Archive of Our Own ^beta

It started as a joke.

Neal had been sitting in Peters office one evening, watching his handler pack up for the night, when he casually swiped the FBI-issued jacket off the chair and threw it over his shoulders.

"Think it suits me?" he’d asked, flashing a grin.

Peter had rolled his eyes, muttered something about how Neal would never pass as a fed, and let it go.

But Neal didn’t take it off.

At first, it was just in the office - draped over the back of his chair, worn when the air conditioning was too strong. Then Peter started noticing it more often.

Neal pulled it tight around himself while sketching in the conference room late at night. He wore it at crime scenes, fingers gripping the sleeves when things got bad. Peter never looked into it further; Neal had always been quite tactile - he liked weight, pressure, and brushing his fingers over random textures. On multiple occasions, he would convince Peter to give him his ring, embroidered with ridges, to fiddle with during a conference.

And so, Peter let it go. He let Neal take his jacket, he acted like he didn't see him sneaking off with the article of clothing.

The next two weeks were packed with case after case, never once allowing the team to slow down and rest. Neal pulled his weight and more, staying up until ungodly hours looking over files, calling Peter at four in the morning to rush out how he found a lead.

It was endless. It was tiring. But they all made it through without anything other than some sleep deprivation.

Then came the gala, the one that was the final stretch until they would finally be able to rest and return to their normal lives.

The flashing lights were too sharp, the music too loud, the air buzzing with perfume and too many overlapping voices. Neal was usually in his element at these events - charming, dazzling, effortlessly slipping between conversations and women. But tonight, something was off.

His smile was too tight. His movements, usually smooth, were jerky, uncertain.

And when Peter finally caught sight of him again, Neal was outside, gripping the sleeves of that damn jacket, shoulders tense. He wasn’t smoking, wasn’t drinking, just standing still, staring at nothing. His fingers ran absently over the thick seams, like the weight of the fabric was the only thing holding him together.

Peter hesitated.

If this were any other night, he might’ve said something, pushed for an answer. But the tension in Neals posture told him to leave it be. So he did.

It ended up being a success - all the criminals were caught, victims saved. The night wrapped up on a good note. Peter offered to buy everyone drinks, which all but Neal accepted. He made up an excuse about being tired - which, isn't at all a lie nor unbelievable - but Peters suspicion made him question it.

The next morning, Neal showed up to work late.

No coffee in hand. No easy grin. No half charming, half bullshit excuse about traffic or an impromptu rooftop chase.

He just walked in, shrugged off his coat, and sat at his desk like he was any other agent in the office.

Peter watched him, frowning. Neal wasn’t talking, wasn’t engaging. He answered questions when necessary - short, to the point, no flourishes. He didn’t joke with Jones. Didn’t flirt with Diana. Didn’t even bother with the small smirks he usually threw Peters way.

It was jarring.

Gone was the mask, the carefully crafted persona. What was left was quiet. Not cold, but blank.

Peter had seen Neal upset before. Had seen him frustrated, anxious, even devastated. But this was different.

This was Neal when he wasn’t performing. And Peter had no idea what to do about it.

Peter didn’t say anything about his behavior at work. He didn’t call him out for being uncharacteristically quiet, didn’t ask if something was wrong, didn’t try to force a conversation Neal clearly didn’t want to have.

But he also wasn’t about to let him just sit alone in his apartment all night, stewing in whatever was going on in that overactive brain of his.

So, as they were packing up for the day, Peter leaned against Neals desk and said, “You’re coming to dinner tonight.”

It wasn’t a question.

Neal blinked at him, slow, like processing the words took longer than usual. “I- what?”

“Dinner. El’s cooking. I assume you haven’t consumed anything other than coffee today.”

Neal hesitated. Normally, he’d make a joke - something about being in high demand, or some elaborate lie about dinner plans with June if he didn't want to socialise anymore.

Instead, he just nodded. “Okay.”

Peter narrowed his eyes at the lack of protest but didn’t push.

