Work Text:
Neal had grown a beard.
Peter had been prepared for the three months Neal had just spent sitting in prison to have somehow altered him. He'd expected him to be thinner, more careworn, or for there to be a hint of silver at his temples. He hadn't expected a beard.
"Hi, Neal," he said, carefully.
"Hi, Peter."
There was no emotion in Neal's voice, no inflection at all. Peter watched as the warden unlocked the handcuffs on Neal's wrists. Peter held out the anklet and Neal hoisted his pant leg up so the warden could snap it shut. He'd already changed out of his orange jumpsuit and into the suit that June had sent. He had his hat in his hand, though he placed it onto his head without the usual flourish. But it all looked wrong with the beard.
Peter signed the last form and led the way out. Neither of them spoke, but Peter didn't miss the way Neal turned his face up to the sun, breathing in as though the air were any different here than in the prison yard. When they were finally seated inside the Taurus, Peter put the key in the ignition and glanced at Neal.
"You grew a beard.”
"Yeah," Neal said.
Peter started the car. "Only time I've ever seen you with a beard was when you escaped to find Kate."
He could feel Neal's eyes on him. "It wasn't insurance, if that's what you're thinking."
That wasn’t what Peter had been thinking, actually. Neal wasn’t stupid enough to expect the same trick to work twice. "What was it?"
Neal's reply was so quiet Peter almost couldn't hear him. "Marking time."
There was nothing to say to that. Peter drove, silently; Neal, when he glanced over, was resting his head against the window, watching the world slide by. It seemed that neither of them had anything left to say; the accusations and recriminations had all been said three months ago, and then Neal had gone away. He didn't know what Neal was to him anymore; once, he would have called him his friend without hesitation, but those days were long past. But that didn't mean he wanted to see him waste his life behind bars. And he'd hated the way El had looked at him every time he'd said that maybe they'd all be better off if Neal stayed in prison where he belonged.
Just when Peter thought he might have fallen asleep, Neal said, "How is she?"
No question who she was. "Better, much better," he said. "Still seeing the therapist, but she's been back to work for over two months. She doesn't like to be by herself in the house at night anymore, but we're working on that. And I'm working on coming home earlier."
Neal nodded. "Good."
"She wants to see you. We're going to the house, then we'll head in to the office."
"All right.”
It didn't occur to Peter until he pulled into the driveway and heard Neal suck in breath that Neal might think El was angry with him. Neal climbed out of the car and then hesitated, as though steeling himself. Peter was still deciding whether he should say something or let Neal sweat when the front door opened and El appeared.
"El," Neal said, and seemed to choke on the rest. He stood frozen as El came down the stairs and stopped in front of him. The two of them stared at each other. Then El reached up and put her arms around him, hugging him hard. Neal stiffened at first, but Peter saw the moment he gave in, his arms coming up to hold her. He buried his face in her shoulder. "I forgive you," she whispered, almost too quiet for Peter to hear. She pulled away to look Neal in the eye. "Now come inside and eat something. And for God's sakes, let's get rid of that awful beard."
Neal nodded. El turned away and started up the walk, but Neal didn't move. "Peter," he said helplessly.
Peter squeezed his shoulder. "Come on. She's right, that beard is awful."
Lunch wasn't quite ready, so Peter led Neal up the stairs to the bathroom, where he pulled out a fresh razor, a towel, and a can of shaving cream. After a moment, he added a pair of scissors. Then he looked at Neal, who stared at the small pile of shaving things on the edge of the sink as though he'd never seen anything like them before. "Sit," Peter said, impulsively, pointing to the closed lid of the toilet. Neal didn’t move. "Neal, sit down."
Neal sat. Peter handed him the towel. "Hold that under your face. I need to clip this hair off before I shave you." Neal opened his mouth to protest, but Peter cut him off before he could say a word. "Don't argue. Just hold the towel, all right?"
Neal nodded and held the towel under his chin. He sat with his head tilted back as Peter carefully clipped away the hair away, watching it fall into the towel. The hair that marked how long Peter had left him in prison, alone, waiting, wondering. He'd been told that it was a temporary situation, but how permanent it must have felt.
When the hair was clipped short, Peter shook the towel out into the trashcan, rinsed it out in hot water, and used it to dampen Neal's face. He poured shaving cream into his hands and rubbed the lather over Neal's cheeks and jaw, across his upper lip, down his throat. He rinsed his hands off and filled the sink basin with hot water, then uncapped the razor and turned back.
Neal was crying.
Peter froze, wondering if he could pretend not to have seen. But Neal wasn't trying to hide it. He was just sitting there, eyes closed, head tilted back, throat exposed, with tears leaking silently and steadily from his eyes.
"Hold the towel," he said quietly, and Neal did. Peter started on the right side of his jaw, slowly scraping away the beard and the foam. He rinsed the razor in the sink every few seconds, the swish of the water the only sound in the room aside from the occasional hitch in Neal's breathing. A scrape for every day Neal had sat in prison, he thought, as he carefully negotiated the tricky area around Neal's chin. And then - no, a scrape for every betrayal, every lie. Between the two of them, there were almost too many to count.
It had to stop now. They had to be better. He had to be better. If El could do it, then so he could he.
He waited until he was done, until he’d patted Neal's smooth, perfect face dry. Neal opened his eyes and looked up at him. Peter found himself crouching down so they were on eye level, and then, still feeling as though there was just too much space between them, he put his hand on the back of Neal's neck and pulled him forward so their foreheads rested together.
"We're okay," he said. Neal sucked in a breath. "I don't know how. I don't even know if we should be. But we are."
"Why?" Neal whispered.
There was a reason. Peter had come very close to saying it once, when he’d thought they both might die. That day seemed so long ago, though, and he couldn't say it now.
"Because we love you," El said. Peter turned to see her in the doorway, a dishtowel in her hands. "And because that’s what you do for the people you love. You forgive them. Now, come downstairs. Lunch is ready."
Peter stood, but Neal didn't move. "I don't understand," he said at last.
"You heard her," Peter said, offering him a hand up. "Lunch is ready. Come on." He waited, almost holding his breath and hoping terribly hard.
Neal took his hand.
Fin.