Archive of Our Own ^beta

The entire office of fifty people shouted as Diana walked through the doors that evening, Peter having called her in for "an urgent case". Diana's jaw fell open in surprise and joy, she exclaimed as she took in her surroundings.

Neal had been dragged into decorating due to his art skills - which Jones somehow related to party decor - along with Elizabeth. They put up colourful party streamers, a large banner with bold text stating "congratulations".

Her promotion hadn't come as a shock - the woman was extremely hardworking and on top of her game no matter what. Even Neal admired her. Everyone loved her and her abruptness and they ended up banding together to throw her a surprise party on Friday evening.

Neal loved Diana, he truly did, but he still tried getting out of it. Parties weren't really his thing, despite what he'd have everyone think. The noise, the crowd, the lights; it was a lot. But he had hadn't succeeded. Peter, the annoyingly detailed man he was, noticed Neals attempts to escape and ragged his ass right back.

Having run out of excuses and supposed errands to run, Neal ended up standing at the back of the supporting crowd, fingers twitching as he congratulated his coworker. All he needed to do was stay a few hours, drink some wine, and get out of there to curl up in his dark loft for the weekend.

Of course, life was never that kind to him.

Neal lasted about forty-five minutes before the overly loud laughs, chatter, and overlapping conversations began to drown him.

He had congratulated Diana, shared a toast, and even managed to exchange polite banter with a few colleagues. But now, standing near the drinks table, he felt the trickle of sweat at his collar and the strong overwhelming sense of too much - too much noise, too many people, too many flickering lights, too much.

His fingers, which had been steadily fidgeting with his cuffs, started to ache from the pressure. The air in the room felt tight, pressing against his chest like a vice. Neal set his half-empty wine glass down with care, trying to compose himself.

Neal was working himself towards the calm of a creak within his mind, retreating into a different mental dimension as his brain tried to sort through the stimuli.

CRASH

It took all of his willpower to not flinch horribly, to not spring his hands to his ears. Some very sheepish person had accidentally knocked over two glasses, making them crash into the flooring and split into multiple shards.

Neal's facade was beginning to crack at the seems. The soundproofed sanctuary of Peters office called to him like a lifeboat in a storm.

There were a few surprised "woah!"s from others, and though they were harmless, they felt like knives piecing Neals skin. Only one thing raced through his overloaded mind: get out. The objective pounded at him, begging him to leave, go, get to anywhere that wasn't there.

Neal tugged at his cuffs, an unconscious attempt to ground himself, but it didn't work. He started to feel trapped. The bullpen, which had come to feel like a second home, feels too small, too loud, too bright.

He spotted Peter across the room, laughing with Hughes, and debated whether or not he should try to slip out unnoticed. The need to escape overpowered any formalities of politeness that Neal so riggedly maintained. As fast as his legs could take him without attracting attention, Neal made his way up to Peters safe office. Neal stepped into the clean room, carefully closing the door behind him with a soft click. The noise outside was muffled but not gone, a dull clawing against the glass walls. He took a deep breath, his fingers still twitching as he moved further into the room.

The familiar scent of bad coffee and faint cologne wrapped around him like a secure blanket. Neal let his posture fall and leaned against the edge of Peters desk, rubbing his palms over his thighs to shake off the thick tension. His gaze darted around the room, landing on the shelf of textbooks from Quantico and the overbearing stack of case files. It was grounding. Peters office rarely changed, and for once, Neal was grateful for that.

He focused on the soft hum of the air conditioning, trying to block out the party below. His breathing slowed, but his heart still raced. Neal fumbled for something, anything, to keep his hands busy, eventually pulling a paperclip from a small tray on Peters desk. He began to twist and bend it absentmindedly, the repetitive motion soothing the static in his mind.

The quiet didn’t last long.

The door creaked open, and Neal tensed, his fingers freezing mid-twist. Peter stepped inside, shutting the door with a knowing look on his face. He didn't say anything at first, just leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms, his expression soft.

"Knew I'd find you here," Peter said finally, his voice low and steady, like he was trying not to spook a startled stray.

Neal offered a faint smirk but didn’t meet Peters eyes. "Your office has better acoustics. Or maybe I just like your taste in decor."

Peter huffed a quiet laugh, stepping closer. "Want to tell me what's really going on, or should I begin the guessing game?"

Neal hesitated, the paperclip still contorting in his hands. He let out a sigh, the tension in his chest loosening slightly. "It's just... a lot. You know how I feel about crowds."

"I do," Peter said simply, pulling out his desk chair and sitting down across from Neal. He didn’t push, didn’t press. He just waited.

Neal finally glanced up, his eyes meeting Peters for a fleeting moment before skittering away. "I thought I could handle it. Diana deserves it, and I wanted to be there for her. But it’s too loud, too bright. Everything feels..." He waved his hand vaguely, struggling to find the right words. "Like it’s closing in."

"Overwhelming?" Peter offered.

Neal nodded, grateful for the simplicity of Peters understanding. "I didn’t want to just disappear, but I couldn’t stay down there."

Peter studied him for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. "You don't have to explain yourself to me, Neal. I get it. And for the record, you’ve already done more than enough - decorating, showing up, making Diana feel appreciated. Nobody’s going to fault you for needing a break."

"Still feels like I should’ve tried harder," Neal muttered, his voice barely audible.

Peter shook his head. "Neal, sometimes 'trying harder' means knowing your limits and stepping away when you need to. It doesn’t make you any less a part of the team."

Neal swallowed hard, the words hitting him in a way he hadn’t expected. He let out a shaky breath, some of the tension ebbing away. "Thanks, Peter."

"Anytime," Peter said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a bag of pretzels, tossing them onto the desk. "Here. Thought you might need something to do with your hands before you prick yourself with that," he gestured to the paperclip now half broken in Neals hands. "And you need to eat something."

Neal chuckled softly, picking up the bag. He popped one into his mouth and chewed slowly, the simple act grounding him further. For the first time that evening, he felt like he could breathe again.