Blast Zone, Part 1 (Handcuffs Series)
Author: Jet44
Genres: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Humor, Friendship, Gen
Relationships: Peter and Neal bromance, canon pairings
Rating: PG
Warnings: Discussion of suicide (not actually done or attempted). Canon character death.
Spoilers: Out of the Box, Withdrawal
Summary: Collection of one-shots, each based on a time Neal has been handcuffed (usually by Peter). Less kinky than it sounds, these aren't slash - although if you ship the two I'm sure you'll enjoy them ;). Lots of hurt/comfort/angst/adorableness.
# Clickable Series Index with Summaries #
When the plane went up, it was so fast, so forceful, so jarring, that for a horrifying second all Peter could see was Neal framed by fire. A second after that, he was clinging to his CI, who was trying to charge straight into the inferno.
"Let me go, Kate's in there, let me go!" Neal yelled.
The heat was so intense it was almost thick and tactile, but Peter's body felt cold to the bone, his hands and legs numb. The image of Neal being consumed in the explosion was seared into his subconscious even as his conscious mind helped him restrain the very alive, frantic, furiously struggling man in reality.
"I have to save her! I have to save her." Neal was screaming, struggling with more sheer strength than Peter could have imagined. It was an animal struggle, a blinded grief and horror, a mind convinced that if he could just run into the jet that no longer existed, he could save her.
He didn't hit Peter, or kick him. Not even once. Neal could fight, and well. But even in a blind primal panic, hurting a friend was off the table.
Neal stopped fighting around the time the first fire and police vehicles reached the hangar. Peter was pinning him face down on the ground, one arm around the front of his chest and shoulders, when he collapsed.
He went limp on the pavement, put his face against Peter's arm, and sobbed. Peter was lying on him, pinning him, and didn't let go. The heat and the smell of burning jet fuel were choking in their intensity, and tiny pieces and flakes and chunks of ash and debris were tinkling down on them like a light, fine rain.
When an assortment of firefighters, cops, and FBI agents practically picked them up dragged them away, they were both scraped up and bleeding from the life-and-death wrestling match on rough pavement. And Neal was shivering uncontrollably in shock.
"Peter, Neal Caffrey's being remanded to prison pending a full investigation. You're also being suspended during this process."
Peter stared at his boss blankly. "What?"
"I'm sorry to hit you with this now. I'm only doing it because I know Caffrey's your partner, and I have a narrow window to let you have any control over this at all. Once your suspension is official, what happens to him is completely out of your hands."
"So how do I keep him out?"
Hughes shook his head. "You don't get me. There's no keeping him out. There's just breaking the news gently, as opposed to the Marshals chaining him up and putting him in the back of the van they have waiting out there."
"No. No, no! Neal is in our custody, under my supervision. He just watched the love of his life be murdered. We are not sending him to prison. If OPR or whoever it is wants him supervised, reduce his radius. Put him under house arrest. Put him under arrest at my house if they like, but he is not going back to prison."
"He's fleeing suspect in his girlfriend's murder. He's a suicide risk. Caffrey's not on parole, he belongs to the prison. He's an inmate on a very conditional supervised work release. If you both get cleared, you can see about reinstating it."
Neal was on the floor of the surveillance van, curled up on his side in the fetal position, crying into his arms. Peter sat down next to him, lifted his head off the floor and tucked his own jacket under it as a pillow, and started rubbing his shoulder and upper arm.
He tried to speak, several times, but the guilt was too strong. He couldn't prattle on with anything comforting with this knowledge in his head. Not without feeling like he was betraying a trust. He took a deep breath, thought about El and Neal and his own career, and prisons and heartbreak, and incinerating heat and tears.
"Neal, I've got to tell you something, and it's probably the hardest thing I've had to say in my whole career," said Peter, bracing himself. The tears were already glazing his own eyes.
"I heard," whispered Neal. "We're in the van. You're wired. I heard it all."
Diana entered the van and stood trying to hide what she was holding. "Guys - the Marshals are out there. They - we - Neal has to be patted down and restrained."
She held up handcuffs and leg irons and the chains that hooked them all together. Prison issue. "NO!" said Peter. "No. No. No. We are not doing that now."
She braced herself against Peter's impassioned protest. "You can do it, one of us can, or the Marshals." She looked at Neal. "Any preference? I'm sorry."
Neal just shrunk about two sizes and huddled closer to Peter, braced for assault and looking like he'd rather be shot. Peter looked away and reflected on the two biggest mistakes in trying to manage Neal Caffrey: Thinking that he wasn't vulnerable or didn't care, and forgetting that he was tough and resilient. This was as vulnerable as it got.
