"Neal?"

Neal was standing in the front of the surveillance van, frozen, staring out the windshield. He didn't even seem to be hearing Peter.

"Neal!"

Neal flinched, and he clasped his hands behind his back like he was waiting to be cuffed. Peter stood up and came closer to his CI, who refused to look at him.

Neal was trembling. A tiny, almost invisible quiver in his hands was all that gave it away. Peter stood in silence for a minute, and finally figured it out. The van held no small resemblance to a solitary confinement cell.

He wrapped his hands around Neal's wrists, held them for a few moments, then gently moved Neal's arms back down to his sides and let go. "Go for a walk outside. Call me if you want me."

Caffrey nodded once, turned, and went outside. He returned a half hour later with espresso for both of them, and they watched the monitors and chatted like nothing had happened. But within an hour Neal was breathing with the sort of careful control of a man concealing terror.

"Outside, Neal," said Peter in his softest voice. "You don't have to ask. Just go."

This time he followed after five minutes or so. Neal was within a hundred feet of the van, braced against the trunk of a tree. He turned away from Peter when the agent approached. He was holding himself with elegant precision, a casual stance and an easy slump to his shoulders. His face was a blank, but his eyes were dark and hiding tears that Peter saw anyway. His breathing was so controlled, and Neal was losing control so fast, that his breathing simply stopped for seconds at a time. This was a man trapped an inch from running for his life.

Peter didn't talk to him or touch him. Just knelt down, took out his pocketknife, and cut the anklet off. Put it in his pocket and walked back towards the van, calling the Marshal's office to override the alarm. Right now, to Neal, the van was a prison cell, the anklet was a prison cell, everything around him an intolerable form of control. This was a mental make or break moment for Neal. If Neal was allowed to run right now, literally and physically, allowed to sprint for the edge of his radius and beyond until his lungs burned and he lost the urge to scream, he'd probably come back. If not, he could be gone for good.

It took Neal two hours to return, and he was holding his coat, out of breath like he'd been running. He sat down and gave Peter a bright grin.

"Anklet?"

Peter had threaded a new strap through it already, while he tried to contain his fear that Neal might not return. He handed it over to let Neal put it on himself, but Neal's hands weren't cooperating with him and he fumbled it, then drew a deep breath.

"Would you like me to do it?" asked Peter.

Neal handed it to him instantly. Peter hesitated just before wrapping the strap around his CI's ankle. "Is it okay if I touch you?"

Neal had always seemed to enjoy being touched, and be calmed by it. One of the traumas of solitary confinement was the absence of any physical contact. But Peter couldn't stop being dreadfully afraid Neal had been beaten or otherwise abused too. Larson hadn't exactly been subtle with his abused child analogy.

Neal nodded as rapidly as he'd handed the anklet over. It was as close to a please do as could be accomplished without words. Peter put the anklet on carefully, checking and re-checking the tightness with Neal before crimping it down properly so it couldn't be removed without breaking the circuit. It wasn't something either of them were familiar with yet, but Neal seemed to welcome Peter's inept fiddling with it.

"Thanks for letting me run," said Neal. "Needed that."

Peter nodded. "Thanks for coming back."

Neal cast him an uneasy glance. "Others need to know about this?"

"Nope. But you'll have to keep working in the van."

Neal nodded. "Any movement from Calenti's gang?"

"The daughter left maybe ten minutes ago. No sight of Ivan yet."

Peter tossed him a bottle of water. They watched the monitors in silence while Neal caught his breath and gulped it down. Then he tossed the empty bottle at Peter's head.

Peter caught it as it bounced off and flung it back at Neal, who faked a yelp of pain when it struck his arm. They spent the next ten minutes assaulting each other with the empty bottle until Neal stood abruptly and walked out.

He returned fifteen minutes later with an almost smug look on his face. This was explained when Peter turned around to see a very convincing rubber snake draped across his coffee mug, its forked tongue snaking out in his direction. He startled, grabbed it, and gave it a menacing flex.

"Damn," muttered Peter. "Too short to strangle you with."

"There's a reason I didn't buy the twenty-four-inch one," said Neal with a grin. "Even if it did come with an attachable rattle and free spiders."

Peter tossed the thing up on top of the microwave. "We'll see how Jones and Diana feel about snakes."

