him.

"You going to stress him?" asked Jones. "Try to push him into slipping up?"

Peter glanced through the one-way glass. They had him, pretty solidly, on the bond forgery. The other charges...might not hold up in court without a confession.

But he knew Caffrey. He wasn't the sort to get flustered just because an FBI agent leaned over his shoulder and yelled at him. He was smart and confident and fast on his feet, and would absolutely shut up and ask for a lawyer if Peter made the interview an unpleasant experience.

"Don't think it'd get us anywhere," replied Peter.

Caffrey's expression when Peter walked back into the interview room with pizza and Cokes was a genuinely friendly, welcoming one. And he hadn't tried to escape, though Jones said he'd prowled around and examined every millimeter of the room while Peter was gone.

Peter sat down across from him and realized he didn't even want Caffrey to confess to anything. He was young, non-violent, not particularly predatory, and a near-savant at everything he set his mind to.

They had him on bond forgery. He was going to prison, and longer might not be better. A few years in a comfortable medium-security Federal pen could sober him, serve as a warning. Do you really want to spend decades of your life like this? Change course while you can. Getting the book thrown at him wouldn't help, but a time-out with structure and rules might.

"You know I'm here as an FBI agent, to obtain information to be used against you in court, right?"

Neal cocked his head ever so slightly to the left in curious examination. "And you know that I'm not going to discuss any alleged crimes with you, right?"

"Yep. Let's eat pizza," said Peter. They were both genuinely starved, and lit into the pie like it was the first thing they'd eaten in a week. Peter took advantage of the chance to observe Caffrey, his amusement growing by the minute.

When their eating slowed, Peter stared him down. "Okay, Caffrey. I'll take the plastic fork, my watch, the soda bottle cap, the salt and pepper packets, and that nice plastic shim they call a customer rewards card back now."

Caffrey gave him a startled, and rather impressed, look. "Oh, and the bolt you so carefully unscrewed from the right table leg," added Peter. Blushing a little and trying not to sulk, Caffrey emptied his pockets. But they were both grinning when Peter slipped his watch back on.

"What are you planning to do with the straw?" asked Peter.

Neal rolled his eyes and added it to the pile. "Nothing yet. Just seemed like it might come in handy."

"You're going to jail, not the Macgyver writer's room," said Peter.

"What?" Caffrey feigned shock. "Okay, I was grossly mislead somewhere along the way, I thought his was how they did their hiring."

"I've heard of people stealing everything that isn't bolted down, but taking the bolts themselves? That's dedication to the job."

"Well, I'm nervous. I'm just trying to show off."

"Is that what you were doing when you hit that museum in Munich?" asked Peter. "Showing off?"

Caffrey batted his eyes at him. "Museum in Munich? Why, Agent, I have no earthly idea what you are talking about."

It was two in the morning, and Peter was exhausted. So was Neal, and it was absolutely plain to him and any other sane person watching that Neal wasn't going to give him a thing. But this was far from adversarial.

They were enjoying it. They were kicked back in their chairs, the table was covered in coffee cups and pizza boxes and cookies.

Caffrey had started making a game out of finding synonyms for 'allegedly,' and Peter had retaliated by figuring out every possible way to say "You're going to prison."

Unsaid was the unpleasant fact that what came next for Neal was jail, and he wasn't anxious to hurry that along. Any more than Peter was anxious to send him.

But they were exhausted. It was time to call it quits. Peter sighed. "I'm gonna go call for a transport for you to the detention center."

Neal's expression shifted to something unreadable. "You aren't taking me?"

"Nope. You think I'm that big of an egomaniac, that I want to personally drag you in like a trophy elk or something?"

Neal shook his head. "Well, you did seem a little unnervingly gleeful. I just thought - you were going to."

Worry. That was the unreadable flicker. He wanted Peter to take him in.

"I could, I guess," said Peter. "But I'm not your friend. I'm your case agent. The next time I see you is probably going to be in court, where I will testify against you and I will eviscerate you. I'm sending you to prison."

Neal smiled. "I know who you are."

"You nervous?" asked Peter.

Neal avoided his gaze and shrugged.

Peter looked down. "Neal - people who haven't been to jail before tend to freak out. When they do, it's not dignified. It's not something most people want to do in front of...anyone they might meet again."

Neal swallowed hard. "Already freaking out. Maybe I'd rather not do that in front of some random guy in a uniform."

I trust you.

Peter was touched. Well aware that he was speaking to an accomplished con artist who knew how to flatter, but touched. He took out his handcuffs. "Stand up."

Neal did so, awkwardly trying to figure out what to do with his hands before clasping them behind his back.

"In front of you, palms up," said Peter.

Cuffing suspects with their hands in front didn't restrict range of movement much, and just gave them a handy chain to strangle you with. It pretty much negated the whole point of handcuffing someone. But it was vastly more comfortable than being cuffed behind the back. Both physically and emotionally. For someone like Neal, restraint could afford to be more psychological than physical.

"Thank you," said Neal sincerely, holding his wrists up. "That whole behind the back thing wasn't a lot of fun."

Peter snapped the cuffs on while Caffrey tried not to flinch. "Let's face it, you're a bit of a klutz with your hands cuffed behind you. Don't try anything."

Neal smiled. "You saw me on a bad day is all. And I won't."

Peter called a probie down to drive them. Caffrey walked quietly at his side, observing everything but making no move to run.

He got into the car without being asked, and didn't panic, or struggle, or cry. He remained calm, alert, and even curious. But he got very quiet, and lost the flippant remarks.

"You okay?" asked Peter.

Caffrey nodded and thought for a minute, looking out the window at the traffic. "Odd how - this feels so much more peaceful than running, even though it's what I was running from. I'm strangely okay with this."

They rode in silence until the car pulled into the sally port at the detention center. Caffrey gave him a sincere look of respect and affection that didn't seem to contain any shred of con artist.

"Thank you for being kind, Agent Burke. It means more to me than you know."

Peter returned the look. "Don't be scared. This is an intimidating process to go through, but you'll be just fine."

Caffrey nodded, and Peter helped him out of the car. The space was locked down. There was nowhere for him to run, and Peter watched Caffrey reach the same conclusion. When he had, Peter forewent the controlling grip on his arm in favor of a reassuring hand on his back while they walked up to the reinforced steel and polycarbonate door and waited to be buzzed in.

Neal froze just outside the door when Peter opened it. "Don't be scared," repeated Peter. "Don't be scared. I'm trying to help you, believe it or not. I'm not trying to ruin your life, I'm trying to save it. Don't be scared. This is not malice, and this is not hell I'm leading you into."

Neal's intense blue eyes flicked up and met his. "I'm going to trust you on that."

It struck Peter as real, and significant. "Good. I'll send you champagne when you get out."

Neal grinned, the playful confidence returning to his expression. "And you're still on my birthday card list."

"This is where we part ways," said Peter, taking the clipboard someone handed him with intake paperwork, and pointing at the secure lobby where an officer was holding the door open for Caffrey.

Neal nodded. "It was nice to finally meet you, Agent Burke."

Peter fished a business card out of his wallet and wrote his home phone number on it alongside the printed work and cell numbers. "If you ever need to talk, about anything, I'll take your call."

The look Neal Caffrey gave him when he took the card was quite possibly one of the sweetest and most complex expressions Peter had ever seen.