White Collar Fic: Reliance (3/3)
Continued from part two.
***
In the end, Peter wasn't actually driven to knocking on doors. Driven to nearly break his phone in two? Sure. Forced to pull (and hold on to, and refuse to let go of) several strings? Definitely. Reduced to meek and subdued pleading? Almost.
But none of that mattered when they brought Neal out in a wheelchair and removed the handcuffs to release him back into Peter's custody. Neal's dazed expression had spoken more eloquently than any words.
Yeah. It had been a rough haul. And, somehow, it was hard to fully grasp that they were through with Rikers.
Peter had given Neal a faintly apologetic look as he produced the anklet, uncertain how he would react just now, but Neal had only hiked up his pants leg as a matter of course.
Peter secured it, watching as the green light activated. He couldn't help but find the sight reassuring, both because it signified that the safety-rails were back in place, and because it meant Neal was officially back.
They were silent in the car, not uncomfortably-almost superstitiously, as if breaking the silence would break the mirage called “freedom.”
Peter was even more convinced he was in a dream when Neal allowed himself to be taken to the ER without raising a single objection. Granted, he had been warned earlier, during Peter's conversation with Nichols, but still...it felt bewilderingly easy, and left Peter even more off-kilter than he'd been before. Which had been pretty off-kilter, considering the normalcy-extinct life he'd been leading.
Neal would be fine. No infection. The stitches looked good. Antibiotics were still prescribed preemptively (stab wounds were rarely made by conveniently sanitary weapons, but the “sharpened toothbrush handle” part definitely hadn't put a smile on the doc's face), along with something definitely stronger than Motrin for the pain.
Peter's first instinct was to insist Neal come and crash at his house for the night, if only so he could keep an eye on him. But that Neal had something to say about, insisting right back that he'd be just fine on his own.
“No infection, right?” he'd reminded Peter, staring fixedly out the window at the passing scenery. “It's all superficial. Nothing I can't handle.”
Something about Neal's quiet firmness on the point convinced Peter to let him have his way.
June's welcome was full of warmth, but notably low-key. Peter watched Neal's tension melt under the attention as she handled their arrival with deft hospitality, inviting Peter to stay and have some coffee. Peter accepted, feeling ridiculously loath to leave without... what? Making sure Neal was settled alright in his own home?
Neal's expression as he took his first sip of coffee could only be described as blissful. He inhaled the aroma contentedly. “It's really good to be back.”
“It's good to have you back, Neal,” June replied, smiling over the rim of her own cup. “I've gotten quite accustomed to having you around, you know.”
With yet more tact, June then directed the conversation to everyday topics, asking Peter about an upcoming wedding reception that Elizabeth was arranging. Peter found himself relaxing, too, to be talking about catering adventures, and communication errors, and other deadlines and concerns of a not quite earth-shattering portent.
Several sips later, after setting his cup down, Neal began to drift off to sleep where he sat. When his eyes had fully shut, and his head listed sideways-ear nearly brushing his shoulder, and neck in what looked like an excruciating position-June gave a fond sigh.
“Thank you, Peter. For getting him out of that place.”
“Believe me,” Peter answered softly, “the pleasure was all mine.”
They talked a few minutes longer in subdued tones, before Peter decided it was time to go. It was nearly five o'clock, and he wouldn't be expected back at the office for what was left of the day. After the news had come that Caffrey was finally being released, Hughes had sent Jones (grinning) and Diana (sedately pleased) home, doing so with a positively celebratory edge to his gruffness. But El would be wanting an update, and-dear God-there was Mozzie. Peter hadn't been able to contact him earlier, before he'd gone to pick up Neal. Be that as it may, Peter doubted Mozzie would appreciate being out of the loop during the moment of Neal's actual release.
He paused in the foyer, on his way out of the house looking past June's shoulder at the slumbering figure on the couch.
“I'll take the best of care, you may rest assured,” June told him gently.
“Oh...I have no doubts there.” And still Peter lingered a moment longer.
“Something else is bothering you?”
Peter raised a hand to knead the back of his neck. “It's just that he seems so... subdued.”
“Quite normal, for a man just released from prison.”
“Yeah.” Peter sighed. “But last time he was released he was still...” he waved a hand vaguely in Neal's direction “...himself. Not phased in the slightest. Out one day, and whining about seedy hotels within the hour-and doing hat tricks before you can say 'no more fraud.'”
“Mmm,” she murmured thoughtfully, “he's resilient, there's no doubt of that.”
“It just feels different this time, somehow. I know Rikers is tough. He had it tough. But...”
“He's been to prison before, and for much longer?”
Peter nodded.
June smiled, looking strangely sad. “He is resilient, but perhaps not quite as resilient as he wanted you to believe he was.”
“Wanted me to believe-past tense?”
“Peter,” she touched his arm briefly, “he trusted you back then, too. But perhaps not as well as he does now.”
Peter studied her expression. “But you saw for yourself how cavalier he after getting out of the supermax-after four years. He was so...” he trailed off under her meaningful, patient gaze, beginning to understand the sympathetic gravity behind her smile. “Not quite so resilient back then, either, huh?” he asked, quietly.