Neal gave him a devious grin, and Peter experienced a tickle of unease. "Wait...free spiders? Does that imply purchasable spiders?"

Neal shrugged. "I always did think you'd look awesome with spiders in your hair. I was right."

"NEAL!"

After Peter plucked six plastic spiders and a cotton web off his head, he took revenge by installing them on Neal. Who didn't resist in the slightest, just sat there with an absurdly happy smile on his face while Peter stuck spiders in his hair.

"You didn't steal these, did you?" asked Peter suspiciously.

Neal gave him an indignant look. "No. I paid for them. I know better than to drape my handler with stolen spiders."

"Ah. Very good," said Peter. He tucked a final spider into Neal's hair, peeking out over his right ear. This was possibly the happiest, most content expression he'd ever seen on Neal's face. His head was tilted towards Peter for easy spidering, and his eyes were half-closed in amused bliss. Peter couldn't avoid smiling himself and giving Neal's shoulder an affectionate rub. Neal's eyes closed the rest of the way.

Peter had wanted to show him the joys of normal life, inside the law. Well, they'd just found one. He remembered the plastic bag he had stashed in the corner, and smiled. This was as good a time as any.

He pulled out a plush squirrel, to which he'd affixed stickers with little X marks across the eyes. "Your merit badge. You bagged Hagen, you get a dead squirrel to go with your tracking anklet."

Neal laughed and took a seated bow. He snatched the squirrel from Peter's hand with a playful grab, and then held it with a smile growing broader and broader as he looked at it. He lifted one of the stickers away with his fingernail. "You really do love squirrels. You couldn't even bear to do this with anything but a sticker."

Peter felt his cheeks go hot. The thing was, it was true. He'd planned for full-on faux tire tracks and red X marks stitched across the eyes, but he hadn't been able to do it. It seemed too morbid when he'd found such a soft, real-looking, adorable squirrel. Fake squirrel.

Neal finished peeling the stickers off with a careful touch and fond smile, then put the squirrel on his shoulder nestled against the crook of his neck. "Can I wear him to work?"

"Unless I'm mistaken, you already are," said Peter dryly.

"Oh. Right." Neal blinked, and tucked the side of his chin into the fur. "This doesn't feel like work. And I love my merit badge."

This was quite possibly the happiest he'd ever seen Neal. And the softest, the most able to trust and reveal the unreserved sweetness that he protected so carefully.

Peter felt a protective heartache. Neal with the spiders in his hair. Neal who fought him constantly until he was scared, winding them both into a ball of anger and tension almost impossible to defuse. Neal who seemed to love being touched, to be reassured and comforted by physical contact above all else.

This separation of Neal from his home life wasn't working very well. He'd already endured Neal on his couch, kissing his dog, arranging faux-tropical vacations for him and El, and putting spiders in his hair. If Neal had to pick one of Peter's pre-release decrees to break out of sheer defiance, he'd chosen the right one. Peter knew when to concede defeat.

"After I was in your cell that night - I went home and had dinner with El, and I just wished you could be there with us. Will you come have dinner with me and El tonight?"

Neal gave him an almost timid glance. "Yes?"

"One catch, we have a strict dress code," warned Peter. "All convicted felons must wear spiders to dinner."

Neal grinned. "I can deal with that."

His face went serious, and he glanced at Peter again. "There needs to be a more heartfelt word for thank you."

Peter squeezed his arm. "Just keep coming to work."

Epologue

Peter didn't make a habit of searching Neal's apartment, despite the release agreement that allowed him to. A little snooping here and there on the other hand...if he happened to open a door and look inside a box...

He pulled out one of many cards, and recognized it. It was from him, one of the 365 he'd sent Neal as promised. They hadn't been in his cell when Peter searched it after the escape, and Peter assumed Neal hadn't kept them. Instead, he must have somehow gotten them into safe keeping before his escape.

Peter thumbed through. They were all there, every last one, arranged by date postmarked. And slipped along the side, his initial letter. Carefully folded, but worn like it had been held and read and carried many, many times.

Cherished.

Peter tried to gulp away the lump in his throat, and his eyes...watered. Yes, that was it.

He replaced the box carefully and sat down at the table.

Neal.

Every time he started thinking he was a sucker for caring about this guy...

Oh, damn it Neal. You sweetheart.