Not a Gun Guy
Neal's arms were originally crossed against the chill in the basement shooting range, but now it looks more like defiance, "No, Peter. Just no."
"Neal, if you can use a gun, we might as well get you licensed to carry one in the field-"
"I'd never use it, Peter."
"You'll use it when you need it. Everyone learns that real fast."
"I said no." Neal repeats, and something's off. Neal doesn't repeat. Neal's always striving to add new flavor or new charm to each successive sentence. Peter was expecting a casual brush-off or one those adorable little jokes Neal squeezes in everyday to remind Peter that not an agent might mean all the crap Neal puts up with from his colleagues every day, but it also means he's entitled to forgo certain responsibilities and attitudes. This is just flat out refusal.
"Neal, look, no need to be embarrassed if you can't shoot a pistol the way you-"
Neal's look is cold. If Peter weren't holding a gun, he'd have to fight the urge to cross his own arms. "Would you just shoot the gun already?"
Without a word, Neal walks up to Peter, takes the gun and a shooting stance, and glances at Peter to back off. Innocent smile and placating hands up, Peter does. Neal fires off six rounds. Peter peers around the barrier and has to resist the urge to whistle. The holes aren't all dead-center on top of each other like in some cheesy tall tale, but any one of those holes would've killed the target, had it been alive.
Neal hands Peter the gun without a word, his eyes daring Peter to say something. Peter knows now is not the moment to joke about Neal not needing practice before getting qualified to carry a gun in the field. It's also not the moment to comment on Neal's marksmanship. He's just not quite certain what moment it is.
He looks down at the gun in his hands and back up at Neal, and decides it's a moment where he confesses he doesn't know. "What's wrong, Neal?" he asks softly.
Neal looks away. "Trust me, Peter," he pauses there for a Peter-ism about trust, or lack thereof, but Peter knows better just now, "I won't ever use a gun, and having one I won't use is just… I won't use it, okay? There's no point in issuing me one." And Peter mentally squints and tilts his head, but even watching Neal's unsettledness that way, he's pretty sure there's no answer there.
"Neal," he says, and then stops, because he's not sure what to say, but the way he's said Neal's name comes across as understanding and sounds like he's letting it go. The way Neal's shoulders and narrowed eyes relax say he's grateful Peter's dropped it. So Peter does, for now.
"All right," he relents, moving to put away the gun. "No guns."
He doesn't have to turn around to know Neal's trademark grin is in place and he's about to hear a wise crack about his fashion sense or maybe, if Neal's recovered enough, about his attitude towards guns.
"Is that tie older than I am?"