That evening, Neal showed up at the Burkes’ house right on time, a bottle of overly expensive wine in hand. The gesture was automatic, polite, but when El greeted him with her usual bright smile, he didn’t return it.

That was the first major red flag.

Elizabeth was used to Neal slipping through the door with a smirk, a flattering compliment, a twinkle in his eyes. Tonight, he just said, “Hey,” and handed her the bottle without so much as a comment about its vintage.

Major red flag number two: He wasn’t making himself comfortable. Normally, Neal sprawled out on their couch like he owned the place, lounged in their kitchen like he belonged. Tonight, he sat stiffly at the dining table, hands folded in his lap, posture straight like he was at a job interview.

Peter shot El a look. She caught on immediately.

Dinner was warm and familiar - one of Neals favorites, even - but the usual rhythm was off. Peter and El carried most of the conversation while Neal responded when necessary, his voice flat, expression unreadable.

Elizabeth tried to ease him into something more familiar.

“Mozzie stop by today?” she asked lightly.

Neal shook his head. “No.”

“Any fun cases at work?”

A pause. Then: “Nothing fun about them.”

El hummed, studying him. Then she leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “Okay, what’s up with you?”

Neals fork paused mid air. “What do you mean?”

“You tell me. You’re different tonight.”

Neal blinked at her, then at Peter, like they’d just spoken in a language he didn’t understand.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It wasn’t defensive. Just overly neutral.

Elizabeth didn’t force him to speak further, but Peter saw the way her eyes flickered with concern.

Something was wrong. Neal wasn’t himself.

And worse - Peter wasn’t sure Neal even realised it.

After dinner, Neal lingered.

Not in his usual way - there was no casual reclining on their couch, no filled wine glasses, no debates with Elizabeth about art. He just... stayed. Quiet. Still.

Peter and El took the plates to the sink, chatting as they started washing up. Neal didn’t offer to help, but he also didn’t leave. Instead, he stood near the couch, absently rubbing Satchmo's ears as the big Labrador leaned against his leg.

Satchmo was usually overly excited to see him, tail wagging, eager for attention to the point that Peter would have to tell him to stop jumping their guest. But tonight, he was calmer, pressing himself close, like he sensed something was off. Neal ran his fingers through the dogs fur, long, slow strokes.

Then his eyes flicked toward Peters FBI jacket, draped over the back of the couch.

He hesitated.

For a second, it looked like he was talking himself out of it, but then, carefully, he picked it up. Shrugged it on. Tugged the sleeves over his hands.

The tension in his shoulders eased just a little.

Neither Peter nor El saw it happen, too busy with the dishes, but Satchmo let out a pleased sigh and flopped against Neals legs like he approved.

Peter only noticed when he turned around, drying his hands on a dish towel. He froze, watching Neal settle into the oversized jacket like it was his own.

Neal didn’t notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care. He was still petting Satchmo, his face unreadable, gaze distant.

Peter and El exchanged a glance.

El tilted her head toward Neal, eyes full of unspoken concern. Peter gave a small shrug. I don’t know either.

El sighed and set down the last plate. Then she turned, leaned against the counter, and tried again.

"Neal, honey," she said gently, "do you feel okay?"

Neal blinked, like the question didn’t make sense. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

Another pause. “Yeah.”

Peter crossed his arms. “You’ve been quiet all day.”

Neal frowned, confused. “I’ve been talking.”

“Not like you usually do.”

Neal just stared at him, seeming to genuinely not understand. “What’s wrong with how I’m talking?”

There was no snark in his voice, no defensiveness. Just straight curiosity, like he couldn’t fathom why they were pointing it out.

El opened her mouth, then shut it. Her expression softened.

He doesn’t realise, Peter thought, something clicking into place.

Neal wasn’t sulking. He wasn’t shutting them out. He wasn’t even upset, really. He had just let the mask drop. And now that it was gone, Neal didn’t notice the shift at all.

Peter sighed, stepping forward. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said, tone gentler. “You’re just... different tonight.”