Diana held the restraints out to Peter, who didn't budge, just glared. Finally Peter pointed to the floor, and she dropped them there.
Peter's hands were clenched into fists. "You walk out and you tell them I'm doing it. And Diana, if I ever hear you chained up someone you care about within an hour of them watching the love of their life go up in flames, you're off my team. You go out there and tell them this young man is my partner, he's one of our most valuable consultants, he's my friend. This is acute grief, survivor's guilt, trauma, and physical shock, and putting him in prison in this state is mental and emotional torture. We'll come out when we're ready, and if anyone has a problem with that, they'll be facing a Peter Burke you've never seen and don't want to."
"Wow, Peter. You're scary," said Neal, a hint of smile behind his agonized blue eyes. It was the first coherent thing he'd said since the explosion.
She took a step back, palms up in appeasement. Looked at Neal again. "Neal, I am so, so sorry about Kate. I mean that."
Neal tried to whisper an acknowledgement, but the words didn't come out.
She spoke again. "I care about you, so I don't like saying this in front of you, but I'm going to."
"Diana..." Peter warned.
She looked away from Neal and right at Peter. "It feels cruel. But as an FBI agent, remember that this is a desperate, emotionally distraught murder suspect caught in the act of fleeing a felony sentence. For the second time. This is a high-risk transport, like it or not."
Peter nodded. "Diana, come take my gun."
"Why?"
"Because I'm about to have a sit-down with my emotionally distraught murder suspect, and I don't want you or me worried about him grabbing it."
She stepped forward and pulled the gun out of his shoulder holster.
Peter nodded towards the door of the van. "Now get out. Nobody enters. I'll bring out my chained-up fleeing felon, but right now I'm going to talk to my partner."
Hurting a friend was not an option. Not for Neal at the explosion, not for Peter now.
Peter was breathing heavily, trying to get himself under control and his mind working right. He'd been purposely ignoring that he'd seen a woman blown up in front of his eyes, that a friend he loved had almost been part of that explosion, that his career was threatened, that Neal had been planning to run.
But now he let himself feel all that, briefly. Because he had very little time to get Neal on his feet, and he needed to know how to do it.
If El had been on that plane - nothing would console him. Nothing. He wouldn't be able to hear, think, cope, or react. Nothing would make it better.
But there were things that could make it worse. Like being investigated for her death. Like being put in prison. He probably wouldn't give two thoughts about being locked up, but the mere insinuation that he'd been responsible? Let alone an outright accusation? Added to the guilt the human mind was capable of all on its own, it would break any part of him that hadn't already snapped. Maybe for good.
And it could easily make him want to die.
Neal should go right into suicide watch. But that was possibly the cruelest treatment in the American penal system. Solitary confinement, constant monitoring, no blankets or sheets, no running water, no physical contact, no time out of the cell, lights on 24/7.
In theory, better in absolute misery for a few days or a week than dead. In reality, he wasn't sure he could ever forgive himself for putting Neal through that, or that Neal would or should forgive it.
Torture. That's what this kept coming back around to. And no. He wasn't going to let anyone torture his friend just because he might kill himself. There were choices you could ethically take from someone, and this was not one of them.
He put his hand on Neal's head, buried his fingers in his hair. It was full of ash and dirt, and damp with tears and sweat. "I've never heard you talk about suicide," he said quietly. "Is that an option you'd ever put on the table?"
Neal's eyes filled with tears again. "Yes. Is there anyone who wouldn't, if things got bad enough?"
"I don't know. I'm thinking about being in your shoes right now, what all of this would do to me if it were El, and - I know the potential would be there."
"Thinking about whether to put me on suicide watch?" asked Neal quietly, avoiding his eyes.
"I did," said Peter, stroking the side of Neal's temple with his thumb. It was a gesture more appropriate to a child or a lover, and he watched Neal's reaction closely for any discomfort. There was none, just a softened expression.
"I already decided not to. I know what it entails, and I could never send you into that."
Neal closed his eyes and drew in his breath in a gasping sob. "Thank you."
"You planning to die?" asked Peter. "Because I'm not taking that choice out of your hands, but if you kill yourself in prison, that's blood on mine forever. I honestly don't think I could handle that."
There was a long silence, Neal still with his eyes closed, Peter still stroking the side of his face with his thumb. It seemed to comfort him.
"There are people I'd like to kill more than myself right now, I think," said Neal finally. There was a slim trace of humor in the phrasing, and the voice.
"Okay." Peter drew a deep breath and let it out. "Okay."
