Tracking Trust

Rating: T for mild language

Not slash. I don't own the rights to White Collar or much of anything, really—so suing would be pointless.

After "Home Invasion," Neal gets a startling (and unpleasant) dose of self-awareness and Peter sends himself on an errand. Reflections on the difficulty of trust and how a little device offers temporary respite.

I wrote almost all of Neal's part before seeing this past week's episode ("Home Invasion"), but it's pretty cool that some of the parts are even more meaningful in that context! But there were also things that were necessary to add/edit to this after having seen it.

I hadn't written the Peter POV (2nd chapter), yet, and seeing the ep changed what I was going to do completely. I though there was a little disconnect from previous episodes where they were really showing that Peter and Neal's trust in each other was growing by leaps and bounds. "Home Invasion" was like a step back—especially for Peter. So I wanted to capture that in this, too. Where are their respective insecurities and why did they react as they did?

This fic won't make a lot of sense if you haven't seen "Home Invasion," since it's largely a mental reflection on the episode. It's set a day after the last scene.

Also, this concept is pretty unoriginal, but I wanted to work through it in my own words. I did read the first chapter of Mojave Dragonfly's "Off the Leash," which I think does a great job of introducing some important concepts, so hope I didn't copy too much. I really wanted to post this so I could go finish reading that fic, haha!

Part One

He had figured it out. Unwillingly.

It was one of those freaky and uncomfortably aware moments, when his mind was slowly drifting out of a dream but not yet awake. When the subconscious was still wildly free with wide access to whatever imaginings and realizations the waking mind would reflexively suppress.

It wasn't surprising that his subconscious had drifted to that particular topic. After all, he'd had uncomfortable reminders of it all night long.

It itched sometimes. Lying on his left side was out of the question. It reminded him of the time he'd worn a cast after breaking his foot when he was 11, and all the resentment of missing a summer of running free came back to add to his irritation. Only, the cast had come off after six weeks.

This was a leash. That wouldn't come off for 200 weeks. A ball and chain, tying him to two square miles of concrete, a stern and demanding partner, and a real job with grown-up responsibilities, expectations, rules, judgment and no small amount of scorn. From both sides. He was the errand boy of his former enemies, who would never forget. Which naturally shifted his former "colleagues" into the enemy category now. He had switched sides, which meant he fit in neither.

Strange that such a small accessory could simultaneously represent one side's mistrust—they had slapped a replacement on less than half an hour after they'd caught up to him two nights ago—and act as a signal advising the other side to mistrust him, too.

Stranger still that this symbol of mistrust constantly reminded him that he had finally, inexplicably, insanely learned to trust someone else. And a Fed of all people.

Strangest of all, he realized, as he came awake early that morning—first with quiet calm then with indignant consternation—he liked it. Liked it!

Despite the humiliation. Despite being trapped, confined. Despite having to play by other people's rules—well, mostly. Even being kept from finding Kate, finding answers, finding his own way forward.

He liked the bulky, uncomfortable, stupid tracker.

He threw the sheets back and whirled out of bed, suddenly wide-awake and horrified. He stood paralyzed for a moment. He couldn't stay within these four walls. He needed to get out. Before another thought could enter his head, he was out in the hallway. In silk pajamas and bare feet.

'Breathe,' he told himself. He was Neal Caffrey. He was about control and doing things right.

Collecting the poise his revelation had just shredded, he spun around and walked back into his flat, not stopping to shut the door as he stalked over to the bathroom and authoritatively flipped on the light when he entered the tiled room. He tried to clear his mind as he brushed his teeth, scrubbing harder as he gave in to the outrage his traitorous feelings had filled him with. There was some blood when he spit but he didn't mind—in fact, it was a bit satisfying. Quickly steering his mind from that line of thinking, he reached for his shaving cream and began lathering it on his face.

The moment he'd cut the tracker off as Pierce had demanded, the familiar thrill of being free was dwarfed by much-less-welcome fear. And it didn't have much to do with the gun the other thief held in her hand or the fact that she was indirectly threatening June, his hostess and a generous, kind, unjudgmental friend—a truer treasure than anything the con had ever taken.