Neal glanced down at Satchmo, still stroking his fur. He frowned again, thoughtful this time.

Then, finally, he asked, “Is that bad?”

El was the one who answered softly. "No, sweetheart. Not bad."

And Neal, still wrapped in Peters jacket, still scratching absently behind Satchmo’s ears, just nodded.

Peter and Elizabeth didn’t push Neal to leave. They didn’t tell him he should go home, didn’t remind him of the hour, didn’t treat him like a guest overstaying his welcome.

Instead, El gave Peter a meaningful look, and Peter, after years of marriage, understood immediately.

“You’re staying the night,” Peter announced, already heading upstairs.

Neal blinked after him. “Am I?”

El smiled, soft and warm. “Of course you are. It’s late.”

“I’ve stayed up later.”

“And I bet you haven’t slept much.”

Neal hesitated.

El took a step closer, touching his arm. “Just stay, sweetheart.”

And that, more than anything, seemed to settle it.

By the time Peter came back downstairs, he had a pile of clothes in his arms - one of his heavier sweatshirts, a pair of sweatpants that might be a little big but would do the job, and some thick socks. He tossed them at Neal.

“Here. You can’t sleep in a three piece suit.”

Neal caught them without protest, but he looked down at the bundle like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

Elizabeth, already leading the way to the spare bedroom, called over her shoulder, “There are extra blankets in there, but let me know if you need more.”

Neal followed, slow, still wearing Peters jacket.

The spare bedroom wasn’t fancy, but it was comfortable - El had made sure of that. The bed was already made, the soft lighting giving the room a warm glow. Neal stood in the doorway, staring at it like it was a foreign concept.

Peter leaned against the frame, arms crossed. “We’re not going to lock you in, you know.”

“That’s reassuring.” Neal huffed a quiet laugh. It was the first joke he'd made that night.

El pulled back the covers, smoothing them out. “There’s a spare toothbrush and toothpaste in the bathroom cabinet.”

Neal nodded, but he still didn’t move, still seeming hesitant. El softened.

She stepped forward and, carefully, pulled the sweatshirt from the pile in his arms, shaking it out. “Here,” she said, gently guiding it toward him. “It’s warm.”

Neal hesitated only a second longer before setting the clothes on the bed and finally peeling off his dress shirt. Peter pretended to inspect the bookshelf while Neal changed, but El didn’t hide away, just kept shaking out the sheets, like she wasn’t making a big deal of it.

Once Neal had the sweatshirt on, Peter couldn’t help but smirk. “Look at that. You look like an actual federal agent.”

Neal gave him a blank stare, tugging at the sleeves.

El chuckled, stepping back. “Alright. You’re all set.” She patted the bed lightly. “Try to get some sleep, okay?”

Neal nodded, still looking strangely uncertain, but he didn’t argue.

As Peter and El stepped out, leaving the door slightly open, Peter glanced back one last time—just in time to see Neal climb into bed, still wearing the FBI jacket over Peters sweatshirt. And, maybe, looking a little more at ease.

***

Neal didn’t wake up rested, exactly, but he woke up calmer.

The house was quiet in the early hours, filled with the soft sounds of Elizabeth moving around in the kitchen and Peter getting ready for work. Neal stayed in bed longer than usual, staring at the ceiling, bundled under the blankets. It was warm. Heavy. Comforting.

By the time he got up and made his way downstairs, Peter was already setting his travel mug on the counter. El turned when she heard Neal enter the kitchen, offering him a warm smile. "Morning, hon. Did you sleep okay?"

Neal rubbed at his eyes, still waking himself up. He nodded but didn’t say much. His usual morning performance didn’t come. It didn’t even occur to him to put it on.

Peter studied him as he grabbed a slice of toast, eating it absentmindedly. Still unmasked, Peter noted.

Neal was quiet on the drive to work, staring out the window, lost in thought. He didn’t fill the silence with casual banter or half told stories the way he usually did. When they arrived at the office, he moved through the motions automatically - hanging up his borrowed jacket, heading to his desk, pulling out his files.