“No,” she confirmed. “Not quite. Though I think sometimes he may even fool himself, at least to a degree, into believing he really is untouchable.” She considered her words for a moment, before continuing, slowly: “Time spent incarcerated can affect a person in so many different ways, and that hurt is expressed in so many different ways. My Byron was stubborn. Always self-sufficient. Always so determined to brush these things off as insignificant. Psychologists might call the shock of reintegration from an institutionalized mindset back to that of an average citizen an overwhelming adjustment-in some cases, not without lingering PTSD symptoms. There are a million everyday choices you become unaccustomed to making for yourself. A million fight-or-flight reactions to curb. But none of that was true of Byron, of course. The rules didn't apply to him, you see.” She shook her head in exasperated remembrance. “He didn't like me to see him hurting-so he took care to hide his feelings whenever he could. Or he tried to.” She looked Peter steadily in the eye. “He smiled a lot, too, you know, and often the most dazzlingly when he saw he wasn't fooling me.”
Peter nodded thoughtfully, her words hitting home. In some ways he saw now that he'd been the one happily assuming the rules didn't apply to Neal. Because of course Neal Caffrey bounced back instantly, no jumping at the sound of sirens, or flinching back from the sound of unexpected security alarms, involved. Maybe Peter simply hadn't wanted to see any of the trauma of prison in Neal, because he'd put Neal in prison-and Neal had earned it, and might very well earn a trip right back in again. Peter realized now that he had known that none of those perfectly valid points would have made him feel better about it. If Neal landed himself back in prison tomorrow on legitimate charges they would continue to be valid points, and would still be just as lacking in any real comfort. His conscience might be clear when it came to Neal, but that was just the tip of the iceberg. God forbid anything about Neal Caffrey should as cut-and-dried as all that. Peter would still care far too much for his own good. These last few weeks of feverish work had proven that, all right.
But whatever the effect four years in supermax had had on Neal, Peter had a feeling that June, even as a virtual stranger she'd been to Neal, had seen, and understood, and helped. He felt a surge of gratitude to her for her perceptiveness then, and now.
“I'm beginning to see I couldn't leave Neal in more capable hands.”
She tilted her head back: regal, and strong, and compassionate. “You leave him in practiced hands.”
***
A/N: I'll consider this the end of the story, proper. But I do plan on indulging in more H/C for this because I'm a helpless sucker for the stuff, per kriadydragon's prompt. ^^
Index:
Part 1
Part 2
***
In the end, Peter wasn't actually driven to knocking on doors. Driven to nearly break his phone in two? Sure. Forced to pull (and hold on to, and refuse to let go of) several strings? Definitely. Reduced to meek and subdued pleading? Almost.
But none of that mattered when they brought Neal out in a wheelchair and removed the handcuffs to release him back into Peter's custody. Neal's dazed expression had spoken more eloquently than any words.
Yeah. It had been a rough haul. And, somehow, it was hard to fully grasp that they were through with Rikers.
Peter had given Neal a faintly apologetic look as he produced the anklet, uncertain how he would react just now, but Neal had only hiked up his pants leg as a matter of course.
Peter secured it, watching as the green light activated. He couldn't help but find the sight reassuring, both because it signified that the safety-rails were back in place, and because it meant Neal was officially back.
They were silent in the car, not uncomfortably-almost superstitiously, as if breaking the silence would break the mirage called “freedom.”
Peter was even more convinced he was in a dream when Neal allowed himself to be taken to the ER without raising a single objection. Granted, he had been warned earlier, during Peter's conversation with Nichols, but still...it felt bewilderingly easy, and left Peter even more off-kilter than he'd been before. Which had been pretty off-kilter, considering the normalcy-extinct life he'd been leading.
Neal would be fine. No infection. The stitches looked good. Antibiotics were still prescribed preemptively (stab wounds were rarely made by conveniently sanitary weapons, but the “sharpened toothbrush handle” part definitely hadn't put a smile on the doc's face), along with something definitely stronger than Motrin for the pain.
Peter's first instinct was to insist Neal come and crash at his house for the night, if only so he could keep an eye on him. But that Neal had something to say about, insisting right back that he'd be just fine on his own.
“No infection, right?” he'd reminded Peter, staring fixedly out the window at the passing scenery. “It's all superficial. Nothing I can't handle.”
Something about Neal's quiet firmness on the point convinced Peter to let him have his way.
June's welcome was full of warmth, but notably low-key. Peter watched Neal's tension melt under the attention as she handled their arrival with deft hospitality, inviting Peter to stay and have some coffee. Peter accepted, feeling ridiculously loath to leave without... what? Making sure Neal was settled alright in his own home?
Neal's expression as he took his first sip of coffee could only be described as blissful. He inhaled the aroma contentedly. “It's really good to be back.”
“It's good to have you back, Neal,” June replied, smiling over the rim of her own cup. “I've gotten quite accustomed to having you around, you know.”