He was afraid. That Peter would believe he had indeed betrayed him. Would he finally give up on Neal? Would he lose…whatever it was he had? It was obviously not unconditional trust. Peter had made that perfectly clear that night, accusing Neal outright of conspiring with Pierce. And blaming him for her escape. What was that about all of a sudden? Weren't they past that sort of thing?? It had hurt enough to make him angrier than he could remember being in a very long time.

And yet the first thing he did was figure out a way to warn Peter.

As he reached for his razor, he finally glanced up at the mirror to begin shaving and froze as he met his own eyes.

He was still afraid. And the bravado wasn't hiding it very well.

A familiar voice echoed in his head, and he was taken back to that time long ago when everyday was filled with helplessness.

"You know what your problem is, kid?"

How many times had he been asked that?

"You want to trust people. Which means you can trust yourself least of all. You see, I'm really helping you here, teaching you a valuable lesson."

More words had followed, then more pain, then darkness—instead of restful sleep, a terrifying void.

He realized he was painfully clenching the handle of his razor. And his hand was shaking. Damn. He leaned against the sink and focused on nothing but breathing. He had had practice with this. Every morning for four years he had woken up to a wall of lines, increasing day after day, each stroke representing loss. Loss of four years of his life. Life with Kate. Loss of control, his ability to decide his own destiny. And he had maintained an inner calm—most of the time—and a sense of optimism his fellow inmates rarely understood. For him, those lines were a countdown. He had found someone to trust and love, and he had been sure that would survive the four years until he could make her the center of his life again.

He began shaving, running the blade over the contours of his face in quick, confident strokes.

She had waited. Every week she came, showing that someone cared about him. That high sustained him, week to week. Of course he trusted her. Enough to risk everything again, when he was so close to that most heady of enticements—freedom. Even now, when things were so confusing…he clung to his faith in her, which made his life meaningful even when it wasn't his own.

He rinsed off his face and patted it dry.

Things had changed when he traded in his jumpsuit for an anklet. A scowl, uncharacteristic of him, crossed his face. Now he trusted Peter, too.

Enough to risk his life.

Enough to wait on helping Kate.

Enough to like a hunk of plastic and wires that gave him an excuse not to screw it up.

Because he wanted to be trusted back. That was a new one.

And he hated it. Because he trusted Peter—heck, he even trusted Elizabeth—and he desperately trusted Kate. But he didn't trust himself. So he clung to the collar that conceptually took away the requirement of trust but still tied him to the track he was more and more reluctant to deviate from. Because he cared now. Damn. And that was dangerous, because it meant after all these years, he was still allowing himself to be controlled by what amounted to wishful thinking.

"You want to trust people."

Hadn't he said it himself in those moments of shameful honesty?

"I trust you, Peter."

Suddenly he was exhausted. Thinking was getting him nowhere right now. He glanced out the bathroom door to the clock on the wall. Still had a few hours before he would be expected at the office. Obviously he wasn't going to run.

Flipping off the light he shambled over to his bed and pulled the rumpled covers half over himself as he lay down, leaving his ankle with the tracker dangling over the side of the bed. He stared at it for a couple of beats before closing his eyes. Contradictory as it was, the clasp of the band and the slight weight above his foot was…comforting. As long as he had that anklet, he could pretend he had no choice in the matter. Regardless of the downfall he was setting himself up for, he could pretend he was safe for now.

End Part One

More author's notes:

I know, I hinted about stuff in Neal's past without explaining anything. Meh. The way I figure it, he must have gotten into crime young (he's still pretty young, and he's really good, so…). His strong dislike of guns can't have come without experience. He has a natural, naïve tendency to trust warring with experience and a profession that strictly forbids it. I just made up a suitably vague encounter with a suitably vague mean guy to highlight it for this.

Random question maybe someone knows: Why, if the jade elephants were from China, did the Japanese government claim them as their historical artifacts in the episode?

Story idea I'd love read: What if Pierce hadn't flinched and turned away when the power came on? What if she fired that shot she had been preparing just before the FBI burst in? C'mon, a little hurt/comfort fic.

Second story idea I'd love to see: Adorable Dan pairs up with Neal to solve a crime! Hehehe. I want more Dan goofiness.