But something about him was off. Less detached, more hazy. Like his brain was running on low power.

Peter decided to keep an eye on him.

For the first half of the day, Neal worked in that same quiet daze.

He was efficient, focused, but there was a sluggishness to his movements. The usual fluid grace of his hands was replaced with small, repetitive gestures - tapping his fingers against the desk, rubbing the side of his thumb. His resting expression was blank, lips slightly parted, eyes distant.

Peter had seen Neal work like this before, but never so obviously.

And then, the accident happened.

One of the junior agents, a nervous woman named Dana, had been passing by Neals desk, coffee in hand. She was juggling a few folders, distracted, and-

Disaster.

The cup slipped.

Hot coffee spilled over Neals desk, soaking the papers. The brown liquid spread rapidly, staining everything in its path, dripping over the edge. Even worse - Neal wasn’t fast enough to move. It soaked into his lap, scalding through his clothes.

Everything stopped.

Neal sucked in a sharp breath. His whole body went rigid.

Dana gasped. "Oh my God! Caffrey, I-I’m so sorry!" She scrambled for napkins, but the damage was already done. "I didn’t mean to-"

She cut herself off when she saw Neals hands.

He had lifted them, fingers twitching, curling in on themselves. He didn’t reach for napkins, didn’t move to clean up. He just sat there, motionless, breathing fast.

His face had gone eerily neutral.

Then, suddenly, he moved - hands flying up to his hair, fingers gripping at it, pulling. His shoulders were stiff, his chest rising and falling too quickly. His eyes darted across his ruined paperwork, the dripping mess, the wet heat seeping through his clothes.

He was overwhelmed.

Danas eyes went wide at the sudden reaction. She expected to be scolded, yelled at even. Not... this. "Neal, I- oh God, I’m so-"

Peter was already there.

“It’s fine,” Peter said quickly, voice even. He shot Dana a look, nodding toward her desk. “Go. I’ve got this.”

She hesitated. "I didn't mean-"

“Dana,” Peter said, firmer. "It was an accident. Go."

She fled. The glare Peter gave the office put everyone back to their own tasks without a peep.

Peter turned back to Neal, crouching slightly so he wasn’t towering over him. "Alright, kid. We need to get you cleaned up. Let’s go."

Neal didn’t respond. His breathing was fast, shallow, fingers still tangled in his hair.

Peter touched his arm gently. "Neal, stand up."

For a moment, he thought Neal wasn’t going to move. Then, slowly, he let go of his hair, blinking rapidly, and followed Peters lead.

Peter guided him into the bathroom and locked the door behind them. The second they were alone, Neal visibly sagged.

His hands were still moving, fingers twitching, rubbing against each other. His clothes clung to him, damp and uncomfortable. He looked miserable.

Peter reached into the cabinet and grabbed a handful of paper towels. "Alright, let’s take care of this. Shirt first."

Neal hesitated, then peeled off the damp dress shirt. Underneath, his undershirt was also wet.

Peter sighed. "I’ll get you another one. Just- hang tight."

He ran out, grabbed one of the spare shirts he kept in his office (always be prepared for FBI disasters), and returned. Neal hadn’t moved.

Peter handed him the dry shirt. "Here."

Neal changed slowly, still creating rhythmic patterns with his fingers as he pulled the fresh shirt on.

Peter crouched, grabbing some more paper towels. "Pants are gonna take a while to dry. You wanna borrow mine?" he joked lightly.

Neal didn’t laugh. He was staring at the sink, brow furrowed, fingers still moving restlessly.

Peter exhaled, softer now. "Hey, you okay?"

Neals jaw tightened. He swallowed hard, eyes flickering away. "It’s-" He cut himself off. Then, in a small voice, "It was just coffee."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "And?"

Neals fingers twitched. "And it shouldn’t matter."

"Neal, it’s not about the coffee." Peter sighed.