He dragged himself back to the El analogy. Suicide was just the most extreme outcome. There was going to be unstoppable grief, guilt, and anger. Tears without end, inability to cope with or hear or comprehend anything.
At a minimum, Neal had to be able to hear and obey orders, and control his behavior around other inmates. He'd made friends on both sides of the law in there, an almost impossible task. There were prisoners who would welcome him with open arms, and guards who would help him and show kindness and compassion.
But there were also prisoners who would try to take him down when he was vulnerable, and surely a few assholes on the corrections staff who wouldn't mind the chance to break the irreverent goofball who'd get out of handcuffs just to hand them back to you with a twinkling grin.
The grief and trauma were going to last for months or years. Tears, sobs, rage, intense emotion were finite. He couldn't try to talk Neal down from the emotional ledge right now, he had to push him over.
"Neal. You grieve for her, right now. You need to cry and scream and sob, and beat the hell out of me if it helps. You remember everything you loved about her and everything you were going to be together and everything you wish you'd been able to say to her and what it felt like seeing that plane go up."
Neal was already shaking, gasping for breath, blue eyes overflowing with tears, but he managed to look Peter in the eyes.
I get it.
Thank God Neal was so intelligent. Perceptive, resilient, tough. If anyone could make it through this unthinkable mess, it would be him.
"I. Did. Not. Kill. Kate." His cadence was partly for emphasis, partly due to the fact that he was barely able to speak coherently. "I loved - her."
"I know you didn't," said Peter. "Kill her, I mean. I know you loved her deeply."
Neal did cry, and he did scream. He clung to Peter and sobbed, yelled at him, punched at him like a small child, crawled into the darkest corner he could find and sobbed some more.
They finally wound up with Peter sitting on the floor of the van, his legs outstretched, holding Neal. Neal was coiled up in Peter's arms, his face buried against Peter's shoulder, limp and exhausted. The debonair con artist looked and felt more like a war refugee.
Peter realized that anything he wanted to say to Neal, he needed to say now. Later, anything emotional would risk breaking him down when he couldn't afford that luxury.
"Hey," said Peter. "I know you were running, and that hurts. But I'd leave anyone and anything for El. So when it matters, know I'm your friend."
Neal hid his face. "If - none of this works out, think you could still come see me now and then?"
Peter's breath stopped. Neal had never asked him to visit. It was too one-sided, too vulnerable. It was pinning your hopes on someone. Neal had called and written, and Peter had done the same. But he never got the impression Neal wanted to be dragged in front of him in a jumpsuit.
And most of all, it was an admission that Peter was important to him. Peter put his hand on Neal's back. "Any time you want me to. Any time."
"Careful, last person who made a habit of it got blown up."
"I'll take my chances."
"I wish - I'd never met her or proposed to her. I got a beautiful, brilliant, complex woman killed, and -" Neal's voice gave out. He struggled with it and spoke again. "Maybe I do just belong in prison."
"Oh, you belong in prison all right," said Peter. "But not for loving someone. You didn't kill her, someone murdered her. Was probably trying to murder you too."
"She wasted years of her life on - a guy in a cage." He tilted his head up and looked at Peter. "She's the reason I didn't break out and head for Brazil the first month. She wanted a life and a family, with me. She - said she'd run with me if I couldn't handle prison, but if I could, she wanted us to do it right. So I stayed."
"I don't think she wasted anything on you," said Peter quietly. "I think she shared a great love with a loyal, handsome, talented and gentle man who personified everything she dreamed of. And she never had that broken."
Neal started crying again, but more softly, more conscious and sober than his previous uncontrolled emotion.
Peter kept talking softly. "The next however many weeks or months are going to be torture. I don't say that hyperbolically, I mean it literally. I think putting you in a maximum-security prison after what you just saw and went through and are going to be dealing with emotionally constitutes torture."
"That's what I love about you, Peter." Neal's voice held a dash of their usual affectionately abusive banter. "You're so reassuring."
Much as he hated to, Peter passed up the opportunity to get Neal joking. "I'm saying that so that you know. When you're fighting the agony and guilt and grief and traumatic memories that I know you're going to go through without any support, there is nothing wrong or weak about feeling like it's going to kill you."
Silence. No sobbing, or pushing back. His breathing steadied a bit, and his desperately tense body relaxed. "It's that obvious?"
"Basic human psychology."
Neal rolled out of his grip and sat beside him on the floor, drained but calm. "I know how much the FBI means to you. I'm sorry about what you're going to have to go through being investigated."
Peter wasn't ready to think about that just yet. Easier to help someone else than try to cope himself. "It'll work out."
