Disclaimer: Not mine. I only wish.

This was written for a challenge at Game of Cards at LJ - the challenge was to use a particular trope in a fic. I chose the Forced Proximity trope. This is set about six months after 6x06 but before the last scenes with Peter after the hospital.

Peter hated being trapped. It was every FBI agent's worst nightmare – a sting gone wrong or a mistake that led to them being taken off the street by a criminal in one of the cases they were working on.

He was not supposed to be here. He had not done field work in over a year and a half. He was just the ASAC now. He should not be there. The anxiety left a bitter taste in his mouth. El was waiting for him at home, probably with dinner on the table and Neal strapped into his high chair. The thought of his wife and son waiting for him made him frustrated. This was exactly why he had given up field work.

(He did not tell himself that after the Pink Panthers field work lost its joy. He did not remind himself that there was one reason he had kept doing field work even after his promotion and he had no intention of admitting it. He had finally stopped seeing the reflection in his office window that was not there. He had stopped seeing his best—no. He had let it all go. A desk job was safer, quieter, and it meant that he was home with El and his son instead of out all night in the van watching him do who knew what with God knew who.)

The door to the little room opened suddenly, the hinges protesting against the force. Peter turned just in time to see someone shoved into the room and the door shut behind them. There was a grunt as they hit the floor.

He could not believe his eyes. His stomach dropped when he recognized the man pushing himself off the ground. All of the air left his lungs when Neal Caffrey looked up and met his eyes. Neal froze, his mouth slightly open.

"Peter?"

A knot settled in his chest, so tight he could barely breathe. It should have been relief. It should have been joy. Neal Caffrey was a dead man. He had been dead for more than eighteen months. Peter shook his head. "No. You're not real. You're not him."

Neal pushed himself up, brushing the dirt off his clothing. "Peter, it's me. I am real. I'm alive. I faked my death. I'm sorry."

Peter kept shaking his head. This was not real. If it was real, he would not be anxious. He would not be worried about his wife and son and he would not be in this infernal cell.

"Peter, you need to calm down." Neal put his hands up in front of him, taking a step towards Peter. He bit back a curse. "They drugged you, didn't they?"

That made sense. Why else would he panic? He was a seasoned FBI agent. He had been in far worse situations than this and he had been calm. He should have been calm.

Neal's voice began to meld together and the room began to blur.

It was dark when Peter woke. At first he thought he might have fallen out of bed until he realized that there was no rug beneath him – it was just cold stone. There was a light shining in through the bars in the window of the cell, illuminating the cinderblocks around him. Disappointment rushed over him as he pushed himself into a sitting position. He was alone.

A soft thud drew his attention to the wall he was leaning against. There was a dark shape not far away – one that was all too familiar. "Neal." His voice sounded breathless. Hope flared – it was real. It was not a dream.

"So you're finally awake." There was amusement in Neal's tone.

"And you're not dead."

Neal stepped away from the wall and into the light. "No, I'm not."

Peter pushed himself up. He stood there for a moment, then pulled Neal into a tight hug. "You have a lot of explaining to do."

Neal stiffened, hesitating for an instant before he returned the hug. "Once we're out of here. It's a long story," he said. When Peter pulled away, he nodded towards the door. "I can't reach that lock to pick it. I'm having less success with that," he added, pointing up at the window high above their heads.

For a moment, he was not sure what to say. "If it's a long story then you might as well start."

Neal watched him suspiciously, blue eyes narrowed. "Why aren't you angry?"

"I am," Peter said. "But we'll deal with that once we get out of here."

Neal seemed to accept this answer, turning back to the window. "You really want to hear the story?" he asked, backing up so that he could try to get a better view in the dark.

"We have time."

His friend sighed. "If you say so."

It was probably an hour by the time Neal was done if Peter had to guess. The sky was no lighter through the window and they were still as stuck as they had been before. Without the panic there was a sense of calm that he had not felt in a long time.

He could be angry later, once they were free and whoever had managed to trap both of them in a cell was in handcuffs and being charged with kidnapping.

He found it almost impossible to believe that Neal was alive. He had seen the body. He had seen Neal on that table, a bullet wound in his chest. Almost impossible, however was Neal Caffrey's specialty. He had stolen artwork that should have been impossible to steal. He had gotten out of more scrapes than he should have been able to. He had—

Peter woke with a start. The sun was shining in through the curtains. He blinked a few times, then allowed himself to fall back against the pillow. It was a dream. That room, being trapped, Neal – it was all a dream.

Disappointment settled in his chest. He looked over at El, asleep beside him. Things were good. They were happy. He was out of the field. But Neal was gone.

He would have given anything to see his friend alive again. He would give anything to be stuck somewhere with him in six months, waiting for Diana and Jones to find them. Just like in his dream. But it wasn't real.

He had to be rational. As much as he wanted Neal to be alive, there was no way it was possible. All of Neal's luck had finally caught up with him. He was gone. It had been almost a year. He had to face reality. This was no con.