Work Text:
Neal was no stranger to depression. Looking back, he realized that his mom had been severely depressed all through his childhood, and he knew that there had been times in prison when he’d been depressed, too. The weeks after Kate’s death were a black hole that he barely remembered, and the only thing that had helped was coming back to work for Peter. But as long as he kept himself out prison, he was fine. Or at least he had been, until now.
At first, he thought it was just letdown. He’d been busting his ass for weeks, trying to prove Peter’s innocence. And now that it was done, now that Peter was free, Neal felt like he was in freefall. He thought it’d get better as things got back to normal at the office, but it didn’t. Probably because one thing, the most important thing, never did get back to normal: Neal’s relationship with Peter.
Peter was perfectly civil to him during working hours, but he wasn’t friendly. They never went to lunch anymore, never went out for beers after work, barely spoke at all if it didn’t have to do with a case. At first, Neal tried, but Peter politely but firmly rebuffed all his efforts. As weeks went by and nothing changed, the freefall feeling turned into a leaden one that sat right in the pit of Neal’s stomach.
Neal knew himself well enough to recognize the signs. Predictably, he stopped sleeping first. But that, at least, was better on the outside than it had been in prison. He belonged to a twenty-four hour gym not far from June’s house, and he became very familiar with it at two in the morning. The pool was always empty, the reflection of the water eerie on the walls. He swam laps until his mind either stopped spinning or his body was exhausted enough that it didn’t matter.
For a while that worked. But then food stopped tasting like anything. Forcing himself to eat wasn’t as hard it had been in prison, where the food had been just as colorless and bland as everything else. But Neal ate almost every meal alone now, and mustering up the motivation to leave the FBI building for a sandwich or make himself something substantial for dinner seemed pretty pointless most days.
And then there was the work.
Neal had always liked working for the FBI. The people were interesting, the cases were challenging, and it was dangerous enough to give him the adrenaline rushes he craved. But now, with Peter barely speaking to him, all the fun went out of it. Working with Diana and Jones wasn’t too bad - at least they spoke to him like a human being - but half the time Peter had him farmed out to other teams. Most of them were civil, but none of them liked him. Neal probably could have charmed them, but it seemed like a lot of effort.
Everything started to seem like a lot of effort.
This was bad, Neal knew. He was spiraling down into a deep, dark pit, and if he wasn’t careful it would end in a cell in AdSeg. But he wasn’t sure he cared if it did. Peter didn’t like him anymore. He didn’t hate him enough to send him back to prison, but he didn’t want to be friends, didn’t even really want to work with him. Neal couldn’t blame him, either. If it weren’t for Neal, Peter would’ve never been arrested. If it weren’t for Neal, Peter would be sitting in Hughes’s old office right now. Peter had every right not to like him anymore.
But it hurt. It hurt a lot in those rare moments where the pain broke through the numb fog of exhaustion that had enveloped him. It hurt a lot when he lay awake and thought about sending himself back to Sing Sing because at least there he wouldn’t have to deal with this new, indifferent, oh-so-polite Peter. Once, he might’ve hoped that that would be enough to make Peter forgive him, but he’d stopped hoping for that. He’d stopped hoping for anything at all.
***
The form for terminating his work release was only a page long. Neal printed it out and then held onto it for a week. He didn’t know what he was waiting for. Three months had passed since Peter had been exonerated and nothing had changed. Nothing would change. He was being a coward, that was all. Prison hadn’t been any fun the first time around, and it’d be even less fun this time.
He signed it on a Friday morning and left it on Peter’s desk while he was out at a meeting. Then Neal sat at his desk and quietly started tidying it up. He didn’t know how long it would take the FBI bureaucracy to move. Maybe they’d give him the weekend, or maybe he’d be back in prison as soon as that evening. He wished he’d tidied his apartment at June’s that morning.
He knew when Peter came back, even though Peter didn’t say anything to him at all. Peter went up to his office and Neal couldn’t help watching him. He saw the moment that Peter noticed the form on his desk. He stopped, staring down at it. Probably reading the post-it Neal had attached to the top: I think this is for the best. -NC
Neal looked back down at his desk, not wanting Peter to glance up and catch his eye.
“Neal,” Peter’s voice said suddenly, startling him. Neal looked up. Peter was at the top of the stairs. “Please come up here.”
Neal went, even though he wasn’t sure what Peter could possibly have to say to him. Peter had to be relieved, even if he hadn’t cared enough to do it himself. But maybe there were bureaucratic concerns. Maybe there was something else Neal had to sign.
At the top of the stairs, Peter took him by the arm and steered him away from Peter’s office and the main conference room. He led Neal down the hall toward the second, smaller conference room. It was the first time Peter had touched him in months, the first time he’d been touched by anyone in well over two weeks. Neal wondered how long he’d go in AdSeg without anyone touching him.