Neal took a deep breath. "I'm ready to go get tortured now. See you in a few weeks?"
Peter stole a sideways glance at the pile of gear Diana had dropped on the floor. It was for transporting high-risk prisoners. People adept at escaping, people like Neal. It was the perfect metaphor for everything that wasn't needed and didn't work on him.
They could hit him over the head with sentences and procedures and restraints designed for dumb, predatory thugs.
Or someone could have the patience to become his friend, give him things to care about, earn his respect and trust. And Neal Caffrey, escape artist, con artist, and just plain artist, would put his entire future in your hands if you told him to.
It was the loyalty, courage, sensitivity, and moral core in Neal that the criminal justice system was too blunt an instrument to access.
That godawful pile of gear was within reach, and Peter pulled it over. The tangle of leg irons and handcuffs and leg and belly chains was all snarled up, and Neal reached out to help him decipher the mess.
The act made Peter's gut skip a beat, like the sensation of being on an elevator at the start of a rapid drop. As if this wasn't heartbreaking enough, Neal had to go and do something adorably Neal.
Peter took a deep breath. "I know - that you would take this trip with me without a single piece of this nonsense. And that means a lot."
"I can see how much you don't want to use it, and that means a lot," said Neal.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the bench. "I have to know what happened. We have to catch whoever killed her. I think - I can get through this now by focusing on that."
"Okay." Peter reached out and gave Neal one last hug. Noticed again what a total mess his face and hair and jacket were.
He stood up, found a bottle of water, a roll of paper towels, a first aid kit, and an FBI jacket in Neal's size. Brought them over, and while Neal worked on cleaning the dirt and tears off his face, Peter managed to wipe the worst of the ash and debris out of his hair with wet paper towels. Helped him clean the scrapes and cuts left by rolling around struggling on rough concrete, and put on soothing antibiotic ointment and a few band-aids.
When they were done, Neal stood and zipped up the jacket, sharing a sideways grin with Peter at the irony of what the agent had dressed him in. A thought hit Peter. "That going to get you hurt at the prison?"
Neal shook his head. "Nah. I'll be in felony orange before anyone sees me. Hell, the Marshals will probably rip it off me in about five minutes from now."
Peter shook his head. "I'm riding with you."
Neal tried not to cry again. "You don't have to do that."
"Take a chance of a desperate felon escaping on the way to prison? You know my professional ethics would never allow me."
Neal ran his fingers through his hair and tugged down the windbreaker. "How do I look?"
Halfway alert and human, a far cry from his usual slick self but no longer looking like a bloody mop.
"Dashing and tragic, with a hint of impersonating an FBI agent."
"Perfect."
Peter knew how to use all this stuff. Didn't do so often, and when he did it was on seriously nasty people who would not only escape but cut your throat on the way out the door. Putting it on a heartbroken and traumatized Neal Caffrey felt absurd, cruel, and wrong.
Neal stood up and gave him a little smile, then stood motionless while Peter patted him down and then wrapped the belly chain loosely around his waist. The leg irons were connected to it on yet another chain, and Peter fastened them around his ankles. Neal held his wrists together, and Peter fit the rigid, hinged handcuffs around them carefully.
The cuffs had no chain linking them, just a hinge. They held the wrists closer together and limited range of motion more than standard cuffs.
"This does not look comfy," said Peter, feeling guilty. It was an understatement. Peter had worn them in training, and hated it. Pretty much any attempt to relax or shift position drove the unyielding metal hard against bone, pinning sensitive nerves and making the whole experience utterly miserable. Not a thing he'd ever wanted to do to a person he liked.
"Oh, believe me, it's not," said Neal. "It's almost like they wanted to restrict my movements or something."
Peter sighed. Fantastic. Put the guy in physical as well as emotional pain. Last part. The black box for high-security prisoners.
Neal's lips twitched in amusement. "They brought out the big guns."
It locked even the hinge in place so that there was no movement of the wrists, and blocked the key holes so they couldn't be picked. He hadn't ever been in one of those and didn't want to, but Neal didn't flinch when Peter put it on and linked it into the chain around his waist.
"Okay," said Peter, his words sarcastic but his voice gentle. "Transformation from grieving human being to high-risk felony transport complete."
Neal took several deep, deliberately controlled breaths, his face a blank. Shivered briefly, then focused his eyes and forced a relaxed expression.
"I feel like Hannibal Lecter," said Neal. "Can you get me a hand truck and one of those masks?"
"I can get you a tracking anklet and a deviled ham sandwich?"
"Even brains would be better than your sandwiches."