Neal clenched his jaw. "Then what is it about?"

Peter leaned against the counter. "You got overwhelmed. That happens."

Neal scoffed, shaking his head. "I shouldn’t get like that over something so stupid."

"Says who?" Peter asked.

Neal didn’t answer.

Peter waited a beat before speaking again. "Look. I know you’re wired to roll with things, to make everything look easy. But sometimes, things aren’t easy. And when that happens, you don’t have to act like it’s fine."

Neal exhaled sharply through his nose. His fingers finally stilled. He pressed his palms against the counter, grounding himself.

Peter clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You good?"

Neal didn’t answer right away. But after a long moment, he nodded. "Yeah."

Peter gave him a look.

Neal huffed. "Almost."

"Better." Peter smirked.

Peter didn’t even bother asking.

The moment their workday ended, Peter grabbed his jacket, turned to Neal, and said, “C’mon. We’re going home.”

Neal blinked at him. “Whose home?”

Peter gave him a look. “Ours.”

Neal hesitated for only a second before sighing and standing up. He was clearly out of it—moving slower, rubbing his temples, still tugging slightly at the sleeves of his borrowed shirt.

Peter didn’t comment on it. He just guided Neal toward the elevator.

***

Elizabeth wasn’t remotely surprised when Peter walked through the door with Neal in tow.

She took one look at Neal - still wearing Peters too-big jacket, still moving like he was wading through water - and immediately softened.

"Oh, honey."

Neal blinked at her. "Hi?"

Peter just sighed and kissed her cheek. "He had a rough day. Thought he could use some TLC."

Elizabeth lit up. "You brought him home to take care of him?!"

"I know my audience." Peter smirked.

Elizabeth clapped her hands together. "Alright, shoes off, sweetheart. We’re getting you comfortable."

Neal raised an eyebrow but toed off his shoes without protest. "You don’t have to-"

“Shush.” Elizabeth was already steering him toward the couch. "Sit. I’m making you tea."

Neal sat.

Peter watched the whole thing unfold with mild amusement.

Within minutes, Neal had new pants, Elizabeth had a blanket draped around his shoulders, a mug of tea in his hands, and a plate of cookies on the coffee table in front of him.

“Eat,” she instructed. "And drink. You need something warm."

Neal squinted at her, skeptical. “You know I’m not actually sick, right?”

Elizabeth huffed. “That doesn’t mean you don’t need to be taken care of.”

Peter, who had settled into the recliner, chimed in. “Just let her do her thing, Neal. Trust me.”

Neal exhaled dramatically, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he took a sip of tea, then tucked himself into the blanket more securely.

Elizabeth beamed.

At some point, Satchmo trotted over and pressed his big head into Neals lap. He immediately dropped a hand into his fur, fingers combing through it absentmindedly.

Elizabeth sat beside him, watching carefully. "You okay, Neal?"

Neal hummed, noncommittal. His other hand played with the fringe of the blanket.

Elizabeth tilted her head. "You wanna talk about today?"

Neal shrugged. Still unmasked, Peter noted.

Elizabeth softened further. She reached out, gently fixing the way Neal had bunched the blanket around himself. "It’s okay if you don’t. But just so you know, you’re safe here."

Neal blinked at her, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then, without thinking, he mumbled, "I like it here."

Elizabeth melted. “Oh, honey,” she murmured, brushing a hand through his hair before she could stop herself.

Neal leaned into it. Peter watched this happen from the recliner, brow raised, trying not to laugh and ruin the moment.

Neal, still half buried in the blanket, blinked over at him. "What?"

Peter smirked. "You’re letting her baby you."

"I...might be."

After a while, Neal got comfortable enough that he let his head rest against Elizabeth’s shoulder, still petting Satchmo.

Peter just shook his head fondly. "You’re never getting rid of him now," he muttered to El.

Elizabeth just smiled, resting her cheek against Neal's hair. “Good.”

Peter sighed. Neal hummed sleepily.

And honestly? Peter didn’t mind one bit.