With yet more tact, June then directed the conversation to everyday topics, asking Peter about an upcoming wedding reception that Elizabeth was arranging. Peter found himself relaxing, too, to be talking about catering adventures, and communication errors, and other deadlines and concerns of a not quite earth-shattering portent.
Several sips later, after setting his cup down, Neal began to drift off to sleep where he sat. When his eyes had fully shut, and his head listed sideways-ear nearly brushing his shoulder, and neck in what looked like an excruciating position-June gave a fond sigh.
“Thank you, Peter. For getting him out of that place.”
“Believe me,” Peter answered softly, “the pleasure was all mine.”
They talked a few minutes longer in subdued tones, before Peter decided it was time to go. It was nearly five o'clock, and he wouldn't be expected back at the office for what was left of the day. After the news had come that Caffrey was finally being released, Hughes had sent Jones (grinning) and Diana (sedately pleased) home, doing so with a positively celebratory edge to his gruffness. But El would be wanting an update, and-dear God-there was Mozzie. Peter hadn't been able to contact him earlier, before he'd gone to pick up Neal. Be that as it may, Peter doubted Mozzie would appreciate being out of the loop during the moment of Neal's actual release.
He paused in the foyer, on his way out of the house looking past June's shoulder at the slumbering figure on the couch.
“I'll take the best of care, you may rest assured,” June told him gently.
“Oh...I have no doubts there.” And still Peter lingered a moment longer.
“Something else is bothering you?”
Peter raised a hand to knead the back of his neck. “It's just that he seems so... subdued.”
“Quite normal, for a man just released from prison.”
“Yeah.” Peter sighed. “But last time he was released he was still...” he waved a hand vaguely in Neal's direction “...himself. Not phased in the slightest. Out one day, and whining about seedy hotels within the hour-and doing hat tricks before you can say 'no more fraud.'”
“Mmm,” she murmured thoughtfully, “he's resilient, there's no doubt of that.”
“It just feels different this time, somehow. I know Rikers is tough. He had it tough. But...”
“He's been to prison before, and for much longer?”
Peter nodded.
June smiled, looking strangely sad. “He is resilient, but perhaps not quite as resilient as he wanted you to believe he was.”
“Wanted me to believe-past tense?”
“Peter,” she touched his arm briefly, “he trusted you back then, too. But perhaps not as well as he does now.”
Peter studied her expression. “But you saw for yourself how cavalier he after getting out of the supermax-after four years. He was so...” he trailed off under her meaningful, patient gaze, beginning to understand the sympathetic gravity behind her smile. “Not quite so resilient back then, either, huh?” he asked, quietly.
“No,” she confirmed. “Not quite. Though I think sometimes he may even fool himself, at least to a degree, into believing he really is untouchable.” She considered her words for a moment, before continuing, slowly: “Time spent incarcerated can affect a person in so many different ways, and that hurt is expressed in so many different ways. My Byron was stubborn. Always self-sufficient. Always so determined to brush these things off as insignificant. Psychologists might call the shock of reintegration from an institutionalized mindset back to that of an average citizen an overwhelming adjustment-in some cases, not without lingering PTSD symptoms. There are a million everyday choices you become unaccustomed to making for yourself. A million fight-or-flight reactions to curb. But none of that was true of Byron, of course. The rules didn't apply to him, you see.” She shook her head in exasperated remembrance. “He didn't like me to see him hurting-so he took care to hide his feelings whenever he could. Or he tried to.” She looked Peter steadily in the eye. “He smiled a lot, too, you know, and often the most dazzlingly when he saw he wasn't fooling me.”
Peter nodded thoughtfully, her words hitting home. In some ways he saw now that he'd been the one happily assuming the rules didn't apply to Neal. Because of course Neal Caffrey bounced back instantly, no jumping at the sound of sirens, or flinching back from the sound of unexpected security alarms, involved. Maybe Peter simply hadn't wanted to see any of the trauma of prison in Neal, because he'd put Neal in prison-and Neal had earned it, and might very well earn a trip right back in again. Peter realized now that he had known that none of those perfectly valid points would have made him feel better about it. If Neal landed himself back in prison tomorrow on legitimate charges they would continue to be valid points, and would still be just as lacking in any real comfort. His conscience might be clear when it came to Neal, but that was just the tip of the iceberg. God forbid anything about Neal Caffrey should as cut-and-dried as all that. Peter would still care far too much for his own good. These last few weeks of feverish work had proven that, all right.
But whatever the effect four years in supermax had had on Neal, Peter had a feeling that June, even as a virtual stranger she'd been to Neal, had seen, and understood, and helped. He felt a surge of gratitude to her for her perceptiveness then, and now.
“I'm beginning to see I couldn't leave Neal in more capable hands.”
She tilted her head back: regal, and strong, and compassionate. “You leave him in practiced hands.”
***
A/N: I'll consider this the end of the story, proper. But I do plan on indulging in more H/C for this because I'm a helpless sucker for the stuff, per kriadydragon's prompt. ^^
Index:
Part 1
Part 2