Peter closed the conference room door behind them and laid the form on the table. “Why?” he demanded.
Neal frowned. It wasn’t like Peter to play dumb. “Do you really have to ask? You don’t want me here, Peter. I don’t even know why you’re arguing.”
Peter stared. “I - what?”
“You don’t want me here,” Neal said, enunciating very clearly. He didn’t know what the hell Peter was playing at, but he supposed he didn’t have any choice but to go along.
Peter shook his head. “Neal, no,” he said, a note of unexpected desperation in his voice. “I do want you here. I do. I just . . . I’m so sorry.” And then, before Neal had time to react, he stepped toward Neal and wrapped his arms around him.
He held Neal hard, like he had in Cape Verde, like he had after Kate’s death. Neal’s arms hung loose at his sides at first, but when Peter didn't let go, he slowly brought them up to rest on Peter’s back. “Peter,” Neal said, bewildered. Of all the reactions he’d imagined Peter might have, this was never one of them.
“I’m so sorry,” Peter repeated. “I do want you here.”
Neal’s breathing hitched. “You don’t like me anymore,” he said, and immediately hated himself for sounding so much like a desolate child.
“I do,” Peter said. “Oh God, Neal. I’m so sorry. I just . . .” He shook his head, then pulled away to look Neal in the eye. “Elizabeth’s very angry with you, or at least she was right after I was released. She asked me to - to give up our friendship. I didn’t want to, but I didn’t think I had much choice.”
“Oh,” Neal said, very quietly. He stepped back, out of Peter’s arms. “That makes sense.” It made it a little bit better to know that Peter didn’t hate him after all. In the end, El hating him had the same consequences, but it’d be easier to sleep at night in prison, knowing that Peter didn’t.
“No, actually,” Peter said with a sigh. “It doesn’t. I’m sorry, Neal. I am so goddamn sorry. And if you - if you really want to go back, I’ll sign the form. But I hope you’ll reconsider. You have to realize that your association with the FBI would make prison a lot harder for you this time around.”
“I do realize that,” Neal said. “I just . . .” He shrugged. “It seemed like the lesser of all evils.” He looked down at the form and pressed his finger to his signature. “I don’t want to go back,” he admitted. “But I can’t - I know El is mad at me and I deserve that, but I can’t keep living like this.”
“You won’t have to,” Peter said, firmly. “I promise. El’s had some time now. We haven’t talked about any of this in weeks. I’ll bring it up again and see what she says. But no matter what, it won’t be like it has been. I won’t let it.”
For the first time in weeks, Neal felt some glimmer of hope. Peter sounded so certain, and Neal wanted so badly to believe him. But Elizabeth was Peter’s wife. Neal didn’t have much hope that if it came down to it, Peter would be willing to put his relationship with El on the line for his friendship with Neal. Neal couldn’t even ask it of him. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Peter.”
“Hey,” Peter said, and put a hand on each of Neal’s shoulders. “Have I ever let you down before?”
Neal shook his head. “No, but this is different. It’s Elizabeth.”
Peter sighed. “I know. And I’m not saying it’ll be easy or that things will ever be quite how they were. But you deserve better than this from me. You’re my friend, Neal, and if I have to I’ll tell El that I just - I don’t treat my friends the way I’ve treated you the last three months, not for any reason. I’m so sorry, Neal. I should’ve never let you think that I didn’t like you anymore or that I didn’t want you here.”
Neal nodded. “Thanks,” he said, looking down. Peter’s hands were warm and heavy on his shoulders, and Neal was tired, so tired. His knees went suddenly weak, but Peter was there, holding him up.
“Whoa, whoa,” Peter said, and eased him down into a chair. “Neal, hey, are you okay?”
Neal nodded, slumping forward. “Sorry. Sort of low on both food and sleep. It’s been rough lately.”
“Yeah,” Peter said. He sat down in the chair across from Neal, so close that their knees bumped together. “I promise that’s going to get better. But do you think . . . Neal, I think you should talk to someone. Someone other than me, someone who wasn’t involved with everything.”
Neal raised his head to look Peter in the eye. “You mean a therapist.”
“Yeah, I do mean a therapist. I think - well, it’s not only lately that it’s been rough. The last six months haven’t been great for you, have they?”
Ellen. James’s betrayal. Peter’s arrest. Three months of believing the person who mattered most to him hated him. The idea of talking to a therapist was terrifying, but he wondered if Peter didn’t have a point. “Maybe,” he said at last.
Peter squeezed Neal’s shoulder. “I’ll take it,” he said. “So what do you think? Want to tear that form up and come help me find our next case? Maybe over lunch?”
There was only one answer. He still didn’t know if he believed Peter when he said that things would get better. But if Peter was willing to talk to him, to work with him, and maybe even be friends with him again, then Neal knew there was only one answer.
Ripping paper had never felt so good.
Fin.